fairynuff | TEST DRIVE MEME

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TEST DRIVE MEME

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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!

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o1.

[ There's a lot of this that isn't entirely new to Ginny Weasley. Sneaking through castles are old hat, by now, and feasts are something of a comforting reminder of home. Even the imps suggest familiarity—something a bit like the house elves, or even the gnomes she was just in the middle of flinging over a hedge—and that more than anything makes her think that this could be a dream. It's not entirely outside the realm of possibility, right, that they... Merlin knows, ganged up on her after years of being tossed through the air? Maybe? So she's gone and cracked her head on a rock and Mum'll come running out in half a second—

Well. That's what she thought a few hours ago.

Wariness bred by a few years at war has made the revelry difficult to accept. She hasn't spotted anyone she recognises, no flash of robe or glasses or ginger or wandtip. But the young witch is friendly enough to anyone who approaches, smiles when offered food (she is a Weasley, after all), but tips it out when she thinks no one is watching or carefully Vanishes it off her plate with a twitch of her hand. (Thank Merlin she's still got her wand.)

... though, really, she'd scarf it all down if she knew for certain it was alright to. Merlin's beard, she's hungry. ]

( there's enough that's familiar to will for the differences to feel that much more stark, a much more present and persistent reminder that he's not home — neither london nor dolgellau, and though he'd willingly followed the fairies (they'd looked different enough to how they ought that his curiosity had got the better of him—), it's an action he, now, finds himself regretting. (he can hear jem's reproach in his head, something about impulsiveness and a lack of thought, and though, he thinks, it'd be tempered by a sort of wry acceptance, there'd be that pull to his lips and a slight frown accompanying it all that'd be just enough to make will, inwardly, feel a touch — momentarily — embarrassed by his actions. (no-one was supposed to care, after all.) )

at the feast — it's impressive in appearance, when all is said and done, when regrets are reconsidered and one adopts a more detached approach — he makes a great show of pretending to wine and dine, of picking up food and talking and conversing and refilling his plate and glass when it seems fit, of being careful to not consume only the slightest amount and disposing of it as and when he can.

it's not difficult, not after a while — the feast has been going on for long enough that mess and a lack of care are to be expected, particularly by humans — or so he imagines. the fey and their associates take great pride in cunning and in cruelty, in manipulation and the besting of humans, and this, he thinks — the feast — is a simple, easy way to achieve that end. mundanes especially—

—although, he's noted, that of the humans present, there are certainly more than mundanes. a few have caught his eye, but there's one, a girl about his age (or so he'd guess), being as equally careful as him not to eat or drink. he's not always quite able to catch what it is she does with the offending items, and it's begun to throw him, to eat away at his resolute desire not to ask too many questions of anyone present. she's not, he thinks, a shadowhunter, and that's the bit that has him sauntering over — if sauntering is indeed the word for it. his movements are a touch hurried and unsteady (deliberately so, though he hopes it's entirely unevident — he's had years of practice at perfecting the appearance of false intoxication), and the pleasant, if cocky, curl of his lips shifts into a broad grin as he reaches her (dodges an imp, stumbles, and throws an arm round her shoulders).

the contents of his goblet spill to the floor as he engages in all of this, and he looks — dejectedly, forlornly — at the waste, before cursing emphatically and pointedly and — )

Not very elegant of me. ( in contrast to his previous expression and utterance, it's dismissive and cheerful, and there's barely a breath of a pause before he continues, voice dropping to little more than a whisper and he speaks straight into her ear: ) You see, I couldn't help but notice that you're doing a remarkable job of making your food and drink—

( he gestures loosely with his free arm, the one not slung over her shoulder. ) —Vanish, I suppose, would be the word, but that's quite odd, don't you think? ( he makes a point of only glancing at her quickly as he utters this, attention otherwise fixed on the feast at large. after a moment, he straightens himself before turning to face her, his eyebrows knitting together in a quick frown. )

My, but you are short, aren't you? I wouldn't be able to do that for very long. ( a beat, musingly and entirely offhand in tone and manner, though he watches her reaction carefully. ) Perhaps you're part Fair Folk.

