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?
[ voice ]
[Molly peered at the journal.]
Where are you playing, anyway?
[ voice ]
The fountain in the square. It's a great spot.
[ voice ]
[Coffee for live music is totally a fair exchange.]
[ voice ]
How can I say no to an offer like that?
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[And with that, the journal's closed and he picks up the fiddle to resume his playing.]
[ action ]
"Hey!"
[ action ]
He stops the current jig when Molly greets him, smiling back.] Glad you could make it!
[ action ]
[She holds up the thermos, smiling.]
I brought coffee.
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How long have you been playing out here? You've got to be getting cold by now.
[She moved to sit on the fountain's edge.]
[ action ]
Since finding my fiddle in the shop. So, I'd say around two? [He rubs his hands together and blows on them.] Trust me, it much colder in Newford this time of year.
[ action ]
You spend a lot of time playing outside back home too?
[ action ]
Busking on the street is how I try to earn my living back in Newford. At least, as much of it as possible.
[ action ]
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[His grin is soft as he talks. He doesn't exactly mean to ignore her second question. It just sort of happens as he gets lost in describing the feeling of busking best he can.]
[ action ]
So you do love it.
[ action ]
He doesn't say that aloud, though. There's no reason to ruin the mood with tales of his crappy childhood.
So he smiles and nods.] I do. I love listening to music, too. But there's nothing like the sound and feel of notes radiating from my own instrument.
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[There's a twinkle in her eye that says: I'm sorry, I couldn't help it.]
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Oh, I do. [It's awkward, but he does attempt a quick wink.] The Copeland whistle, actually.
[ action ]
Oh, I'm sorry! [She digs around in her pocket to offer him a napkin.] Are you all right?
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