agentleooc | test drive 01

Entry tags:

!modpost,
!tdm

test drive 01

'Cause I have these new fears I carry with me
So you can feel stronger, you can know peace

► All TDM threads may be considered canon provided both parties agree and are accepted into the game.

► Canon threads may be redeemed for influence and reputation, depending on how you solve the issue at hand or how you engage with the prompt.

► Feel free to switch up your character's Jewel from thread to thread. Get a feel for how a Birthright Jewel may limit or enchance your character's abilities.

GOOD MORNING, DRAEGA
The psychic summons comes with the first light of dawn, waking you from a dream of home. It takes you a minute to remember where you are (a warm, comfortable room in Queen Fayura's residence) and then a moment longer to parse the words.

*Your presence is requested in the training field behind the Queen's Residence. You have ten minutes to get your ass out of bed on your own, or ten minutes to decide you want to be up to your neck in ice-cold mountain water. Your choice.* Gray power flavors the voice. Ah, you recognize that psychic touch. Allairavar, the Master of the Guard.

You remember, too, that he warned the household at last night's supper: if you live in the Queen's Residence, you practice with the Queen's court. You…

i. Drag yourself out of bed with an aching groan, dress with the bleary-eyed confusion of one too suddenly forced awake, and amble onto the training field to avoid the promise of a much more shocking wake up call. Or maybe you make your way quickly with a skip in your step and a twinkle in your eye. You haven't realized yet that Allairavar does not like morning people. Even so, you don't want to get dunked in ice water in the middle of winter.

ii. Roll over and go back to sleep. The Master of the Guard isn't really going to carry through with his threat. In your defense, he doesn't. But one of the First Circle does. You're not sure how you got from your room to a large barrel full of water that could freeze open flame, but here you are, soaked and shivering and very much awake.

Regardless of how you get to the training field, Allairavar pairs you with another Stranger and puts you through your paces. It's barely above freezing, but you're going to need a shower when you're done.

BUILD BETTER BOMBS
There are three rows of four tables set up in the Tinker Guild Hall's auditorium, all heavy laden with materials. Bits of wires, buttons both small and large, ticking clocks. A tank full of goldfish. Sand, canisters of gasses, a strange viscous liquid in a bowl of lead.

"Handle that with gloves," Master Tinker Mari warns you with a wink and a grin. "The bowl, I mean. Don't handle the liquid or you'll lose your hand." She waves her hands at you.

This is supposed to be a crash course in bomb making, and in a way it is. Master Tinker Mari crashes into person after person, pushing them into pairs. She shoves someone up to you. "Blow my mind!" she whispers dramatically, and then she vaults the table, making something in a vial smoke, bubble, and pop.

Around the edge of the auditorium are four chalkboards, each with several diagrams on them. Presumably, these are schematics for you to follow. Smoke bombs, flour bombs. Fireworks and sparklers. Water bombs—maybe she means water balloons? One schematic requires a hamster wheel.

You might as well give it a go.

Note: Master Tinker Mari won't let anyone blow themselves up (or blow up the building). In the event Strangers make something truly dangerous and not just inconvenient, she will hurry over with a much more serious demeanor and disarm the bomb they've created with a suggestion that they take her advanced course.

CHARITY IS AS CHARITY DOES
You were sent here to help, so help you have: by letting the Ebon Council auction off three hours of your time and the power in your Jewels to help with local troubles. Maybe someone's cold box has lost its cooling spell—that's basic Craft and you can help with that—or maybe someone needs you to fetch their cat down from a tree. Whatever it is, you're here to take care of it.

The stage you stand on creaks beneath your feet as a polite older witch bids on you and your partner (the Ebon Council would never let you work alone, no, the landens are too dangerous for you to be out on your own!) with three jars of pear preserves. No money exchanges hands here, just items like non-perishable foods and handmade clothing or blankets.

You'll help the little old witch who needs some rocks moved from the fields just outside Draega's walls, but it occurs to you that only the Blood were at this auction, and only they will reap the rewards. That's hardly charity… but that's also not your problem, is it? Maybe it is. You could always ask that landen couple hovering just to the side of the stage what they need (their roof is leaking, and the man's right hand is crippled, twisted into a rigid claw). Or maybe you won't. They don't have anything to offer, and everything has a price, even your time.

HIT AND RUN
Chill winter air doesn't keep anyone inside in Draega. Stalls line the streets of the Old Town Bazaar, and vendors hawk their curious wares. Blood and landen mingle here, each a little wary of the other but with the affect of those who have accepted they must live alongside their enemy. Expressions are shuttered, but marks are marks no matter who hands them over. No shopkeeper denies a customer just because the money comes from someone they don't like, not in times like these.

As you make your way through the Bazaar, perhaps in search of something or someone or a place to eat (the scent of meat pies is thick in the air), you hear a shout and a cry of pain. People peel back as one, revealing a group of young landen men carrying clubs and wearing cruel sneers. At their feet, a young boy sprawls across a puppy in the muddy slush that covers the road.

You catch the flavor of his psychic scent: he's half-Blood, one of those pitiable creatures accepted by neither the Blood or the landens.

"Y-you can't hurt him!" the little boy cries, curling around the puppy. "P-Prince Verim will stop you!"

The young men laugh. "Prince Verim isn't here," one spits, raising his club.

You could step back. After all, this isn't your problem. You could just alert the First Circle and call it done; they patrol the area, one of those males will surely be here soon. Or you could step in. Everything has a price, and the price of attacking a helpless child and a puppy is a tussle with you.

WALKIE-TALKIE
Catch up with a new acquaintance you met at the Queen's Residence or simply pause to listen to the news playing in a store you're passing through. Far-casters come in all shapes and sizes, from the held-held device that's a bit clunky to the radios that stand at a man's height in some restaurants. If you're spinning the dial and listening to some radio programs, you'll hear…

etiquette with evandra and aren.
[A woman's voice leads. It's a little bit rough and a little bit husky, the kind of voice that gives bad ideas to young men and headaches to fathers.] …just as well. Since you don't want to die for offending a Warlord Prince's lady, what do you do, Lord Aren?

[A man's voice, chipper and bright. He sounds more like an eager boy than the full-grown man he is.] Apologize immediately to her, but meet his gaze so he knows the apology is for him as well. Remember, dear listeners: a Warlord Prince's lady may be all that stands between you and a violent end. Make sure she likes you!

[The woman laughs.] Or at least doesn't think killing you is worth the trouble. If we all learn a little more about each other, we can learn to live together. As always, I'm Evandra.

