A Time to Rise and a Time to Fall [Open to Multiple]

[andhiswife]

Greta dreams of falling (again, and again).

The path ends abruptly. Maybe there never was a path, only a deceptive stretch of ground, free of any undergrowth, that looked like it could be one. Either way, she's left standing on the edge of a sheer cliff, looking down at the leaf-strewn forest floor far below her. A small rock tumbles down, as if for the sole purpose of illustrating the length of the drop. It seems to take ages to reach the bottom, clattering off exposed roots and finally thudding to the ground.

There's a roaring in her ears like a great wind, but it isn't the wind. The earth shudders beneath her feet. She reaches out wildly for something on which to steady herself, knowing even as she does so that she'll miss; she always misses, it's so stupid. Maybe she deserves whatever comes next.

But she doesn't miss. Her hand closes around something - not a branch. An arm? Whatever it is, she isn't letting go.


[ooc: whoops, Greta's dropped into your dream. Or you've dropped into hers. Whether you want them both to be in her giant-plagued forest or in a setting more familiar to your character is up to you. Poor Greta's just gonna have to roll with it either way.]

Comments

[andhiswife]

"It felt like an accident," Greta says with a little nod. "I didn't try to, er, land here." That might be too telling a choice of words, and she winces briefly. Best to change the subject.

"Pity you left your instrument behind." That might not be the best change of subject, but then again, if she can fix his shirt, and he can fix his shoulder, how hard would it really be for him to just make it reappear? "What was it? Maybe you could bring it back."

[singthesong]

"I can do that." It's really probably not much different than how he'd typically get an instrument back home - it's not as though he has a locker or something he can safely keep them in until he needs them. If he actually put one down anywhere, he'd never get it back. So when he needs a different one, he just...gets it.

The Balladeer casually reaches down on the other side of the rock and produces the banjo, as if it had been sitting there all along. "I know how to do it with instruments already," he explains. "It doesn't work anymore when I'm awake, but I guess that'd be too easy."

[andhiswife]

Well, then. She'd expected it to be doable, but not that easy - not as if pulling instruments out of thin air is something he's done many times before. Though now that she thinks about it, where would he keep them if he's always traveling through time and space? His subterranean den resting place? But then he'd have to keep popping back there whenever he wanted to switch instruments, and… you know what, she's just not going to question it right now.

"Not a guitar, then," she guesses, resisting the urge to give that drum-like head a curious poke. She's familiar with its odd, twangy sound from before, but it's not like anything she's heard outside of this strange dream. "Could you play something? Maybe something that isn't about murderers?" That would at least pass the time, and goodness knows how much of that they're going to have before they wake.

[singthesong]

You see, the problem with subterranean dens is that they're full of vermin. Also, moisture is terrible for instruments.

"It's a banjo," he explains, shifting to give her a better look at the instrument (and totally poke it if she wants, he doesn't care). "They're traditional American instruments, kinda folksy." Which explains a little bit about what just happened back there with him and Guiteau.

He starts playing a tune, not putting words to it quite yet. "I have a few instruments back home - each of them takes something different."

[andhiswife]

"Banjo," she repeats, an incredulous smile tugging at her lips. That is quite a name. Since he's angling it towards her invitingly, she reaches out to give the head a cautious tap with one finger, eyebrows rising at the curious, almost metallic sound it makes. Then she draws her hand back to watch him play. She's never watched someone play an instrument from such little distance before.

It's an odd song, whatever it is. Less like what he played before, more meandering and vaguely mournful. "And are they all stringed ones, like this and the guitar?" It's a little difficult for her to talk over the music - her inclination is to fall into a near-reverent silence and just listen - but he seems to be treating the whole process much more casually than that, and she doesn't want to seem like a complete bumpkin.

[singthesong]

The Balladeer is completely at ease with talking over his own music. Lots of his conversations happen this way. "Yes," he responds, keeping up the playing. His hands move easily along the strings without much apparent effort, like second nature. "It's easy enough to play them and sing. It has to be portable, too."

Maybe now that he's got a little more freedom, he could learn to play a few more? He could do a lot of things. "I'll have to show you, once I get a few more. Not in a dream, I mean." That'd be easier, but the banjo is good enough for now, and playing is more relaxing than rambling on about mandolins and ukeleles.

[andhiswife]

Yes, the singing - that would rule out anything breath-powered, though he could still play a drum or a bowed instrument, she supposes. Goodness, how many does he know? Maybe once you've learned one, it's easier to pick up on the others.

