| She's baaaaack. |
[Nov. 12th, 2009|10:51 pm] |
...agaaaaaain.
After yet another death, this one rather quicker than some of the alternatives, Melisande is back. And fabulous as ever. The scars seem to have faded a little - perhaps the Mansion making up for matters as it can - and she steps into the Mansion from wherever it was she was spending her time with her usual grace and almost no fear. She seems...recovered. At least on the surface. All poise and possession and, of course, beauty, her dress rich red sweeping along behind her as she moves further into the room.
She looks around like an empress surveying her domain and finding it wanting, waiting for something to entertain her.
Of course, the slightest sign of a redhead, an elf, or anything furry will have her bolting for the hills in a moment.
Say hello! Welcome back, Melisande Shahrizai. |
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| Child of fortune, child of sunshine [introduction] |
[Nov. 11th, 2009|06:34 pm] |
She heard the shot from a distance off, after she had run away. It shattered the still air with a bang!, and to Ilse, it felt that the universe itself had been shaken. She shuddered, but kept running.
Later, she would find his brains, "scattered amongst the willows", as she told Martha at the funeral. And she found his gun, too. She hid it in her dress, but showed Martha it briefly. "But don't tell anyone," she said, making Martha swear not to speak of it.
Now she's walking home (or back to the Priapus Club, she can't remember) from the funeral, her bare feet sinking into the wet earth. Her head is bent down, and she's not really thinking about where she's going, tears falling freely from her face.
So when she ends up in front of a large mansion, she doesn't really realize where she is, and when she looks up, she thinks that oh, yet again she's drunk too much absinthe, or perhaps she'd been hanging about the opium addicts too much.
She looks around, obviously curious, and decides to walk up on the porch, reasoning that there's got to be people around somewhere.
So if anybody finds a sad-looking, bohemian teenager sitting on the steps of the Mansion, don't be alarmed.
T: so this is Ilse Neumann, from Frank Wedekind's fascinating play Spring's Awakening. Apparently she has a tag already here? So I guess this is a reintroduction, but she doesn't remember being at the Mansion before. Yeah. That makes sense. XD |
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| [Open] And she would have him, if only he were there. |
[Nov. 4th, 2009|01:50 am] |
There is a timid young French girl, dressed in the typical fashion of the Second Empire, sitting in the common room. She found, not a trestle but a canvas and a spare one, and she's working on finishing a shirt in what can only be identified as clear colors of silver, white and gray.
She works with silent dedication, not even singing. Sometimes her eyes look up to the threshold, hoping to see someone, and come back down again to her work.
There are people she hasn't seen in a while, some -- in a very, very long time.
Her mood is melancholy, but Angelique can probably be easily cheered up.
[So, like it says, open post is open.]
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| Open Post |
[Oct. 15th, 2009|02:31 pm] |
It's been a few weeks since Moriarty has been up and about among his fellow Mansion residents. As it happens, today finds him cheerfully wandering around the library, flipping through seemingly random books at an alarming pace. If asked, he would respond that he is attempting to find possible explanation for the divergence between his own history and that of so many other people he has met.
In reality, however, he is merely wasting time, and would be perfectly happy to speak to anyone. He really has no qualms about setting down the Necronomicon for a brief chat.
Honest.
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| It's really been a while since... |
[Oct. 5th, 2009|10:54 am] |
... since we saw the Merlin. Or, alternatively, since Merlin saw anyone. His two housemates have been more social than himself, lately, and he's feeling the uncanny desire to see people, meet new people.
So here's a wizard, smoking a pipe in the chill autumn air, looking at the yellow leaves in the trees and the humid, dying grass on the ground.
He's not entering the Mansion just yet, but perhaps he will in a moment.
For now, he's just hanging out, taking long puffs of a clove-scented pipe, and considering his options.
Lately, he's been feeling tetchy, but he's not quite sure why.
Open post, feel free to pounce at.
