Adjusting to a new home was difficult, adjusting to a new life was near impossible. Everything she was, everything she had been, her memories had been shattered and thrown to the wind. The woman whose skin she wore was new and unusual, like a pair of shoes she was yet to break in. She was surrounded by people who wanted to help her, who tried to comfort her, but she still felt strangely sombre in the knowledge she did not like them back. Not yet anyway, not until their faces morphed from those of strangers to those of friends.
Would those memories come back? Nobody seemed to know. Her thoughts had been heavy and exhausting; so she had demanded some time to herself, some peace in the midst of all the chaos. So, the dreadhead walked down the roads by the university, wearing far too many layers of breezy, disheveled fabric that covered her neck to ankle, prominent bags under her eyes. As she walked the bells and beads in her hair chimed and sang, it admittedly made her steps bouncier, a simple pleasure - a small distraction.
She had settled down on a wall, legs kicking as she listened to the music of a nearby busker. It was familiar, but he was not. The sound was comforting, and provoked emotions - but not memories. Her fingers twitched knowingly, her toes tapping against sandles to the rhythm. Then, finally, she jumped down from the wall, disappearing for a moment - then returning with two paper cups in her hand.
Warm water, ginger tea. It was meant to help your throat, but she was not too sure how she knew that, or who told her. It was just a piece of information that was there. She took it over to the man, placing one cup besides his guitar case like it was not an unusual thing to do. In her eyes it wasn’t, but she was still adjusting to normal.
Than she moved to walk away, charms singing.
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The day so far had been pretty average for Rob as he busked in his usual spot on the street corner across from the park near DCU. Some of the same people he usually saw -- he was getting familiar enough with the place that he could recognize the "regulars", the ones who had business and routines up and down the street -- smiled at him, and he returned the smile as if they were all old mates. It was summer and the university was of course not in session, so some of the "regulars" were missing; he wouldn't know until classes started again who would be back.
That thought made him a little sad, so when he finished the song he was playing, he launched into "King Henry", a song that always perked him up with its energy, especially the bit in the middle where the hag made the king bring her more meat, more meat. He always did that series of verses acapella, drumming on the body of his guitar and snarling and barking out the words. That had been a fun song to do onstage with Torgo, his old band, leaping about like a madman as he sang. He didn't leap about this time, but he did snarl and stomp through the section before strumming and singing through the rest of the song.
As he sang the final verse, the hag having turned into a gorgeous woman, a girl he hadn't seen around before approached, holding two paper cups. The smell of ginger was unmistakable as she set one of the cups next to his open guitar case. The young woman's long dreads were adorned with beads and charms and bells which chimed as she moved. Rob had thought about doing something similar to his own dreads the next time he got them looked after, but he always forgot to mention it.
He nodded and grinned in gratitude toward her, then she turned to walk away. "Oi, hold up," he called out as he finished the song. "I wanted to properly thank you for the ginger tea. So, um, cheers, thank you."
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Yvaine stopped, her skirts spiralling as she turned to look at the man who had called her. At a rather impressive five foot ten, she was hard to lose in a crowd, but admittedly she was not expecting him to stop her. The brunette smiled softly, tired eyes half moons, but friendly despite the strain and weariness. She was only twenty three, but she was sure she looked older these days. “Don’t mention it, I mean; it must be hard. So… take it easy.” She lifted her hand to touch her throat gently, to make it clear she was talking about the strain on his voice. Her own was quiet, almost too fragile to leave an impression. She was not shy, she had never been shy; but she was weary of people. Weary of leaving an impression. Of becoming a face they remembered.
She paused for a moment, her movements floaty with no sign of urgency, her eyes were looking through him as much as they were at him. Grey pools unfocused and just slightly dim. “My name is Yvaine. I really like your accent. It is really emanating.” She finally said, after a silence that was on the border of awkward. The hand on her throat moved to the hair, playing with one of the thick strands through her fingers, fidgeting. The other brought her own drink to her lips, her eyes turning downwards so her hair fell on her face. .
