THE TROUBADOUR

Charley Ellsworth. Wichita-born, ranch-raised, world-wandering.

[sixstringcharley]

{Kendrick Sampson, male, he/him, 37.}  We just saw CHARLEY ELLSWORTH entering ST PANCRAS STATION. I heard through the grapevine that he is a MUSICIAN. Although he's A CIVILIAN, he can sometimes be MELANCHOLY, BLUNT, or even DISTANT, but I’ve also heard some people say that he was UNDERSTANDING, GENEROUS and quite WISE. — {K, she/her, 31, EST, no triggers.}

MOBILE NAVIGATION MORE ABOUT CHARLEY PLOTS & CONNECTIONS HEADCANONS AESTHETIC ASKBOX LONDON FALLING RPG

note: sixstringcharley is a sideblog to shadowdavutoglu.

[sixstringcharley]

WHO: @adxrations WHERE: a busy street WHEN: anytime

Charley'd thought an awful lot about Ophelia over the last twelve years. How his feelings had managed to sneak up on him. Whether it'd been right to run off like he did. Why he still hadn't gotten over her. What he'd do if he saw her again.

But whatever he'd imagined, it definitely wasn't stopping short halfway through a crosswalk so a group of university students crashed into his back, sending him tumbling head-over-guitar-case to sprawl at her feet. "--Hi," he managed, once he'd caught back his breath and his wits. Then, to the student who'd gotten tangled up with him, he said, "I'm so sorry," as the kid's friends pulled them both to their feet. Once the group had gone on, Charley asked Ophelia, "How've you been?"--as if he wasn't still standing in the middle of the road, with car horns starting to blare warnings.

[sixstringcharley]

WHO: @malachixdubois WHERE: a small music venue WHEN: mid-concert :)

Charley had avoided London for a long time.

At first, he hadn't wanted to cast any shadows over Mal and Ophelia's happiness--he'd wanted the best for them, he really did, but he was sure they'd notice something was wrong. And then, after he'd heard through his parents about their divorce...well, he just hadn't wanted to get in the way. Even in a city of eight million people, it was better not to risk seeing them. But over the winter, a keyboard-player in Glasgow had put him in touch with a connection, and Charley had finally agreed to give London another try. After all, it'd been twelve years--wasn't that long enough?

He'd been in the city for two months, and he hadn't seen them yet. But that didn't mean he didn't miss them. Regardless of what else he felt, at one point they'd been his best friends. And so, when he looked out at the crowd from onstage, halfway through a song about leaving home behind that he'd written when he first moved overseas, and saw a familiar face, the surprise was enough to cut him off mid-chorus. "Mal?" he asked instead. For a moment, he kept playing the notes, but as he squinted past the footlights to confirm what he saw, he stopped that, too. Ducking out of his guitar strap, he walked to the edge of the stage, crouching down to offer Mal his hand. "This guy helped write this song," he told the audience. "I think we should bring him up to sing it, don't you?"

[juliekang-deactivated20240331]

Mina's wanderlust looked different on Julie. Mina Kang was never comfortable in one place; it was an insatiable need to leave just about everything, every comfort, behind to make anew and start all over. Julie liked to wander and explore for the hidden gems surrounding her, then she liked to return to her stoop. In that way, Julie tended to know the relevant tourist spots wherever she lived.

Today's visit was the statue of the two lovers. She took her time during this lunch break of hers to appreciate the finer details of the piece. When she was walking up, Julie could have sworn there was music playing, but by the time she got right up to the statue the music was gone and in its place was a question. Julie paused, considering it and the guitar with the notebook balanced on it. "Yes, once. I'm certain I'm on the path to my second love," Julie answered honestly with a faint smile. It was difficult to deny the face that came to mind. She nodded towards the notebook before the conversation derailed completely to a diatribe. "What about you? Are there love songs in there?"