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| eeheeheeheehee (CRACKPLOT!) |
[Sep. 27th, 2009|05:31 pm] |
| [ | Tags | | | aredhel, armand, caranthir, celebrimbor, celegorm, crackplot, cyrano, daeron, galadriel, khardeen, kvothe, maeglin, phedre, rice!pandora, saetan | ] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  amused | ] |
Khary likes to do things just to mess with people. Sitting down on any furniture in the main room, or at the island in the kitchen, will result in a rather sudden and alarming change. Khardeen may not be entirely sure what he was doing - it was more just tweaking things around, playing some games, he probably intended some simple young children (Khary likes children). But what it did do is altogether different.
Those affected will find themselves the epitome of a high school stereotype best fitting them, from head to toe. Prepare, Mansion, for an influx of teenagers! Khardeen certainly isn't prepared, off somewhere hopefully inconspicuous sipping tea and pretending to have no idea what is going on.
Typist: ...so yeah. What it says. Have a ball. :D
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| The Table Cloth Will Never Be Finished. |
[Sep. 25th, 2009|11:58 pm] |
It had taken her the whole day to make up her mind.
Delilah-Rose-Johnson-from-Kamloops-BC had been undergoing the worst possible form of mental torture she could ever have imagined. It was one thing, when the White Man said that fishing in the Thompson was forbidden. It was another, when they said that the women couldn't pick saskatoons out of the next hill's shrugs. Then Daisy-May-Kaboom died, and her sister had lost her only cow.
And it was all her fault.
( Cut for spoilery things. )
Delilah Rose lies now, in a pool of her own blood, eyes wide as the dusk paints the sky crimson. Very certainly, this can't quite be the Pearly Gates. Then again, as she didn't fit anywhere anymore, perhaps even the White Man's God doesn't know what to do with her. She's not even certain that she's dead - this feels real, and it's most strange. Vaguely, she wonders if the Laulier Memorial happened and how it ended. But is this even hers to worry about anymore?
Presenting twenty-one year old Delilah Rose Johnson, nee Laughingbird, from Tomson Highway's delightful play, Ernestine Shuswap Gets Her Trout. She's from the summer of 1910 (specifically, the day of the Laurier Memorial). |
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| Open Post |
[Sep. 24th, 2009|12:27 am] |
| [ | Tags | | | phedre | ] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  blank | ] |
Azhure is sitting on the porch just after midday, arms propped up on the rail in a comfortable chair. Her wings are folded neatly behind her and somehow expertly around the back of the chair, and she's found more accommodating clothing to wear thanks to the aid of Belize; nothing fancy, just soft black breeches and a top that lets her wings out with considerably less cutting and pinning of fabrics. She's staring off quite absently into nothingness, blue eyes somewhat fogged - it's obvious she's been there for a little while to the observer, one of those things one can just assume.
She's got her chin leaned down on her arms, and every so often a finger works itself up to coil around strands of very black hair. She seems deep in thought about nothing in particular, but Azhure's not known thus far for being unfriendly, so company is, as always, welcome. |
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| Open Post |
[Sep. 22nd, 2009|09:59 pm] |
Daniel has been gone quite a few evenings now an Lestat does not have much worth noting to occupy his time. A few trips here and there, a few affairs to get in order, a present or two purchased. If he cleaned the little home they shared any more there would be no floor left to vacuum, no tiles left on the floors, no porcelain left in the tub, and not a thread left on the linens. Instead now he has ventured to a place not often visited these days, though there are a few people here he has been meaning to speak to, at least to catch up with the things that go on in their lives, and as always he enjoys his idle chatter. His car is, as usual, abandoned a little ways before he reaches the mansion itself, and as he approaches the house he feels oddly relaxed and much more positive for the future than the last time he came. Should he run into anyone, old friend or someone new, he would be glad to speak to them. |
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| Unexpected Return |
[Sep. 22nd, 2009|10:48 am] |
This is not the library at the Keep.
Before he lets himself get annoyed about it -- his nature won't let him be completely calm about such things -- he casts around with his senses. Almost immediately, he knows that this isn't the Shadow Realm or Terreille, and if he doesn't know what Hell feels like, then no one does. He can catch a whiff of various intriguing psychic scents, including traces of his children, Lucivar, Jaenelle and more faintly Daemon. There are traces of other members of Jaenelle's court as well. Wherever this is, he isn't alone, though the implications of that worries him.
