Geordie Riddell (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
keepsmehonest) wrote2012-10-26 01:05 pm
keepsmehonest) wrote2012-10-26 01:05 pm
Entry tags:
2nd Tune [action/voice]
[Geordie hasn't been here very long, not when he thinks of it in comparison to Jilly and some of her friends. But every day without his fiddle has felt like a lifetime. Barely a day had gone by before his arrival here that he hadn't had his instrument by his side. It's gotten him through both good times and the bad, especially the bad. So long as he was able to pluck a tune from his old Czech fiddle and lose himself in the music that filled the space around him, taking what he wanted from the notes and chords, he could survive anything.
He had his voice. That was an instrument no one could take from him. But it wasn't the same as his fiddle. His fingers longed to fly over the neck of a fiddle while the bow moved in a furiously fast tempo or glide in a languid slow dance with the fiddle strings. His performance at the wedding had been adequate with a borrowed violin, but Geordie can't help but think it would be better if he had his own familiar instrument. He would have played all of Jilly's favorite tunes during her amnesia, hoping one would've piqued a memory. And every day it was clear skies, he would've been out by that fountain, busking his time away.
It's not being so far from Newford that bothers him. Not even being so far from his brother and his friends. Not the shifts of even the depressing draft system that reminds him all too much of Vietnam and the luck that somehow held for him and Chirsty both. It's that lack of a fiddle - his fiddle - that really felt as if it would slowly drive him mad.
He had taken to haunting the items shop every day since his arrival. And today, for whatever the reason, his search has finally paid off. The case might be missing (much to his disappointment) but at least his fiddle and bow have finally made it here.
For the rest of the day, you can find him by the fountain, playing the fiddle without a care in the world. Eventually, a tune can be heard through the journal.]
I'm taking requests, if anybody has any.
[A few seconds pass in which he plays another quick piece before falling silent. He sets down his fiddle and picks up the journal, regarding it somberly for a moment before asking,] So just how often do these drafts occur, anyway?
He had his voice. That was an instrument no one could take from him. But it wasn't the same as his fiddle. His fingers longed to fly over the neck of a fiddle while the bow moved in a furiously fast tempo or glide in a languid slow dance with the fiddle strings. His performance at the wedding had been adequate with a borrowed violin, but Geordie can't help but think it would be better if he had his own familiar instrument. He would have played all of Jilly's favorite tunes during her amnesia, hoping one would've piqued a memory. And every day it was clear skies, he would've been out by that fountain, busking his time away.
It's not being so far from Newford that bothers him. Not even being so far from his brother and his friends. Not the shifts of even the depressing draft system that reminds him all too much of Vietnam and the luck that somehow held for him and Chirsty both. It's that lack of a fiddle - his fiddle - that really felt as if it would slowly drive him mad.
He had taken to haunting the items shop every day since his arrival. And today, for whatever the reason, his search has finally paid off. The case might be missing (much to his disappointment) but at least his fiddle and bow have finally made it here.
For the rest of the day, you can find him by the fountain, playing the fiddle without a care in the world. Eventually, a tune can be heard through the journal.]
I'm taking requests, if anybody has any.
[A few seconds pass in which he plays another quick piece before falling silent. He sets down his fiddle and picks up the journal, regarding it somberly for a moment before asking,] So just how often do these drafts occur, anyway?
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This is everything she'd been missing for a year, and waiting for since Geordie had arrived. When she hears that fiddle, there's no question in her mind who is playing.
It's almost comical how quickly she abandons her canvas, scrambling over the arm of the couch to reach where she'd set her open journal on an endtable.]
Where are you?
[because there's no way she's missing this]
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Geordie laughs, all serious thought forgotten in favor of his best friend.]
By that fountain in the middle of the plaza. It's a great place to reach an audience.
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Instead, she grabs her satchel as she hurries out the door, not even bothering to put her brushes in turpentine before she leaves. (She might regret that, later, but it's a price worth paying.) And, less than ten minutes later, Geordie will have a breathless, grinning artist come running up and, regardless of what he's playing, engulf him in a happy hug.
...it's only one small interruption.]
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Maybe he should expect the hug. But he doesn't. And he barely has time to move fiddle and bow out of harm's way before he has his arms filled with Jilly.]
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[Unspoken is that the contents of his care are still missing, too. Including the photograph of Sam.]
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[her grin, when she turned to face him again, said that she was teasing him. She wanted the music, of course, but it was to see his face light up as he played and to watch his fingers dance across the strings. Her enjoyment was just a happy byproduct.]
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He picks the fiddle back up and places a foot on the rim of the fountain.] Any requests, m'lady?
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Drowsy Maggie. Think you're warmed up enough for it?
[there was a teasing sort of challenge in her eyes, though she had no doubt]
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