( ooc: time is variable to whatever time you think viktor would be visiting! )
( day in and day out, getian’s life is not particularly constrained by schedule or routine. it was true in the Vale, where the cycle of day and night are engineered and manufactured by the systems that produce the faux-outdoors effect that the area is known for, and it had also been true when he lived alone on his mountain. time itself becomes a loose, flexible thing, when one is immortal and unconstrained by concerns of their own finite relationship with it. during his centuries of solitude, he had pursued whatever his heart desired, when those thoughts and impulses came to mind. if he was tired, he napped. if he was inspired or bored, he would sing or pick up an instrument to practice. whether it was day or night didn’t really matter to him—which later became an issue, after he became a refugee to time and found himself housed among the others sworn to the Timekeeper’s cause. in the free time that they had, living in the Wilderness within her suitcase, he’d had to grow accustomed to… neighbors. enough scathing comments from those living in the rooms next to his eventually found him venturing far afield into the Wilderness, trying to find a secluded enough spot that no one would be bothered when he felt the desire to make music at odd hours. particularly those late at night and early in the morning…
it’s not to say that it’s either right now. it’s more to say that getian doesn’t particularly pay attention to the time of day, only to his own internal rhythms and inspirations. and, right now, he is awake in the Vale, and there’s something about the crisp air and the murmuring of the false breeze through the trees that makes him want to play.
perhaps one of the benefits of the Vale itself is that, though a unique place within the Golden Peacock, it is not always the most frequented by its guests. the time that they had all been brought here to “camp” had by far been the most crowded it’d ever been, and any other time, getian believes it would be highly unlikely that his music would disturb anyone spending time in the Vale. and if it did… he could always find another tree to play from.
so, from perhaps twenty or so feet up in one of the Vale’s trees, he begins to play. he is slowly expanding his collection of instruments, but for now, he plays a duet with two flutes. one with a higher, more strident voice and the other lower and more sultry, it wouldn’t have been a curious thing to hear until one tried to find its source. getian has not bothered to hide himself on the tree’s branch, but there is just one of him. the smaller of the flutes floats before him as he plays, while the other floats in a loose orbit behind him, seemingly playing itself.
he used to be able to play more instruments than just two at once, but, without the aid of his wand, it takes a lot of concentration to even do this much. but the bone flute he himself plays is one he has recently finished working on, and it has been a pleasure to test, even if its voice is so different from the one he’d lost. he weaves together melodies from his era until deciding to pause, lowering the flute to hold between the “wrists” of his wings so he could inspect it more closely. it’s good, but not yet perfect… his keen eyes scan its shape, pondering over where he could continue to tool it to further and better the sound. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
action | the vale
( day in and day out, getian’s life is not particularly constrained by schedule or routine. it was true in the Vale, where the cycle of day and night are engineered and manufactured by the systems that produce the faux-outdoors effect that the area is known for, and it had also been true when he lived alone on his mountain. time itself becomes a loose, flexible thing, when one is immortal and unconstrained by concerns of their own finite relationship with it. during his centuries of solitude, he had pursued whatever his heart desired, when those thoughts and impulses came to mind. if he was tired, he napped. if he was inspired or bored, he would sing or pick up an instrument to practice. whether it was day or night didn’t really matter to him—which later became an issue, after he became a refugee to time and found himself housed among the others sworn to the Timekeeper’s cause. in the free time that they had, living in the Wilderness within her suitcase, he’d had to grow accustomed to… neighbors. enough scathing comments from those living in the rooms next to his eventually found him venturing far afield into the Wilderness, trying to find a secluded enough spot that no one would be bothered when he felt the desire to make music at odd hours. particularly those late at night and early in the morning…
it’s not to say that it’s either right now. it’s more to say that getian doesn’t particularly pay attention to the time of day, only to his own internal rhythms and inspirations. and, right now, he is awake in the Vale, and there’s something about the crisp air and the murmuring of the false breeze through the trees that makes him want to play.
perhaps one of the benefits of the Vale itself is that, though a unique place within the Golden Peacock, it is not always the most frequented by its guests. the time that they had all been brought here to “camp” had by far been the most crowded it’d ever been, and any other time, getian believes it would be highly unlikely that his music would disturb anyone spending time in the Vale. and if it did… he could always find another tree to play from.
so, from perhaps twenty or so feet up in one of the Vale’s trees, he begins to play. he is slowly expanding his collection of instruments, but for now, he plays a duet with two flutes. one with a higher, more strident voice and the other lower and more sultry, it wouldn’t have been a curious thing to hear until one tried to find its source. getian has not bothered to hide himself on the tree’s branch, but there is just one of him. the smaller of the flutes floats before him as he plays, while the other floats in a loose orbit behind him, seemingly playing itself.
he used to be able to play more instruments than just two at once, but, without the aid of his wand, it takes a lot of concentration to even do this much. but the bone flute he himself plays is one he has recently finished working on, and it has been a pleasure to test, even if its voice is so different from the one he’d lost. he weaves together melodies from his era until deciding to pause, lowering the flute to hold between the “wrists” of his wings so he could inspect it more closely. it’s good, but not yet perfect… his keen eyes scan its shape, pondering over where he could continue to tool it to further and better the sound. )