[With great gusto, Lord Aren says:] I'm Aren, and you've been listening to…

[Together:] Etiquette with Evandra and Aren! [Jaunty outro music plays, a complete tonal dissonance with the fact that the two were just educating landens on how to avoid murder.]

the weather
[A soft-spoken man's voice rumbles out of the Far-caster. He's pleasant to listen to, with a soothing cadence to his voice.] …rain tomorrow with overcast skies through the morning and afternoon. Landen weather devices indicate a decrease in sky-pressure, so those of you who suffer from migraines may want to talk to your Healers or Medicos now.

There's possibility of snow later in the week from the northwest. Questions about snow removal? Reach out to your local Transport Guild rep or your Ebon Council chairperson.

the news
…Blood family of four found murdered in their homes. The Queen's Court assures Draega that no payment for the murders is being asked for at this time. [The man speaks at a brisk pace, hurried and harried as though he has too much to say and not enough time to say it.]

That's right, Garret. [Another man, nasally in tone. He doesn't sound rushed so much as put upon.] Preliminary investigations do indicate the Hunter Guild may be responsible for the deaths.

[Garret:] Indeed they do, Wilt. Evidence at the scene supports the use of Breakers on the family. Turning now from the grisly murder to the surprising way the Queen's Winsol gift to the city is being used to benefit both Blood and landens.

Threaded | Flat

GOOD MORNING, DRAEGA (ii)

[Hahaha... It's really cute that someone thinks Mollymauk Tealeaf is going to roll over and behave like a soldier. He signed up for something (due to not having much of a choice with the way things were going), but it wasn't this. So, naturally, he just pulls the covers over his head and grumbles.

Twenty minutes later, there is a drenched, shivering purple tiefling marching into the field and pulling two fancy scimitars out of their respective sheathes on his side. One is a very pretty gold color, while the other has a gaudy hilt bedecked with gems. He faces his opponent and gives a kind of manic grin.

He really didn't think this was gonna be conscription, so much as it was trying to do right by some universe in the hopes that he can do better for his own. That's sort of on him. He's still going to be irritated.]

Good morning. I'd like to apologize ahead of time for however this goes, because today has not started off quite the way I thought it would. No hard feelings?

[He's kind of a cheating little fucker in a fight most days, and he tends to get kinda violent when pressed. It's fine.]

CHARITY IS AS CHARITY DOES

[Here's the thing- Molly doesn't like privilege. In fact, he kind of despises it. The political situation here is kind of beyond him, but while he wants doesn't necessarily disagree with the Blood mentality, there's a lot he doesn't agree with- specifically the fact that this auction seems to cater to people who are capable of doing their own shit. They've got magic, even if it's of a lower tier.

At first, he's willing to joke about it, waiting for his turn on the stage with the rest of the pairs to be auctioned off.]

You know, if they're going to pay for something, you'd think they'd be more creative than this. It's uninspired and a bit lazy, if I'm honest.

[Only to become a little more contrary when he's actually onstage, not even considering the opinions of his partner as he kneels down on the edge of the stage, ignoring the bidding war in favor of the two hovering alongside.]

'Scuse me! Yes, you, good sir. What's your bid? [He looks back at his partner like he fully expects them to either assist or try and stop him. Choose wisely, friend.]

HIT AND RUN

[You go for a walk and you find puppy kickers. It's just like Wildemount. It's enough to make Molly sigh, foisting his meat pie on the nearest person- ideally you, fair stranger, who is minding your own business.] Hold this, please.

[And in Molly wades, hip and shoulder checking people out of the way until he's right in the thick of things in all his flamboyant, colorful glory.] Gentlepersons, is there some kind of a problem? Because while I'm absolutely certain the dog is more charming to your lovers than any of you will ever be, that's absolutely no reason to beat anything to death in the bloody street.

[He scans the crowd, looking for anyone who agrees and might step up. If not, he's gonna do this on his own. And it'll be a good show.]

MR FORTUNE TELLER

[In a little tavern tucked away, Molly has found himself a table and is presently laying out his Tarot cards in a spread, trying to suss out if he's made the right choice. If it was between a chance to help the rest of the Nein and dying in the snow, then of course it has to be right, but it's... officially complicated. Way more complicated than it should be. He fiddles with his jewel as he studies the cards he's laid out. Opal. His favorite, actually, which is nice- opals are for clarity, and yet nothing really seems clear.

He heaves a melodramatic sigh and shuffles them all back. Well, nothing more to be done about that, then. Time to see what he's working with here. He snaps his fingers to get the attention of someone passing by.] You there! You look like someone in dire need of a fresh perspective.

I. Charity

Stone is not exactly familiar with building things, but he is exceptionally strong. And big. So, taking to his fifteen-foot-tall winged form, he clears the old groundling's field in an hour or two, and then his intention is to fly his way across the city to where the groundling with the bad hand is waiting, spending the rest of his time holding things and hammering things where he's told to hammer them.

"You coming too?" he asks his partner-for-the-day, dusting off his now-groundling hands, before he shifts back up. "I'll carry you, if you don't want to walk." Considering this partner just spent the last span of time working beside what amounts to a big, black dragon with a blurry face and claws, that might or might not appeal to them.

II. Hit and Run

The muddy slush vibrates with the sound of a growl more felt than heard, as Stone's hand comes to block the club-- to catch it, in fact. Even in his groundling form, he's stronger than he looks, and though he looks like an old man with gray skin and hair and a bad eye, there's also something... predatory to him.

"No hurting children," he grates out, before shoving the club (and probably its wielder) back a pace.

I. CHARITY IS

[ Back home, an English upper class lady's idea of charity is attending a benefit garden party or helping to run a bake sale. Here, apparently, it involves being auctioned off like cattle to the person who has the most figs. Mary tries not too look too annoyed by the whole proceedings. They are here to help.

After the older witch gives instructions about moving rocks and wanders off back into her house, Mary huffs and looks at the stack around she and her partner. ] She could not do this herself? [ The woman is indeed old, but she has magic. As if Mary is about to stoop down and pick up all of these rocks when she herself has magic now. ]

Surely we can figure out a spell that will levitate these rocks. Hopefully we can make quick work of it.

II. HIT AND RUN

[ Exploring the market leaves Mary feeling a bit depressed. There are so many fine goods available, and, having newly arrived, Mary hasn't got much money to spend. She purchases a meat pie at least and is about to eat it when she hears the commotion in the street.

The young boy manages to tug at her heartstrings. Perhaps it is because she has her own much younger son at home who often plays with the puppy that her family had given to her father. Whatever it is, Mary finds herself drawn in, used to using her influence back home, even though she has none here. ]

Is there a problem here, gentlemen?

[ Mary notices that someone else from the crowd has stepped up next to her. She hopes that it's to help and not to make matters worse. ]

III. WALKIE TALKIE

[ The wireless is a curious thing here. Mary hopes to be able to invest in her own personal one soon, but for now she will have to make do when she's out in public. She's in a small cafe, having some tea and listening to Etiquette with Evandra and Aren. She huffs a little laugh as the program ends on such a cheery note after speaking of such grave matters. Mary turns to the person at the table next to her's, who appears to also have been listening. ]

If only the wireless programs at home were so blunt.

