#hannes

Scribbled this up for the evening. Its very messy

(Well actually I just need someone to voice 3 characters)

SOMEONE HELP ME✨️✨️ IF I GET THESE 2 DONE! WE CAN RECORD FOR THE FIRST EPISODE!!!

The characters:

Hannes, Grisha and this random scout. (It says his names Hugo)

It was a summer evening. Long yellow rectangles from the tavern windows reflected on the black surface of the water. Friendly chatter drifted into the dark, and someone pulled out a guitar.

People sat both outside and in; the crowd was mixed. Cottagers from the garden colony who had come for a quick draft beer, two families finishing their walk and not yet ready to go home, a group of soot-smudged backpackers with their packs stacked by the fence, a few local regulars…

On the tables stood glasses of beer and lemonade, mugs of coffee, and plates with simple deep-fried dinners.

No one looked up when a new guest sat down at the table under the old linden tree. The only remarkable things about him were the old violin case he placed on the chair beside him—and the fact that, despite the summer heat, he wore a light coat over his white shirt. For reasons not easily explained, water dripped quietly and slowly from the coat.

Hannes studied the people and the tavern, which had stood here since the 15th century. Of course, there was no trace left of the old cottage that had once been here. Perhaps the cellar—that might be original… Over the centuries, both history and great floods had swept through this place.

A young, slightly chubby innkeeper stopped at his table. “What can I get you?”

He ordered a beer and watched the first tally mark appear on the slip. And he was honestly curious whether he would have to pay the bill at the end of the evening.

That, after all, was one of the main reasons he was here. To find out what all had changed.

And also for the music.

As the evening went on, the backpacking group with the guitar lost their last inhibitions.

Hannes didn’t know the songs they were playing, but none of it sounded complicated. Verse, chorus, repeat. He took a drink and, with a soft click, opened the case.

There was nothing magical about the violin, even though over the centuries plenty would have sworn otherwise. It wasn’t even his first. In fact, he still considered it new—acquired in the 17th century. He hadn’t played it nearly as much as it deserved.

And he hadn’t played it here in over two hundred years. He hadn’t been around for a long time—and toward the end, back then, he had had other concerns.

He wondered how far human memory reached.

He listened for a while, then caught up with the melody. The song was brisk, Italian. The group around the guitar mangled the words but sang with gusto. The violin tones that joined them made everyone glance at the unfamiliar musician—but they kept singing.

The surrounding chatter faded too; people watched the unexpected show.

The unknown violinist played in a way that almost didn’t fit a tavern at all.

“Man, that was cool,” the guitarist said when they finished.

Hannes only shrugged. “What else have you got?”

Whatever the guitarist picked, the singers knew the repertoire by heart.

Hannes didn’t know a single piece. And worse—he quickly realized that the music had changed over the years. He could play along—he was good enough—but he knew very well he lacked the foundations. That he was running across a peat bog without solid ground beneath his feet.

He clenched his teeth in frustration. That long sleep in the In-Between had cost him more than just time. But to hell with it if he couldn’t find his way back into this current. He had to understand water—there was no choice in that—but music was his alone, his own home.

The innkeeper’s voice broke him out of his grim thoughts as he set a fresh glass in front of him. This time he didn’t ask for an order.

“Want to choose now?” he said instead, sounding surprisingly cautious.

The group quickly seized on the idea. They had noticed their violinist learning each song along with them—which didn’t make much sense. Everyone knew this stuff.

Hannes hesitated—but only for a moment.

“You take a short break,” he nodded to the group.

They didn’t mind.

They minded even less when he began to play.

The guests set down their glasses and fell silent.

It wasn’t just an old composition. It belonged here. Once, it had been born on these banks, from the water that rushed through the Elbe’s riverbed and soaked into the soil for miles around. It was a tune that hummed in the soles of the feet of those who came from this land too.

His melody.

His river.

His watershed.

When the violin fell silent, nothing happened for a moment.

So long that he grew afraid that not only did he not know the new language—that the old one had lost its meaning too.

Then people stirred and began to applaud.

Hannes exhaled and nodded to the innkeeper.

“I’ll go.”

And the innkeeper, who had suddenly remembered his grandfather’s fantastic tales about their tavern, crumpled the modest bill in his sweaty palm.

“Come again.”

The Wassermann nodded, closed the worn wooden case, and disappeared into the night.

He had never paid here.