[sixstringcharley]

Charley should have guessed this stranger would stop to answer. She hadn't seemed in a hurry, like the commuters who hustled past him with their eyes locked straight ahead; she'd seemed to be studying the statue thoughtfully, and then turned the same gaze toward his setup. And so, when she smiled, he smiled back. "Congratulations," he told her. "Is it easier, the second time? To have learned from the first?" Sure, maybe he'll get an answer he can write into a song--but that's not the only reason he wants to know. Maybe someday he'll be able to move on from Ophelia, and everything they hadn't had--but not yet. It had been an awfully long time.

So he laughs, because that's easier than giving in to how he really feels. He'll save that for a blues set. "Yeah," he says, like it's easy to talk about, "but they're not really what people want to hear on Valentine's Day. 'The one that got away,' 'you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone,' that kind of thing." He picks a couple of notes to make sure he's still in tune; the sound helps to chase away the thought of Ophelia. At least, as much as anything can. "So, tell me about this new guy. --Is it a guy? How'd you meet?"

[malo-le-squer]

"Oh you're fucking funny," an actual riot. Did he really look like a pencil pusher ? He still wore riding boots and one of those outfits that said a lot about his occupation. The breeches, the Tommy Hilfiger. It all screams equestrian. He still has mud stains on his soles, and the outline of his nails are stained with dried blood.

"Do I look like a paper cut sort of person?" He's tir e and he's annoyed, and he has things to do in the morning. He's not in the mood for mockery, or crying babies, or douchebags with their phones. "A massive oak door slammed on my fingers."

[sixstringcharley]

It wasn't that Charley looked down on English riders. Good horsemanship was the same all over the world, and riding out with a hunt in Tipperary had cemented his respect for anyone flying over fences in a saddle much smaller and flatter than the roping one he was used to. But he'd also seen the amount of safety gear the horses wore when they stepped off their trailers--helmets, knee pads, blankets, boots, as if they were about to play tackle football--where any ranch horse would have just worn a halter, or maybe been saddled for the day's work, without all the bubblewrap and fuss. And this man was calling other people too sensitive?

"I don't know," he said honestly. "But you don't look like you're bleeding out." Who knew what the doctors were dealing with behind the scenes? It was only fair that emergency cases go first--if there were any. But he had to admit, getting slammed in a massive oak door didn't sound pleasant, either. "How'd you manage that?" he asked. "Did you stay on the horse?"

[sixstringcharley]

WHO: @marisolsshine WHERE: a pub somewhere in London WHEN: evening

In Charley's opinion, traditional music sessions are one of the greatest things about Ireland and the UK. One of the worst things are the pub meals that go with them.

He has nothing against beef or potatoes or vegetables, but everything against whoever'd decided the best way to cook them was boiling out any chance of flavor. Tonight the "broth," if he has to call it that, is like barely-salted, slightly-brown water, and the carrots and celery and whatever else they'd put in all taste almost the same.

But Charley's prepared for situations like this. Opening his guitar case, he takes a small kit from the compartment inside. Inside, he's got tiny bottles of all kinds of sauces and seasonings: hot sauce from his Texas grandparents, ground chiles from Santa Fe, Kansas City and Carolina vinegar barbecue sauces, garlic powder, dry mustard, whatever he's come across on his travels or been sent from back home. Adding them at the table isn't as good as if the food had been properly seasoned to begin with, but it's better than nothing.

Most of the people in the pub are digging in with apparent relish, but there's a woman at the next table who isn't. "Here," Charley offers, passing the spice kit across to her. "This makes it a little better."

[alexeiliddell]

Tomas had been in the middle of rushing through the station -- with no destination in mind, really, but the need to hurry felt almost inevitable -- when the question had caused him to stop in his tracks. "You're the second person to ask me that," he mused, lips tugging up on one side. Maybe it was because it was the season of love, and so, people were naturally considering the idea, but perhaps, feeling a lack of something made folks want it more. Tomas couldn't entirely be sure, but what he did know was that this was not a topic he wanted to consider.