[ Not that any Duke or Earl back home would probably have someone killed over an offense, but people probably did need such practical knowledge about how to react in certain situations. Better to be told than to learn the hard way. ]

IV. WILDCARD

[ Interested in something else? Send a PM and we can discuss! ]

good morning, draega

[ It's rare that demons were actually called to fight. At least, in the cities where the humans lived; overt physical conflict just wasn't a viable option. There were too many chances for civilian casualties and a breach of the code. But here... well. There's no risk of that in a world where magic is acknowledged as native, but Sen has an additional problem. She's never fought with a sword before.

She doesn't look very prepared either; a woman in her late twenties with no weapons in her hands. Sharp brown eyes survey the field, observing what the other Strangers were carrying.

At least, she regards you with mustered enthusiasm: ]

So, how do you want to do this thing?

tinker, tinker

[ Even with her magic, Sen feels more at home when she's making things instead of breaking them. She lacks the bewilderment of some of the Strangers, instead hovering over the materials given with a thinly veiled semblance of curiosity. Some of these are familiar chemicals that she's worked with, while others are alien.

That means it's time to study and see how her Authority would help in accomplishing their task. This isn't that bad at all. ]

Any ideas?

hit and run

[ Sen responds faster than anyone else when the club is raised. It's too familiar, the stench of premonition mingled with memories of a time so very long ago. But she hasn't changed since then - those years in the mountains, broken only by the arrival of the conscripting army. Of people who don't mind their business - and as a demon, she can't simply let this pass.

Yea, it be a crime if the child be hurt and the tyranny of the majority have their way. ]

If you lay a finger on them, I'll burn you to ash.

[ The expression on her face hardens, though it is the burst of flame on her right hand that draws the most attention. Some of the landen passersby quickly back away from her, almost fearful of the heat. ]

wildcard

[ hit me with something and I'll roll with it! ]

I. Better Bombs

This is Rocket's element. Take a bunch of random shit and make something cool out of it. Something dangerous. The only problem is a lack of tools, though thankfully he did bring some of his tools with him for this shit-show.

So even before he's partnered up, he's happily sitting on the floor surrounded by bits and pieces of things, humming to himself as he welds things together with a tiny, portable welder from his tool belt.

II. Walkie-Talkie

"How does this thing even work?" Rocket is prodding at the hand-held radio he's gotten-- fliched, probably, to be honest-- like he wants to take it apart, while the news drones on and he mostly ignores it. "Where's the power source? This place is pretty backward, but it's not that backward, is it?"

I. Good Morning

Food souls don't really sleep exactly, and B-52 no longer lets himself go into stasis. The cold air is quite enough to keep him feeling fresh, so he's one of the first out on the training field, looking alert, polite, and mildly curious. He looks moderately out of place, with his metal arm, his clockwork wings, and the gear-encrusted wand in one hand, but he's obviously game for trying anything.

"I am a Magic class Food Soul," he warns his partner, voice calm and even. "I am better with blasting power and attacking from a distance than I am at direct combat."

II. Hit and Run

Watching humans get hurt isn't something B-52 enjoys. So he steps in-- or rather, flaps his wings with a surge of soul power, crackling as blue flames around his wings, and flies in-- with a calm sort of implacability to his face. "I would rather you not hurt each other, please," he says, quite politely.

i;; but reach out your hand instead.

[ zita notices the couple. of course she does.

as the bidding continues and it looks like the older witch is determined to win the auction, zita's attention keeps flitting back to the couple hovering to the stage. she sees how tired they look, how the man is trying to hide his right hand from view...

not wanting to be too presumptuous, zita doesn't grab her partner's wrist. she reaches out and gently touches it to get their attention, keeping her concerned gaze steady as possible. ]

There's a couple over there. Side of the stage. We need to help them.

ii;; take no shit.

[ zita is a practical woman and, at the same time, an emotional woman.

it can lead to some pretty interesting results.

case in point: her calling the first circle and deciding to physically intervene all the same, her heart pumping at the sight of a child in danger.

she boldly makes her way through the crowd and, soon, shields the boy and the puppy from view (and the clubs, should things get dangerous) with her body. ]

Leave them alone. If you have an issue with them, you have an issue with me first.

[ it's... obvious, really, that zita is not equipped to physically take the man on. but she's clearly sticking to her guns, refusing to budge from the boy's side even as some of the men looked peeved by her intervention.

this could turn pretty ugly, if someone else doesn't intervene. ]

iii;; to (not) take a rain check.

[ someone didn't listen to the weather broadcast.

not long into her morning exploration of the old town bazaar, the rain makes its appearance and she's forced to take shelter under a vendor's stall. while the vendor is kind enough to let her stay there to avoid getting wet - perhaps noticing the jewel on her person - she knows she can't stay here forever. sigh... if she only brought a cloak-

oh! that person's cloak looks big enough for her and them. maybe she can flag them down for help. ]

Excuse me-! Excuse me! [ zita, unused to raising her voice, struggles a bit. ] Hello? Yes, yes- I'm sorry to bother you, but could you help me out in something?

iv;;; wildcard!!

[ want to do something else? feel free to do it here! also, you’re welcome to hit me up/plot with me via my plurk prognostic if there’s something specific you want. ]

( good morning, draega )

( this is hell. quill had thought that she'd had a definition of her personal hell already but this place has somehow managed to top that. it should be perfect, getting to train and fight, to be a soldier again except there's one problem. she can't. it doesn't matter that the little prince is nowhere to be seen when she still has that damn creature in her head.

something that quill has repeatedly told the court and yet no one seems to be listening to her. her hands her up, her voice is loud and oh, she is making her protests known )

How many times do I have to say it? I can't use weapons.

( because she would absolutely love to fight. fighting in defence, in protection of the prince has all she's been able to do lately and it's never enough. actual combat-- that would be heaven. she's a quill without a fight and it's suffering )

I'm no use dead.

( build better bombs )

( she's studying all of the materials with a cautious curiosity before taking a seat. it isn't that quill doesn't know what she's doing, these wouldn't be the first bombs that she's ever made, but that she finds some of it-- basic. but this isn't rhodia, this isn't what she's used to working with -- nothing was anymore.

but still she sits, ignoring the instructions that are being attempted to be given to her. she knows exactly what she's doing and is incredibly focused on doing it.

they're supposed to be working in pairs though something that quill is blatantly not doing. can you also recognise that she's not following the instructions or is the one thing bad enough? or curious enough )

( wildcard )

( send me something else, lets get a little crazy )

I. GOOD MORNING DRAEGA

[ She's more than accustomed to earning her keep.

