[ Unsurprisingly, it proves logistically impossible to procure an oud or tanbur. Even if one could be sourced within a week, he kind of (absolutely) needs as much of the week as possible to practice. In that way, he's true to his word: he said he could play the the lute, and it's a lute that he procures, a lute that he'll have to play.
The instruments are similar enough that it isn't quite like teaching himself anew, but the first night's plenty awkward. He has little problem finding a place to practice out of earshot, which proves a priority for Claude as well. Less out of any oddly placed pride, and he'd be as difficult to embarrass in this as he is with most things. More, that his awareness of the movements in the monastery includes Felix, a comment that he's been strangely sparse at the training grounds, odd sightings at the stables, the gazebo, and never for long. It doesn't take a mind like Claude's to deduce what he's up to, and if Felix means to surprise, Claude has every intention of meeting him.
Out of earshot, then. Easy. Having let himself into all manner of places as a student, he makes use of an underground nook. Strong acoustics and, better yet, with the door shut sound doesn't carry.
Instead, the problem is the music. He's never cared for sheet music, in large part because it seemed that all the merchants sold were stuffy hymns exalting the goddess and her merry saints. In small part, because the rigorous lines chafed against his predisposition to a freer form. But he hasn't got a choice in this. There isn't a convenient band of wandering Alliance musicians visiting Garreg Mach from whom he could learn and he hasn't played a note in Fodlan. Books it is, and finding one of those with any sort of discretion proves so arduous, by the third day he's legitimately concerned that he'll have to ask for more time.
That, or play a song distinctly and unmistakably not of the Alliance. Which remains a possibility, if not his first choice. On the fourth day, Hilda produces a miracle, chirping that she'd liked the piece so much a few years back, her brother had thrown himself into learning it. (With fond disgust, she added, "Of course, like everything else he does, he played it perfectly," but as Claude hadn't told her just why he needed the book, and Holst wouldn't leave the locket, he's unable to take advantage of that unexpected teacher.)
So it was that Claude spent the first three nights learning the lute, practicing by manually transcribing the songs he'd played those years before onto those strings. On the fourth, both the music book and another from the library he arranged open, side by side, frowning as he taught himself to read the notations. The second book an introduction to that language, as he'd never played from paper where he'd grown. On the fifth and sixth, he's able to throw himself fully into the piece.
On the seventh, Claude flips again through the pages borrowed from the Gonerils, debating for the sixth time whether to bring them to their mini-recital. For the sixth time, he rules against, now with the finality of the last grains of sand trickling through the glass. Claude claps the book shut and tosses it onto the haphazard pile on his bed, then scoops up the lute. Positive that he's heard Felix in his adjacent room, Claude squares his shoulders and resigns himself to the mediocre show he's about to give.
Stepping out of his room, he swings the door shut, locking with habit. A few more steps and he's knocking on Felix's door, resisting the urge to announce himself with bombastic reference to a private concert -- deferring to Felix's preference for discretion. And really, he couldn't say he disagrees. ]
it's just a jump to the left
The instruments are similar enough that it isn't quite like teaching himself anew, but the first night's plenty awkward. He has little problem finding a place to practice out of earshot, which proves a priority for Claude as well. Less out of any oddly placed pride, and he'd be as difficult to embarrass in this as he is with most things. More, that his awareness of the movements in the monastery includes Felix, a comment that he's been strangely sparse at the training grounds, odd sightings at the stables, the gazebo, and never for long. It doesn't take a mind like Claude's to deduce what he's up to, and if Felix means to surprise, Claude has every intention of meeting him.
Out of earshot, then. Easy. Having let himself into all manner of places as a student, he makes use of an underground nook. Strong acoustics and, better yet, with the door shut sound doesn't carry.
Instead, the problem is the music. He's never cared for sheet music, in large part because it seemed that all the merchants sold were stuffy hymns exalting the goddess and her merry saints. In small part, because the rigorous lines chafed against his predisposition to a freer form. But he hasn't got a choice in this. There isn't a convenient band of wandering Alliance musicians visiting Garreg Mach from whom he could learn and he hasn't played a note in Fodlan. Books it is, and finding one of those with any sort of discretion proves so arduous, by the third day he's legitimately concerned that he'll have to ask for more time.
That, or play a song distinctly and unmistakably not of the Alliance. Which remains a possibility, if not his first choice. On the fourth day, Hilda produces a miracle, chirping that she'd liked the piece so much a few years back, her brother had thrown himself into learning it. (With fond disgust, she added, "Of course, like everything else he does, he played it perfectly," but as Claude hadn't told her just why he needed the book, and Holst wouldn't leave the locket, he's unable to take advantage of that unexpected teacher.)
So it was that Claude spent the first three nights learning the lute, practicing by manually transcribing the songs he'd played those years before onto those strings. On the fourth, both the music book and another from the library he arranged open, side by side, frowning as he taught himself to read the notations. The second book an introduction to that language, as he'd never played from paper where he'd grown. On the fifth and sixth, he's able to throw himself fully into the piece.
On the seventh, Claude flips again through the pages borrowed from the Gonerils, debating for the sixth time whether to bring them to their mini-recital. For the sixth time, he rules against, now with the finality of the last grains of sand trickling through the glass. Claude claps the book shut and tosses it onto the haphazard pile on his bed, then scoops up the lute. Positive that he's heard Felix in his adjacent room, Claude squares his shoulders and resigns himself to the mediocre show he's about to give.
Stepping out of his room, he swings the door shut, locking with habit. A few more steps and he's knocking on Felix's door, resisting the urge to announce himself with bombastic reference to a private concert -- deferring to Felix's preference for discretion. And really, he couldn't say he disagrees. ]