"So, when you mean love, you're talking about the bullshit that Hallmark peddles? The commercialized flowers and dinner kind of thing? Because no." He'd never had that. And no, a certain face did not flash to mind at the thought of having that kind of thing. "When I was younger, though, I thought I was in love with this girl. She was cute, but it was the pulling her pigtails and leaving snails on her desk kind of thing." At this point, Tomas was lying through his teeth, but no one needed to know that. All this stranger needed was an answer to the question posed, and if there was anything Tomas was good at, it was weaving a tale. "Poor girl hated me," he continued with a chuckle, "but hindsight's twenty twenty, right?"

[sixstringcharley]

Considering how fast this guy had been going, Charley was surprised he stopped at all, much less gave him an answer. Raising his eyebrows, he said, "I guess it's a popular question. Or a popular day for it."

The man's frankness made Charley smirk, and he tilted his head. "Maybe. Doesn't have to be." He'd never been the flowers-and-dinner type either--although maybe if he had been, things would have been different. But the story of unrequited puppy love was all too familiar, just another sign that people were the same no matter where in the world they lived. "Some kid tried that with my sister," he said, "The next time he touched her hair, she broke his nose." Even at eight or nine years old, Abby had been hauling hay and dealing with thousand-pound animals all her life; there was no messing with a ranch girl. The memory made him smile. "So," he said, "if you saw this girl again, what would you tell her?"

[somewheredarkcr]

“That’s a mad question to ask a stranger,” Max replies with a laugh, “Unless you’re trying to chat me up, in which case I’m not uninterested, though I’d recommend going for something slightly less intense as your opener.”

It’s easier to tease. The question doesn’t really bother Max - it seems to have been asked innocently enough - but there’s no answer he’s willing to give. The truth is that he’s never been in love, and he’s gone out of his way to ruin every relationship he’s ever had where it seemed like he was in danger of getting close. It’s not a conversation he’d have with anyone, let alone a random busker in the middle of a train station, no matter how handsome he is.

[sixstringcharley]

Charley shrugs, grinning back as he explains, "I'm American." He's found, since arriving in the UK, that lots of folks here say things they don't quite mean, or take an awfully long time to get to the point. But he thinks life's too short to waste--and anyway, subtlety isn't going to make people stop to listen, or in this case, to talk.

He's not trying to pick anyone up, though, and he shakes his head, still smiling. "Thanks, but what I actually need's a third verse. --Or maybe a whole new song, I'm not sure yet." Sometimes he has to set a half-finished one aside until, days or weeks later, something clicks and it all comes together. Anyway, just because they're looking for different things doesn't mean they can't talk, or that he can't find some inspiration in this guy's story, whatever it is. "So I take it you're looking for somebody? What's your best less-intense opener?"

[sixstringcharley]

Who's the most overrated musical artist you can think of?

"That's a dangerous question! There's plenty of artists I don't personally care for, but most times, if someone has a following, that means something about their music captures the human experience--there's something about their lyrics or presentation or whatever that people recognize themselves in, whether it's a deep-seated anger, a sorrow, carefree young love, a nostalgia for or celebration of a certain lifestyle--it could be anything.

That said, in the 2010s there was this big wave of country music that was basically just objectifying women. And sure, lust is a human emotion, but not the only one, and not something that should be independent of respect. It was all you'd hear on the mainstream stations, and meanwhile all these other artists weren't getting played because we had to hear about some girl getting told to dance for the 3,000th time that week. It wasn't country music's best moment."

(This was going to be his answer anyway, but I was pleased to find sources backing up Charley's ThoughtsTM if you would like to partake.)

[sixstringcharley]

WHO: Anyone! WHERE: St Pancras Station WHEN: Valentine's Day

Now that the work rush was over, St Pancras had quieted down just a little. Every once in a while, someone hurried past, clearly on their way to catch a train or a taxi, but for the most part, people were strolling--maybe to visit the world's longest champagne bar, maybe to check into the high-class hotel, maybe just looking at the architecture and artwork. Charley had staked out a spot under the giant statue of two lovers embracing, hoping maybe it would entice people to listen to songs about love.