All things considered, it's a fair trade: food, shelter, clothing — all the tools for survival she would need in this strange world in exchange for bouts of training that will, in the end, benefit her. In a land without allies, without any familiarity with its environment and its people, it would be too reckless to throw it all away. For now, adapting and adjusting is the only way to continue onward, self-preserving.

Even then, the advantages can't keep her wariness at bay.

Still, despite the skepticism, she raises the moment she's roused, however begrudgingly. Better to get to work than to draw unnecessary attention, though there is something to be said for the freezing air, even without the sting of cold water on her skin. In the cold air, her skin prickles with gooseflesh, teeth gritting from it as she's paired off. ]

Come on. [ Her breath ghosts out of her, frosting in the air, a visible puff of air. Without waiting for an answer, she turns to the rack of weaponry stashed aside, watching — for a brief moment — those partners that have already begun clashing. Immediately, her hands gravitate toward a set of staves. ] It shouldn't be that difficult.

II. BUILD BETTER BOMBS

[ Working with her hands comes easily.

The schematics are hardly simple, but they're familiar — comfortable, in a way. Finding which parts fit together, discovering how they work, each purpose and value — it's what she's good at, what she's learned. Just as it had on Jakku, it brings with it an outlet, an easy distraction from her predicament.

Her partner, as it stands, hardly catches her attention — at first. To some extent, it's a frustration to be paired off once again — and it shows as she's pulled out of twisting wires and her narrow-eyed concentration by her partner's crackling liquid concoction, frowning as she snaps, impatient, ] Stop pouring. You're going to get both of us blown up.

III. CHARITY IS

[ As far as trades go, it's a ridiculous request.

They're being paid for it, all the same. She can't complain about the reward — three jars of food and decent blankets offered in a bid of desperation — even if the weeping woman who had come to them had wasted her resources on begging them to follow her alleged "cheating bastard of a husban, out at all times of the night, deep in his shady business" to soothe her curiosity.

So far, it's slow-going.

The only crime their target seems to be guilty of is a slimy charm and a tendency to be deep in his cups, inebriated within the hour they've been trailing him to the inn. She frowns, nudging her partner in the side with her elbow when their gaze lingers in that direction for too long. ]

Could you be less obvious about it? [ It's a fevered whisper that hardly qualifies as a whisper at all. ] He's drunk, not blind.

IV. WILDCARD

[ Feel free to bring me your scenarios! I'm very much open; PM me if you'd like to plot something out. ]

good morning draega i

[Lucky that Rhus is a Miqo'te with a Seeker of the Sun schedule-- mostly. He was already beginning to wake... then someone had to fucking talk.

Doesn't mean he appreciates hearing some arsehole's voice first thing in the morning, however. He really needs to get out of this place first thing he can, and find a private room of his own in the city. His Miqo'te sensibilities, his need to stay apart from the others when it comes to living conditions, is strong.

Strapping his greatsword across his back, Rhus allows himself a quick smoke before his ten minutes are up, which means he's shuffling into the training grounds with soft eyes and a lazy gait, his tail swaying softly behind him. He's not quite a perky morning person, but not quite a grouch either-- but he wont be taking this seriously until he actually gets some adrenaline pumping in him to burn out what little weed he's managed to smoke. Doesn't mean this feline man wont greet his current training partner with a raised hand.]

Good morn. I don't feel like fightin' too roughly right now, but I don't mind if you're not the same. [Especially if his partner just got doused with ice water. He'll understand the need for aggression.]

charity is as charity does

[Pear preserves are enough of a reward for moving rocks, in Rhus' opinion. He did think on it a little, using his adventurer's experience to weigh the work with the reward, and decides... Hells. It's not that bad, physical labor is easy. Methodical. Pears would make a good meal after a sweat.

But then he spies the landen couple who needs their roof fixed, notices the twisted, mangled mess of the man's hand, and frowns. If he had his white mage cane rather than his dark knight's greatsword... he would have been able to do something about that.

But he elbows his companion-- either in the arm or in the ribs, depending on how tall they are compared to his 5'8" frame-- and nods in the couple's direction. Both his ears are standing up. What do you think?]

hit and run

Hold on for a moment, aye? [Apologies to anyone he's decided to go exploring and shopping in the Bazaar with, because he thinks he's heard something-- though with those big, furry ears of his, just what has he heard? He's following that sound right now, though anyone with some awareness may notice that he holds his tail lower than usual, only a slight bend at the end, with his ears twitching and swiveling around and around. And he moves more fluidly, shoulders hunched, with a stance like he's ready to leap at someone and toss them down-- he looks like a big cat ready to hunt.

A boy and his puppy, being surrounded by young men with clubs. Clearly this is what Rhus was following.

A growl rips out of Rhus' throat, deep and rumbling. He is displeased at what he sees happening here-- in no world does he allow someone to bully a child. He'll break bones to teach such people a lesson, and in fact has. The Miqo'te snags one of the young men by the back of the collar, looking far more dominant despite being shorter.]

You'll want to bugger off 'fore I take something precious off of you.

[Because Rhus? Rhus is readying for a fight.]

wildcard
[[ ooc: if there's something else you'd like, feel free to pm me or make your own starter! i'm easy. ]]

Edited 2019-01-04 01:52 (UTC)

GOOD MORNING, DRAEGA (i)

[ percy isn't really a morning person.

but he's used to getting up in the morning for training, and he knows a thing or two about rude awakenings. (chiron sent one of the cleaning harpies to get percy when he'd overslept once. the results were not pretty; there was a lot of shrieking and flailing and no, he's not going to tell you how much was the harpies and how much was him. he was pulling harpy feathers out of his sheets for weeks.) so he's not exactly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but he isn't too much of a sleepwalker either as he gets down to the training field. in fact, he brightens up once he gets there, looks more alert and interested.

the truth is, he could go for some sparring. he needs to keep his sword skills sharp, and, like all demigods, he can have a hard time turning down a good fight.

he turns to whomever he's assigned to with a slight shrug, pulling a ballpoint pen out of his pocket. it doesn't look like anything special until he uncaps it -- and the pen changes into a shining bronze blade.

that's normal, right. ]

So, uh, how much practice have you had with that?

[ nodding at whatever his partner's got in their hands. ]

CHARITY IS AS CHARITY DOES

[ okay, the whole being auctioned off thing? not his style. especially when the so-called charity only seems to be money going right back into the blood's pockets. maybe that's why he'd been drawn to the landen couple who hadn't had anything to offer, but clearly needed the help. who cares about "charitable" trades? besides, he can help with a leaky roof, probably.

what had really (pleasantly) surprised him was finding someone else just as willing to help the old couple. so as they thank him and his new partner again, leaving them to the work, he turns to his new friend with a smile. ]

I hope heights aren't an issue for you.