Edited (OH MY GOD HTML) 2014-03-24 09:00 (UTC)

[ The last thing she expects is to be draped upon by a drunken Welshman. Instinct says hex him, shove him off, but she can't exactly be hostile in a place as unfamiliar as this one. And from what she can gather, a lot of them are just as confused as she is. So Ginny simply straightens under the weight of him, sidesteps (as best she can) the splash of his drink on the floor with a wrinkled nose—but it's when his lips brush over her ear that she thinks about elbowing him hard in the ribs. (And she's blushing, bloody hell.) ]

Oi, gerroff—

[ He's noticed what she's doing, though, that's more interesting (alarming?) than anything else. She hasn't been subtle about her magic. But this is so obviously a magical place with more than just Muggles roaming about so she didn't think it'd be too out of the ordinary. Ginny huffs out a laugh and leans away from him, enough to look at him and mutter: ]

Is it odd, though? Maybe you're more pissed than you think. [Then he leaves off her and she bristles a bit at his next comment, copper brows knitting.] Or loads more if you think I'm part of this lot. D'you see me running around like I own the place?

( the 'oi' and somewhat garbled 'get off' has him pausing for a moment. it's a less — feminine reaction than he'd expected or is used to, and he's not entirely sure what to make of it. it's only after she continues that he recovers, and he looks at her for a long moment, studiously and considering, before hmming and nodding slowly. ) You're right. I had been looking at you from a distance, mind — although I'll remember to make my well to the nearest optometrist when I'm back in London; it oughtn't have taken me quite so long to realise you've hardly the look of Fair Folk, inebriated or not. ( he doesn't bother to remark that appearances mean little in any realm but especially this one. if she knows anything about fey, he supposes — which he suspects he does, or else she's exceptionally paranoid — she'll be aware of that. if she's not, she'll realise it soon enough. so: )

I'm rather more used to rabbits and hats and streams of confetti and 'kerchiefs, and I dare say whatever it is that you're doing is far more effort — and waste! ( the latter is uttered with quiet exclaim, disappointment and reproach. ) — than simply ignoring it. ( another beat, though this one's punctuated by a wry smile and a glance down at his — their — feet. ) Though I am tempted to say a handkerchief wouldn't go amiss. Do you happen to have one? Ordinarily I'd avoid making assumptions ( an obvious lie, though it's paired with a deliberately wide-eyed expression of wholly, equally obviously feigned innocence, ) but we are in the land of the fey, and I don't recall you denying my previous assertion. ( assumption. )

[ What's that supposed to mean? Hardly the look of the Fair Folk, it could almost be an insult, except he's right that she doesn't belong here. Maybe none of them do. So she lets it slide and yes, maybe she's a little too on edge, and if he wasn't so bloody close to her, she'd be able to pass it off like she isn't—but as it is, she suspects he can tell that she's tense, and not just with the mild irritation that comes with chatting with someone as pretentious-sounding as this one. ]

Like the sound of your own voice, do you. [ Offhand, low, almost good-humoured but no doubt directed at him. Then, louder: ] No, I'm afraid I haven't got a handkerchief on me. Your boots look like they can stand a little wine— [ Maybe more than you can, she thinks. ] —so don't get fussy with me about it. [ Then Ginny crosses her arms, stepping away from him so she can face him properly, brows raised. ] And who're you to lecture me on wasting food, then? Maybe I've just got a massive appetite.

( there's a moment — several moments — where he's visibly thrown by her response, and though he manages to stop himself from vocalising anything, his lips part into a vague approximation of 'what?'. ) My boots ( he starts eventually, tone reflecting equal measures of insult and scandal, ) are far more fond of rain, mud, and ale. Occasionally tea, but a Briton who wastes even the smallest of drops deserves to be shot, so they're yet to truly cultivate a taste for it and I've no interest in developing it. Whine, on the other hand: you're quite right. I've been in the company of far too many women with a talent for the trait that they've, in turn, developed a remarkable ability to withstand even the most contemptible of complaints. I, as it happens, am yet to do so. ( a breath and a small, dismissive wave. ) Allergic, you see. Brings me out in dreadful hives.

( it's only when she steps away and crosses his arms that humour really, truly re-enters his expression. she's small, like charlotte, he thinks, and defiant (like charlotte), though a redhead (henry), and there's an odd twist in his stomach he recognises, loosely, as homesickness. it manifests itself as a laugh, oddly boyish in spite of the light edge of mocking and he lifts his chin to look down at her. ) Ah. ( murmured. ) Of course you do. I can see it in both your girth and your height; your hometown, I'm sure, tells many tales of the large ( his eyes narrow briefly and he seems to consider something, privately debating between himself. she's from the west country, he's sure, but—

definitively, then: ) Cornish girl stomping from house to house, eating each and every villager out of house and home. The tale of Hansel and Gretel, I'm sure, was written as a prophetic warning for you and you alone.

