Meeting at Alasdair's [Priest & Caeli]
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		<h2 id="linktree">Play-By-Post: Bondage, D/s, S&amp;M =&gt; Bondage: Human Solos =&gt; Topic started by: Caeli on 28-12-2008, 03:31:05</h2>
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				Title: <strong>Meeting at Alasdair's [Priest &amp; Caeli]</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Caeli</strong> on <strong>28-12-2008, 03:31:05</strong>
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				<div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/9/90/Celia03.png)</div><strong>Prologue</strong><br><br><em>Glenham City, New York.<br>October, 1921.<br><br>Glamorous. Prosperous. Golden.<br><br>Jazz.<br><br>Glenham City is the sparkling, near-metropolis suburb close to New York City, well known for its surplus of accessible speakeasies and lively night clubs. It is the place where most small-town folks go in the hopes of striking it rich. The sparkling glamor of big-city life lures those from the countryside into its streets, where alcohol flows under the radar of the bribed police forces despite Prohibition laws, and gaiety, music, and dance are commonplace every night on Main Street.<br><br>This dazzling facade, however, does not mean that crime has desisted. Most big cities suffer still from crime, with shootings, robberies, and reported assaults commonplace in the poorest parts of the big cities. Most of the time, these stories are kept out of the papers; after all, there are few who care for the plight of the poor, working class men and women.<br><br>But when a wealthy businessman is shot and killed - for all appearances, murdered - on the popular Fairway Street, just two blocks from the main downtown area, the newspapers cannot keep their hands off the sensationalist story. However, despite interviewing the shop owners and possible witnesses in the neighborhood, no suspect turns up - the case is closed, for lack of evidence.<br><br>The fiancée of the murdered man, understandably furious with the police force's lack of initiative and inability to solve the murder case, turns instead to private detective Emerson Reid, whose success rate speaks for him.<br><br>And so he, too, scours the neighborhood - asking questions about the man, looking for witnesses among the various coffee shops, tea houses, diners, and small restaurants. Among those small establishments is <strong>Crossroads</strong>, a popular coffee shop owned by Jeremy Hayes... and among those potential witnesses that he plans to question, is Celia Madison.<br><br>She's a mousy, rather unremarkable waitress who works full-time at <strong>Crossroads</strong>. As she lives on the second floor just above the coffee shop, she was questioned quite thoroughly by the police force's detectives, who thought it likely that she heard, if not saw, what happened. But while Celia is hiding something, it has absolutely nothing to do with the sensational murder of Chance Turner... and everything to do with her secret night life as a jazz pianist.</em>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Meeting at Alasdair's [Priest &amp; Caeli]</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Priest</strong> on <strong>30-12-2008, 13:43:00</strong>
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				<table class="bbc_table"><tbody><tr><td>(http://i428.photobucket.com/albums/qq8/Priestalbum/phpu5sX65AM.jpg)</td><td>On the fourth floor of some grubby indistinct building virtually indistinguishable from any that lined the street in downtown Glenham city there is an office.&nbsp; At its threshold there is a door which proudly if, somewhat jadedly announced his presence to the world as “Emerson Reid - Private Investigator” <br><br>The office itself was a small twin roomed affair; the larger one serving as his actual office and set out simply with a large oak desk that swallowed up the center of the room and a small backed swivel chair; against the one wall sat a filing cabinet and above that a number of framed certificates proclaiming his qualifications.&nbsp; Emerson Reid was stood against the window that offered the better view of the city; but it wasn’t the vista that had drawn his attention.&nbsp; He was focused inwardly on what had been one of the most audacious and sensational murders that anyone could remember and although there had been much fanfare in the initial days of the police investigation, it wasn’t long before it had been filed away and quietly closed.