HIT AND RUN

[ there's nothing percy hates like bullies.

he doesn't go looking for trouble -- in fact, all he'd been looking for was one of those mystery meat pies -- but the commotion grabs his attention, hand jumping to his pocket instinctively. when he sees what's going on, he isn't exactly inclined to relax. the landen men may be armed and cruel, some bigger than him -- not much taller, but with enough breadth to make it obvious a hit from one would hurt -- but honestly? a couple of mortals who think it's funny to terrorize a kid and his puppy don't scare him. ]

Hey! [ he shouts, makes sure his voice carries. ] How about you pick on someone your own size?

[ him. he means him. maybe he pushes past you -- oops, sorry -- to get to those guys. or maybe you're going to help? or you might just be a bystander, wondering what a teenager is going to do here. ]

WILDCARD

[ feel free to hmu about any other prompts! ]

A. Good Morning, Draega - ii

[Practice? She doesn't really need that, so Mordred makes the terrible decision of closing her eyes for just a little bit longer. Big mistake.]

What the hell, that's cold?!

[Which is shockingly obvious, but she's a Servant and those are supposed to more durable and resistant to things like that. Which means it must be really freaking cold or it's tied to that whole jewel thing Mordred woke up understanding, but isn't really thinking about. Because all she's thinking about right now is how freezing that water is. So that means there's a tiny shaking and shivering knight staring daggers at whoever she's been matched up with.]

The hell are you looking at?

[Yup, things sure are off to a great start this morning.]

B. Hit and Run

Hey, what the hell do you think you're doing?

[Okay, she knows she's not the best person to play hero, but there's no way she's going to stand around and watch a bunch of assholes threaten this kid and his dog. The hell if that's happening on her watch.]

If you wanna start something, I'll finish it for you.

[She's just going to storm over there, sword in hand, ready to throw down, or at the least scare the idiots off. She's not going to ask for a helping hand, but if anyone's around and willing to help, she's not going to complain. Too much anyways. Or somebody can always try and descalate the situation, but Mordred's not going to really go for that. Not her kind of thing.]

C. Walkie Talkie Etiquette

[If somebody wants to deal with Mordred in a way that doesn't involve some kind of violence, she can also be found stopping and staring at a Far-Caster playing the etiquette show.]

What kind of stupid shit is that?

[She looks completely baffled by this. Sure, with the caste thing, it's necessary here and she gets that, but...]

Acting all fake and shit when you're talking about people getting killed, nobody can actually like crap like this, right?

[She's probably expecting someone to agree with her on this one.]

[D. Wildcard]

[OOC: If none of these work for you, shoot me a message and we'll work something else out!]

Edited 2019-01-04 02:58 (UTC)

GOOD MORNING, DRAEGA – i

( an early morning training session isn’t so far beyond the realms of comfort that he bothers protesting, pulling himself out of the comfort of his bed to dress and head toward the training field as directed. )

It will be better once we start moving, ( he informs his partner, tone not dipping beyond mild disinterest as he surveys the field; there are many pairs already hard at work, the Strangers and Native Blood indistinguishable in the early morning light. )

BUILD BETTER BOMBS

( the Tinker’s Guild is a fascinating place, for all that he has no idea what to make of the frenetic energy of its guild members.

his attention cuts immediately to the bowl at the Master Tinker’s mention of it, and though he doesn’t recognize it he isn’t about to take the chance. carefully, he sets it down on one of the tables and pushes to his feet and makes his way toward one of the chalkboards. )

CHARITY IS AS CHARITY DOES

( he doesn’t know what’s the greater insult, truly: being bartered and sold like chattel or that the Ebon Council held him in such low regard that they felt the need to pair him with someone else.

he observes the exchange of goods ㅡ they fetched a good price at least ㅡ before falling into step behind the elderly woman that’s purchased their services.

at the sight of the collection of rocks he makes a soft noise that could be taken for amusement as easily as offense. he doesn’t even bother to remove his gloves, fingers flexing slightly as the first rock rises slowly: ) This should pose little difficulty.

WILDCARD

( interested in something else? pm me and we can discuss! )

good morning, draega.)

[ This is without a doubt annoying. Velvet isn't fond of being told what to do, but thankfully, she didn't have to get splashed with the water. She had already been awake before the sun even came up and had just been sitting there, staring outside during the time of waking up and hearing Allairavar.

Training is a simple task and honestly, she doesn't think that she needs it. Velvet is a good enough fighter that she is certain that she can take on anyone that crosses her path. It's the advantage of being a daemon. Taking in a deep breath, Velvet sighs and the cold air can be seen from her breath. She's already checked out and rests a hand on her hip, lazily looking at her partner. ]

I'm not going to hold back so if you're going to cry when you get beaten, I suggest you find someone else.

[ At least she is being honest about it. It isn't that she thinks she is stronger than anyone because Velvet is aware that there are likely to be someone out there who can beat her, but, she isn't going to give someone hope when it comes to fighting against her. ]

good morning, draega.)

[ The only reason Velvet stopped is because the shouting caught her attention and while she should have just walked away, she did want to at least check out what is happening. The sight isn't a rare one nor does it upset her. She carries a rather emotionless expression as she watches and then turns back. Is she going to ignore what is going on?

Yes, yes she is. ]

... What are you looking at? [ Either be accident or purpose, when she notices that someone is looking her way, Velvet stops again. Having people stare at her isn't new, but there's no denying it bugs her. She isn't going to say much else until she gets a response because again, perhaps they are looking her way just as she turns her head and looks at them. ]

wildcard.)

( feel free to hit me up for something else! also, i'm still playing the game and in warg forest so i won't be aware of any events that happen after that. )

GOOD MORNING, DRAEGA

Funny, I don't remember being conscripted to be a soldier.

[ but there's definitely more than a hint of excitement in kassandra's eyes as she raises her sword, swinging it in a circle. it may be early morning, but she came on time. anything less and she'd be a disgrace to her ancestors, even in a place as remote and disconnected as this. ]

So you and me, then, huh? Don't expect me to go easy on you.

CHARITY IS AS CHARITY DOES

[ while some of the others may be grumbling about their employers, kassandra lets herself (and her partner) get auctioned off for charity. naturally, they're tasked with having to fetch a cat from a tree which apparently is harder than it looks. ]

Okay, look, one of will have to stand on one side of the tree, while the other goes around.

[ simple. foolproof. ]

I'll climb up the tree after the cat, and then it'll come running down towards you. Be ready to catch it.

[ watch for the claws? ]

HIT AND RUN

[ cursing under her breath, kassandra turns around slowly. she hadn't wanted today to be like this. she just wanted to go about her business. but someone always has to be stupid, and when they're stupid she somehow gets dragged in to their messes.

especially with children. she's always had a soft-spot for them. but she's quiet and they don't notice her - not until her spear has run through them both in turn. she heard there was no law against murder, probably? and, look, they don't call these games assassins creed for nothing.

of course that now leaves her with a couple of corpses, a bunch of people watching, and a boy who has seen more than he bargained for.

maybe the murder in front of a crowd wasn't the best idea, after all. ]

Let the boy go.