Edited 2014-03-24 21:15 (UTC)

[ She's wondering how to best extract herself from this conversation while he prattles on about boots and tea and women and she really could just hex him but she's going to reign in her temper and bite her tongue—

Large. Cornish. Girl. ]

Beg pardon. [ What if she just slapped that smug look off his face? The indignation is there, the idea that he doesn't know a thing about her, what she's survived, what she's done and seen. ] First of all, I'm from Devon, thanks very much, and second of all, try that cheek with me one more time and we'll see how clever you think you are when you're wobbling around on jellied legs and being attacked by your own bogies.

Where be you going, you Devon maid? You tight little fairy just fresh from the dairy. ( he's never been to devon, or even to cornwall. both counties were too far south for him to have ever travelled to, short of anything required of him as a shadowhunter, and it often happened that cities were busier affairs. london, then, was about as southerly as it got. though he'd never admit it, if either were as green and pleasant as it was often implied, he imagined he'd like them — and like them a great deal more than he did london, at that. ) ( he sniffs after that, haughty and indignant, exaggerated and deliberate, before: ) I thought they were the same. You all speak the same, anyway. ( he's aware that they don't, that there are subtle differences in accent and dialect before one even touches the subject of cornish as a language. nevertheless, he's aware, too, that his impromptu quoting of keats serves as admission that his remark immediately after is nothing more than a bold-faced lie. )

I think I'm done with wine for the night, but thank you for the offer of a drink. ( a beat and a momentary quirk of his lips into a wholly smug smirk. ) I've jellied legs enough, and little care to find myself in the state where I no longer have any idea of how my body functions when in the company of Fair Folk. ( he's not quite able to help the hint of dislike and disgust that creeps into his tone, an otherwise unplanned tell of familiarity with the creatures. if he notices the giveaway himself, he doesn't attempt to backtrack or cover it up; instead, he continues without missing a beat. ) And I believe it's customary for introductions to happen before one indulges in a night of heavy drinking with another — but then, you do seem rather forward. Perhaps things truly are different in Devon. It must be quite odd for you, being stuck in a castle where the number of intelligent beasts outnumber the unintelligent. Not to worry, though, I'm sure there are plenty of sheep and cows to be found seated within a cadair somewhere.

( he pauses after that, both for emphasis and to take a breath, to watch her response — she's animated, and it's fascinating and hilarious all at the same time. he's intrigued, too, to see if she'll point out the hypocrisy of a welshman commenting on the population of animals versus humans (and others, but the details were neither here nor there — he's not about to reveal the presence of downworlders and shadowhunters to all and sundry, even though they were —here.) ) —William. Herondale.

Edited (I WILL BE SATISFIED EVENTUALLY ) 2014-03-25 12:29 (UTC)

[ William Herondale. She could be speaking to Draco Malfoy if her eyes were closed; naturally she'd run into the one person who could be the most unpleasant reminder of home, she's already irritated and flushed with it. The flash of his smiles do little to ease that and she's aware, of course she is, that half the rubbish he's saying is just to elicit some sort of response judging by the way he's watching her and waiting for a retort between each little thing. Cracks about her home without knowing a thing about The Burrow or the way her family grew up, little barbs she ought to just brush off from an ignorant stranger—that's the problem, though. She's never been very good at letting things go despite her experiences.

But what catches her attention more than distraction with pretty, sharp words from a pretty, sharp mouth is the mention of the Fair Folk again. Some books called them that, didn't they, fairies? Muggle stories. That recognition flickers to life and quashes the kneejerk reaction of hexing him six ways to Sunday instead of offering her name. ]

Odd for me? You ought to know. [ Bugger off back to Wales, then. She could say that, but clearly none of them can go anywhere. ] Know very much about fairies, do you? I don't suppose you followed one over here? Does that mean they're not too unusual where you're from? I reckon not, Wales and all. Britain as a whole, really. Never know what's knocking around with the sheep and the cows.

