TEST DRIVE MEME #4

[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!

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Uther Doul | China Mieville's 'The Scar'

[doul]

Feast

Uther Doul can be social when he chooses to be and some have even called him gregarious, but that was a long time ago, in another country, and nearly all those who would say such a thing are dead. While not particularly out-going, he has made the decision to attend the welcome feast and seems quietly amused at some small, personal bit of good humour. The scenery may be different from Bas-Lag, the assembled people too human for his tastes, but the reactions are all similar enough: disbelief, anger, the desire to make good and make a new life.

Until he has had the time to properly take stock of this world and its people, he will remain aimless and ready to move where the winds of probability take him. For now, he'll eat. Those near him may notice that his clothing is cut to accommodate a series of wires that run alongside and into his right arm, ending with a series of metal brads embedded in the palm of his hand. These devices seem to line up with matching indentations on the grip of the ceramic sword at his hip.

Locket

[For good or ill, if there is one thing Doul has a gift for it is understanding devices based on unusual or unknown technology. The locket is curious. The style of it is common enough that if he didn't know better, he'd assume it was some cheap trinket, but he’s worked out how to operate and it’s use is nothing like anything he's seen; neither Teshi, nor Crobuzoner, nor any known nation.

Soon, he's skimmed through bits and pieces of the network and is ready to make his mark. The image displayed is of a man somewhere in his late thirties with short, grey hair and cold blue eyes. He’s dressed in lightweight leather armour that’s designed for boarding and raiding and it shows signs of wear and good upkeep. He is a man who uses his tools hard, but pays them the respect they deserve.]

I am Uther Doul of Armada, formerly a Liveman of High Cromlech. If these places mean anything to you, please step forward.

If not, know that I understand what it is to be press-ganged.

[His voice is soft and almost inhumanly lovely. He speaks in Salt, the common sailor's tongue of his hybridized home. Whatever his audience hears him speaking, he'll have a faint, odd accent that has more to do with the timing of his words than any trouble with the sounds.]

feast. :E

[vrykolakas]

The Brucolac is only surprised that this didn't happen sooner. When he tastes the familiar leather-salt tang of Doul's presence in the air, he melts closer into shadow, giving himself a moment to mentally list all the best curses he can think of. They all fall short of the situation. In fairness, he's not thinking so much of Doul himself as of what Doul's presence means, because if there were ever such thing as a harbinger—

Fuck it. Time to go and be statesmanlike. At least he'll be—no, the Brucolac had been about to think someone to talk to, but no. He fills up his lungs just to sigh. When he slides free of the shadows which stick too closely to him he spits on the floor—out of distaste? for luck? because the company of certain people inspires him to crassness? who knows—before stalking towards Doul's turned back.

Under no impression that he'll be able to alarm him, he nonetheless flits in and out of sight rather than just walk over, appearing all too suddenly at Doul's shoulder.

"Doul."

[doul]

"Deadman."

It's hard to tell just what it is exactly, but there's some sort of emotion colouring his speech. It could be surprise or distaste, but it might be something far more esoteric and unusual, like solace. Either Doul is confident that the Brucolac can understand it, or he's not concerned about misinterpretation. His body language is confident and untroubled as if he has no reason to expect a less than friendly welcome.

[vrykolakas]

There will be no hugs.

His tongue unrolls out. Something colours his movements, makes his eyes shift and his tongue flicker, but it's unclear whether it's anxiety or a kind of relief. After a moment, he steps back out of Doul's personal space. Just a bit.

"If ever anywhere needed your expertise less."

Not so, really. They've got the reality-splitting down—but that just makes Doul's presence both less surprising and more...useful? No, not useful. Relevant.

[doul]

Doul does not smell of salt and sea. It's unusual. Or at the very least, it's unusual for their mutual experience. Instead, he smells of grass, dust, and rusted metal. Has he gone ashore and stayed there?

"And yet, they've brought me on." So long as he's allowed to pursue his own interests, Doul is more than willing to fight another man's war. It's just an extension of what he'd been doing back on Bas-Lag.

[vrykolakas]

"You've been somewhere."

If there's any tone besides chilliness under all that gravedirt scratchiness, it's accusation. He almost talks over Doul, the words snapping out of him as a response to something other than what he hears. "What the hell have you been doing, Liveman?"

locket.

[grammatica]

[his voice makes her freeze in her scanning of these postings, and Bellis has to replay it to ensure she's not simply imagining this happening. no, it's definitely him there. why she's surprised that he's been drawn into this ridiculous place, she doesn't know, but it would be a lie to say that a familiar face gives her no relief. hell, she'd have settled for Tearfly.

before responding, she stubs out the cigarillo in her hand and composes herself. it's not as though it was sentiment that caused her to speak up.]

They got you too.