Saetan SaDiablo prides himself on having a sharper rein on his temper than younger Warlord Princes--and face it, there aren't any alive who aren't younger than the 50,000 plus years old Guardian. By now, the Blood are very rare since the taint has been finally purged. But some instincts cannot be curbed. He doesn't know where he is, and his family may be in danger. The expression on his handsome face seems almost blank, unless one spots the lazy flatness of his golden eyes. And any getting too close will the chill in the air emanating from his cold anger riding the edge. Anyone who knows Blood, especially Warlord Princes, can recognize this as a bad sign.
The High Lord of Hell (semi-retired) is back, and to say he's not happy is an understatement. He strides with purpose toward the large house he can see across the grounds. If nothing else, he wants to get out of the sunlight before he gets too drained by it. He has no idea what kind of trouble he'll find here, but if he doesn't find his children soon, there will be hell to pay.
[Saetan SaDiablo from Anne Bishop's Black Jewels Trilogy. He's been completely reset and is from after the end of the main trilogy, so he's retired from the world of the living to be a librarian at the Keep. He's missing one of his pinkies.]
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| The Bridge of Sighs (Intro) |
[Sep. 15th, 2009|07:45 pm] |
He looks around, confused and out of sorts as he stands in the doorway. The last memory is that of pain and then bitter cold, everything in between it all a blur of color and sensation. Things he'd rather stay forgotten. A dull ache rises in his chest, however, as a memory stirs, something vivid and colorful, meaningful. A moment of happiness perhaps. But it is gone as quickly as it came, as quickly as the sunlight that should have devoured him, the sunlight that instead seems to have deposited him here in this place where there is darkness save for the flickering light that illuminates the otherwise seemingly abandoned entryway. There is disappointment, hurt, feelings of rejection, loss and of course the lingering confusion but for now he manages to bury it well beneath a mask of indifference, moving further inward to survey his surroundings, attempting to figure out his next step.
Typist: And we've got Armand from Anne Rice's The Vampire Chronicles. The last active post on main comm was from March 14, and I believe the last journal post was from March 21. But yes...willing to back off if the other typist is still around.
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| Step In, Step Out |
[Sep. 14th, 2009|09:55 pm] |
Leah will admit to herself perhaps this one time that being a wolf is not so bad. She runs through the trees, smug that she is faster than all the others, and uses the cover of dusk to skip ahead, taking shortcuts that only she knows. This is the second time she's been on this path for the day, and the faster she runs, the more she feels like she could do it with her eyes closed. She runs and runs until the sounds of the pack chattering become so faint she can barely hear them at all.
This is so wicked, she thinks to herself, that I have left them so far behind.
Moments pass and she slows down to a slow, leisurely trot.
Seth? Jacob?
There is no answer. Nothing.
She is somewhat bothered by the experience she's having, but the possibility that she can no longer hear the thoughts of the other wolves - hear those infuriating feelings - has her almost... excited. She emerges from the wood behind a large mansion-style house that she cannot remember being present before, and is quite surprised. Leah, however, is much more spritely now than previously, and so she turns back into the wood to phase.
She'll put on her clothing and investigate. It's dark, perhaps nobody's there. Leah loves exploring abandoned houses. At present, she appears a tawny coloured wolf with an odd-looking bundle tied to her leg - and it's a good thing, too. Leah should not like to meet new people with no clothing at all.
~
Leah Clearwater, from the Twilight series. I almost forgot to have her clothing bundle with her, in which case, this would be a naked Leah.
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| History, as I conjure it (introduction) |
[Sep. 14th, 2009|12:23 am] |
It's been a long day, and Zillah? Is exhausted. She's been up since 5 AM making posters for the protest, and between that and the protest itself (which went well, if she could say so herself), she's beat.
So it's no surprise that when she dozes off on her desk, with her "Reagan kills" sign nearby, she really, really sleeps. For a while. And when she wakes up and finds it's just her and her sign in front of a large house, she's not too surprised. After all, sleep deprivation does crazy things, right? It's only after a few minutes that she realizes she's not in Great Neck anymore.
"Um, hello?" she calls out hesitantly, feeling sort of scared. She clings to the sign (like that'll do any good) and looks around warily.