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Rob nodded and retrieved the cup Yvaine had left him. She seemed so… strange and distant, her voice so soft. Maybe she was high on something; either that or she was some ethereal being summoned by his music and unfamiliar with the ways of humans. Looking at her attire, he would have believed it: a tall, regal elfin creature come to take the mortal bard away to Faery. He smiled to himself as he sipped the ginger tea. Overactive imagination, he thought. Too many old ballads.
"Yvaine." With one hand on the neck of his guitar and the other holding the tea, Rob bowed, his blond dreads flopping over his shoulders. "That's a lovely name, one worthy of song. My name's Rob. Robin, actually. An' thank you -- my manner of speaking's never been called emanating before," he grinned. "I'm from London originally, an' the accent's never faded, I reckon."
He took another sip of the ginger beverage; it did feel good going down his throat. Finishing it off, he crumpled up the cup and tossed it into his guitar case. "So," he started with a smile as he checked the tuning of his guitar, "any requests?"
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Rob would probably never know just how close he came to the truth. The people of her world had an elfish appearance, with pointed ears and a tall stature. Alas, they were a hostile race, often with defined muscles and battle scars. Nobody wanted to be spirited away by the legions of Mjolnir - especially by the women, who were in many ways crueler than their male counterparts. Though those times had ended, and those creatures had faded into legends like dwarves and dragons alike.
“That is usually the case; we carry a little bit of our homes with us, always.” Even if it is only the song resonating in the words we speak. “It is nice to meet you, Robin.” His full name, it painted a prettier picture, Rob sounded so sharp - so blunt. The brunette nodded her head as he bowed, her face still cast in shadow, until her hand ran through her hair and pushed it back. Grey eyes watched as he disposed off his cup, following its flight before it landed. Robin had drunk quickly, whilst Yvaine tended to sip like a mouse drinking a dew drop.
Bushy brows furrowed at his words, neat but untapered. “London? I think my parents were from there.” Odd maybe, because she said it with some uncertainly, like she was trying to recall something from the distant past. She shrugged the thought away, maybe that was why his voice seemed so comforting? Maybe, it was delirium that lingered from her purification. He was smiling though, and that put her at ease.
She looked at the instrument in his arms, and she reached out slowly, her sleeve falling back to reveal hands that looked too large for her wrists; like lily pads. Fingers long and boney, decorated with multiple stoned rings and chipped nailvarnish on talon like nails. A witch's hands. Her index touched the neck of the guitar, running over the grooves. It’s shape almost felt natural. “Can I? I will be careful.”
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Rob was caught slightly by surprise by Yvaine's request to handle his guitar. Not many people wanted to touch the instrument; if anything, they wanted to touch his dreadlocks. He watched her hand on the neck of the guitar, noticed her long elegant fingers adorned with rings, and wondered if she was a musician herself, despite the long nails. She held something of a reverence about her for the guitar.
"Yes, yes you may." He slipped the strap off over his head and held out the guitar for her. "This is my workhorse guitar. I have more at home, but I don't bring those out busking with me. Too big a risk of damage. I use 'em when I'm recording stuff, though." Truth be told, he hadn't recorded much lately, just some new songs for a band that no longer existed. A faint bitterness welled up in him, then an idea pushed the bitterness aside. Maybe he should record some of the stuff he played as a busker! Just some acoustic versions of the songs he played with Torgo, nothing special -- but it would give him something to sell as he performed. And it would put his recording setup to use for more than just Sid's stuff.
He turned his attention back to Yvaine. "So your parents were from London? Small world, innit?" he grinned. "I was born an' raised in Chelsea. Came to the States just a few years ago, kicking an' screaming. Just got back from holiday in London, actually. I really miss the place."
Watching her, he tilted his head. "I like that thing you said, y'know, about carrying a bit of our home with us. I certainly carry London with me, an' not just by the way I talk. It helps ease the homesickness, y'know? Helps me feel grounded and me here. This is still very much a foreign country to me. I'm still finding my way. Seems to me you are too, somehow."
