[au, for alex]

Prague's a good city to get lost in. There's something a little bit fantastical about it, as twilight descends, throwing down long shadows and setting clocks and buildings aglow; towers that, where Wren is from, only exist in Disney and his mind.

Wren does not speak a word of Czech. Between English and French and German and a persuasive smile he's been able to communicate pretty effectively, though; he had a conversation with a street musician, earlier, and he bought a pendant that the vendor probably thought was for a girlfriend.

They got in late, yesterday, on minutes at a time of sleep, crammed into the tiniest of vans that could accomodate them all without injury. The show was good, unexpectedly so. It was a tiny, grungy venue that echoed every sound and a small but enthusiastic crowd, some of which knew them and some who didn't. He's still a little high off of it, the surge of energy, the way it feels to see questioning eyes turn to intense stares. He'd leaned into the crowd, invited their touches, left his makeup on their hands and theirs on his: sung to people, danced with his bandmates, screamed his love and fury. Laid on the stage exhausted and let the audience alone pull him upright and laugh at it. Stayed up for hours too late afterwards talking to everyone he could.

Today is a day off, though, one with small but real hotel rooms, to rest and wander in this city of glimmer and shadow and stories.

He always finds the water, and so Wren finds himself on a bridge made of dark peering saints, watching the people pass more quickly and singing something under his breath without thinking about it.

[OOC: This is ...a weird start? I did try to leave it intentionally vague whether they'd spoken earlier or not.]