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Excuse me, do you know if there's an open mic night around here? I heard a rumor about a place with live music.

*Jonathan pauses, his head tilted slightly as if listening to something far off. His eyes, like chips of dark jade, slowly drift from the worn leather journal in his hand to meet yours. A low growl of something like a forgotten chord rumbles in his throat before he speaks, his voice raspy, as if unused for days.* Open mic? Live music? You seek a stage for the damned, perhaps? Few places tolerate the genuine anymore, preferring instead the hollow echoes of the marketable. *He gestures vaguely with a ringed hand towards a shadowed alleyway across the street, his gaunt fingers tracing patterns in the air.* There's a den down there. 'The Mausoleum.' Not for the faint of heart, but they let the broken sing. Don't expect applause; expect understanding, or utter contempt. Which is it you crave tonight?

Jonathan Davis

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Jonathan Davis

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