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“Do you sound different? When you play your voice back? Not many people like how they sound on recordings.” The brunette put her almost empty cup by her feet and then stood tall once more. She peeled her cardigan off of her arms, knowing the material would just get in the way of her playing, and that too was dropped at her feet, with little regards to it bring on the ground. Her arms were bruised lightly, the faint scared remains of cuts running up them. Falling through the mirror had left its mark on her physically as well as mentally, but only the dying remains lingered on her skin. She reached out tentatively pulled the strap over her head, and adjusted her pose to hold the instrument. Her fingers plucked the strings gently, listening to the sounds each made, adjusting.
It felt like riding a bike, stormy eyes looked at Robin once more and she shrugged. “I think so; I don’t know them well enough to be sure. But I remember trying to copy my dad's accent, listening to his voice on the tapes that he left behind - reciting poetry, reading old tales and bringing them to life. He sounded like you.” She remembered very little about them, but it sounded right? A genuine smile crept on her face as he spoke of his home - it must have been nice, knowing where you were from. Having that sense of identity. Her eyes found him as he finished his sentence, was she trying to find her way? Was it so obvious that she was lost? “Maybe, I do not dwell on it too much. I prefer to drift, be carried away like a leaf in the current. Wherever I am in that moment, well. That is my home, for a while.” She closed her eyes and nodded her head, stopping her random plucking of strings and starting to put cordes and notes together.
When she got started, it started to come back to her. The years she had spent locked away in her small study room, with only sheets of music and her instruments to keep her company. “A coat of gold, a coat of red. A lion still has claws. And mine are long and sharp, my lord. As long and sharp as yours~” Her voice was soft, like she only intended for it to reach her own ears and maybe her companions at a stretch. She smiled at him, a notable shake in her voice as she addressed him ‘my lord’ with a girlish grin. “And so he spoke, and so he spoke. The lord of Castamere, and now the rains weep o’er his hills, with no one there to hear~” The second verse was slightly louder, more sombre, not by much.
Her fingers stopped, maybe too bluntly, like she had just realised something. She shook her head and pulled the instrument over her head with some urgency. “I am sorry. I am wasting your time.” He was wasting light, and he still had to make his earnings for today.
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Listening to Yvaine pluck at the guitar strings, Rob couldn't help but think maybe she knew her way around the instrument. "I sound really different on recordings. Used to hate it, but I got used to it -- mostly because I usually screamed," he laughed in response. "We did punk covers of English folk tunes and such, an' I was the singer. So screechin' was the way of it." He watched her hands move, his gaze moving up her arms, and he noticed with some mild alarm the faint bruising and mostly healed cuts on her skin. He didn't want to pry, that would be rude and possibly scare her off, but combined with her somewhat lost demeanor he couldn't help but wonder what her story was.
The plucking turned into chords and melodies, and into a song. Her soft singing was barely audible, but his ears could tell she could not only carry a tune, but sing it perfectly. She smiled at him, and it lit up her face; made her look girlish and innocent and delightfully fey. He couldn't help but smile back, lopsided and light despite the lyrics she sang. This was a new song to him, and he liked it.
Before he could ask what the song was, though, she stopped suddenly and removed the guitar. "What?" No, no, love, you're not wasting my time. Not at all!" Rob reached for her, meaning to stop her from leaving, but he stopped himself just before he touched her. With those marks on her arms, laying a hand on her might make things worse, and that was the last thing he wanted.
"Listen, Yvaine, I'm just doing this for larks, yeah? You're not interrupting me in any way. I'm enjoyin' the conversation, an' the company! A lot!" Gently he relieved her of his guitar. "I'd really like it if you hung about for a bit." He tilted his head and the lopsided smile returned as he met her grey gaze. "So what d'you say? Please say you'll not run off on me."
