fey_fire: (Puca Eyes)
Be wary of the man who urges an action in which he himself incurs no risk. -Joaquin Setanti


Takes place shortly after this gig of Breaker Street's at Last Call. Robbie Fellowes/Robin Goodfellow ([livejournal.com profile] ifwebefriends) is mentioned with his mun's permission. Cait and Tadhg MacEibhir can be found at [livejournal.com profile] a_chaitlin and [livejournal.com profile] gifted_hands respectively.


Well. That went better than I expected. Better than I had any right to expect, really.

The four-stroke Kawasaki engine underneath him sent a purr through Rory Stone's body as he cut through traffic, still present even at three in the morning, on his way home. His body adjusted smoothly to turns and lane changes as his mind once again went over his meeting with his fellow members of Breaker Street.

After all, when the musicians in a band learn both that the producer who found his way into the audience that night (namely one Robbie Fellowes, CEO of Serptichore Records) wants to sign them, and their lead guitarist/singer/songwriter (namely himself) had known that same producer for many years without ever mentioning the connection, their excitement at the former could certainly wind up tempered by a little what the hell were you thinking?! ire at the latter.

But that wasn't the real risk ... )

Muse: Rory MacEibhir / Rory Stone, [livejournal.com profile] fey_fire
Fandom: The Grey Horse by R.A. MacAvoy
Word count: 2125
fey_fire: (Laugh)
Rory looked out over the filling tables before the little club's stage. Last Call was usually a good venue for them, and tonight looked to be no exception. He glanced back at the rest of Breaker Street, everyone making final adjustments to their instruments. Dave and Sascha checked their keyboards, darting back and forth for last-minute consultations. Junie looked relaxed as she always did, idly fingering her frets, and Nil was engaged in his usual before-performance meditation over his bass guitar. Nothing would get through to him until they were announced. Catching his eye, Kreske left his drum set and joined him at the side of the stage, idly twirling his sticks. "Good house," he murmured.

"Good energy." Rory gave his drummer a light smack to one shoulder. He'd learned how to read a room's feel over the years, and this one felt right: smiles on faces, anticipation in the eyes glancing up at the stage. The waitresses were certainly keeping busy collecting orders and dropping off drinks, and Rory grinned to see the light catch Pippa's red hair as she took care of a nearby table. He wasn't sure exactly when, but he'd started thinking of the girl as almost a talisman for the band. Maybe because she was so obviously into their music ... but she was probably nice to the other acts that played here as well. Still, it was good to see her.

He looked back to find Kreske wearing the blandly knowing look that for him usually took the place of a smirk. "What?" He punctuated the syllable with another smack. "Get your arse back to those drums, Marcus. We've got music to make and minds to blow." As Kreske laughed and complied, Rory ran his fingers over his own guitar and his eyes over the crowd one more time. Good energy, open energy. He fancied he could feel the connection, just waiting for the opening chords to close the circuit and pour all that energy into him, then back out into them.

A rush like no other, that moment of pure passion. That was what he came for.

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June 2011

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