January Catchall; so swing down that sledgehammer through the wood

[terribibble]

Who: Fiddleford McGucket and anyone unfortunate enough to be near him
What: Settling in and trying to stay busy
When: Throughout January
Where: Around Milton; specifics in prompts

Content Warnings: General Fiddleford content warning for memory loss, lost time, unreality and paranoia. Everything else is in specific prompt headers/will be added as needed.

A. OTA

There are a lot of abandoned cabins scattered throughout Milton, a reminder that the town was once a lot more lively than it is now. Today, though, one of them is showing signs of activity. The door is open. It hangs at an odd angle, like the hinges aren't attached quite right. A bit of the roof is sagging. Whoever lived here hasn't been in residence in a very long time, and that's perfect, because that means it's unlikely they'll come back and get mad to find someone else has set up residence.

That had felt like the thing to do to Fiddleford, once he'd got his feet under him a little. He certainly wasn't going to stay on a cot in the community hall forever. That had felt too crowded, too exposed. Too many variables and too many unknowns. If he has his own space he can be a little more certain that it's safe. It'll be nice to have a door between him and everything else around here, or at least it will once he fixes the door. A project, something to do with his hands, that's what he needs. That'll keep his brain busy, and if his brain's busy it'll be harder to think himself into a corner about where he is and how he got there and how none of it makes any sense.

There's an odd assortment of junk on the porch and every now and again something else gets tossed out the door and added to the pile. It's very possible that a rusted-out pot or bent frying pan or bit of rotten wood might fly a little too far and wind up out in the street, but listen. It's the new year and that means thorough cleaning. A few moments later a man who looks like he has not slept in a week pokes his head out the door and waves a hand. He's wearing a green tweed suit with scuffed elbow patches and he is at least trying to look friendly. He is even sort of managing it!

"Sorry! Wasn't aiming for you, I swear."

B. Closed to March and/or Wynonna; warning for alcohol discussion

One of the first things he did was read the message board more or less top to bottom. That had seemed like one of the fastest ways to get a read on the people around him (or at least the people who would bother posting something up on the town message board). It takes him a bit to find the place indicated on the note given that he is still new enough to not know his way around, but he saw 'booze' and 'still' and that had seemed like something he ought to investigate. That's another project to keep busy with. And more than that, he could just really use a drink. This is the kind of situation it feels appropriate to drink about, right? He feels like if you're going to drink about something then getting kidnapped to a snowed-in mining town by unknown forces is probably the thing it should be.

"Hello? I read some folks were looking for help with a still."

C. Wildcard! If you've got an idea hit me up on the Discord or just tag in, I am game for whatever.

Comments

[cantor]

Renny follows him in, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at the prospect of work, and looks around at the cabin as the man talks. Carpentry wasn't his trade, nor had it been his parents. Halry was the one good with tools, the one they always joked about being more dwarven than even their mother. His brow furrows a bit at this train of thought. He steps on one of the rotted boards - feels it slightly give - and jerks his foot back. Shakes his head to refocus.

"You got the beginnings of a decent place," Renny says, eager to get into some conversation. He puts his hands on his hips. Looks a little silly, what with being in an oversized jacket and knit cap. Silly, but determined. "If you need someone to do heavy lifting, you're in luck! I'm burlier than I look. But I got a price for my help."

[terribibble]

Silly but determined is more than acceptable. He considers mentioning that he's been wrangling hogs twice his weight since he was half this height and decides not to. They can just split the heavy lifting. With how much of the floor feels dicey, there'll be plenty.

"Uhuh? I ought to tell you up front I don't have money, but I'm good for favors."

[cantor]

"And a favor's precisely what I want from you."

Renny grins.