<br><br>Emerson Reid had made quite a name for himself by taking on and cracking some of the cases that had the best minds on the force had left for dead but this one was proving to be one of the hardest that he had taken on, but he wasn’t about to give up on it, he wasn’t the sort of person to admit defeat.&nbsp; He had one of the keenest intellects and a natural gift in solving some of the most challenging cases; but this was backed up and sometimes hindered, by a ruthlessly stubborn streak. <br><br>The phone had rung; its abrupt trill shook the distant malaise from the mind of Emmerson Reid.&nbsp; He broke away from his thoughts and answered it:<br><br>“Emerson.” his New Yorker drawl was tinged with the vagaries of his Irish ancestry as he announced his presence in a perfunctory manner to whomever was on the other end of the phone.<br><br>“Hey Reid.” the voice at the other end was recognisable to him and his stoic expression broke a little into something a shade more friendly.&nbsp; <br><br>“Been a long time Carl.&nbsp; What can I do for you?”<br><br>There was a slight pause from Carl on the other end of the phone before he spoke, but as the words came, they did so with a faint edge of unease; “I hear tell from the grapevine that you have taken on the Turner murder case.”<br><br>Emerson merely murmured his conformation of the fact; he was well aware of the sensationalist nature in which the press had seized on the notoriety of the case and he had done all he could to distance himself from the more public scrutiny.<br><br>“Thought so…” the voice came back, there was something broken about the way he responded; “We need to talk.” another pause, this one lingered for a few heartbeats before Carl picked up his exchange once more; “There’s a place called Alasdair’s…do you know it?”<br><br>The name rang a bell and for a moment his eyes narrowed and fell across his desk and there was sat a small discreet looking matchbook,&nbsp; he picked it up and turned it over and over between his fingertips, the front cover depicting a its jazz heritage and on the back the address; He nodded; “Yes, I know the place.”<br><br>“Can you get there for eight tonight?” was it Emerson’s imagination or did Carl sound as though he was rushed for some reason.<br><br>“About eight, that sounds good to me.&nbsp; I will see you there.” He said nothing more and placed the receiver down before slumping back into his chair; his eyes closed and he bought his fingers to his forehead where he started to slowly massage his temples.&nbsp; Something he often did when a case was causing him particular consternation.&nbsp; So far every line he had taken had drawn up against a dead end; he couldn’t believe that there wasn’t someone who hadn’t witnessed the murder, but for some reason no one was talking; this fact alone had raised his suspicions to fever pitch and doubled his resolve in breaking the case.&nbsp; <br><br>There had been something strange in Carls’ voice over the phone as well, something that he couldn’t quite make out as he had taken pains to hide it well; but he didn’t sound quite as he would have expected him too.&nbsp; Emerson’s mind buzzed with unanswered questions, why was he being so cloak and dagger?&nbsp; Why this club in preference to another?<br><br>He opened his eyes and drew himself forward; his fingers explored the underside of his desk for a moment before they touched upon the object of his search; a small desk key attached to the underside of the wood.&nbsp; He tugged it free and used it to open the bottom drawer of his desk.&nbsp; Buried underneath a mass of tax returns and concealed beneath a false bottom lay a bottle of Irish whiskey.&nbsp; He pulled it free and gave it a smile as he unscrewed the cap and poured a shot into a glass on his desk before he hid the bottle away again.<br><br>The Volstead act passed a short time earlier had done nothing to improve his demeanour, though it hadn’t prevented him from getting hold of his favourite tipple; but he was sometimes aware that the route it may have taken was quite possibly at odds with his personal code.&nbsp; He sighed and downed the liquor in one gulp.<br><br>*<br><br>It was a little later that evening that he found himself outside of Alisdair’s, there was a chill in the air and the streets seemed quieter than usual<br><br>As he walked through the door, he was met with a smile by the attendant who offered to take his hat and coat; Emerson gave her a smile as he took his hat off and placed it on the counter before shrugging his long coat free.<br><br>“Do you know if Carl McGinty is here yet?”<br><br>“Sorry sir,” her smile seemed a near permanent fixture on her face but the flicker in her eye seemed to belie the fact that she knew a little better than most; “He hasn’t dropped by yet, I shall be sure to point him in your direction when he does sir.”