[ holding up her blade against the crowd now, but even for her maybe these are odds she shouldn't have gambled with. ]

i. Good morning, Draega
[Members of his clan wake before dawn, at five (am), and so the sunrise summons are hardly a problem for this boy. Lan Sizhui is one of the first to arrive at the training field, and even looks reasonably alive for the time of day. The boy’s long hair is tied into a high ponytail, as he usually wears it, with a white ribbon neatly and carefully tied across his forehead. His clothes are neat and crisp, not a flipped collar or a button out of place.

To top off the image of put-togetherness, he’s greeting people who come near him as he waits to be paired up.]

Good morning!

[Allairavar probably fucking hates him. But that’s okay, it takes more than a few snappy comments to get to him, his old teachers can be pretty strict too! I wouldn’t be surprised if you hate him too, at this point.]

ii. Hit & Run
[The ways of his school, of his clan particularly, are that of honor: be righteous, be chivalrous, never strike first against another man because your duty is to protect. The gentleman draws his sword only in protection of the meek; anything else is conceit, arrogance disguised. But stand up for those who cannot, with words and deed and yes, if it comes to it, steel. So of course Sizhui steps out of the crowd and puts his body between the boy and his attackers, flinging his hands out.]

Sirs, I'm sure there's a better way to resolve this. He’s only a boy. Could you not discuss things civilly?

[Sizhui is only fifteen himself, thin and reedy, and radiating Big Nerd Energy, which perhaps makes the sword at his waist very missable. The landens definitely miss it, and laugh in his face.]

Hey-

[The young man with the club swings anyway. Whatever Sizhui was going to say next (it was a very meaningful speech!!!) cuts out in a squeak, as he’s forced to throw himself back to dodge.

He has this under control. Really.]

GOOD MORNING, DRAEGA.

[ here's the thing: ten minutes is plenty, and for someone who so rarely stays still for longer than absolutely necessary, it makes sense to think leo valdez would be up and out before those ten minutes are up.

you'd think. but the bed is fairly soft, and honestly, it took a long time for him to fall asleep, anyway, and one more minute can't hurt, right? just one more minute. and then one more. and then —

and then here we are, ten minutes and then some later, and man if a barrel full of cold water isn't good at waking you up. leo shuffles towards the training field, leaving behind him a trail of water, shaking his head to get most of the water out of his curls. ] Ugh, not fun. Definitely not an experience I'm going to repeat. This is worse than Canada.

[ but for someone who's just been dumped in a barrel full of near-freezing water, leo seems... well. fairly okay, for one, and not all that frozen. in fact, when he slaps his hands together, there's a split-second when it looks like he's literally burst on fire, right there in the field, clothes and all — and as quickly as it's there, it's gone. leo grins. ] Whew, that's better.

So, ready to sweat your socks off? [ he asks whoever he's been paired with — not because he's prepared to be particularly good at this, not like demigods usually are, but because he's pretty sure Mr. Slave-driver (Allairavar, he means Allairavar) is going to make sure they're as close to dying of exhaustion after the practice is over. ]

BUILD BETTER BOMBS.

[ now this is something! and by "something", leo means "something he's good at and could spend hours doing". not that a son of hephaestus needs a crash course in bomb making — but it's fun, and soon the space around him is filled with different kinds of apparatuses, tools and wires and bits of machinery that seem to have been built out of scrap materials, combining whatever he found in the auditorium.

currently, leo is working on the schematic for the water bomb, a pencil stuck between his teeth as he twirls a sphere in his hands, muttering to himself: ] If I add something like liquid nitrogen to a different container inside it, the water would freeze on impact and it'd make it an ice bomb instead of a water one — if I take out that panel and just put this one in instead —

[ only then does he seem to notice that there's someone else there (perhaps Master Tinker Mari was smart enough to not push anyone at his creations, just to be sure), and he looks somewhat surprised for a second... before asking them, in a completely, one-hundred-percent serious tone while waving his hand at a pile of fireworks at his feet, ]

Which one do you think would look cooler: if the fireworks spelled out "Whizzling McShizzles" or "Stay Flamin'"?

[ come on, it's the question of the century! ]

CHARITY IS AS CHARITY DOES.

[ the idea of their help being auctioned off isn't exactly one that sits well with leo, but then, he can't exactly complain much, either. at least until they're walking off the stage, and leo notices the couple nearby — not the Blood, them, but definitely looking like they're in need of some serious help.

he leans closer to his partner, and whispers, ]

What about them? I mean, it might be just me, but I'd say they look like they need our help ten thousand percent more than that witch. [ they're here to help, sure. but shouldn't they be helping those who most need the help, instead of those who can pay for it? just, you know, an idea. ]

WILDCARD.

[ you know what to do! want to network it up? want to pick a wholly different prompt? feel free! ]

I. GOOD MORNING

She is there on time from the first second, attentive as a bird, watching, praying, blinking nightmares out of her gaze as the training begins.

In one, she is dutiful, when she is told to run, she runs, when she is told to jump, she jumps. In fact she doesn't seem out of breath as much as someone who clearly cannot fight, should. The opposite in its way is true, her endurance and ability to deal with the pain of it is handle easily by her.

It's when the sparring begins. Each and everyone ends the same. With a yelp, her weapon clattering to the floor. The sweat making her look particularly frazzled as her great curly mane of hair flies out of its pins.

It's when they near the end of training that the stress of it all finally gets to her when the inevitable drop, clatter, cuts her. It's not a bad cut. Just a sliced palm. The blood wells up bright and thick, trickling over her fair skin.

But she bursts into hysterical tears. Sobbing harshly, wet, and with it is the over whelming smell of salt and sea. Like a limpet, she latches onto her partner out of sheer instinct of someone nearby. Both arms around their shoulders, face pressed onto the side of their neck.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," is the babble under all that hair.

Sorry, sparring partner. Here we are.

II. CHARITY IS

This isn't... Right. This is not how she handles her lands. This is certainly how men are hired, there is no denying that. But this is not how charity is done. This helps no one. It feeds no one, no offering is given, no sharing on open tables. Only a few were served, and not those who needed in most.

With each moment, the feeling settles.

But in comparison to the weeping she might have succumbed too on the training field, here she is imperiously flat. Her hands held in front of her, laid over one another, her eyes forward like they looked but did not come to acknowledge what was in front of her. Her whole body held like a thousand eyes were looking at her and it was the art of being natural in the face of it. Holding a pose that was both how she stood and was arranged to be delicately just so.