"Tell me about your world. Memories, tales, bawdy tavern songs, I couldn't care less. But I crave knowledge of the planes beyond mine. You'll supply me, won't you?"

this is bard to bard communication

[terribibble]

Ah, right. The whole 'different worlds' thing. It had been one of the easiest parts of this whole thing to accept, if only because he'd studied enough physics (and talked to Ford Pines enough) to have a pretty strong grasp on the theory. It's still a little like missing a step going down the stairs every time he gets reminded, an uncomfortable sort of lurch in the back of his mind.

It feels tricky, too, to talk about home. Home is complicated and he was not that far off from not having one when he showed up here instead. It wasn't like Emma-May was going to let him stay. He could have lived in the Society's halls, maybe, but the catacombs weren't really built to be homey. He isn't sure he would have liked it much.

He realizes that his brain is once again straying off track and firmly drags it back into the conversation at hand. It's fine. He was given the option of songs, and music is safe. Music won't stray too close to bad memories. He picks up a hammer and passes it over.

"I can do that. Here-- you pull up the nails, I'll jimmy up the boards. Now I don't know about 'bawdy' or 'tavern' exactly but there's plenty of good songs where I'm from." Well. In the strictest sense actually a lot of songs in the late seventies were pretty bawdy. Do Ya Think I'm Sexy? came out maybe like, three, four years ago. He is not going to offer to relate the lyrics of Do Ya Think I'm Sexy? He has known this man for like ten minutes.

"Right now what's real big is dance music. Good beat, lyrics that aren't all that complicated, but I've always been partial to songs that tell a story. Feels like there's less and less of those around."

they are beaming tunes into each other's heads, playing riffs

[cantor]

Renny, his spirits bolstered by the prospect of useful work and new stories, happily does as the man says. He picks up a hammer and begins plying at the stubborn nails, ear tuned to his companion's words.

Dance music brings to mind festivals. He must not be talking about the fancy waltzes patriars adore, if he mentions lyrics. Something closer to the revels his father's side of the family enjoyed, then, a song with good rhythm and catchy stanzas that could be easily bawled during a party.

Ah, but then he mentions songs with stories and Renny's eyes light up. He grins as he attacks another nail.

"It sounds like your world's missing a few bards. Nothing wrong with dance music, of course, but songs are a real treat when they stir your heart and your mind. Especially if they carry secrets."

[terribibble]

Bizarrely, the rapier has now started to make more sense. Fiddleford hasn't played it in a very long while, but back in college he was the only person who'd join his roommate Stanford's sessions of Dungeons, Dungeons and More Dungeons. And he always chose bard, didn't he, because Stanford had told him that a party with just a bard in it couldn't possibly get very far and he'd decided to be contrary about it on principle.

So this man is from, what, somewhere in the medieval period? He almost asks, but he promised information about his home and immediately flipping the conversation around would be not delivering on a promise. He doesn't aim to make himself a liar.

"Sometimes you get the rare treat of having both. There was that fella that came out with an entire LP setting Romeo and Juliet against a disco backtrack, and that rocketed up the charts when it came out."

It occurs to him suddenly and with great clarity he may be talking to someone who has no idea what Romeo and Juliet is. Was that medieval? He doesn't think it was. He's an engineer, not an English major.

"It's a love story. A lot of them are. I'd say nearly every song with a story is either a love story or a ghost story when you get right down to it."

[cantor]

Disco, Romeo and Juliet, charts? All foreign words to Renny's ears, which makes him all the more curious about the state of music in this man's world. He likes to think himself educated when it comes to the arts, but he can't even begin to speculate what disco means - much less what charts have to do with songs.

"Oh, there's much more variety than that," Renny says. He isn't looking to pick a fight. He's merely amused at the idea his companion's laid out. "Of course, love and ghosts earn you your keep, when you're on the road. But a true and proper bard knows he's got to keep the good songs for those with an apprising ear.

"Take the halfling drinking song, Yondalla's Feast, for example. It's a rollicking tune about an innkeeper who gets in over his head. It's gossip and promotion all in one. And most importantly - it's easy to sing along to, no matter how many pints you've downed!"