Scottish Shikamaru playing at a session at his local pub. I wrote this a while ago but didn't think anyone would be able to understand it. It's written in North East Scots dialect (Doric) but I edited some of it to make it easier to read 👀 (mostly spelled phonetically)
Below the cut 👇🏴🎻
It had been chucking it doon the last twa nichts. His mum had rung the offshore line tae see if the helicopters were still running, and they were. As he had already telt her, ken. Twa times, the night ‘afore. They hid just been delayed, like. It didna fash him muckle, he just stepped aff the helipad, went back in tae the stack and lay doon next tae the vending machine in een of the lounges. It made the plastic seat hum gently and when he raised his heed the noise grew a wee bitty, but only then. That wis the blessing of haein’ a bad lug. You could sleep almost oany’wer if you just lay doon on the richt side.
But once the winds had died doon, and ab’day got back ootside and belted up, they were aff. It would be nicht by the time Shikamaru touched land again, and then another twa oors up the road hame, along the coast and roond the country bends he kent like the back of his hand.
His mum had left him a message on his mobile again, nae doot asking if he’d touched doon yet, spikin aboot so and so a person and… sich and sich. He paused to himsel as the taxi pulled awa intae his drive way. The fact that he actually couldn’a mind what she had bin spikin aboot the other nicht was pretty bad like, even by his staunderds.
Ach weel. He gai needed tae listen to those messages a’fore he saw her next.
He didn’a listen to them the noo, partly cause his phone ran oot of charge (“yeh really need tae get a newer phone Shika, that Nokia is a’wise dying on yeh”, aye whitever, Ino) but also he wis late for the session the nicht. It wis the usual monthly get together at the ‘Redder’ as the locals called it. Him and his pals had started going as youngins – probably too young tae be in the pub, but hey-ho – and he had missed the last een.
The smoke from his fag trailed behind him in the humid late summer air – strange for this time of year, like. Climate change, or whitever Choji had been spikin aboot in his thesis a few months ago.
“Fit like, stranger?” a few folk waved tae him as he ducked his heed and stepped intae the pub. The rackit from someone chucking empties in the bin bit at him and (as wis custom) he started tae seek oot the furthest awa table fae the bar. Gai muckle folk, and gai muckle instrument cases stacked up against the fire door, as per.
He slung his fiddle case doon and stubbed oot his dying fag in the glass ash tray in the middle of the wobbly table.
“A’right there, min? When did ye get back?” a youngish loon wi scraggly broon hair and a wolfish smile said tae him and offered his haund. Shikamaru noticed he’d acquired a new tattoo on his forairm as Kiba clasped his haund, in probably fit the loon thought wis a manly way. Big fairmer haunds, nae sense. The loony had a tattoo on his face, fer fucks sake. Shikamaru finished the haund shake quickly (aye, yer the big man, whitever) and went tae order a pint. A table next tae him burst intae peels of laughter which made Shikamaru start a wee bitty and he missed his opportunity tae catch the barman’s ein. He wis serving some blonde dame across the other side of the bar. She looked like she was counting oot pennies slowly in her haund, the barman leaning o’er to repeat himsel possibly. Part of the quines face was obscured by the ‘Spey Sheild’ that hung on that side of the bar. He sighed. Tourists. His dad used tae call them ‘in-aboot-ers’.
He lit another fag and sat back doon, the stool creaking a wee bit under him.
“So how wis it, like?”
“How wis whit?”, Shikamaru yawned still holding the fag in een haund and unzipping his fiddle case with the other een. It had been o’er twa months since he had taken her oot. He ran his fingers o’er the fizzy black lining far the gentle curves of wood nestled in comfortably, like. In the background he lugged someone (probably on their third pint) tune up a guitar and play the opening chords tae ‘The Road tae Banff’. In F, probably. Guitarists gai loved F.
“How wis offshore, like? Yer mum told a’bday aboot it”, Kiba chortled. “Wee Shika’s first big adventure?” the airshole laughed and hit him on the shoulder, which made Shikamaru almaist drap ash intae his case. Him and Kiba went wai back like, but it didn’a stop him from being a prick aifter a couple of pints. A’wise trying tae prove some’hin.
“Windy”, Shikamaru said raising his brows and moving tae inspect his bow.
“Come aff it - Ino telt me you hid some run-in wi some technician wifey at the orientation hing a’fore you went? She telt ma sister-”.
A’fore he could finish telling Shikamaru fit rumours had been spread aboot him (nae’hing is sacred in a village) a manny shouted o’er the tap of a set of ‘6/8’ chords that he minded.
“Shika – this een’s yours, like”, the disembodied voice rang oot o’er the din of the bar. There’s som’hin aboot music that can chainge the atmosphere in a split second. It’s like aifter the ‘big bang’ (or maybe a’fore it, he would have tae ask Choji) where there are ah these separate molecules or groups of elements just floating aroond, seemingly doing their ain thing. Or nae oany’hing, even. Just totally inert, like. The wee pooches of conversations here and there; smaller groups slowly merging together aroond a bigger table, each wi their ain wee dynamics. And then bam! It just takes a person tae start a tune; a wee spark, and ah these wee tables filled wi folky suddenly coalesce somehoo, intae een mind. Ah playing and moving in the same direction, ah withoot oany apparent communication and as though they had a’wais been dae’ing it. Like, some musical cosmos…or some’hin. Oany’way.
Shika turned his guid lug to the direction of the caller, trying to ignore Kiba for a minty. He sighed oot his smoke (he had only just lit this een fer fuck sake!) and picked up his bow, turned on his stool and got sucked into the orbit.