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Yvaine stood as still as a deer when Robin reached for her, watching curiously as he stopped. Her lips moved to ask why? ask what he was looking at? Then her eyes trailed to her arms and she snatched her cardigan off the floor, draping it over her shoulders but not putting it on properly. She was still rather self conscious about it, more so because of the memories they stirred than the actual marks. “Oh no, I didn’t-.” She began, shaking her head and making the bells in her hair ring as she did so; the brunette did not even know how to start explaining what had happened. So she told the truth, or at least something close. “I was in an accident; the impact broke the glass and I went through it. And if it did hurt, well; I do not remember it too well.” She sighed, only a small lie.
She remembered it - and it did hurt like hell. She remembered losing consciousness only as she was getting dragged into the house, sure that it was only the pain and adrenaline that got her home. “I don’t remember much of anything since the fall, you see.” She continued, her voice less urgent but her heart beating like a trapped rabbits in her chest. She was breaking the rules and had said too much already. “So I got told not to talk to anyone, not until I got my wits about me. People can take advantage.” It was Jada’s fear more than her own. Yvaine was tall and toned and could hold her own against most people. She was not scared of what people would do - heck, she was living off of the kindness of strangers.
If she could trust nobody; it meant that she could not get through this at all. She needed help, she needed friends.
The dreadhead sighed, her whole posture seeming to visibly relax with the release of air from her lungs. She was not sure if she was a good judge of character, and lord knew she had no experience to call upon. However, Robin did not seem to want nothing more but to talk to her, which was surprising, because she had so little to talk about. Far too few stories to tell. “But, I do not run away from anyone.” She stated, the smallest roll of her eyes at the comment. Her eyes then went to the ground and she adjusted her weight to her other leg with a small bounce, fidgeting.
Then she looked back up at him, and saw him smile it put her at ease. “Can you play me another song?” She asked, deciding to move on with the conversation as quickly as she could now she had given him an explanation. She really did not know how truthful she should be with people about her condition, was it all that strange? “I do not know much about screeching though.” She scrunched her nose, kneeling down onto the ground before sitting; showing him that she was not intending to go anywhere.
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"Oh -- oh dear, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you!" Robin's face flushed slightly red. Here he was trying to be respectful of Yvain, give her whatever space she needed, and he'd botched it. Her eyes were huge as she gave her explanation -- one that made perfect sense to him, and he immediately felt bad for even noticing the scars on her arms. Poor, brave girl, having gone through something as terrifying as that. No wonder she seemed a bit lost, if it had rattled her head as much as that. "I shan't mention it again."
Then she relaxed at last, and he felt himself relax in response. Apparently everything was okay now, or as okay as they were going to get. She was right, or whoever had been caring for her was: people did tend to take advantage of those who seemed defenseless. But as she herself stated, she didn't run away from anyone. Looking again at her, with her tall build, he decided she could pretty well hold her own if it came down to it.
"Of course I can play you another song, love." Robin was glad he hadn't spooked her off, or gotten her upset with him. He liked her; she was like a slice of Fairyland in the city. "An' I won't screech, I promise," he added with a grin. To further put her at ease, he lowered himself to the sidewalk as well, crossing his legs and setting his guitar in his lap.
"Let's see, what shall I play for you?..." He started noodling around on the guitar as he pondered, plucking chords and fingering little riffs absently. "Do you have anything you'd like to hear?" he asked, turning to regard her. "Or a particular theme or something? I got quite a repertoire of songs up here." He tapped the side of his head and smiled at her.
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“Oh - you didn’t embarrass me. There is just no point denying it.” She shook her head, knowing full well that she acted rather strange. She wondered if she would ever remember how to blend into normal society or if it was something she had to relearn. To be honest, relearning seemed like too much work, she would just grow accustomed to strange looks. “Besides, you’re the one who is blushing.” She added, being as vigilant as she had always been, but this time not having the filter that stopped her words from coming out.
She looked at his instrument for a moment and thought. The dreadhead did not know any songs so nothing really came to mind when she was asked. “I don’t doubt it. I bet you could keep me here all night with your repertoire if you wanted to.” She laced her fingers together and rested them on her lap, barely noticing the people who were walking around them. She felt a bit like a Borrower with all the legs walking passed her and hoped they did not get stood on.