<br><br>Emerson nodded and briefly looked around the club, its subdued lighting and ambient mood created the perfect atmosphere to wind down and relax and let the cares and concerns of the world slip away, at least until the joint wound down for the day.&nbsp; He glanced down at his watch, he was a good twenty minutes early, he preferred it that way as it gave him a chance to familiarise himself with his surroundings and relax a little <br><br>He found a table in a inconspicuous part of the club and sat down, a moment or two later, the shadow of a waiter passed over him. They exchanged glances and he enquired if he would like any refreshments.&nbsp; Emerson replied in a subdued tone; “Bourbon; neat.” he pressed two tightly rolled up bills into the palm of the waiters hand as he exchanged a silent look; The waiters eyes flicked down and a slight smile creased his expression; and with he quick nod of his head he spoke, “Very good sir.”<br><br>His gaze skirted the venue; filing away faces into his memory, wondering if any of these drawn here tonight might hold the vital trace of evidence that would make everything fall so neatly into place.&nbsp; The return of the waiter shifted his focus and with an appreciative smile he took the drink.&nbsp; <br><br>Reid held the glass in his hand and gentle swirled its contents around; his eyes drawn to microcosm of movement as though everything he sought could be found within it, but when he deduced that the liquor was going to keep a hold of its secrets he decided on the only course of action and took a sip; a satisfied sigh on his lips as he slaked his thirst.&nbsp; As the evening wore on he took to glancing at his watch nearly every minute or so; each time it just reinforced the fact that his friend was late, increasingly late; something that was almost unheard of as he was one of the most punctual people he knew.<br></td></tr></tbody></table>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Meeting at Alasdair's [Priest &amp; Caeli]</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Caeli</strong> on <strong>01-01-2009, 15:31:37</strong>
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				<em>Oh... I am so late!</em><br><br>It was with no little trepidation that the small figure was gingerly climbing her way down a fire escape, a large bag slung over her shoulder as she watched her step along the metal stairway - with only the moonlight as her guide, it would be all to easy to misstep on her way down and find herself with a concussion, broken arm, or worse. Still, she thought the risk was well worth it; after all, she had not come to Glenham City to become a café waitress, no matter how much Jeremy insisted that she was only there on his good graces.<br><br>She was quite happy that her room (the attic, really) had two ways out - three ways, if you counted the door that sat opposite of her cousin Jeremy's, both of which led into the hallway that led downstairs to the main storage room and Crossroads Café. One window, of course, opened into Fairway street - she usually kept it closed, but on beautiful summer days, it was wonderful for fresh air, for watching people as they walked past.<br><br>Her third exit was the rooftop.<br><br>Celia really didn't know what she would have done without that rooftop. Many times, when Jeremy had been stumbling around downstairs, drunkenly shouting and looking for a victim to beat, she had locked her door, then disappeared up the ladder. She had to wonder if he even knew of its existence; she had only found it after digging around in her closet, and had accidentally pulled the trigger that unlocked the trapdoor. The rooftop itself was rather nondescript, and nothing to be cheered over - gravel, stones, an short but empty water tower, and an old, probably broken generator that was well past its prime.<br><br>Still, for all its lack in elegance or charm, it had been a place of refuge, and provided a route of escape - while their building did not have a fire escape, the adjacent building, with a connected rooftop, did.<br><br>It meant that she had freedom, and it meant that she would not have to worry about running into Jeremy when she went to and from her <em>other</em> job, the real reason she had come here.<br><br>Music.