[ She could be joking. But she isn't, and now who's watching who? ]

I was in London. There are none too many sheep and cows for Fair Folk to knock about with. ( a beat and a sideways glance at her. ) Or Welshmen. It's a rather lonely existence. ( it doesn't answer her questions, he knows, and he's quiet for a moment whilst he thinks about how he ought to. all in the court were now, evidently, aware of the reality of fair folk, of creatures even that mundanes wouldn't think to consider fair folk. he presses his lips together tightly, momentarily, and then laughs, the noise punctuated by the shake of his head. perhaps a bending of the truth— )

I followed one. ( a shrug; eavesdropping and making his way round the party, forcing oneself into private and not-so-private conversations has its uses. that this one is proving to be less than fruitful is neither here nor there — it was bound to happen eventually, after all. ) We all did, or else we were dragged. Fair Folk have little interest in manners past obtaining what they want. ( there's a ghost of a smile at that; he can imagine it being thrown straight back at him — by tessa, by jem, by charlotte, or even by jessamine. before continuing, though, he yawns — what he wouldn't give for a bed — and waves a hand disinterestedly an vaguely at their surroundings. ) I've the gift of Sight. ( an easy excuse for a degree of familiarity with downworlders, and nothing more than a simplification of the truth — detailing her as to the nature of shadowhunters, of downworlders and of mundanes, having then to discuss inevitable questions and how and why— even if it were allowed, it's nothing he wants to get into. for a moment, he's glad he'd made sure, earlier in the night, that he removed the daggers attached to the belt on his trousers and tucked them, sheath and all, on the inside of his trousers, before untucking his shirt. advertising that one had weapons, he thought, was bound to go disastrously wrong at some point during the festivities — and it was a means to avoiding unwanted questions. )

You'd be surprised at what pours your drink when you're really looking, and— ( a touch mournfully, ) —how many attractive young women are just Fey in disguise hoping to lure a hapless young Welshman off the beaten tracks and into the land of fairy. ( a pause and a sigh. ) I can hardly blame them, of course, but I'd rather be asked before being recruited into a war. I'm quite busy, you know: I'd intended on spending the 'morrow sleeping until past noon, pestering the kitchen servants for a truly delicious breakfast in spite of the hour passing and ensuring it was to be nothing with potatoes. ( he lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper: ) The cook's Irish, you see.

Edited 2014-03-26 09:32 (UTC)

[ The last bit catches her off-guard, enough that a startled laugh escapes before she can curb it with the vague annoyance she'd been feeling since he approached her. Ginny bites down on her bottom lip and glances away, ears burning, and she brushes past the candor of his afternoon plans and latches onto the real conversation, the fact they're all here: being recruited into a war. That's the hardest thing of all to swallow here, the idea that they're being so grandly welcomed and expected to—what? Feel like comrades with their captors? Enough to fight for them, never mind that the truth lies in whether or not they can return home?

Maybe she really did get knocked out by a garden gnome. ]

You said you've got the gift of Sight? [ Which carries a different meaning at home. ] Personally, I don't know how much good seeing the future will do you here. Predict the outcome of this war, maybe. [ She pauses, eyes roaming the party in turn, her voice dropping. ] Though, I don't know if true Seers could ever... [ No one knew the extent of their war, the damage, the losses. Ginny exhales, visibly shaking off the malaise, resisting the urge to reach for her wand just to feel the comforting warmth of it against her palm. ] I'm done with wars. Maybe that doesn't make a difference, being here, but...

[ She shrugs, brushing a hand through her flaming hair, finally looking back at him. He still hasn't won her over, but they're all in this together—or something like it, right? ]

It's magic, isn't it. Beings and witches and things hiding in plain sight, that's what you're talking about? It's just what it is at home. It's seeing everything out in the open like this that's amazing.

[So, crowded tables, lots of food, lots of talking... It's a lot to take in. Still rather stunned by it all, Hiccup's been sort of keeping to himself, just sitting quietly and eating--definitely eating, he is a Viking after all, even if he's...scrawny. Essentially, just trying to blend in while taking in his surroundings.

Surroundings, including people. She's a few seats down from him, not far at all, and okay, maybe he's kind of observing her. But he's observing everyone else around them, too! It's just...there's something weird there. Sometimes when he looks over, her plate is full of food, and then when he looks back, it's all just...gone. After a while, he starts peering at her plate more often, checking on its status with more interest than is probably necessary, until he finally gets curious enough that he has to bring it up.]

So are you just really hungry, or are you hiding that food somewhere?

[His eyebrows raising, he looks down at the edge of her side of the table, like he might be able to see where she's slipped it all away, or if there's some animal down there she might be feeding.

...And then he realizes that might sound sort of rude. Backpedalling, he raises his hands off the table in a sort of apologetic manner.]

Er-- You know, it's just that everything I've seen on your plate just seems to vanish in seconds. Which is. ...Kind of weird.

