| Quiet as still water... (Introduction) |
[Jul. 15th, 2009|04:50 pm] |
( cut for spoilery things )
He opens his eyes, and Ice is there, firmly planted in the ground, at his feet.
He stands, then, and looks at the wood surrounding him. It is not a weirwood, not a godswood, but at least it’s not King’s Landing. It’s not the sept. It’s not the murky streets of the capital. Convinced that he just passed on to the afterlife, Eddard Stark kneels, hands on the hilt of Ice, and prays.
May the gods of the wood forgive him all his failures… if they can hear him at all.
Mun: Presenting Lord Eddard Stark, formerly the Hand of King Robert Baratheon and Lord of Winterfell, from George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire series. He is taken from the end of A Game of Thrones. Because we never have enough of father figures. *cough*
I hope I do him justice, no bad pun intended.
My will is so, so, so weak. I blame Pel, Lise and Anne for this. ^^
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| Dark have been my dreams of late |
[Jul. 15th, 2009|01:07 pm] |
The man wandering through the mansion's halls does not know how he came to be there. The events of the past are hazy to him, but details rise to the surface as he goes from door to door, searching for the one that will take him out of his confinement. The retreat. They were covering the retreat. But the enemy was so numerous. And the Nazgûl... After that all is darkness without end. Darkness, fear, horrors beyond naming, and the wave, always the great wave. How did he escape it and come to this place? Nothing is familiar to him, even his own clothing. It is too rich and subdued, the sort a man might wear to a funeral, and he reeks of smoke.
Questions can wait for later though, as all Faramir wants now is air. Finally, a door leads him to the outside and he fairly launches himself out of it. The sun is almost painfully bright after the darkness, but marvelous all the same, and he stretches out on the grass to better soak up its warmth. He takes deep, gulping breaths in an effort to calm his mind. In the dark he thought he might never be truly warm again.
In a few moments Faramir has calmed down completely and watches in amazement as a bird swoops through the sky above him. His mind is at rest even if his body is still deathly cold.
[Typist: Faramir from The Lord of the Rings, taken from right before his attempted barbecuing. Reset, retypisted, the whole shebang. He's still recovering from the Black Breath and it's a bit traumatic without having the benefit of athelas or an Aragorn to help him out of it. But he'll be fine in a minute. Tis the season for re-introing Tolkien's unloved sons?] |
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| this could get messy (introduction) |
[Jul. 13th, 2009|11:20 pm] |
It's strange. Again. Just when things were getting better then he had to show up and ruin everything. Maeglin sometimes known as Lomion fought the urge to spit. They would all see, though. Tuor and Turgon and all the rest who looked askance at him for being his father's son and thought the seed of madness or evil was simply lurking waiting to sprout. And then the Orcs, and the gates, and his voice shivering in his bones... but that was done with now. He had bargained with the Dark Lord and lived.
And they would just see, wouldn't they.
It is at this point, in his rambling and dark-tinged thoughts, that the young elf thinks to look up. Or - not young, per se, but just into his prime - youthful, still, though it doesn't show in his dark and too-sharp eyes, coloring that of his mother if his stature is more that of his father. And looking up, stops. Frowns. Narrows his eyes.
This has to be Tuor's idea, somehow. He saw that Lomion would get in his way and conspired to send him - no matter. No matter, there would be a way back, it is only an illusion. And he said if any problems cropped up there would be ways to contact him... so he's not entirely lost.
Mun: Lomion, in Quenya, or more commonly Maeglin, from The Silmarillion. Retypist, reintro'd, reset, all that. Son of Eol and Aredhel, raised adopted by Turgon an orphan, obsessed with his cousin Idril, the only Elf ever to consciously betray his kind to Morgoth. Might be a little screwed up. Have at! He can totally manage normal conversation.
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| Open Post |
[Jul. 13th, 2009|10:48 pm] |
Emo bards make everything better, and Tuesdays are Emo Bard Day. At least, in this country.