<br><br>Not mere musician was she, to remain in her small town, playing for the pleasure of her parents when they had guests over. No, Celia had bigger dreams - she wasn't so foolish as to believe that happiness, fame, and fortune would come easily, but she would not have come any closer to her dream of becoming a professional jazz musician by staying in her hometown. When Jeremy had made the offer to her family that he would take her in, she had been well pleased (though, much less so when she realized that he planned to use her as an unpaid employee). Even if he had exploited her lack of connections and helplessness, she was determined to make her way here.<br><br>This was Glenham City, after all - the next destination was New York.<br><br><br><br>Not even twenty minutes later, Celia was paying a cabbie and slipping through the back entrance of a classy, relatively hidden jazz club. Its front entrance was as unremarkable as they came; there was no sign out front advertising its presence, and entry was through a half-hidden door down one flight of steps.<br><br>But inside... well, inside was another story.<br><br>The interior of <em>Alasdair's</em> was vastly different from its unassuming entrance, from the subtle, gentle glow of well-placed lanterns along the maroon-and-gold wallpaper, to the well-lit bar just beyond the entrance, to the various tables spread out in front of the stage, where there was enough room for a small band and a grand piano. There was a line of more private, cozy booths along the side walls, with candles and delicate sprays of flowers or other plants; in these, patrons could still see the stage, but were also afforded more privacy than the other seats offered. Well-dressed waiters, all wearing crisply pressed white dress shirts and black trousers, wandered between the bar and the tables; the bartender made small talk with his customers when there were no performers on stage, and was obviously most skilled in his profession despite his relative youth.<br><br>And though Alasdair's drew customers for its quiet, elegant atmosphere as well as the offering of high-quality alcoholic drinks... it was her performers that urged customers to become regular patrons.<br><br>Celia hurried down the employee's stairway, making her way to the private restroom. She changed with relative quickness into a lovely red gown, a gift from the owner of Alasdair's, who thought a small investment in her wardrobe a small price to pay to keep her as well-dressed as the other employees of the club. Given that some customers were already, after only two weeks of her employment as a probationary pianist, showing interest in the 'new girl'... well, it quite seemed that his perception had netted <em>Alasdair's</em> another keeper for a regular performing musician.<br><br>It took but a minute to brush a dash of color to her cheeks and eyes. When she had teased her loose curls into a messy coiffure, with her black hair tumbling down to tease her neck and shoulders, Celia packed up her things and hurried to the stairs leading up to the bar.<br><br>Alasdair - owner and head bartender of his self-named jazz club - glanced over when he saw her stepping carefully up the stairs. He smiled; it was the first time she was in an evening gown, and not the simple dress shirt and long skirt that his niece wore when she worked here (as she was tonight, greeting patrons as they entered the club). The older man held out an arm, and with a bashful smile, Celia offered her arm, letting him twist her first one way, then the other, before twirling her in a full circle. The few men sitting at the bar were enchanted at the petite girl's soft blush and pleased smile, and also at her new outfit, a deep red chiffon affair that emphasized her lithe figure (http://img71.imageshack.us/img71/3134/midcenturypage12clothe0gp8.jpg). They murmured their wish to see her play and, with a graceful curtsy, Celia obliged, stepping out from behind the bar and gliding gracefully to the stage, and the piano bench on it.<br><br>A spell all but floated through the jazz club as the notes of a sweet, gentle jazz ballad began drifting around the tables, putting a smile on the faces of the waiters and <em>Alasdair's</em> current group of elegant patrons.<br><br>Alasdair allowed himself to enjoy several bars of the music, approving of Celia's choice of a warm, but not exceedingly upbeat song, before he began making his own rounds through the club, asking after the regulars and greeting newcomers. By the time he reached Emerson, a new face, Celia had reached the end to her first song, and slipped into another without even the slightest pause to break the mood.<br><br>"Welcome to the jazz club, sir," Alasdair said with a genial smile when he bowed slightly and offered his hand to Emerson in greeting. "I'm the owner of <em>Alasdair's</em>; might I ask, how your night is going?"
