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TEST DRIVE MEME #8
TEST DRIVE MEME
Considering apping to EACHDRAIDH? Why not give the setting a test run here! OPTIONAL SCENARIOS 01. ARRIVING IN THE DRABWURLD. The Seelie and Unseelie courts welcome you not with mirthful revelry, this time around dear friends. There is a seriousness in the air, though the food is still hearty and the imps still mischievous. After you have been briefed on your purpose here, you will find an endless feast and a night filled with entertainment to placate your concerns. Mingle with new arrivals, sneak down the castle halls and make sure your eyes are always on your glass; fairies and imps have no bias when it comes to tricks! 02. THE STATION. Looking for a little slice of home? The Station gives you all that and more. Take advantage of the wifi, have a cup of fairy-brewed coffee (the one they didn't spit in) or sit back and relax on the patio. You can even move your things into one of the available rooms! 03. WILDCARD. Your own scenario! Explore the Drabwurld or simply take advantage of your Locket! Be mindful, though -- the monarchs are watching and cross court communication should be done with the utmost secrecy. |
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[ At least now he won't go to jail.
Right?
Connor bites the inside of his cheek for even letting himself think about it for a moment. It sends his heart thundering again after he's worked so hard (read: boozed up) to try and get his pulse somewhat normal again so it doesn't hammer out his neck and wrists. He squeezes the hand, firm, but not too firm. Like the way you end an interview, or the way you start work with a colleague.
That's what this is... some... stupid war. And they're on the same side? He hopes?
Either way, he musters a smile, and maybe it's half genuine as his eyes dart up slightly beneath the hood. ]
You always make an effort to keep up the whole "mysterious hooded guy" look? [ He pulls his hand back and slips it into his pocket. Breathe, Walsh. ]
Because I think you might look better with it off. It's a party, isn't it? [ And hoods are creepy at parties unless. You know. This is actually some weirdass cult and they're going to bring out the goats any minute now. ]
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[The mentioning of his hood has his head turning, the hint of a brow raising underneath. He's heard others tell him it's odd to wear one always, and he's aware how it could be suspicious, but Arno has no malice shown towards anyone, and he uses that in his favor. He raises his hands slightly, shaking them as if to say "I swear I'm innocent."]
It's not so much an effort as it is a habit. I promise I don't mean any harm, to you or to anyone else.
[He's completely oblivious to the fact that he's being flirted with.]
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Like the way he lifts a hand and shows an open palm briefly before pinching a bit of the fabric and pulling it aside. Arno's not that much taller than he is (maybe two or three inches) and he barely has to step up to make the motion of pulling his hood down.
He breathes out a little.
Distractions are good. Arno's got a nice face.
That helps. ]
Well that's much better.
[ Connor pulls his hand back and looks a little more satisfied now, sliding his hand into his pocket and giving Arno a good look in the eyes now. ] What kind of habit has you wearing your hood all the time?
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After a spare second where he's quiet, he can't help but laugh and shake his head.]
If you wanted me to remove it, you could have just asked, monsieur.
[Though a brow does raise as he thinks of what to add.]
This is going to sound odd. [A beat to check how to say this properly. Connor's question is going to take a bit of work to address.] What time do you hail from?
[The Drabwurld hauls people from everywhere, it seems. Knowing what time, if Connor has any, is as good a start as Arno can get.]
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The answer to that question is Definitely not yours.
The laughter is good, however, and Connor feels the tension rigged up in his spine slowly come unstacked. He's sitting a little on his hip now, holding his drink close to his chest and okay. He feels a little more earnest, even if he's still very much collecting every iota of information--which keeps him on his toes enough in and of itself. ]
Twenty-first century.
[ That's good enough. ]
You sound a little dated yourself, though. France is obvious, but when?
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You're farther ahead than me, though I'm certain you've already noticed that.
[Arno gazes across the feast, watches those around him with curiosity, before turning his attention back to Connor. He huffs, both amused and uncertain if he can explain his time well enough to someone so far ahead in time.
Though he sounds incredibly relieved when the other mentions France. There's a weak laugh at that.]
Oh, thank god. Yes, France. Paris, to be exact. [A beat.] The year is 1791 for me. France is in the middle of tearing herself apart, currently in a revolution between the poor and those in high society.
[He's hoping it sounds familiar. Not everyone knows the dates he's talking about.]
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[ Connor follows his eyes briefly, scanning the feast as well and slowly edging a bit more to stand beside him. It gets him out of the way of the flow of people moving back and forth, mingling with one another. To the left, someone laughs loudly, to the right, two people chat about something totally indiscernable--none of the words, places, things make sense. It's a little frustrating.
Only when Arno mentions the year, he blinks a little, mouth popping open in surprise: ]
You're joking.
[ The French Revolution. ]
Sure could have used you back in Euro History when I was taking my gen eds...
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"Gen eds?" I don't exactly know what that is.
[A beat.]
But no, I'm not. You'll find people here are from places that don't even exist compared to our home.
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[ Really. They're torture. Stop furrowing your brow. Please. ]
So basically places that are even weirder than this... fairyland that we're stuck in now.
Good.
[ Connor's lips thin slightly. ]
Is being here any better than where you're from? [ Color him curious. ]
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[W o w rude Connor. A furrowed brow isn't the worst thing in the world.]
There's a place called Thedas- an entirely different world, mind you- that has a country called Orlais. Apparently its language and accent are almost exactly the same compared to France. [A beat.] I've had several ask if I was an Orlesian before I correct them in telling them I'm French.
[Luckily, Arno laughs and shakes his head at the question provided, crossing his arms and shifting a little on his feet.]
That depends on where you are, I've found. Some places? Yes. You can barely tell there's a war going on. Others? Not so much.