Whatever the day is, though, Daeron is sitting out by the lake, on his back with his harp nearby, eyes closed and contemplating...something. Who knows what it is? Probably Luthien, though, because when is he not? At any rate, though, he's very very busy. And would hate to be interrupted in his serious contemplation. By all means, poke him - he could do with a little conversation, as long as you don't mind the inevitable snark and bitterness that will probably result. |
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| the return of a certain gentleman |
[Jul. 13th, 2009|03:23 pm] |
It would be difficult to find a more confused, attractive, or woefully overdressed young man than Mr Tom Jones in his current state. Not a moment ago he had been attending Lady Bellaston in her fine house, but, upon being shown out by her African page, the view which greeted him was certainly not a city street at twilight. Oh no, he had been quite prepared for that, being the young gentleman of leisure that he now was. But his fine dress and manners became ridiculous when placed in surroundings better suited to his former lifestyle and the temperature of high summer, not an autumn evening in London. The wig, the powders, the fine silks and lace all marked him as the rather foolish country plaything of an older woman, not the sophisticated man of fashion he had believed himself to be.
Caught in the doorway, uncertain of whether he was coming or going, Tom turned in a bemused circle. Luckily -his confusion having quite overpowered the slight embarrassment of his clothing- his wig and coat remained on, thus preserving some propriety in a strange place.
[Typist: The re-entry of one Tom Jones, the prettiest, wickedest, most gentlemanly bastard one may meet in the annals of English literature. Reset, rejournaled, but not retypisted. He has now come from the later part of the novel with no knowledge of his previous (convoluted) stay at the mansion. He is also (thanks to his departure point) quite the 1740s fashion plate at the moment.] |
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| have you seen my tortoise? |
[Jul. 13th, 2009|10:17 am] |
Some entrances to the mansion are dramatic, demanding fanfare and attention as if to broadcast to all and sundry 'here comes a Great Man.' This is not one of them. Instead there is merely a rather simple looking young man poking through the surrounding vegetation in a purposeful manner. He is dressed in a travel-stained monk's habit and is extremely large and thick*. He cannot read or write. His lips move when he has to think too hard about something. He remembers almost everything that has happened to him since the moment of his birth. And he has lost his god.
It's not some expression to describe a crisis of faith or a loss of direction. He has quite simply lost his god, the Great God Om, last seen stuck in the shape of a tortoise. But more distressing than losing sight of Him is the fact that His voice is now missing from Brutha's head. For lack of anything else and to combat his rising panic, he continues searching through the gardens, calling out every now and again and wishing he had a bit of lettuce to wave around enticingly. Great Gods stuck as tortoises do tend to respond well to lettuce.
*A word that could easily apply to both his physical stature and the general public's opinion of his mental state.
[Brutha from Small Gods by Terry Pratchett. Novice, prophet, walking library, and one man fountain of belief.] |
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| things were getting a little quiet... |
[Jun. 26th, 2009|11:58 am] |
Karla gets bored rather easily, these days, and restive Karlas are dangerous Karlas. Sort of.
Since nobody eats food left out anymore, that makes things a little more challenging. That's all right! Challenging is good! Karla likes a good challenge. Hence, this morning denizens of the Mansion might find themselves victim of a particular kind of fun.
Today it's tea. There's some hot water thoughtfully left out in the kitchen, and a little basket of those queer prepackaged teas that Karla finds very odd and somewhat offensive. On the other hand! Depending on the type brewed, there may be a few different effects. They are not labelled.
(On the other hand, not drinking any tea will likely result in, upon leaving the room, no longer being one's correct species. Karla thinks tea should be an important part of everyone's life. Just to contribute to the general atmosphere of joy, she added a few vases of flowers, though the illusory birds singing in the rafters of the kitchen might have been a bit much.
Mun: so yeah! Crackplot. As follows: any green tea will result in kiddification, to an age (as always) of the typist's choosing. Any black tea will result in an intense craving for company and need to be social, and lastly, anything with fruit in it (peach, blackberry, etc.) will result in a genderswap. Duration of typist choosing, have fun, please drink responsibly.
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| {Half way through} |
[Jun. 24th, 2009|09:31 pm] |
In the common room, Aredhel is sitting and sowing something, quietly. She has been working on getting baby things ready - she is only halfway through her 12-months pregnancy, but her belly is heavily visible, round and protruding through her dress like a well-done little bun.