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				Title: <strong>Re: Meeting at Alasdair's [Priest &amp; Caeli]</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Priest</strong> on <strong>08-01-2009, 00:19:57</strong>
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				Emerson was on his third; not that that in itself was an unusual occurrence, though the social changes that were fighting for a hold had become a constant irritant to him.&nbsp; His drinking habits were quite regular; but it took quite a lot more for it to actually have any deleterious effect on his judgement or balance; when remarked upon in company, he had often joked that it was his Irish side that gave him the resolve to continue drinking where all others would be flat on their backs.<br><br>What was unusual was that he was on his third drink and there had still been no sign that his friend was going to show; this was disconcerting and gave him a very unsettle air and his mind mulled over the endless possibilities that could have delayed him unduly.&nbsp; The last thing he had said over the phone was that he had some information regarding the murder; could it be that his information, that he was so unwilling to give out over the phone line, was of such importance that someone had traced him because of it.&nbsp; He tried to shake his head free of the thoughts as they were doing nothing for his composure.<br><br>He was able to pull his mind away from such despairing thoughts when he caught a glimpse of a wash of red chiffon as it pulled his gaze from the gold and maroon décor; his eyes trailed in her wake, each step causing the dress to flow and ebb around her form.&nbsp; It was the first time he had been able to bring the slightest of smiles to his face; it was heartening that in the dark seamy underworld that he seemed to inhabit, though necessity rather than desire, that there was still a place in it for flashes of wonderment and beauty.&nbsp; Emerson took another sip; his mouth tingling for a moment from the fire born in the liquor as he watched the young woman make her way across to the staging.<br><br>The effect of her playing was mesmerising, the dance of her fingers on the keys weaving a soft soulful magic that floated through the jazz club and seemed to hold a heady sway over all; Emerson included, his gaze fixed against the slender figure who possessed such a natural gift to quell the despondency that had so recently taken him at the moment that he had taken up the heavy mantle of this case.&nbsp; He hadn’t seen Alasdair’s approach, so engrossed was he with a combination of his own thoughts and the soft melody that stretched across the room, and he jolted a little when the man spoke to him.&nbsp; Emerson looked up at his congenial expression and returned a smile of his own<br><br>Emerson extended his own hand to meet the greeting and shook it for a moment; “Thankyou;&nbsp; It is the first time I have happened on this place.&nbsp; I didn’t realise such a gem existed amongst the rough out there.” he smiled as it was certainly a set up from his regular haunts for an evening of reflection and pondering.&nbsp; He mused for a moment at his question, but saw that it was nothing more than adopting the guise of a good host and there was no need to burden him with the truth of it; “My night is going well, Alasdair ….Emerson; I’m Emerson.” he added, unsure as to why, but the presence of the club owner just seemed to elicit the information from him.&nbsp; He turned towards the stage and watched her as she played&nbsp; “She is very good;” he spoke with a lost wistful tone, “Who is she?”<br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Meeting at Alasdair's [Priest &amp; Caeli]</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Caeli</strong> on <strong>12-01-2009, 08:18:33</strong>
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				"I'm happy that you find yourself content in this place," Alasdair murmured with a smile for the man. He had not missed how Emerson's eyes had seemed to follow Celia as she drifted across the club and up the stairs to the stage, caressing the piano with an affectionate warmth before she began playing. Obviously, there was a mutual love between Celia and music, and music and Celia; her body swayed gently as she played, sometimes with her eyes closed, sometimes not. It was almost as if she were lost in a dream of her own making, among notes and melodies that only her mind could hear. <br><br>However, being a most genial and discreet host, he made no mention of his observations as he introduced himself to the man. "The pleasure is mine, Mister Emerson - and indeed, it's my wish that this jazz club be a refuge of sorts for men of our ilk, who can appreciate some of the finer points in these prosperous golden years." He followed Emerson's gaze, then, to Celia, who was still entranced with the music flowing through her fingers and wafting through the warmth of the jazz club.<br><br>Hearing Emerson's vague voice, the man's attention obviously distracted by the young lady in his vision, Alasdair couldn't help but smile. It didn't seem as if this man had a young lady at home waiting for him - he was quite sure that if that were the case, he wouldn't now be gazing at Celia with a mixture of such admiration and wondering speculation. "Her name is Celia. An aspiring musician I was reluctant to hire at first. Still, I couldn't argue when I heard her play... I'd thought that she was a goddess incarnate, who thought to grace my lowly jazz club with her presence." Alasdair's lips quirked up in memory; it was no exaggeration, that. "But I couldn't agree more. She's certainly quite something."