They must have looked like a set of hippies; a thought that made her smile. It was nice, hanging around in a little private world below hip level.
She picked up the remains of her ginger tea and brought the cup to her lips, noting that it had started to get cold. “Come on now, something must have come to mind. Play something that makes you happy, but be sure to tell me why.” Because the why was always the most important part, songs could stir certain emotions, bring back memories. You could tell a lot about a person from listening to her playlist, or at least she thought so.
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Robin blushed even harder when his blushing was pointed out to him. He was pleased when Yvaine's attention turned to his guitar; it gave him a chance to collect himself and quell the flushing on his cheeks. It was so embarrassing that he blushed when he got embarrassed, mainly because it showed up so well on his fair-skinned face. He wished he tanned better, so it wouldn't be so obvious.
"My playlist is pretty formidable," he grinned as he noodled on the guitar. This was fun, playing to an audience of one. He was sure he'd made more than enough money for the day -- not that he needed it. Playing music to him was an end unto itself, especially if it made someone happy.
Speaking of making someone happy… "Oh, I know," he said, stilling the strings with his hands. "This is a song me mum taught me when I was a kid. Like a wee little kid. She'd sing it to me and it always made me happy." He started plucking chords and rocking gently from side to side with a smile on his face, then he sang, a surprisingly mellifluous sound coming from the young punk who just minutes before had been barking out his lyrics.
All 'round my hat I will wear the green willow
All 'round my hat for a twelve month and a day
If anybody asks me the reason why I wear it
It's all because my true love is far, far away.
Robin sang through the song, about a man whose lady love had been convicted of stealing and sent overseas to prison -- a dour topic for such an upbeat sounding song, but that was often the case with traditional English folk tunes. His eyes were mostly closed as he played and sang, but occasionally he'd glance over at Yvaine to see how she was enjoying it.
When he finished, he let the final chord ring a bit before stilling the strings and turning to his companion, big happy grin on his face. "Well?"
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“Your mother? Could she sing as well as you?”
Yvaine listened to him talk about his mother and slight jealousy began to bubble in her stomach. She wondered if her mother ever sang to her, if her voice once offered her comfort. She smiled and looked towards her hands, her fingers running over the rings that decorated them, watching the light cascade over the angles of the jewels. “Why did she stop singing?” The brunette asked; when he came to live in Destiny City or long before that? Had he grown too old, had she grown too weak, or had he asked her to stop. She never wanted to stop singing to her own children, no matter how many years they had spent on the Earth. Mothers could make everything better, or they could take everything away, the power they head was akin to a Goddess. At least, Yvaine thought so.
That is what she had learned from her memories of Eir, the memories of her daughter Sylvi. “Most of the world's history only exists because mothers continued to sing to their sons and daughters.” She leaned over a little closer as his song came to an end and he asked her opinion. She took a moment to look at his eyes with her own grey ones, before her look softened with a smile.
“I think it was wonderful, Robin.”
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"Thank you." Robin returned Yvaine's smile, glad she had enjoyed the song. "Oh, my mum still sings. She's a music professor at university, actually, though she teaches theory and composition mostly. She used to be a piano instructor back in London too, part-time." He thought about his mother, slightly eccentric as many creative people were, singing and humming to herself as she puttered around the shared garden behind their connected houses. "You'll have to come round and meet her. I think she'd like you."
He blinked, realizing how presumptuous that sounded. "Well, um, if you decide to hang around, that is."
The shadows of the trees across the street in the park finally touched his spot on the sidewalk, and he realized the evening was approaching. Nearly time to power up and go patrolling. "I think it's about time I packed it in for the day." He put the guitar down and stretched his arms. "I gotta get this s**t off my face before it stains," he grinned, indicating the woad markings across his left cheek.
But first… "So, um, I usually stop at pub before going home. You want to come along? My treat."
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