When her partner and she are bid, she turns as they move to those who have requested their help. Her fingers still held in front of her and her steps are long, true, but smooth. The same forced natural movements. She listens attentively to the task they are given. That a ring had been lost in the bottom of a decorative pool. It's value immense for the love that was given too it.

"I have skills for this, but do you have any idea of what we might do?"

III. HIT AND RUN

She doesn't have the ability to stop them. She's a mess of a thing that has fear it seems of touching a kitchen knife with a little too much aggression.

But what she does have is herself, a far older body than the boys and an ability to endure. That isn't without thought so much as hoping someone more capable might do something. When it does not come, she crams herself into the space between the attackers. Snatching up the child with both her arms and hauls him in tightly to her chest.

Her cry when the blow lands on her instead is a pitiful thing. Wet and sobbing, but she doesn't let go even as the men realise what had happened. Is she an idiot? Is their first question and followed by 'Just let go and you don't have to be hurt for him.'

She does neither, holding on even when the next blow comes to the sobbing child.

ooc: please feel free to wild card or change any prompt to your hearts content.

Charity is as Charity Does
Fortunately helping people is something Jonathan is rather familiar with, although he's more used to it being under slightly different circumstances than an auction. But he imagines it's a fair trade and doesn't feel too concerned about it... until he sees the couple standing near the stage looking nervous, pale and drawn. They remind him of the poor living by the docks, scraping to get by as all of London falls to ruin around them, and his jaw sets in a hard line.

"No one said that these three hours of our time needed to be immediately, did they?" he asks his companion.

Hit and Run
Jonathan had been enjoying the evening walk in a place that seems refreshingly normal (or near enough) after the recent strife he'd been embroiled in, better still for the complete absence of shouting and pursuing footsteps that had been the feature of too many of his nights before.

So of course, there's a shout and a cry of pain and his senses immediately flare into high alert; he can pick up the beating hearts around him and the sobs just beyond the circle of figures. As he shoulders through the situation is immediately apparent, and Jonathan fights the snarl that threatens to curl his lips. He has little patience for thugs and bullies, and glancing around he gestures to a nearby familiar face.

"I believe the First Circle should be contacted," he says almost conversationally, but there's a hit of threat as he continues. "It seems there's about to be some severe injuries to a few fools who didn't know when to stop."

Blood and Oaths
He hadn't had time to see the attack, only smell the blood that soaked the air immediately after it and find the victim, a landen man, sprawled in the street and bleeding. Immediately Jonathan drops to his side, practised hands finding where a blade has cut deep into the man's leg. He's lucky enough that it missed the femoral artery, but he's still bleeding badly, crimson soaking through his clothing, on Jonathan's hands, bright and thick and red--

He struggles to control himself, turning his head away as his fingers press against the wound and he fights the urge to sink his fangs into flesh instead. The dark thought enters his mind that the man could die of his injuries regardless. He could simply take what he craved so badly, the man's fate sealed.

"No, I took an oath to help people," Jonathan mutters, and presses down harder to stem the bleeding. He can barely see with the hunger that hazes his vision and casts around frantically until he spots a figure not too far off. "You! I need help, please! He's bleeding out and I need you to press here while I work! Hurry!"

( a ) - ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴍᴏʀɴɪɴɢ

What the fuck!?

( Cal can't stop the scream. the water bites into her flesh, like a million knives all along her body as she thrashes and splashes and spills her way onto the ground. her teeth make a loud clattering sound, lips blue as she can't contain her trembling.

it's moments later she's standing out on the training field, put through her paces with the rest of the group. she's mostly dried out by now, but her hair still clings to her neck in certain spots where water just refuses to dry out.

in this state, she finds herself standing face to face with an opponent. her sparring partner. she has no weapons, and she looks like she's at a loss on what to do next. ) Are we going to start wailing on each other now? ( she let's out a heavy sigh and looks around the area. ) What's all this for, anyway? I didn't think I'd have to actually fight anything coming here.

( b ) - ʜɪᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴜɴ

( okay, maybe she was a little too fast to dismiss training before.

it's been some time, but eventually Cal finds herself staring down an unfair situation. not unfair for her, at least not yet. certainly unfair for the kid, though.

she doesn't really get this whole Blood, landen, caste, whatever, bullshit enough to know if what she's about to do seriously breaks some sort of social rule. that wouldn't stop her if she did know, though. she's shoving her way into the fray without another second's thought. )

Verim may not be, but I am. ( she snarls as she shoves one of the young men further away from the kid. she places herself between the boy and the group, holding back her fists for now. ) All of you against one of him? That's not very fair is it. But if you want to try your chances with me...

( part of her hopes they do. )

( c ) - ᴡɪʟᴅᴄᴀʀᴅ

( open to any other prompts! )

i. good morning, draega

ACHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

[ the sneeze almost sounds a bit comedically exaggerated as the mage in white huddles in a corner, sniffling loudly as he rubs his own arms for warmth. it's not really... that cold, is it? all the same, the robed young(?) man is all too content to act like he's freezing to death, being as overdramatic as humanly possible. ]

Haha, I'm not really used to this sort of thing... [ usually it's him pranking others like this, not the other way around, but he'll wisely keep that to himself. ] You know, splashing people with cold water is a pretty common trope... but it's kind of weird when you really think about it, isn't it? You might succeed at waking someone up, but you give them hypothermia in the process... that doesn't really seem like a good trade.

[ never mind the training or whatever it is they're actually supposed to be doing, he's content to just continue rambling aimlessly unless someone interrupts him... ]

ii. hit and run

[ merlin has more or less observed this entire confrontation from the beginning, watching with a mix of curiosity and boredom at the senseless violence. sure, interfering wouldn't be particularly difficult - bullies like this are never really that impressive when actually put to the test.

but why would bother?

no, he's more than happy to just see how this plays out. his role has always been more observer than interloper... though that doesn't stop him from commenting to anyone nearby. ]

That boy's rather brave, isn't he? It'd be a shame if such a young hero met his end in a place like this.