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				Title: <strong>Re: Meeting at Alasdair's [Priest &amp; Caeli]</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Priest</strong> on <strong>14-01-2009, 21:53:16</strong>
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				Emerson’s eyes toyed with her; a part of him wishing that he could bear witness to the unspoken world that her music seemed to create within her, she had a particular empathy with melodies and instruments.&nbsp; All these things were a mystery to him; though he certainly had an ear to appreciate a good tune and someone who could carry it.<br><br>The mechanics of its creation had always …and would likely always be, one of life’s unfathomable mysteries that even his decisive understanding given the nature of his profession, wouldn’t hold a candle to comprehending the intricacies of the dance her spirit weaved.&nbsp; Emerson cast him a smile <em>..appreciate; certainly …understand; never..</em><br><br><em>Celia</em> He rolled the name around his mind; it wasn’t one that sprung to mind and he didn’t recognise her; perhaps she was from the outskirts of Glenham city as he had already interviewed a great many people with regards to the murder. He was loathe to ask further questions about her; as innocent as they would be, to ask additional to what he had would likely raise suspicions in his host; Alasdair; and understandably so, with that being the case he chose to alter his tack.&nbsp; He raised the glass tumbler to his lips and took a sip, then slowly placing it back to the table and rolling the glass around.<br><br>Emerson smiled at his words; it was clear that he was just as entranced by the magic she weaved across the ivories as the patrons of the club and that his decision to hire her had maybe not been born purely from the financial&nbsp; aspects of the club.&nbsp; He glanced up towards Alasdair for a moment; conscious of the potential for breaking the reverie.&nbsp; “It is certainly an oasis in this desert,” he spoke as he made mention of his earlier comment; “especially to get away from the reality out there.” with a nod of his head he lay mention to the world behind the door; “It has been rough these past weeks, it is refreshing to find a place it is just a distant memory.” he raised the glass to his lips and drained the remainder.
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				Title: <strong>Re: Meeting at Alasdair's [Priest &amp; Caeli]</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Caeli</strong> on <strong>16-01-2009, 05:47:56</strong>
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				Alasdair bowed his head to acknowledge Emerson's compliment. "I'm glad you you find the club refreshing," he said, bowing slightly at the compliment. "And I'm pleased that you're enjoying Celia's music. You're quite welcome to buy her a drink, when she takes a break from playing, of course - I usually get her something light and refreshing. And sometimes she will take breaks between her sets, and talk to the customers, so you might have a chance to tell her how much you enjoy her playing." Alasdair said warmly. After a little more small talk, he said his farewells and continued making his rounds through the club.<br><br>As he'd said, about two hours later, Celia finally brought her last song of the set to a close, sitting back and placing her hands in her lap as the last notes faded into the club.<br><br>She was startled out of her daze by the sound of light applause, and Celia blushed a deep rose at the applause. She stood and made a charming, awkward curtsy from in front of the piano, then knelt down as one of the waiters came up to her, asking if she wanted anything to eat while she took her break.<br><br>Pausing for a moment, she tilted her head to the side as she considered what she wanted. "Can I have a plate of sorbet?" She asked shyly. The waiter smiled, making her cheeks flush a little more at the appreciative glint in his eyes, and she couldn't hold back the giggle of pleasure as he extended his hands and simply lifted her down from the stage. She was seated at one of the open tables on the main floor; one of the waiters brought her a glass of water, another brought her the plate of sorbet. <br><br>It was obvious that Celia was well-liked by the other employees - the male waiters, both the young and the old, seemed to find her charming and sweet, often stopping by her table during their rounds around <em>Alasdair's</em> to talk with her, making her laugh and blush with their comments. 
