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Entry tags:
{ open } all my troubles on a burning pile
Who: Galen Howard and YOU!
What: Wandering on the beach, smoking, throwing rocks!
When: Day 30, afternoon.
Where: The edge of the water, near houses 20, 9, and the lighthouse.
It's easy for Galen to feel like he's trapped in a movie, when he's alone. After arriving in a strange place, encountering all kinds of impossible things, and to top it all off, being told that he may end up going insane at the hands of a living nightmare, it's hard to feel like this is real life. But there's really a God here, there's really a sweet doctor who turns into an angry green monster, and he's really become good friends with a woman who works regularly with the supernatural. It's almost strange to think that just a few weeks ago, he was working early radio, spending long hours in writing sessions, going on dates with his non-traumatized boyfriend -- it all seems so damn normal, in comparison.
He doesn't like being alone, but sometimes he needs it. He isn't far, at least; Galen has nicked one of Jesse's remaining cigarettes and has wandered out to the beach, not too close to the lighthouse -- and not too close to the water's edge, either. After the boxes, he really doesn't trust this open expanse between land and God-knows-where, no matter how soothing and home-like it sounds.
Galen crouches, digging where the sand and the snow meet for a rock of the right size and shape. When he finds it, he rolls it over in his hand a few times, then winds back and throws it -- he freezes for a second, arm midair, one foot kicking slightly up off the sand, as he watches the rock go; it drops with a deep plunk several yards off-shore, swallowed by the roll of the waves. He repeats this action with another rock, cigarette pinched firmly between his lips, humming something unrecognizable quietly under his breath.
What: Wandering on the beach, smoking, throwing rocks!
When: Day 30, afternoon.
Where: The edge of the water, near houses 20, 9, and the lighthouse.
It's easy for Galen to feel like he's trapped in a movie, when he's alone. After arriving in a strange place, encountering all kinds of impossible things, and to top it all off, being told that he may end up going insane at the hands of a living nightmare, it's hard to feel like this is real life. But there's really a God here, there's really a sweet doctor who turns into an angry green monster, and he's really become good friends with a woman who works regularly with the supernatural. It's almost strange to think that just a few weeks ago, he was working early radio, spending long hours in writing sessions, going on dates with his non-traumatized boyfriend -- it all seems so damn normal, in comparison.
He doesn't like being alone, but sometimes he needs it. He isn't far, at least; Galen has nicked one of Jesse's remaining cigarettes and has wandered out to the beach, not too close to the lighthouse -- and not too close to the water's edge, either. After the boxes, he really doesn't trust this open expanse between land and God-knows-where, no matter how soothing and home-like it sounds.
Galen crouches, digging where the sand and the snow meet for a rock of the right size and shape. When he finds it, he rolls it over in his hand a few times, then winds back and throws it -- he freezes for a second, arm midair, one foot kicking slightly up off the sand, as he watches the rock go; it drops with a deep plunk several yards off-shore, swallowed by the roll of the waves. He repeats this action with another rock, cigarette pinched firmly between his lips, humming something unrecognizable quietly under his breath.
no subject
"Well, most good music still tells stories," he offers, shoulders shrugging a little. "Maybe not so much about like... battles and conquerors, these days, but I mean, that's why a lot of us do it." A beat.
"Skáld, that sounds like what you called me a minute ago."
no subject
After, too, in Asgard. Tradition dies hard in such a long-lived race. “Their songs were lies which told true stories. Childish songs of childish things as all those written by your species are. Songs of my childhood, in some cases. Songs of my children. And the children of men. Not merely battles and conquerors, but the people. The battle as it happened then was irrelevant. As it happened in the story, as we heard... that was reality.”
The only one most listeners could touch. Most. Some saw more.
“You would not like them, I expect. Usually sung without music, without much by way of dramatics. Last I was on Earth, Icelanders still sang rímur in similar style, some of them. It dwindles with time. All things do.”