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TEST DRIVE MEME
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! |
Guinevere ➴ King Arthur
[ Guinevere casts a critical eye across the spread weighing down the long table before her, one hand resting ever so lightly across the top of a high-backed chair. All around her the sounds of revelry clash and clatter noisily: her head spins and her ears ring with the sounds of everything she isn't. Stone and mortar weren't meant to hold her. These high walls are nothing more than a cage, and inside it she feels like some wild beast torn in cruelty from her land.
She needs some air.
Guinevere turns her back on the merriment and moves to exit the hall, pausing only briefly at the end of the table to pour herself a generous cup of water. Woad though she may be - a barbarian to most - she moves with the grace and poise of a queen, snowy and sombre with her chin held high and her gown rippling from her shoulders. She would not wish her Roman Arthur here, nor any of his stolen men, yet despite her stubbornness she can't deny that some part of her aches to see a familiar face. Any kind of reminder that home awaits across the the veil.
Oh, yes. Guinevere is familiar with Druidic practice. She's followed Merlin since she was a child, listening to prophecy and soaking in magic as old as natural as time itself. True, her own calling may be to fight, but this is a language she understands ...
In a manner of speaking.
After taking a left, then another left, Guinevere finds herself stepping out onto a quiet balcony. While she can still hear the sounds of the feasting she has more room to organise her thoughts; to close her eyes against the unease and clasp at her bow with her free hand.
Good.
At the very least she can take a measure of comfort in her aim. ]
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she wouldn't be surprised if it went horribly wrong.
but it seemed she wasn't the first person to think of escape, and her heart beats quickly in her chest as she waits for the footsteps to stop. clutching her own bow and arrow, she peeks around the dark corner of her hideaway to carefully see who her impromptu companion is. ]
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[ Guinevere realises she isn't alone after a few seconds of would-be silence. It's the little things that give it away: the shift of material in Merida's clothing; the carefully controlled puffs of breath; no doubt identifiable only to those trained in the art of hunting beasts and men. The tips of her fingers longer against her own bow a moment longer, but she manages to swallow the near reflex to string an arrow. ]
Are you ready to come out of hiding? Or shall I pretend I haven't noticed you for a while longer.
[ There's a lick of amusement in her voice despite her relatively offhand tone. Guinevere turns, dark eyes assessing the even darker corner of Merida's spot, her gaze fixed there even as she lifts the cup to take a sip of the water. ]
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she doesn't clutch her own bow, but she holds it firmly in her hand as she straightens, her spine straight (as her mum had spent years teaching her) because there was no telling what any of these strangers might be like. when she speaks, her voice is thick with the highlands. ]
You surprised me.
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[Finally somebody with a good head on their shoulders. Dean figured the food was poisoned so he stayed away from it, but old habits die hard and the wafting smell of it drove him out onto the balcony so it could be avoided.
She was a babe. Not like he could resist a damsel in distress.]
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[ Instead of acting on the base instinct to cock her bow immediately, Guinevere quirks an eyebrow, releasing her bow to fold her arms across her chest. She keeps the cup cradled close - her gesture is defensive, it's undeniable - although she recognises that hostility will serve her no better here. From the man's obscure dress and general demeanour she'd say he's not a native of the land ...
A kindred spirit, perhaps. Time will tell. ]
I've survived far worse, I assure you.
[ The corners of Guinevere's mouth quirk up into a wry smile. It's elusive, just guarded enough, and her smirk gives away even less, but then she cocks her head just a little with ease of confidence. ]
You won't join in the festivities yourself?
[ Festivities. Yeah, forgive her for being sceptical. ]
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You're not the only one.
[Definitely not ready to spill the beans on his lifestyle yet but it goes without saying that he's been up against some pretty heavy shit.]
I would, but I don't trust it. These mooks aren't telling us something and until I figure out more about what's going on I'm not gonna eat or drink anything they're shelling out.
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[ And the bow's aim with it, is implied. Having come upon her in silence, the Elvenking stands demurely to one side of the balcony, remaining by the entrance. Wandering the quiet hallways this evening has allowed him to view many places, but it's the sight of an archer (even one of men, reminiscent of Bard after a fashion) that gives him pause.
