And when you went I became a hopeless drifter...
Characters: Jay & Open
Date&Time: September 26th, evening.
Setting: One of the spare rooms, the mansion.
Summary: Everyone might see the wings, but that's not the only trick in this girl's hat.
Rating: Probably SFW? May change.
Status: Open to multiples.
There wasn't much that Jay ketp with her at all times- clothes could be tossed and sold, photos unreliable and memories moreso. She didn't worry herself with trinkets and trifles- even the Bob Dylan poster in her bedroom could be replaced should the cause be required. No, there was only one thing in Jay's life that was irreplaceable, one thing that mattered to her above all else. Her father's guitar.
He used to tell her when she was seven and on his knees, that he won it off of a Yankee in the War, that it was his greatest conquest while over there- at which time he would always wink at her mohter. (It was only years later that Jay would put two and three together at that wink.) He told her stories at bedtime, tales of great heros and magicians that could save and rule the word with the help of their magical guitar. Her father could never really play that well, taught himself after work or in the midst of a winter storm, but he was insistent on his daughter learning all she could. Her arms could never really reach around the old pine handle and body- but that didn't matter. She'd sit it on her lab instead, plucking out the chords for all that it could have been a dulcimer.
But that was years ago, and as Jay had grown older, her father had grown weaker, and died. She had gathered bands around that guitar, promises to Julia and songs for the audience. She had kept up her lessons, learning from older men in town, and even know, hours from home; Jay still practiced that old guitar. The words had grown up, and her voice had changed, but the tune was the same as when her father first picked the notes out on his guitar all those years ago.
She sat in one of the lesser rooms of the mansion, windows and doors open to let in the slight breeze, her eyes closed and her voice strong. It would have been easy to hear her from even a decent distance away- but she did not think of that, instead focusing on what music was at hand. It was much better company anyway.
Date&Time: September 26th, evening.
Setting: One of the spare rooms, the mansion.
Summary: Everyone might see the wings, but that's not the only trick in this girl's hat.
Rating: Probably SFW? May change.
Status: Open to multiples.
There wasn't much that Jay ketp with her at all times- clothes could be tossed and sold, photos unreliable and memories moreso. She didn't worry herself with trinkets and trifles- even the Bob Dylan poster in her bedroom could be replaced should the cause be required. No, there was only one thing in Jay's life that was irreplaceable, one thing that mattered to her above all else. Her father's guitar.
He used to tell her when she was seven and on his knees, that he won it off of a Yankee in the War, that it was his greatest conquest while over there- at which time he would always wink at her mohter. (It was only years later that Jay would put two and three together at that wink.) He told her stories at bedtime, tales of great heros and magicians that could save and rule the word with the help of their magical guitar. Her father could never really play that well, taught himself after work or in the midst of a winter storm, but he was insistent on his daughter learning all she could. Her arms could never really reach around the old pine handle and body- but that didn't matter. She'd sit it on her lab instead, plucking out the chords for all that it could have been a dulcimer.
But that was years ago, and as Jay had grown older, her father had grown weaker, and died. She had gathered bands around that guitar, promises to Julia and songs for the audience. She had kept up her lessons, learning from older men in town, and even know, hours from home; Jay still practiced that old guitar. The words had grown up, and her voice had changed, but the tune was the same as when her father first picked the notes out on his guitar all those years ago.
She sat in one of the lesser rooms of the mansion, windows and doors open to let in the slight breeze, her eyes closed and her voice strong. It would have been easy to hear her from even a decent distance away- but she did not think of that, instead focusing on what music was at hand. It was much better company anyway.