Au revoir, motherfuckers.

( Private Text to Emmy Altava )


[VIDEO]

[Well, if you're familiar with the stores around Goldenrod (or even if you're not, and just happened to wander in there one day by chance) then the chances are good that you're aware of a music shop nestled amongst the larger stores and malls. More specifically and to the point, you may be aware of the piano set up within the shop itself - both for the sake of lessons to those willing to pay, and to advertise others like it for purchase. Descole is in here for neither, though had he the space he wouldn't be terribly opposed to the latter; for the last couple of days, he's come in when business is slow and settled himself behind the keys, sometimes playing, sometimes just running his hands over them lightly. Today, however, he is clearly settling for none of that. The camera clicks on after seeming to have been set up directly alongside the keys, showing nothing but his hands and a bit of the long ruffled sleeves covering the backs of them; he begins playing after a bit, and...uh. It's a bit difficult to say what in the world set him off but he's having at fairly hard and holding absolutely nothing back, his hands fast and firm on the keys. It's not anything classical, or even anything terribly classy; it's somewhat more akin to...well. While it isn't anywhere near exact, it's closer to this than anything.

Yeah. Um. There's probably something to be said for the fact that Descole is baring his soul to the world and it sounds sorta like Skrillex, but we won't go there.

His hands linger on the keys for a moment after the sound dies; the camera angle doesn't adjust any, leaving his face well out of the shot, but after a moment Descole speaks, his tone clipped and more abrupt than usual.

He's clearly a bit stressed; he's doing a terrible job of concealing it.]

I'm looking for ways to further improve myself. Anything at all. Physically, intellectually, I don't particularly care. Tell me what you excel at; I want to hear what your talents are.

I don't care that time doesn't pass back home, not while we're here; there is still such a thing as having been here too long. If I can't return to my life's work...

[He pauses for a moment; without warning, he slams his hands down heavily on the keys, the sudden clash ringing out sharply. One can...pretty much hear the rather alarmed sound of the shopkeeper in the background, telling him to watch it.]

I've had enough. Give me something to pursue.

[And with that, end feed.]