FINN
and into the forest i go,
It goes through his head - I’m not an Outlander - but his lips aren’t at home right now to relay the message. Finn has shrugged the strap over his shoulder to better hold the guitar, his fingers never still, his ear cocked to listen to the notes until they strike true. His hands move like he doesn’t need to think about where they’re going; and it’s true, they don’t. This might not be his instrument but it’s been loved enough to make a good approximation.
”I don’t know about that. I’m mostly self taught,” Finn excuses himself with a boyish, lopsided sort of smile, his stormy gaze flicking up to them very briefly before he returns to the guitar. The strike of the first chord tells him that it’s tuned, and beneath his fingers a slow and careful tune starts to form. It’s a lazy thing, almost like a lullaby, hailing back to rainy days and cool bedsheets, to Flowerbirth mornings and dewdrops in grass.
If ya care, Finn’s playing this:
Dearly Beloved
”I don’t know about that. I’m mostly self taught,” Finn excuses himself with a boyish, lopsided sort of smile, his stormy gaze flicking up to them very briefly before he returns to the guitar. The strike of the first chord tells him that it’s tuned, and beneath his fingers a slow and careful tune starts to form. It’s a lazy thing, almost like a lullaby, hailing back to rainy days and cool bedsheets, to Flowerbirth mornings and dewdrops in grass.
If ya care, Finn’s playing this:
Dearly Beloved
to lose my mind and find my soul
