[ London... if it rings a bell, he makes no comment on it. May have heard it mentioned in a song once or twice. But then, even he doesn't know where half the songs in his head have come from. Most bards don't. A byproduct of their magic, or perhaps their connection to the greater universe through music...

...the greater universe in which he is now stuck in. But he hasn't taken her words too literally, hasn't fully accepted them yet. Thinks maybe they're out in the Wylds, someplace no one would think to look for a secret underground prison dungeon. That's one of the theories buzzing around his crowded thoughts anyway. And more than a drink, he needs something to listen to in order to calm those thoughts. ]

Sorry I can't promise to be as quiet as your beastie. I practice regularly.

[ He's pulling out his violin as he explains. It's an unremarkable and old wooden one, though polished and clearly well cared for. The bow is left in the case. For now, his weathered fingers delicately pluck out a soft and slow tune on the strings as though it were the tiniest and most precious of guitars. ]

Promise to make it enjoyable, or at least enjoyable as I can.

[ The plucked out song he's picked might be a little on the sadder side. Not the most optimistic of sounds, but he has a compelling need to get it out there. ]