<div class="floatleft">(http://i1180.photobucket.com/albums/x401/callmecapone/Setting%20and%20RP/c35e5c8d72d34eb82d71873cb47124bf.jpg)</div><strong>Name:  Antonio Cabrello (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=266077.msg13129139#msg13129139)</strong><br/><br/><strong>CLIENT</strong><br/><br/><strong>Situation:</strong>Making Do<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Semele; The Brawl; Open<br/><br/><strong>Content Warning:</strong><em>None</em><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><hr/><hr/><br/>”I believe there are other ways you can make up for it. I am Semele, owner of the Pink Hydra. Am I right to conclude that you are not part of the establishment?”<br/><br/>Questions sprung to Antonio's mind. Question that he knew would be better left unasked for the time being. He had been outside of the Pink Hydra, but had never entered there himself. Brothels certainly delighted him, but even with the wealthiest of clients he was not quite capable of paying the fees required of establishments such as Semele's and Celeste's. For only a moment he began to feel in over his head, but that quickly spurned him only to try all the harder. If he could entertain one such as Semele, then he'd have no place in the Pink Hydra or the One-Night Bride.<br/><br/>"Antonio," he nodded, taking her fingers in his own. He rested his lips gently to her hand, taking his time to suggest the polite manners expected of wealthier men without lingering too long. Confidence, but not conceit, nor pedestrian desire. "I am afraid I am not fortunate enough to work such a place as this. My good patron and benefactor, Master Grumrump, thought I had earned a night of delights." His hand extended to across the room, where a courtesan had joined Grumrump. A rather small, petite girl, hardly capable of fitting on the chaise alongside the man, her fingers traveling and dancing along the bouncing belly as the man laughed at the show before him. "Feeling a bit out of my element, I did all I could think to do: bring what sparkle and delight to the eyes of those gathered."<br/><br/>With a sigh he looked back down at his lute, grasping the piece of furniture and drawing it out. It made a tuneless cry, a death groan as he dropped the piece to the floor. Examining the instrument a moment, he flipped it back over, the back still whole, and ran his fingers along his chin in thought. His fingers then began to tap at its various points, head tilted as if to listen.<br/><br/>"As I said, I may not be capable of serenading you on this night," he nodded, "but that does not count all forms of music out." His eyes turning back up to the man and orc, he rested his hands to the back of the lute, pondering for a moment, before beginning to slap at its back. His legs were parted where the hole in the lute was, allowing the wooden echo to beat out like the rim of a tribal drum. His hands flammed, paradiddled and rolled along the instrument's back, the position of his slap changing the tone of the beat. The tune sounded fit for an ancient performance, one performed by more tribal clans that danced and imitated legendary battles before campfires, lore communicated through gesture rather than word. A soundtrack to the challenge before them, and one most befitting the background of the orc woman that now found herself on her back.