But not his own. Charley had written plenty about his brush with love before--but on Valentine's Day, he figured most people wanted to hear about when it'd gone right.

The terrace was empty enough that he'd taken a little break from performing, though, and had his notebook propped on top of his guitar. He'd play a couple notes, scribble something; play something else, scribble more. It was hard to capture the true depth of a feeling if you hadn't experienced it yourself, and he'd never had the chocolates-and-roses kind of deal. So the next best thing was hearing from someone who had, and when a person passed by close enough to talk to, he asked them, "Have you ever loved somebody?"

[sixstringcharley]

Charley Ellsworth. Wichita-born, ranch-raised, world-wandering.

[malo-le-squer]

He's not entirely sure what runs his patience thin as Charlotte Astor's dignity first : is it the baby crying his lungs out while his mother ignores her Maria Callas fucking wanna be womb loitering, is it that one guy who has managed to convince himself, and only himself that's he's the main character and that he's allowed to speak on the phone, when a clear sign reads : no phone in the waiting. Analphabetic fuck, Hieronymus thinks, and his eyes roll back in their orbit as another person walks into the room.

That was just his fucking luck, his hand getting stuck in the hinges of a stall door. If he were paranoid, he would say his employee knew what he was doing. It doesn't matter, he's fired either way.

His hand is no longer throbbing from the pain, and he no longer feels as though he'll faint. Usually, his doctor would take care of it, but he's in the bloody Bahamas, which is rather pedestrian and boring, if you ask him. He had it bandaged by his maid, and a cab had driven him here. Right in the 5th cercle of hell. He's not sure what happened. He specifically had asked for a private clinic right? "Now I don't mean to offend anyone here, but I don't see anyone else bleeding but me. Are we perhaps a bit too sensitive just because NHS is gonna pay the bill?" Aka his tax, aka his money. Surely, he should get a fast pass, like at Disney world, or whatever the one in Orlando was called.

open to all, in a London hospital (public)

[sixstringcharley]

This isn't exactly the type of day Charley'd expected. The morning had gotten off to a slow start--or he had, after playing at a pub until the wee hours the night before--but by noon he'd found a spot in the station again, his guitar in hand and his open case on the ground. He'd barely gotten started before a nice old lady stopped by to listen, and they'd struck up a conversation between songs. It turned out she'd grown up in Kilkenny, where Charley'd played the Roots festival and spent the summer a few years before, and she'd requested some traditional songs he'd been happy to play for her. With a tenner in his case and the promise to say hello again next time she saw him, she'd turned to head off on her way--and taken a wrong step, her foot buckling underneath her.

Charley didn't know how they did things in London, but in Kansas, nobody'd leave someone in need on their own.

So he'd gotten her to the hospital, made sure she was settled in a room, and is just coming back to the waiting area when he hears the man complain. Eyeing his bandaged hand--it doesn't look too bad; it's not hanging at an unnatural angle or soaked through with blood--Charley slides his guitar case under an empty chair and sits down. "Just because someone's not bleeding doesn't mean they're not hurt," he says. Maybe the crying baby has colic; maybe the guy on the phone's dealing with a terrible diagnosis. It's not his place to judge.

But he does judge this man, just a little bit. As a treat. "What'd you do?" he asks, nodding toward his hand. "Paper cut?"

[sophie-baek]

by clicking the source link, you will find #531 gifs of kendrick sampson (1988) in something from tiffany’s (2022). he is african-american and english, and should be cast accordingly. these gifs were all cropped, colored and created from scratch by me. do not edit, redistribute, or claim as your own. please like or reblog if you’ve found them useful.

triggers: hospital, drinking, eating, kissing.

[marzegifs]

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[axolotlgifs]

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