She smiles to herself, sings, softly. There is something in her heart that is quietly happy, and her hands are almost working idly on the little brassier. Her life has been quiet, as of late. Her husband is relatively safely out of trouble, as are her brothers. Her morning sickness is no longer abaiting her, and her heart is light.
One might even say... that she is almost bored.
Come say hello! She would love some company !
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| hello i have no willpower [intro] |
[Jun. 20th, 2009|10:49 pm] |
| [ | Tags | | | introduction, puck, rice!pandora | ] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  scared | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | Spirit In The Sky [Norman Greenbaum Cover] - Doctor and the Medics | ] |
"--The door!"
Elia is screaming. She can hear them, they're nearly here, and she's never been so afraid for anything in her life as she is now. Clegane will hurt her, she knows, but she does not even want to think of what may happen to her children. He is a mountain, yes, but moreso, he is a monster.
And- and then, Elia sees she's not... not where she was, not anymore. The panic intensifies. If she's not in the Red Keep, where is she? And where- where are her children? And what is going on, and is it good, or...?
But how could things get worse.
Her voice is strained, "R-Rhaenys?" When she gets no answer, her voice is somewhat quieter, calling out, "Aegon?"
Collapsing into the dirt just outside the Mansion, she calls out quietly, hoping no one will hear. "Rhaegar?" Because she knows, and has known for many days, that of all the people who could save her, it will not be her husband.
Princess Elia of Dorne, Queen of Westeros (for a time), from A Song Of Ice And Fire, riiiight before something Markedly Unfortunate happens to her thanks to everyone's favorite monstrously violent lunatic. Will be a panicy wreck for a while, most likely, because hey. You would be too. and no I have no idea how Rhaenys is pronounced. |
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| A long time coming... (Intro) |
[Jun. 17th, 2009|11:34 pm] |
He must have fallen asleep, somewhere along the travel back to Istanbul. His hand was wrapped around his fiancée's, hidden under his jacket. It wasn't much, but it was enough, and he was hoping soon, soon they would be able to go home, to Boston. Before that, they would see Turgut again, and that would be the end of their sinister adventures. He prayed, in his heart of hearts, that it was over.
His dream was heavy. Dank. There was the smells of death, books and broken stones, and there was, time and time again, the feeling of utter helplessness. He couldn't describe that scene to himself. He never could. The only consolation he had was the strong, fine hand with the short, square fingernails he was holding, and the knowledge that he would open his eyes to a willful face with eyes surprisingly tender.
It would not be so.
It's with a start that Paul wakes, and he scrambles to find a hand which is no longer there. He sits up jerkily in his airplane seat? Chair? It's a faux-leather armchair that is much more comfortable than any coach seat he has ever sat on.
"Helen?"
Another moment, and he registers that this is night, and he is in a house he has never seen before. His hands fish in his pockets for garlic cloves and a crucifix. Immediately afterwards, he reaches for his suitcase, and clings to it almost maniacally.
Alarm... doesn't quite cut it.
>.< Paul, er, Smith (or something, since his last name isn't given in canon), a twenty-seven year old graduate student in history, from Elizabeth Kostova's wonderful Historian. He's taken immediately after he and Helen have been expulsed from Bulgaria. He's -- very jumpy, so we apologize for this in advance.
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| how to make the sun rise |
[Jun. 16th, 2009|03:21 pm] |
There is a young man standing just outside the Mansion-- a knight, if you will. His armor is green, ornate without being counter productive in battle, a bit tarnished; obviously, he's recently left a battle.
He looks confused.
He could have sworn boiling oil was about to be poured on him.
Really. These things should be a bit more... permanent. Not that Ser Loras Tyrell, Knight of the Kingsguard and of the Flowers of the Reach, is particularly eager to be doused with boiling oil (would you be?), but... well, it's disconcerting.
Almost as disconcerting as being doused with boiling oil, one would think.
Oh, well. With a visible sigh and shrug, Loras looks around, forty-watt smile now firmly back in place. Where is he? This is certainly not Dragonstone.
