003 || dictated;
[ Private ]
[the journal picks up some muffled footsteps, like pacing. Then he takes a breath, and he talks. Talks and talks and talks, so fast it's like he's barely even stopping to breathe.]
The castle considers my desire to be recognized a good enough price for entry, apparently, and prevents me from sharing my [louder here, to the ceiling:] perfectly sound logical deductions! [a pause. more pacing.] Enforces it via some kind of block. Not mental, I can still have the thoughts, and I don't experience any sort of aphasia. Usually mundane things that are just inconveniently timed: coughing fits, loud noises, ink spontaneously drying up. We can call it magic, for lack of a better term.
Can't say them out loud, can't write over the journal or otherwise, but I'm perfectly fine when expressing them to myself. Writing in private filters works, as does speaking when no one is around. Had to lock the windows and shove a towel under the door in order to get this one to work, and even that isn't foolproof. So it's not the deductions themselves that are important, it's people's reactions to them. Ripping out the heart of my work, essentially.
[silence. he exhales, frustrated. starts somewhere else.]
The proprietor of the music shop I visited is decent enough at his trade, given the impressive selection of his wares, but is careless with the merchandise. He tunes the instruments in the display case, so he's invested as well as knowledgeable, but they each have varying levels of imperfections around the edges, despite the frankly impressive amount of polishing that goes into them. Likely older, then -- his hands shake when he tries to do anything precise, like tuning a violin, and it causes a few accidental scrapes that build up over time. He's aware of them, so he polishes, but it's not enough to fix them all.
This is Amati. Andrea Amati, circa... mid 16th century, I'd say. In too pristine a condition to be an original article, especially when you consider the source. Castle wish, then, and a good one. Doubt she even realizes it. Certainly wasn't the main point of her visit.
[a pause, and the high whine of a violin's E string being plucked.]
Not my Stradivarius, but it'll do.
----
[in the background, there's the faint sound of a stringed instrument being plucked, over and over. people with an ear for this sort of thing might notice the notes getting gradually sharper or flatter as he talks; he's tuning a violin.]
It seems even magical castles aren't immune to becoming unspeakably dull every now and again. Not entirely unexpected, but I was hoping it'd last longer than two weeks.
So, residents. I don't suppose you'd like to try your hand at being interesting for five minutes? Go on. At this point I'd even tolerate being told a riddle.
[the journal picks up some muffled footsteps, like pacing. Then he takes a breath, and he talks. Talks and talks and talks, so fast it's like he's barely even stopping to breathe.]
The castle considers my desire to be recognized a good enough price for entry, apparently, and prevents me from sharing my [louder here, to the ceiling:] perfectly sound logical deductions! [a pause. more pacing.] Enforces it via some kind of block. Not mental, I can still have the thoughts, and I don't experience any sort of aphasia. Usually mundane things that are just inconveniently timed: coughing fits, loud noises, ink spontaneously drying up. We can call it magic, for lack of a better term.
Can't say them out loud, can't write over the journal or otherwise, but I'm perfectly fine when expressing them to myself. Writing in private filters works, as does speaking when no one is around. Had to lock the windows and shove a towel under the door in order to get this one to work, and even that isn't foolproof. So it's not the deductions themselves that are important, it's people's reactions to them. Ripping out the heart of my work, essentially.
[silence. he exhales, frustrated. starts somewhere else.]
The proprietor of the music shop I visited is decent enough at his trade, given the impressive selection of his wares, but is careless with the merchandise. He tunes the instruments in the display case, so he's invested as well as knowledgeable, but they each have varying levels of imperfections around the edges, despite the frankly impressive amount of polishing that goes into them. Likely older, then -- his hands shake when he tries to do anything precise, like tuning a violin, and it causes a few accidental scrapes that build up over time. He's aware of them, so he polishes, but it's not enough to fix them all.
This is Amati. Andrea Amati, circa... mid 16th century, I'd say. In too pristine a condition to be an original article, especially when you consider the source. Castle wish, then, and a good one. Doubt she even realizes it. Certainly wasn't the main point of her visit.
[a pause, and the high whine of a violin's E string being plucked.]
Not my Stradivarius, but it'll do.
----
[in the background, there's the faint sound of a stringed instrument being plucked, over and over. people with an ear for this sort of thing might notice the notes getting gradually sharper or flatter as he talks; he's tuning a violin.]
It seems even magical castles aren't immune to becoming unspeakably dull every now and again. Not entirely unexpected, but I was hoping it'd last longer than two weeks.
So, residents. I don't suppose you'd like to try your hand at being interesting for five minutes? Go on. At this point I'd even tolerate being told a riddle.