Alden tried not to look like a fox in a hen house, and he failed miserably. He had never in his life even imagined a piano of such perfection as the one he saw in front of him. To him, the ornate walls, the affluent surroundings, even the big chandelier hanging in the ceiling, all this paled and went into the background as he observed the tangents' white marvel.
He was going to audition here. In the Aeterna theatre. He was actually going to touch this miracle. He was going to play in a building built exclusively to make the perfect sound. He might do it several times, if he got the job. He was in heaven.
Tentatively he sat down on the piano stool, flexed his fingers and looked down at the sheets of music he had been given upon his arrival. The notes assured him. He understood notes.
He was aware of the buzzing of life around him, people breathing and doing their jobs and making things ready for the next show, but only as he would be in a dream.
With a sigh he let his hands touch the tangents and began playing.

Joseph Phroste had taken a personal day or two from Brunnhold to come and help the theatre hands with the next production, always eager to spend time at the theatre. The Lone Starcatcher had recieved rave reviews, people were amazed and awed by the newcomer...so much so that Lillan and Basil's review was like a small afterthought. It had not pleased the fantastic duo, and they had since given him more of a cold shoulder than before. There was another script out, and already directors were in talks with his publicist - a publicist! for him! - to get him into the lead role. But it was a political script...and Phroste couldn't help but screw up his nose at the thought. He was built for musicals, not political squabble through art.

Placing a box of stars below the stage, he tilted his head, listening to the beautiful lilting of a lone piano. Following his ear out, he appeared left stage, arms crossed, wearing a smart dark green suit with a pale grey scarf wrapped around his neck. His vibrant golden eyes watched with amusement as the unknown danced his fingers along the keys.

"That is rather good, but an odd place to choose to play a piano. The theatre is technically closed." He smiled at the galdor, pleasantly. If they'd kicked him out of the theatre everytime he'd snuck in - he wouldn't be where he was now.

Alden started so violently at the sound of the voice that his brain nearly hit his cranium. The illusion of the full-packed theatre died away as reality hit him like a punch in the face. He almost jumped up from the piano stool, shedding the sheets of music around him, then leaning down to feverishly pick them up again.
“I'm – well – back door – it was open and – er – childhood dream – didn't think anyone – always wanted to try that piano, and – looking for employment, you see - I know this might seem like trespassing – and it possibly is, but – er – sorry, really am -”
His fingers trembled deceitfully, and he fumbled with the paper between his fingers.
“This might just be the thirteenth most stupid thing I've ever done,” Alden thought between the fits of panic. “Just behind setting fire to that hat in third grade. Why didn't I even consider that someone would come, even if it's closed?”
Then he took hold of and shook himself. The blabbering away wasn't helping his cause.
He said: “I am dreadfully sorry. I was hoping there would people here, and that they would be open for an audition, as I'm kind of... unemployed at the moment, and then I saw the piano here, and – look at the beauty of it, you can hardly blame me for... That is, you're free to blame me, but... well.”
The sentence dwindled away.

Beavers were born to build dams, birds were born to build nest, and Augustus (though his father though it was something different) was born to to be part of the stage. Augustus had spoken to Phroste briefly about helping around the theatre for the new play, which Augustus had a nice part in, and had decided to put together some sets.

Augustus made his way to the stage from the backdoor. The solo piano puzzled the dandy, no one except Phroste and himself were supposed to be in the theatre that day. Upon seeing the aforementioned thespian, he walked up to him. His his feet echoing with every step, alerting the pianist and Phroste to his presence.

"I see you brought someone else along, Phroste. Might you introduce me to this fine pianist?"

Opening his mouth to talk to the pianist, Phroste turned and smiled at Augustus.

"I didn't bring him, I found him. Apparently, he is looking for a job." Sighing, the young thespian looked at the pianist and shrugged.

"Unfortunatly, this probably isn't the place to look for it. Might be nice to come in and play the piano in an empty theatre, but there are no directors or agents here right now. Just me...and him." The golden eyed boy thumbed in the direction of Augustus. Bowing with a practiced elegance, he smiled again.

"Joseph Phroste, actor and student at Brunnhold. I was in the Lone Starcatcher...my first part in a real opera." Pushing his hands into his jacket pockets, he waited for either a response or an introduction from his partner in non-crime.

Oh. They weren't angry. This was unexpected, but Alden celebrated by mentally doing a little happy jig. He had tensed noticeably when the second man had entered the stage, thinking that being caught by two persons could only mean twice the trouble. But they didn't seem unfriendly, quite the opposite, actually, if with a practiced nonchalance and, to his mind at least, a certain amount of looking down their noses.
As the youngest man introduced himself, Alden considered the pros and cons of telling them his real name. His inbred honesty got the better of him, though, and he bowed back.
“I'm Alden Mavorian,” he said, then added, a tad reproachfully: “and I didn't think anyone would come here today. I didn't think I'd get caught.”
He ran that last sentence through his head again, then hastily said: “But it's not as though I planned a break-in. The back door was open, but there was no one here, and then I caught sight of this beauty -” He waved his hand at the piano. “As men of the arts yourselves, you can certainly see how I got entranced by the creative spark it lit in my soul. Sometimes agents and directors are secondary to the thrills of creativity. Though I am looking for a job,” he hastily said, realizing that half of what he had said sounded like he regularily chewed some strange mushrom.
He didn't recognize either of the men, but then, it was a long time since he had had money to spare so he could go to the theatre.