FINN
and into the forest i go,
The chiming of the bells reminds him of festival days and marketplaces; times before Finn was Finn, when he might have been anything. He might have become anyone. Here in the warmth of the shop with the smell of resin and varnish all around, with the hum of music in the air, he can almost forget that. And as Amalia fires off questions, for once they’re ones that Finn is comfortable answering; he nods at the man playing the guitar. ”That is where I started, and it is what I always go back to,” he admits.
Roland doesn’t wait for him to answer - whether or not Finn wants to play, the elderly shopkeeper is already lifting a worn looking guitar from one of the walls. It looks well played, though even at a glance the Spyglass can tell that it’s in need of some care. This one came in secondhand,” Roland explains. ”One of the first I made.”
He hands it to Finn, who accepts it as if he’s holding some priceless artefact, swiftly shrugging out of his coat so he can hold the instrument properly. A few experimental plucks of the strings prove that it’s in need of tuning, and he gets to work on that next. ”Are you sure this is alright?” He glances between them both.
Roland doesn’t wait for him to answer - whether or not Finn wants to play, the elderly shopkeeper is already lifting a worn looking guitar from one of the walls. It looks well played, though even at a glance the Spyglass can tell that it’s in need of some care. This one came in secondhand,” Roland explains. ”One of the first I made.”
He hands it to Finn, who accepts it as if he’s holding some priceless artefact, swiftly shrugging out of his coat so he can hold the instrument properly. A few experimental plucks of the strings prove that it’s in need of tuning, and he gets to work on that next. ”Are you sure this is alright?” He glances between them both.
to lose my mind and find my soul
