The exaggerated bow yielded a withering sidelong glance from Arvalyn, whose jaw tensed slightly. Being an imposter, he was ever on guard. The suspicion that he might be eliciting ridicule by not passing as the intended race or economic class rendered him self-conscious which, in this instance, presented itself as umbrage.
He strode a bit ahead of Finn, his steps were long and graceful- That of a dancer, ever mindful of the angles of his body in motion or in repose. Long ears perked as the street minstrel began to impart his knowledge in advance of any agreement between them. A free sample or perhaps Finn's way of imparting that Arvalyn was to pick up the bill for his lunch.
"I try to be relaxed." He responded. His left hand rose to gently rub his throat, a leather, bronze-studded brace covered the wrist. "But I have tension in my neck, when I sing high or sustain a note overlong. I don't know how to get rid of that. It isn't something I've been able to just... Will away." He griped, with a grimace.
"A boy observed my rehearsal this morning, and was very complimentary. I think it was the storytelling, as you say, but I've not had the opportunity to perform alone before a proper audience. Not out on the street, nor anywhere else." He led them halfway up the next street, and then gestured to the left down an alleyway. Sidestepping a scurrying rat, he made his way toward a wooden sign which was emblazoned with the image of a three-legged stool tipped precariously up onto one leg, whilst another was cracking in half. A little burst of three lines seemed to indicate that the crack was in progress.
"More a broken stool than wobbly, I know, but this is the place." He gestured for Finn to enter ahead of him.