Typist: I have no willpower. Introducing Zillah Katz, from Tony Kushner's A Bright Room Called Day. She's sort of a Brechtian character in the play, existing outside of the world of the Germans (in the 1980's, which was present-day when Kushner wrote the play), and generally stands around and yells things. Have fun! :3 |
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| there are tall elves and small elves, nice elves and... (introduction) |
[Sep. 10th, 2009|06:27 pm] |
| [ | Tags | | | aaron, ambarussa, aredhel, armand, caranthir, celebrimbor, celegorm, curufin, elured and elurin, galadriel, introduction, rice!pandora, steerpike | ] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  annoyed | ] |
Damn fools. Fools, all of them! If they think they will last an hour under that fool Orodreth - well. A slight change in plans only. Though the desertion of his own son - that stung, a little. He should have been firmer with the boy. Spent more time with him here, perhaps, rather than leaving him to tinker in his smithy at whatever little projects he found fascinating. There were more important things to do! Perhaps if he'd gotten the boy involved in the planning, or the running of things -
But what was done, he reminds himself, cannot be undone. Look forward, not back.
He swears and unstrings his bow, annoyed. Should have told Celegorm to go do the hunting. He had too much enthusiasm for the sport, and if he was going to bring that dog it might as well pull its weight. As it is, he himself is finding nothing and only getting more and more frustrated with the whole thing.
Well, he is done. Done. Things have to start going right soon, though of course not of their own accord. And he will have to do the thinking again, it isn't as though his elder brother is going to be any use. He turns and starts back to the fire his brother has been building. Nothing. Frustration wells up.
"Turco," he bellows, "What the hell do you think you're-"
What he thought was the clearing he left doesn't seem to be anymore. It is dusk, falling on a large lawn, with a strange - house, he supposes - and a dark wood at his back.
Curufin's expression darkens. This is not going his way at all. And that is displeasing.
Typist: ...so. The one, the only, Curufin of The Silmarillion. Known for - um, being probably the nastiest and almost certainly the cleverest son of Feanor, being the fourth and most like him in aspect and spirit. But with a bit less of a moral compass. He's a bit cranky right now, taken after that messy incident that ended with a cousin being nommed on and he and his erstwhile sibling getting kicked out of Nargothrond. He's a bit unhappy about that.
Try and cheer him up! We dare you. Also I'm sorry. >>;;
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| Winter |
[Sep. 9th, 2009|10:41 pm] |
They are all there - her husband, his father, her children, and the other Enchanters. Azhure opens her mouth to speak, and then... The song is like nothing she's ever heard. Her father, WolfStar, that madman. He has done this, somehow, ripped her from her very reality and put her quite somewhere else. She can remember the cold of winter that had brushed her wingtips as she stood outside of the Keep, her family in tow, and now it is very warm. Sunlight licka at her long, thick black hair, and she blinka her bright blue eyes, trying to shake the fog of confusion from her.
What had he done?
She wants to walk from this strange place, despite how comfortable it was. Thick green grass grows, and she can hear birds and even the babbling of a brook nearby, but this was certainly not her home. This was nowhere in Tencendor that she is aware of, because she would know - wouldn't she? She is afraid to move, afraid that WolfStar had done something. That man was always doing something. Finally after what seems like hours, she sighs, and picks up the skirts of her long, pale gray dress. She can see a hill from the distance, and she surmounts that if she gets atop it, she might be able to make heads or tails of her location.
As she begins walking, she is irritated that her first reaction isn't necessarily to just shoot off into the sky. Clearly her wings are in working condition - but does she really want to take off like a rocket and have the first alarmed woodsman or whatever lurked in the wood load her down with mighty bolts from a crossbow? She is an Enchanter, yes, and she knows how to work her magic, but still - without knowing quite where she is, it's probably better to hang on to whatever power she's retained. She huffs a little, muttering to herself as she makes her way through the lightly wooded portion, headed the mile or so towards the hill as she estimates it.
{Typist Claire: And so introducing Azhure, from the Sara Douglass Starman series.}
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| An improvised little party of sorts |
[Sep. 6th, 2009|03:12 pm] |
Ever since they had to relocate, Sugar has been thoughtfully pondering on things that she could do for the community. It seems to her that every time something joyful happens, she has nothing to do with it, and that every time trouble comes forth, someone is there for her and Sophie.