Ser Loras Tyrell, of A Song Of Ice And Fire, assuming the boiling oil bit wasn't a conspiracy, and so right before he got, er, boiled. Loras: Looks like a teen idol, fights like angels on the warpath, and gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide. Have at, and I apologize for everything in advance. |
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| not so much pleased (introduction) |
[Jun. 16th, 2009|02:50 pm] |
There is a heap of red-armored (though only lightly) man on the grass outside the Mansion, swearing a blue streak and slowly dragging himself back to his feet. He may have misjudged, just a little, and gods his face hurts. Rubbing a hand over his face, relieved to find it all in one piece, he rises into a crouch and stares at the house with ill-disguised dislike.
That was not pleasant. And whatever this is, it's not King's Landing, and even if he can rest assured that there should be no real problem in carrying out his vengeance...not pleasant. Checking his face again, the man commonly known as the Red Viper shakes his dark hair back and continues to stare at the door.
How exactly does all this work, again? He never really paid much attention to the septons. Useless men.
Typist: Um. >.> Oberyn Martell of Dorne, also from A Song of Ice and Fire and taken from A Storm of Swords. Known for his quick temper, use of poison on weapons (at least allegedly), and rapacious sexual appetite. Have fun? :D
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 12th, 2009|10:59 pm] |
The truth is, Davos is scared.
He is a simple man in many ways but he likes to think he is a sensible one and there are somethings that no simple man should ever meddle with. He has rose too high, that is the truth. Rose too high and made enemies out of those who resent it.
This is their work, he thinks, it has to be. Her work or that of her god. They have snatched him from his bed and friends and brought him to a land he did not know, mayhap a hundred miles from Eastwatch, where he is surrounded by foreign trees in a foreign land without the King's mercy to fall back upon. It is an ill deed and it speaks of power beyond anything a simple smuggler can reckon with.
He makes himself walk forward calmly, because a man who panicked at sea did not live long and, as he concentrates on putting one foot in front of another, he reaches absently for his neck and the luck which is no longer there. And when his fingers close around nothing he feels its loss anew.
There is a building up ahead, he notes and he tells himself that he should feel no fear. He is a Lord and the King's Hand and armed besides. Poor shields they might be but they are all he has and so they will have to suffice.
Mouthing a silent prayer to his gods, he removes his cloak as a sign of respect and steps forward into the light of the mansion.
Typist's note: Hello. This is Davos Seaworth, yet another new character from a Song of Ice and Fire. He's taken from the end of Book 3. I'm new as well so hello, everybody.
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| Ave, totus. |
[Jun. 12th, 2009|04:13 am] |
Agent Aloysius X. L. Pendergast stands on the grass in front of the mansion, staring up at it with a serenly calm expression. His pale grey eyes show no surprise, and his usual black suit stands in even greater contrast to his pale hair and skin under the bright sunlight. He adjusts the cuffs of his suit jacket, saying simply, "Ah." |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 11th, 2009|03:01 pm] |
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It would seem our dear young Sarah has been hiding these long months, keeping mostly to herself and staying out of sight. For whatever reason she has decided to re-emerge now even she herself cannot be sure and yet here she is in plain sight in the kitchen making, of all things, macaroni and cheese. She's gotten considerably better at taking care of herself since arriving and has managed to find some spare clothing in the right fit and, thankfully, a decent style. If anyone is hungry she's got plenty of food to go around and really wouldn't mind a little conversation. Months by yourself can be kind of lonely, especially for a teenager. |
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| Open Post |
[Jun. 11th, 2009|10:57 am] |
It was Donleavy...in the library...with a stack of books and an angry glare.
Had Clue been around in Patricia Louise Donleavy's day, she would probably have found it just as inane and pointless as any other amusement. So, instead of attempting to venture outside on this nice day to go hunting or play tennis, she is once more in the library.
Settling into her favorite beanbag chair with a pile of various publications that seem to have just appeared in her bedroom. Whether it was by human means or some weird quirk of the Mansion itself, Donleavy scowls at the array of books before her.
