A Shot in the Void (Peregrine x Ravenwood)

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The streetman smiled politely in return, his expression still somewhat vacant. However, his attention quickly redirected back towards the young man, and this time his gaze was intense. For a couple more moments he was silent, before he said "They like you. Would you care for a seat?" He gestured absentmindedly to the stretch of ground next to him.

Somewhere over the course of the night his green beanie had vanished, but he seemed little concerned with the fact. It left his lanky brown hair free to hang around his face, framing high cheekbones and a bold jawline. It was a common game among those who knew of him to guess at his age. Many looked at his smooth face and hands and called him mid-twenties. They were promptly corrected by their companions, who would guess in the 50's or 60's.

"Look at his eyes," would be their answer to their friends' strange looks or muttered denials. His eyes were crinkled with cheer, but were also undeniably ancient.
 
"Um...they do?" Duncan blinked. He got an odd feeling from the man, who looked like his mind had long since left his head. And yet, Duncan couldn't quite shake the feeling that he was telling the truth. "Hm...sure, okay."

The poor guitarist picked up his case, and came up to the bench. He sat down and opened up the case, cringing at the new ding on Miss Marcy, his pride and joy.

"That's gonna take forever to get rid of," he muttered, lifting her up. "So, I'm listening; what's the scoop?"
 
"Scoop?" the streetman questioned, before his eyes once more seemed to turn internal. He was silent for a while, before letting out a sigh. The gods were surprisingly vocal entities, and it continued to surprise him how much they spoke. But most of the things about which they talked would make very little sense to anyone who did not view the world as they did. It was part of the reason that even they could not communicate properly with each other, as they all spoke in such different terms. Finally, the streetman acknowledged that he would be forced to make up his own answer to Duncan's question.

"The gods are patient. They have all of eternity. But they are almost certainly too patient for this society." He finally said, his eyes sad. "Maybe someday, in the future, the whole world will become patient enough to accept them. Maybe not. Maybe humanity will destroy itself first, and they will finally realize that they were too patient."

Concluding on that somber note, the streetman once more looked at Duncan. His smile was honest. "I don't think that is what you meant when you asked for a 'scoop'."
 
Duncan smiled. "Actually, I kinda like it. The line is nice. Think I'll use it in my next song."

He pulled Marcy out a second time, and began the obligatory tightening of their strings. "You know, I've been able to hear your talk about these gods for awhile," he said. "and I gotta admit...it's getting harder to ignore. "

There was a rare moment of clarity on Duncan's face, when his common sense was finally allowed to emerge. He turned wide eyes to the man, and continued speaking.

"I keep seeing things," he said. "Like people but...not there, you know? Kinda makes you rethink the whole 'nothing behind the blood' thing everyone has....at least it does for me."
 
"Ghosts? Essences, perhaps." the streetman replied, a smile on his face more because, for once, he was not leading a conversation than because what Duncan was saying brought him satisfaction. "I can't say I know much about that. But at this point anything is possible."

He glanced at Duncan out of the corner of his eye, before changing the line of conversation once more. This one, although said in almost the exact same manner as all his other comments, was significantly more poignant.

"Why do you come here every day and play your guitar?"
 
"Why?" Duncan repeated. "Well...I'm gonna be a star one day...but..."

The other reason was stupid, and Duncan nearly stopped himself from even bringing it up. But the red-head took one more glance back at the odd, little man. Those eyes were open, though something about them still made the guitarist nervous. He seemed to be looking for more that one person, yet speaking on one unified voice. Maybe...maybe this was one time?

"Well...it's how I cope," he explained. "I haven't the angelic life everyone wants; but not too cliche. I mean, dad does more than his share of bad drugs, but there was always food on the table and a place for me to sleep. Mom's not so bad either, though she gets sick too easily. No...I just always felt...cheated, you know? Like something I was supposed to have was taken."

He shrugged. "I know, it wasn't, but that's what you get when your 16 and stupid. In a way, music was a way for me to get out my indignities. Now, play to remind myself to cope: it can always get worse."
 
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