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				Title: <strong>Re: Meeting at Alasdair's [Priest &amp; Caeli]</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Priest</strong> on <strong>19-01-2009, 12:59:17</strong>
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				He smiled and nodded and exchanged a farewell with Alasdair as he slipped away to mingle with the other tables, and as he watched him go, the smile that Emerson had held on to finally slipped and his expression adopted one of a more thoughtful concern; throughout the genial conversation his eyes had been in a position to cast the occasional furtive glance towards the entrance, and each time it opened he expected for his eyes to catch a glimpse of his friend …but, the space on the table opposite him remained resolutely empty.<br><br>He glanced at his watch; the perpetual flick of the hand as it counted away the seconds bought with each tick, less hope that Carl was going to walk through those doors.&nbsp; Occasionally the waiter would return to his table, a congenial smile would be exchanged and he would return a few moments later with another drink; Emerson’s fingers would wrap about it and he would lose himself in the rhapsody that lifted the disquiet from his shoulders.&nbsp; He lifted his gaze and rested his eyes on Celia as she sat at the piano; the passion flowing from her equally whatever the tempo of the music that filled the room like a summers breeze carrying with it the fresh scent of something that enchanted the senses; he indulged himself in this ritual for much of the evening.<br><br>Two hours had passed; but for the gentle rapture that flowed from Celia’s fingers as they danced across the piano, he would likely had slipped away into the night, as he had now long lost the hope that the appointment was going to be kept.&nbsp; He watched as she was aided from the stage; caught in the air of innocence as she carried herself with an awkward grace.&nbsp; That there was such a thing still as innocence in this world, the thought bought a smile to him.<br><br>Emerson watched silently from his table for a while; watching the flow of patrons and employees stop by her table. From the expressions each of them sported it was clear that the intent was a heartfelt word of appreciation of her skill.&nbsp; Emerson rose from his seat; for a moment he felt a flicker of inelegance at his intent.&nbsp; There was a shimmer deep with the hazel blush of his eyes as he approached towards her table, a smile on his face as he spoke, “That was really … remarkable.”&nbsp; his smile reflected in his eyes, “Please, perhaps you will allow me to show you my appreciation?&nbsp; A drink or something else perhaps.”&nbsp; 
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				Title: <strong>Re: Meeting at Alasdair's [Priest &amp; Caeli]</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Caeli</strong> on <strong>20-01-2009, 13:24:36</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Though Celia had only requested a plate of sorbet, Alasdair himself came by her table to give her a delicious, filling meal - leg of lamb with fresh herbs, served with local vegetables. None of that sparsely-filled plating, here - Alasdair made quite sure that his cook made full plates of food for his customers, a sentiment that the man (a rather robust Italian immigrant) had not a problem agreeing to. Antonio was especially fond of Celia, often scolding her when she got off work for not eating, and telling her she was much, <em>much</em> too bony for a young woman so pretty. Such comments always had her giggling and blushing, protesting that his continued efforts to feed her would give her an overabundance of flesh in her waist and hips, but she never turned down his food.<br><br>As she ate, many of the patrons wandering around the club stopped by her table to give her a smile and compliment her for her playing. Celia, still unused to the warmth and sincerity of <em>Alasdair's</em> patrons (especially in comparison with those folks whom she often encountered at <em>Crossroads</em>), often could only stammer out a soft thank you for their flattery, awkwardly embarrassed. Most of the patrons were at least significantly older than her by several years; they chuckled at her shyness, but would say a few more words before they made their farewells, continuing on and leaving Celia to compose herself again.<br><br>She was halfway through her lamb when yet another patron of <em>Alasdair's</em> approached her. "Re-remarkable? Surely you jest," Celia immediately said, blushing rather rosily at the compliment. "And there's really no need for- I couldn't possibly ask you to... this is my job, after all," she began stammering, flushing a bit more when her heart skipped a beat. <em>Oh, goodness... he's so very handsome. And quite alone.</em> Unlike most of the others, he didn't have a woman on his arm - and it didn't seem that there was anybody waiting for him.<br><br>Handsome men didn't normally pay attention to mousy little Celia.<br><br>"W-would you like to join me? I haven't finished my dinner yet, and we can talk a little more before my next set," she offered shyly, the words coming out in a rush as she fidgeted under his gaze. She stood and waved at the empty seat next to her, waiting for him to walk a few steps closer before she also sat down. "Truly, you needn't go out of your way to show me your appreciation - I play because I love music. But it would be rude of me to turn down a gift, so you can surprise me with a small drink." She returned his warm smile, though her eyes quickly returned to her food as she continued eating.<br><br>Celia swallowed a bite of lamb, then tilted her head curiously. "I don't think I've seen you here before. Are you new to <em>Alasdair's</em>?" She asked curiously. "And- I do quite forget my manners when I'm eating," she giggled, extending her right hand. Her fingers were long and slender, delicately boned and graceful in their movement. "I am Celia, one of Alasdair's regular musicians."
			</dd>
		</dl>
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