The Secret Files of the Diogenes Club...which, unfortunately, is merely a fiction and not nearly as intriguing as it might have been
The Amateur Cracksman....if she wanted to read about buffoonish imbeciles stealing gems from even more buffoonish businessmen, she would open her morning paper.
The Seven per-cent Solution....surely someone must be joking!
Anyone currently walking in may or may not be hit with a paperback Nicholas Meyer novel being thrown at full force.
Well, so much for a quiet day of reading. Does anyone dare approach her?
OOC: The literary judgments expressed are those of one Patricia Donleavy, and do not represent the views of her typist. |
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| this will all end in tears i know it |
[Jun. 9th, 2009|09:17 pm] |
Jaime is furious, and his sister is an idiot, but all things considered, he'd rather have it this way than their roles reversed. Which is, as he feels the weight of his golden hand, the first time that's been the truth in a while. Best not to think on that, though. Moving onto more pressing matters--
"No," He answered the maester, "Put this in the fir-..."
The fire that wasn't there anymore? Or the snow that was no longer falling, the tent he was no longer in, the...
Oh, bugger.
KING OF BAD JUDGEMENT. This is Jaime Lannister, from A Song Of Ice And Fire, near the end of A Feast For Crows, spoilers ahoy! Also, obviously I'm new. *waves* Tell me if I've done/am doing anything wrong plskthnx. |
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| Another waking dream... |
[May. 28th, 2009|11:25 pm] |
She is sowing with artful dedication the golden lily on the pinafore. There is in her gesture something absently methodical, her hand is delicate and tender, yet precise for every time she pinches the cloth.
The ivory timble on her hand is almost only decorative. Four years of training, and she is embroidering like she was born with a needle in hand, with both taste and skill. She looks out the window a moment, as she changes her thread, before she starts on the cross, and finds her eyes stray once more to the towers of Hautecoeur.
She allows herself a daydream, gentle and simple, one of love and of another life, a dream in which a prince will take her and love her after her life of labors. However, the dream ends as her tutor enters and clears her throat, before she sits beside her with a trestle of her own.
“Dreaming again, Angélique?” Hubertine’s voice is gently scolding, but the warning cannot be ignored.
“Oh, just a little,” the girl replies enthusiastically, before she gets back to her work with renewed focus.
Leaning over the trestle, her blond hair falls loosely over her shoulder, and her violet eyes squint a little in the waning light. She has a graceful, swanlike neck and a delicate waist, but she doesn't know how beautiful she is.
All she thinks of is the Golden Legend, the dreams it brings her as she sits alone in her whitewashed, monastic room, and the beautiful patterns she draws. Her eyes are on her work, and she hasn’t noticed yet that she no longer is in Beaumont, in the quaint little house in the cathedral’s shadow.
Presenting Angélique-Marie, from Émile Zola's novel Le rêve (The Dream) , a sixteen year-old orphan, embroidery apprentice and ingénue, taken from chapter 3 or thereabouts. She's from 19th Century France. |
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| Bored Locke (Open) |
[May. 27th, 2009|05:32 pm] |
Locke is bored. There's no one to rob here, no one to hoodwink, and he seems to have misplaced his brothers again.
He's sitting in the main room, shuffling cards and considering picking the pocket of the next few people to walk by, just to prove he can. He might have done a few already, which would be the reason for the small collection of various objects in his pockets. Including a watch that he in all likelihood snagged off someone's wrist.
Bored Locke Lamoras get a little destructive. |
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| light of his life |
[May. 21st, 2009|03:58 pm] |
She wanders into the room, seemingly unfazed by the suddenly new and unfamiliar surroundings. Light eyes take in everything carefully as her nimble fingers dance over little details like the carvings of the wooden table, the pleated lampshade. Bare feet pad quietly on the floor.
She chews her gum loudly and flops lazily into a chair sideways, lanky legs dangling over armrest, her head lolling from side to the side on the other one. This is a nice place, nicer than any place she's even been, especially the buildings at summer camp. Suddenly, she sits up and stares at anyone who happens to pass by, wanting to be noticed.
ooc: Dolores Haze from the wonderful Lolita. Age is 14, like in the movie, rather than 12, if that's okay with everyone! I hope I can do her justice!
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