[Subtlety, it seems, is not her strongest suit today. She should just feign being full at this point, though everything looks and smells mouthwateringly delicious and she was about to run into the kitchen for her mother's cooking when she ended up here, so... But—no, she can't shake it, that unease. Even if everyone else does seem to be enjoying themselves and no one's keeled over yet.

Yet.

She looks up when Hiccup approaches, though, and covers her surprise with a bright laugh that comes easily despite everything else. The way her cheeks colour isn't an act, either, though she is a Weasley and they blush as easily as breathing.]

I'm ravenous, really. [Not... exactly a lie.] Back home, my Mum forces about third or fourth helpings of everything at most meals so I suppose I don't know how to eat any less. [Grinning, patting her stomach.] Exercise, you know. Helps keep the guilt off.

[Oh. Oh, so she really is just eating it all. That quickly. Consider him impressed then, she's a better eater than even some of the biggest Vikings back in Berk. ...Though he avoids actually saying that aloud, getting the feeling that most people here wouldn't exactly take that as a compliment.]

Oh, yeah? That sounds a lot like the people where I'm from. We're, uh. We're encouraged to be big eaters. [Smiling, sheepishly now that he's found out there's not actually anything suspicious or strange going on here like he originally thought, he gives a small shrug.] You could give most of them a run for their money with that speed.

[A quick gesture to her plate, and then he suddenly freezes realizing he said the thing. The thing that's a weird compliment that he wasn't going to say but accidentally did. Whoops. Pursing his lips, he just...sort of stands there and stares, waiting for her reaction. The one that's...probably not going to be good.]

[ Surprisingly not a horrible reaction. She just laughs again, waving off the clear mortification. ]

Hey, don't look like that. It's true. Weasleys know how to eat. [ And she extends her hand, smiling. ] That's the name, by the way. Ginny Weasley. And if you think this is fast, you wouldn't know what to do with my brothers. Ghastly.

[ Is she winking? She totally just winked. ]

[Oh, thank the gods, he didn't offend her. The relief he feels when she laughs instead of, say, punches him is so immense, it quite literally looks like a weight's been lifted off his shoulders. A smile of his own spreads, along with a brief sigh.]

They sound...interesting. [Wow was that a wink? Uhm, that earns some extra nervousness and even an awkward half-laugh.] It's, uh-- It's nice to meet you. Ginny? I'm Hiccup.

[He totally knows how to talk to girls, yep.]

[ Well, Hiccup might have better luck than most. Maybe he reminds her, a little, of Neville—especially in that moment between spoken words, the bracing, the relief. It makes her curious, of course, because of that spark of familiarity, but she isn't about to pry into a stranger's life. So Ginny smiles, nods when he repeats her name, tips her head when she does his. ]

Hiccup. [ Coming from a world where people have names like Grubbly-Plank, she really can't... say anything. ] You're, er, not from here, are you?

Edited 2014-03-25 20:40 (UTC)

[He's totally expecting something about the name. He's always expecting something about the name. That's just a side-effect of being named after the most ridiculous bodily function. It's a decent surprise (and relief) then, when her question is...not actually bad.]

Uh, no. [He shakes his head, but perks up a little now that things are...mildly less awkward.] But I don't think most of us are, from what I've heard. I mean, are you?

[ She shakes her head quickly, nose wrinkling, freckles scrunching. ]

Bloody hell, no. I've already gotten turned around exploring this place. It's a wonder I made it back to the food at all. [ She presses her lips together, looking out to everyone and everything, considering. ] It's just—I don't know, I was hoping for a bit more explanation. I've people at home, you know, I'm sure we all do. Bit rude to just bugger off without a word.

Tell me about it.

[He nods, sympathetic. He knows this exact feeling, the same thing has been bothering him.]

You'd think the one thing they could do is give us a proper explanation in return for everything they seem to want from us. I wouldn't mind a chance to say something to everyone back home, either. [Or maybe to have some of them here, too. He might not mind so much if he at least had Toothless...] They expect a lot from us, but they're kind of... Not giving much back.

[Though, the food is a perk?]

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TEST DRIVE MEME

ginny weasley | hp

CRACKS KNUCKLES jesus it's been so long. i hope you still like essays oh my god

i love your essays shut up

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THROWS A TANTRUM i hate html oh my god

HAHAH it's okay omg

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SORRY HICCUP

NEVER APOLOGIZE EVER but sorry Ginny

oh my god, you dear viking

he's the worst, good god

you mean adorable

yes that too

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