Therefore, a young red-head in her very late teens and an eight-year old girl are setting food out on the lawn. As a reflection on the fact that they are part of a family that is from multiple eras, Sugar is wearing a green summer dress that is fairly anachronic for her, and for once, Sophie is wearing pink girly pants. It's a beautiful day, and they imagine that perhaps a picnic would please the random passersby. There is food galore, sandwiches and salads, a couple blankets to sit on, and the pair is currently playing hand games and singing, joyfully.
So, basically a party-ish post of sorts, there's enough food for everyone, as Sugar and Sophie spent a whole day making sandwiches. Tag me, tag others, enjoy!
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| A return... |
[Aug. 24th, 2009|06:50 pm] |
He comes up the path, escorted by a large winged man. From just the look on his face when the Mansion appears before him, he seems unsurprised by it. Perhaps he's betrayed its familiarity, but perhaps he's glad to be back.. Armand smiles, and though he chooses not to go inside, he walks around the grounds.
He wears what anyone would expect of a man of his time, woolen trousers and a coat, boots. But his hair is unusually long and braided to keep out of the way. He wears three rings--the one on his left hand is an elaborately-crafted wedding band of high quality. Some here would know who made it. And some of them might be surprised why Armand is wearing it.
He looks aside to the man following him. "It doesn't look like it's changed a bit."
[OOC: Armand St. Just, from The Scarlet Pimpernel. He was here before and has been gone more than year, living in "retirement" at a house he built nearby. Post is open to anyone, but Lucivar is the one who escorted him back.]
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| Today's the day |
[Aug. 14th, 2009|10:34 pm] |
There's a small little woman on the mansion grounds. In complete silence, she performs the routine she's been practicing for years, now. Her eyes are intent on the absent target, her mind is focused on what she is doing, but when she strikes, she cuts the quiet as violently as her hit, her jab or her kick would find its target.
The short cries focus her mind on what she is doing - she's been worrying more than she should lately, and she's trying to clear her mind, a little. She's taking a break from the constant stake-out she's been in lately. Knowing that Sam is on the case put her at ease, at least enough for that.
Perhaps in a bit, she'll take that woman at her word and wander over for weeding. Perhaps later, she'll go home and knock on a door at sunset.
For now, however, she is training, for no reason other than the fact that it keeps her sane.
Open post, feel free to have at. She's fairly in control and has little drama going, though tired she may be.
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| There's a small disturbance. |
[Aug. 2nd, 2009|09:57 am] |
Those near the largest common room may here some muffled expressions of surprise, a bit of shuffling, and some furniture moving in a small side room. There's a low man's voice, more muttering than truly speaking.
After a few moments, the door opens, and a man whose dress suggests the last years of the 19th century emerges. He is looking very wary, his posture and defensive stance suggesting a new arrival to long time residents. His arms and shoulders are muscular, like a labourer's, but his bearing is a bit more gentrified. He doesn't demand his location, but is rather cautiously attentive to the details around him.
Alfred Borden from Christopher Priest's The Prestige. Prolonged interaction with him may lead to spoilers for the same. (Which, of course, means you should go read it first. Haha.) |
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| the most miserably solitary existence imaginable. |
[Jul. 31st, 2009|10:25 pm] |
In Soviet Russia one does not stumble upon Tharkay. Tharkay stumbles upon you. Or, he would, if he stumbled.
Tharkay is a man of occasional caution and constant calm-- a habitual survivor. Finding himself in unknown territory that he is pretty sure, even with his limited knowledge of the continent, is not Australia, his first response is to shuffle himself away, unseen, and observe.
However, a bird, specifically a Krestrel, may be seen circling the immediate vicinity, scoping out territory for its master. Or looking for rabbits. A little of both, probably.
And, silently, Tharkay watches. He'll come out if his bird is threatened, or if someone looks interesting to him, or like they could tell him what the hell is going on. With options limited as they are, he isn't picky.
Tharkay, of The Temeraire Series, because seriously I can't hold out any longer. He's from the end of Victory of Eagles. His PB has the unfortunate affliction of alternating between looking 17 to in his late 20s in the same photoshoot, so for future reference, Tharkay is indeed in his late 20s-early 30s. /end of irrelevant information. |
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