He is tall and silver-robed in the moonlight, a crown of spikes and berries on his fair head, patiently awaiting her reply. ]
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[ Guinevere doesn't turn to him immediately. The fingers curled around her bow twitch as she continues to gaze out across the realm: his tone is too rich for an untitled man - he addresses her as 'lady', which never fails to amuse - and a low breath of laughter falls from her lips as they quirk to a grim smile. ]
I could ask you what soothes yours.
[ Because shouldn't a little ire have touched them all? To be taken from their homes, from the land they love ... She turns then, as proud and solemn as the warrior's blood within her, dark hair fluttering around her shoulder as a breeze wanders across the balcony.
... And by the gods, he's not human. Guinevere's eyes are dark, sharper than most, but one needn't be a hunter to reach that conclusion: in his silver raiment his skin seems luminous, pale and smooth as the fall of his hair. She tilts her head. ]
Are you a spirit?
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I am Thranduil, Elvenking of Taur-e-Ndaedelos. Mirkwood, in the Common Tongue, of Wilderland. If I have disturbed you, I beg pardon.
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[ Elvenking. Guinevere grew up with tales of fae folk - the likes of which tricked her into their warring kingdom - but the Elves of her grandfather's stories couldn't begin to compare to Thranduil. She isn't entirely certain she believes him ... but then why shouldn't she? Her very presence is proof enough that stranger things have indeed happened. ]
I've never had a king beg anything of me before.
[ The tension in her stance falls away as her hand moves from the bow, her expression one of guarded curiosity. ]
Although I dare say I could grow accustomed to it.
[ Her lips quirk into a wry smile. ]
My name is Guinevere. Your Mirkwood - it isn't part of these lands?
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[ A small smile touches his lips. He moves forward fluidly, a hand sliding over the stone balcony as he looks over the side, inevitably drawn far off across the meadows and, further, beyond the Greenwood. ]
It is not. My realm in Middle-Earth is not so fair as this, nor do the trees speak of peace and comfort as they do in yonder wood. They are sickly and wearied in Mirkwood; I find Glaschu a balm. [ A glance. ] What of the lands from whence you hail?
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Where I come from the earth is old - wise - and the trees are strong and tall.
[ A far-away look passes over her eyes. Britain will always be where her heart truly lies - the land she was born of calls to her, makes her restless despite the way her memories calm her heart. ]
The land rolls like a green sea, and the sky - [ She turns back to the view from the balcony. ] You'd think it endless - that you could step from a white cliff and fall into its arms.
[ She sips from her cup of water. ]
Our Roman invaders call it the conquered land of Britannia, but I call it a home worth fighting for.
[ Which might explain the bow, Thranduil. And just wait 'til she gets her hands on some knives. ]
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You have the look of a marchwarden about you. A warrior of the land, for the land, much like the elves who defend my borders.
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[ A warrior of the land, for the land. Guinevere couldn't have put it better herself. She nods, folding her arms and cradling her cup close to her chest. ]
My mother died to protect our land. I would do the same.
[ She glances back towards Thranduil, still considering him curiously. ]
And what will your elves do in your absence? Will your borders remain defended without your orders?
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[ Sindar and Silvan alike, they are stronger together and know it. ]
And what of this land, Guinevere? Glaschu has called us here to protect its interests and innocents.
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[ Guinevere remains silent for a few long moments. True, this isn't her battle, nor is it her home to fight for, but she knows all too well that desperate times mean desperate measures. She wouldn't see the sick, elderly and innocent cut down in the path of war. She wouldn't see children harmed. ]
It is the right of all to live freely, in their own homes.
[ In Britain that means freedom from the forces of Rome - protecting her home with as much iron as need be. Here ... ]
This war may not have been ours when it began, yet here we are. We must stand against it together or turn away and face it alone.
[ She lifts her chin a little. In bringing them together like this - well. They're each other's people now, united in the face of the unknown. ]
I will stand. Any land that is loved deserves protection from those who would scar it.
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A noble sentiment, one I hope to add my name and efforts to. I have known darkness and shadows that live in the north of my original homeland, greater than perhaps even the might of all the Unseelie united, yet still I hope that resolutions may come without arms being borne on a battlefield.
It is easy to resolve hasty words, yet not spilled blood.