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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Don't worry. [The words came, maybe, a second or two later than they should have.] I won't make you break that streak today.
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But she took a sip of her coffee and when she was done, she lowered the cup and gave him a break.]
That's good. Because I was hoping to hear you play when we were done.
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What were you hoping to hear?
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No, I don't mind. Really. It'd be my pleasure.
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Got it.
[And he begins to play. After the first four bars of the introduction, he quietly begins to sing, voice a smooth tenor:]
Near Banbridge town, in the County Down
One morning in July
Down a boreen green came a sweet colleen
And she smiled as she passed me by.
She looked so sweet from her two white feet
To the sheen of her nut-brown hair
Such a coaxing elf, I'd to shake myself
To make sure I was standing there.
From Bantry Bay up to Derry Quay
And from Galway to Dublin town
No maid I've seen like the sweet colleen
That I met in the County Down.
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When he finishes, she applauds.]
That was great!
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I'm glad you thought so.