TEST DRIVE MEME

[fairyfoes]

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 with mirthful revelry and hearty food. 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!

Comments

[marksqueen]

I didn't have it with me as we were leaving Narnia. Anyway, I can shoot just as well with a regular bow.

[tiaraaction]

Right!

[Luna's scolding tone is a thing of the distant past, right now. She'll probably miss it later. She loops an arm through Minako's and points excitedly at the banquette table. ]

We should definitely get started right now.

[tiaraaction]

[She gives Hotaru a gentle smile and pats her on the head. ]

Are you hungry?

[firith]

[ At the legs comment his gaze flickers down briefly, gauging what he can. Saying nothing on the subject and instead listening to those drumming fingers. ]

Thranduil of the Woodland Realm. You will notice a distinct lack of wings because I am an elf, not a fairy. The Elvenking of my homeland. [ He cants his head and finally gives Roy a reprieve from his unflinching stare, reaching for a fresh goblet and jug of wine to pour the man a drink with seamless gestures, then himself, before going on. ] May I sit with you, Roy?

[infame]

[The station is a welcome distraction from all the weirdness elsewhere. Peter is a man of creature habits. He won't admit it, but he's missing his laptop something fierce. He's fairly certain he's going to insane here without access to it. The computers at the station sate an itch, but don't quite give him the satisfaction he craves.

He has to set up a brand new social networking profile. He has to restart Candy Crush.

By the time he sits down near Dean, mug of tea in hand, he's come to the horrifying realization that he'll never have access to god awful human gossip sites again. It's a sobering thought. The glint from Dean's knife catches his eyes - he pauses, mid sip of his tea and cocks his head to the side. He narrows his eyes, mouth quirking upwards as he makes at least sixty mental judgments based on the knife alone. ]

You seem on edge.

[somethingprecious]

[There are maybe a thousand and one questions buzzing in his head (friend, they're friends- when did that happen?), but he picks the most pressing one.]

Do you believe we'll... see home again? [Bilbo has hope still, it's evident in his question as flickering as it may be.]

[unhand]

Some games have consequences. Those don't tend to be fun.

[They can be. Hook thinks he'd like being a father. But then again, he'd never tried to avoid growing up. Just dying before he could kill his demon.

He stares at this child. He's not the real Pan. He can't be. It just doesn't make sense.]

Who are you?

[infame]

[It's a breath taking banquette. There are creatures here that Peter has only ever thought of as true fiction. The supernatural world, even to him, is filled with mysteries and secrets. Fairies? He hadn't counted on them. Though, after everything else, perhaps he really ought to have.

He's keeping an eye out for anyone, really. The scent of Derek, the hapless energy only Scott and Stiles seem capable of giving off. The distinct scent of Lydia's perfume.

He should have expected an Argent.

He's distant, at first. Allison isn't a friend. Allison is, at a push, an ally. But Scott isn't here, as far as he can see, to mediate between them. Charm won't say him from an arrow or a punch to the nose. He lingers, just a bit off - waits patiently for her to notice him instead.

Safer, probably.

Probably. ]

[firith]

Yes.

[ Spoken with a wealth of conviction behind the single soft word, his emphasis angles to be heartening. Eyes on Bilbo, Thranduil's hard edges ease. ]

Until such a time, you are not alone here.

[valianced]

Oh, I didn't think about that, I guess.

[ She wrinkles her nose. ] Do you think the food will make me sick? What will it do then, Ed?

[ She blinks, suddenly realising that maybe she wasn't careful enough after all! ]

[valianced]

Yes, good. I think he needs that!

[ She smiles a little bit, but her memory is indeed good enough and she blinks. Gosh, what could Susan be thinking, feeling? To think one would never return to Narnia? And even Lucy has only just been brought here after going back to Narnia. ]

Surely, he is! Oh I hope so, I just... well, I'd be very sad if he wasn't!

[valianced]

[ Well. Someone she recognizes too, but... well, much younger than when she last saw him on the Dawn Treader. Oh, dear, is she going to be older than everyone? How strange! ]

Caspian! [ Lucy bounds forward to hug him, laughing. ] Why, I wonder who else is here!

ahhh hi bb

[valianced]

[ She stops before she eats the food at all and blinks over to her brother. ]

Peter!] [ Fairy food dropped, she lunges at her brother and hugs him tightly. He seems shorter, or maybe she's taller? ] It all just looks so good, though!

[aiwendil]

So it would seem. [There is a heavy resignation, perhaps they are fated to play out history once more. they each had their part to play, even in such a new land.]

[marksqueen]

Surely this place wouldn't bring the other three Narnian rulers of old without the High King.

[she says like a question. Lucy has the faith, Susan has the reason. She's asking for Lucy's faith]

[heroyic]

[ An indent of a pause. Roy settles his arms over the rests of his chair, sprawling with manufactured blase. A king, is it? Pointy-eared and solemn-faced and pretty enough to make Jesus weep. The similarities between them grow fewer by the moment.

His body only loses the wooden cast of discomfort once Thranduil's gaze flickers away. He looks down at the goblet, but doesn't move to pick it up. ]

Thanks. And, uh — go ahead. [ he murmurs, pleasantly enough. ] Can't say that I've any conversation worth having with a king, though.

[firith]

[ Seating himself at the table, he takes a long, slow drink of his wine before answering, gaze sweeping over the rest of the court at the feast until it wends its way back to Roy. ]

I confess that I know of no conversation that would prove stimulating, at present. My thoughts linger on my son's absence.

