Whenever he came to the city, the crush of people inevitably became overwhelming. The constant focus of keeping his wings hidden, of trying not to react to every sound, every errant movement that spoke of danger in ways that even the darker of the fae woods didn't.
Parks, at least, offered some level of solace. And when he could take all those raucous sounds around him and drown them out for a moment with his own music? That was when he could find peace.
Rook had been all too amenable to knocking together a busking permit so that Liron could set himself up somewhere and think, or at least practice, and share his talents with others.
Today's arrangements were for his lute, fast-paced and bright like the sunshine, and the tremolo and vibrato of classical guitar playing. Not that he needed the money, but radiating positive vibes did tend to encourage tipping.
He was perched on the lip of a water fountain, wandering back and forth, dark hair tied back and fluttering behind him, spinning and darting about on clever feet (not nearly as clever as his hands, however), lighter than he should be for his (still rather diminutive-to-average) size. His voice came out in a clear, joyous chorus, of love, of life, of friends, of beauty, rising and falling across the musical scales; a bird fluttering along a perch, if not caged.
As his current piece came to an end, the last notes echoing across the grassy space and the komorebi of the late-Summer sun through the gaps in the maple tree overhanging the space, he let out a sigh and then a quick, pleased laugh at the call for an encore.
His gaze shifted to his audience, something he reserved for after his performances, and it had to quickly shift up by several significant degrees to meet the caller's gaze. His own bright chartreuse eyes reflected back in the light on (broken, he noticed) glass lenses, and his brows did shoot up under his bangs.
He didn't think he could recall seeing someone that tall who wasn't part tree before.
And not someone with so much lingering irritation and frustration clouding their aura.
Thankfully, his fingers were smarter than he was and started plucking out Hozier's 'Would That I' before his rude staring could linger further-- Hozier was always a crowd-pleaser, in his experience.
Don't ask him how he did the backing echoes without a mixer; it owed to the more avian structure of his vocal cords, and perhaps a smidgen of magic.
His foot covered the drum beat against the fountain's edge, until, at the end, he leapt high for the final notes, and landed before the open guitar case holding his permit and the tips that people had deigned to grace him with. His chest heaved, guitar held aloft, and dipped forward into a bow.
"I hope that was good enough to earn me a brief break?" he managed, a quick flash of laughter darting in at the end.
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