"I'd like that," she says, pleased and a little surprised by the offer. She's not a complete stranger to various instruments (given the orchestra that used to follow her around), but it's been years since she's had the time or opportunity to devote her full attention to them, if only temporarily. Even now, she falls silent in favor of watching the way his hands move. He makes it look so simple and easy.

[singthesong]

Maybe this is just one of his many mutant abilities. We'll never know until he actually decides to try picking up something else.

He returns her smile, eyes dropping to his hands for a moment. He doesn't really need to look at the strings, but it's just...interesting, making something up entirely out of the blue. This isn't any song of Greta's; he made sure of that before he started. After everything that's happened already, it's better to keep things light. "I always really did like playing," he confesses, "I don't mind that at all. But it's different doing it just for fun. And singing songs that aren't about murder."

[andhiswife]

A faint line appears between her brows as she looks up from his hands to his face. Is he really saying that he played nothing but murder ballads before? She wants to think that impossible, but this dream has upended her ideas of what does and does not fall within the realm of possibility (at least as far as his universe is concerned).

"I hope you were able to play for fun before," she says, trying to sound light but unable to fully mask an undercurrent of concern. Bad enough to be forced to revisit the same places over and over and deal with the same unpleasant group of people without also being limited to one little list of songs.

[singthesong]

The Balladeer just shrugs. "Sometimes. But someone would always be after me for something before I'd really ever get a chance to enjoy it." Or they'd just steal his instruments when he wasn't looking to sing their creepy love ballads with, not that he's naming names, John Hinckley Jr. Point is, even when he has downtime, he never gets a whole lot of peace.

"But it doesn't matter now." It does, maybe, a tiny bit. Manhattan's going to be a fresh start, though!

[andhiswife]

It's hard to imagine the Rift as truly benevolent, regardless of how handily it times its extractions. But it's also hard to deny that it seems to have done the Balladeer an enormous favor. Maybe he'd be better off refusing a return trip home, should they ever figure out how to reverse things.

"Well," she says, folding her hands in her lap, "I promise not to interrupt."

[singthesong]

The Balladeer is trying not to think about any possible return, himself. He's not sure if it would be worse to have a choice or not. Can he just willfully abandon his work? Is that right?

He puts it out of his mind, smiles at her, and begins to sing the song. Worrying won't help anything.

[andhiswife]

Greta cants her head a little as he begins to sing, the melody drawing her in with its vague familiarity - it reminds her of some of the simpler folk songs from her home - but then stopping her at arm's length with its odd progression. She wants to find it comforting, but can't, quite.

Of course, the refrain doesn't help. Has your mama been gone too long? She hasn't been gone a week, but she still worries about how her little family is faring. The littlest, in particular. How is her son supposed to do without her? Aren't there enough motherless children out there without consigning him to the list as well?

She keeps her promise not to interrupt; she won't spoil this novel opportunity for the Balladeer. But her smile fades, and her hands are no longer folded so much as clenched together.

[singthesong]

Maybe he's just constitutionally incapable of singing happy songs. Or maybe all he needs is practice.

Either way, a good performer knows how to keep tabs on his audience's mood, and it doesn't take too long for him to realize the effect he's having on Greta. The Balladeer wraps the song up earlier than perhaps it should have been and falls silent, shifting the banjo aside and leaning forward, elbows on his knees, to look out at the water. "I wish we could get out of Manhattan," he comments. "It'd be nice to see more of the world."

[andhiswife]

He plays well, and sings well, and it shouldn't be such a relief when he stops, but it is. Greta twists her hands together self-consciously, wondering if he noticed her discomfort and whether she should be grateful or just mortified if he did. He doesn't mention it, though. In fact, he changes the subject completely.

"Oh?" She hasn't really thought about going anywhere but back home. If she did, she'd imagine the rest of the country to be a similarly bewildering landscape of pavement and towers and too many people, no better or worse than the island they're trapped on, now - at least not as far as she's concerned. "Where would you go?"

[singthesong]

The Balladeer sighs, looking thoughtful. "I don't know." Part of him wants to go back to Washington. It's the closest thing to a hometown he's got; he's been there more than anywhere else throughout the years. Still, part of him...really sort of doesn't.

"Probably somewhere less urban. I don't mind cities, but I've never had much of a chance to get out into the country. Most places aren't as built up as New York." He could even leave the country altogether, though the thought didn't even occur to him until just now. The idea of becoming an expatriate doesn't appeal, but maybe a short trip would be fun? Not that it matters anyway.