[heroyic]

[ For all of his rough edges and half-wrought anger, Roy is a singularly talented listener — he knows how to pick up cues, keep the ball running. It's easy enough to settle back into that.

It takes a bit of effort, but he forces himself not to fidget under the renewed cast of Thranduil's attention. ]

I know how that is. [ Maybe. He doesn't know anything about Elven princes, but --

He reaches for his own goblet, thumbing the obscenely large ruby - if that's what it really is - set into the base. ]

Your mind's always half on 'em, even when there's nothing to worry about. [ He doesn't want to elaborate; the sudden cut of his gaze askance is proof enough of that. ] —so, what's happening with him? Did he just miss Dad's curfew, or is it more serious than that?

[ What do Elven princes do? Fight dragons? Save damsels? ]

[francia]

[France's head tilts slightly as he listens, hair falling into his face. He's quiet for a moment, thinking back over all the odd sights that he's seen so far since arriving here before shaking his head.]

It is my turn to extend my apologies; I have not seen anyone who matches your descriptions. There are a great many people here, none of whom I know, so it may be that I am overwhelmed.

Peter is a goodly name. Before I offer my own, may inquire as to what house you hail from?

[There's a bit on an edge to the question that indicates France isn't simply asking for identification. To have two ladies in his company and a younger brother who also carries a standard: this Peter is either a lord's son or lord himself. This behaviour would be vastly impolite if it wasn't for the fact that France is what he is and second only to his own lord and king.]

[firith]

[ He is either talking to a father in kind (and ai, what kind of son would the mortal man with an Elvenking-favoured look about him own?) or someone with significant experience in holding sway, protection, over the lives of others. It could be either or neither, even something else; he does not pry, in turn. They have something of that alike about them.

The facetiousness does not bargain for a rise of any kind, no anger or indignity forthcoming. His resignation to let Legolas go was bone-deep and altering. ]

He sailed far away, several decades ago. I had thought the creatures here would return him to me but I would not wish for trouble to come upon him ere he finds peace in his new life. [ There's a note of curiosity in the way Roy phrases himself, indulged on a whim. ] He would have found this land much to his liking.

You do not, I take it?

[overdraws]

[ It's easy to tell the moment she sees him, because she's looking around the party with a rather neutral expression on her face, taking in the sights, assessing the room. When she sees him, she stops, though, freezes in place and her face goes from a happy neutral to narrowed eyes and furrowed brow.

She doesn't have a cattle prod on her. Not this time.

She does, however, have her bow, some arrows, and her daggers all in plain sight, and it's one of these a hand drops to, clutching the hilt.

And then she starts stalking towards him, determination very apparent in her expression. ]

[heroyic]

[ There's something frenetic about Roy's attempt to inject levity into his responses: he doesn't mean to be mocking or facetious, not really. But it's easy to fall back upon that when even his usual gloomy self-appraisal is made infinitely worse in comparison to the white spire of an elf (an elf!) beside him.

He takes a clumsy gulp from the goblet before him, swallowing once, twice, convulsively. It tastes like something too rich for the likes of him, burning a sweet line of flame down into his stomach.

The question is meaningless — Roy answers it with an inelegant shrug. ]

Well, at least you don't have to worry about him mistaking me for you. Never know what I could've used the filial piety of an elven prince to accomplish. [ But the words are accompanied by a wry grin, soft enough for his hesitation to lie bare-faced for perusal. Sympathy would be facetious to offer, in this case, where they are strangers at best - better to take humor in hand, instead. ]

[firith]

You are worn with cares you should not yet own, I think.

[ Whereas Roy supplants a crude kind of levity for his pain, Thranduil brooks none of it and speaks with cutting attentiveness that veers sleekly away from the subject of Legolas and into depths ordinarily uncharted between strangers. This man wants to be impressed by the unknown, he senses. Mockery lies beneath a jaded smile, never lofty enough to reach those dark eyes, yet it all amounts to nothing so much as a smokescreen.

If Roy wants a piercing stare back on him (and Thranduil doubts he does, but lessons), he may command it entirely. Not quite a jest and neither entirely solemn, he bandies Roy's words back at him, after a fashion. ]

If you have need of aid, you have but to ask.

my ACTUAL FAVORITE FILM. i can't express the depths of my excitement to you.

[smallshoes]

Oh my goodness.

[This place is very stressful. Magical, yes, but that's kind of stressful too because fairy stories are supposed to be just that: stories. Elizabeth is supposed to be too old for tales like these. She's supposed to be a young lady and all that comes with it, and none of this is very Biblical, you know?

Anyway, she isn't home, and that's been grating on her; her mother and her brother and her fiance, and her great big lord father, none of them are here to protect her. Which, realistically, is kind of good, because she doesn't have to protect them either. And she would, you know! She'd protect any of them, because she loves them so much. But she wants their comfort and being without it is terrible. This new place has made her skittish.

So this man with his noise and his language, it all makes her jump. Still, her sweetness hasn't been hampered, and she flutters over, yellow curls bouncing anxiously. Her handkerchief is out and ready and her green eyes are cast low even as she pushes it forward, hands thin and a little forceful.]

Are you all right? There, there. Goodness.

[heroyic]

[ For a moment, Roy lets the smile drop away, leaving in its wake only a steady blankness, cordoned in by the lank fall of his hair. ]

Booze and good company, what more could I want?

[ What would Thranduil think, if he knew what Roy Walker had done to his own slip of a child he'd once called daughter?

He looks at his hands. The clean nailbeds. The lifelines bisecting his palms in two.

His smile flickers back on. ]

Some music, maybe; that's all we're missing. Do Elvenkings sing?