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

[galahads]

( 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.

[hexuality]

[ 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.

[galahads]

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.

[hexuality]

[ 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? ]

THROWS A TANTRUM i hate html oh my god

[galahads]

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.

HAHAH it's okay omg

[hexuality]

[ 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.