[ though he does seem genuinely concerned... his tone also seems entirely detached, as if the possibility of actually getting involved doesn't even occur to him. ]

iii. wild card

[ you know how this one works. ]

Edited 2019-01-05 04:08 (UTC)

good morning, draega

[look, he's no stranger to threats. when you spend the better part of twenty-plus years being periodically threatened to be eaten, among other, you know, occupational/life/whatever hazards, you kinda just start learning to let a lot of them roll off of you. sure, there are some you should definitely take seriously, but most people never really follow through, so. yeah.

and, well, in short, this is the story of how (1) peter quill ended up getting himself a whole barrel-full of freezing cold water on a freezing cold morning, and how he ended up learning the hard way that these are part of that percentage of threats you should actually take seriously.

anyway, teeth chattering, like, every two seconds, he eventually ends up down at the training field with everyone else, where he's got — a sword? which, like, you can't spar with guns, he gets that, but this is not his thing, definitely not his thing, it's him - guns, gamora - swords, that's what the things are. and he thinks, for a second, about how if she were here, right now, watching him trying to fumble his way around a freakin' sword while standing here sopping freakin' wet, she'd have that little smile that he knows means she thinks something's hilarious — and, honestly, he wouldn't even be mad. and —

that's when he feels something (someone?) hit him.

he looks up, indignant, with a frown, and says, equally indignant:]

Seriously? We didn't even start the freakin' fight yet!

hit and run

[here's the thing: for better or worse, and hey, he can admit that, a lot of the time, it's mostly worse, he just can't leave stuff like this alone — not when it'd involved helpless frogs and schoolyard assholes in missouri a whole lifetime ago, and definitely not when it's ever involved actual people, especially people who can't really defend themselves in much of any way it matters. it's not cool and it never has been, and it never will be.

he's there in literally about two seconds, rushing straight into the fray without so much as thinking twice about it, putting himself between the kid and the guys after him for some reason.]

Hey, hey, hey, whoa, whoa. [his hands are up, in what he hopes is a universal symbol of "don't kick my ass."] Dude, I really don't think this is the best way to go about this. Like, I'm just saying, super bad look all around. [he looks around, swallows a little.] At least put down the clubs, because I can guarantee you no one's listening to you when you've got them, because they're just looking at you, and they're thinking "that's a freakin' club", and there's just nothing getting through. Absolutely nothing.

[anyone around can, you know, feel free to chime in/help. that'd be great, because he's kinda outnumbered here. kinda.]

wildcard

[want another scenario? feel free to hit me up!]

➘ good morning, draega

[ Psychic summons aren't his bag. Sue him.

Maybe he takes way less than ten minutes to get up and get gone. Maybe he's just freakish that way. Whatever it is, Clint's beat his partner to the training field. He makes it all look casual, the slow easing of tension in his shoulders, the light bounce on his heels as he tries to get blood moving to combat the cold. There's a focus, though, in the set of his eyes. Taking careful inventory of your landscape is old hat to any killer, no matter how retired.

Blink and it's gone. There's an easy grin on his face, giving a brief Upnod™ to his partner by the time they show. Clint swaps the bow he's holding to his other hand, resettles his weight. ]

Hey, if you want another ten minute snooze, I could knock you out. [ Which would be a mildly threatening thing to say, if Clint wasn't wearing some form of shit-eating grin on his face. ]

➘ charity is as charity does

[ Out here, it's almost enough to remind him of home. Clint Barton knows more about fixing a leaking roof than he does using magic of any kind, shape, and form. So far, being new covers all manner of sins, and he's banking on that to hide this particular adventure too. It's the kind of misdemeanor that'd carry out better if he could have done it solo, but hell— new world, new rules. Guess he's gotta start stocking up the debt column sometime.

It's still a little dark out, but calm. The chill winter air's coming in fast. Clint's doing this the old fashioned way, hammer and nails, one of which is poking out the side of his mouth for a) easy access and b) an apparent lack of hygiene. He's been working steadily over the last ten or so minutes, balance perfect over the roof's uneven landscape, hammering with ease and accuracy. Not a sore thumb in sight. ]

So. [ He clears his throat lightly. ] You got a handle on the Craft business yet?

➘ free for all

[ Tag him with a starter, or if you have an idea, feel free to PM me! ]

( a ) - ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴍᴏʀɴɪɴɢ, ᴅʀᴀᴇɢᴀ

( the young blonde stands at the edge of the training field, eyeing the whole process of sparring with nothing but contempt for the process. it's not because she has a problem with training. in fact, it's a necessity in some situations. she's overseen training of others many times before.

of others, though. she never participates in this kind of training. it's physical and even sometimes brutal with how skilled some of the fighters before her are. and now she's being asked to join in this display of physical prowess. of which she has... none.

at least she's not doused in water like some others she's seen around.

when it's her turn to enter a sparring match, she takes the wooden sword offered her and holds it with a clumsy grip. this is going to be embarrassing. and she really doesn't do embarrassing well.

her eyes flash blue as she faces her opponent. )

Put down your sword and forfeit to me. ( her voice is soft, just enough to be heard between the two of them, but it echoes in the mind of her opponent, threatening to seep into their inner desires and bend them to her will. )

( ooc; opal or red jewel for this scenario, depending on the results you would prefer. )

( b ) - ᴄʜᴀʀɪᴛʏ ɪs ᴀs ᴄʜᴀʀɪᴛʏ ᴅᴏᴇs

( there's no such thing as charity. Esme isn't the queen of ulterior motives, but she's damn near close to it.

Esme loves to deal in favors. in her world, she knows what she needs immediately. she builds up her favors, then pushes her agenda at all the right times. it's almost become her art to her. in this world, she's not quite sure to what end she's working at. but it never hurts to have a people owe you favors.

though the sound of the work isn't appealing. she frowns as a woman offers peaches for the services of the pairing on the stage. )

I hope you like to lift. ( Esme fixes her partner with a pointed look. ) Because unless they're small rocks, I'm probably not going to be much help.

( c ) - ᴡɪʟᴅᴄᴀʀᴅ

( open to other prompts )

Edited 2019-01-07 02:53 (UTC)

i. Good Morning, Draega

[The threat of cold water dumping wasn’t necessary, for as soon as Takame was told to get out of bed he did just that. All it took was the demand from the higher power. Any extra time spent in the room was used for a quick stretch before taking up his katana and going out to field as ordered. Whether or not he was a morning person didn’t matter when given an objective. If anything he treated it routine. Unsettlingly so.

Regardless, upon being paired with whomever his partner may be, he offers no words at first, just a bow. But a voice in his head reminds him that he was told it was polite to share a greeting when first meeting someone and he does so after he rises.]

… Good morning to you.

[Well, it’s deadpan, but it’s something. He doesn’t attack immediately, instead choosing to look over his partner up and down, assessing the kind of opponent he’s dealing with based upon their stance. And whether or not they got doused.]

ii. Walkie-Talkie

[The unfamiliar technology they used to communicate here was something he would get used to in time. That time was not now. He was not good with machines or sensitive craft otherwise. Instead how Takame gets his news from these devices is through finding places that have it broadcasting and lingering nearby to catch it from there and learn more of the situation he was in.

He has gained valuable information so far, Anything telling out right how to survive is of use (if morbid in its execution), the weather reports saved him having to seek out a sky watcher, and knowledge of the murder gave him the idea of who he should be wary of, who he may need to cut down in the future. If he was to serve the Blood here, he needed to know who their enemies were as they would become his.

That said, the way he seems to just be standing around in a store, just listening or leaning against a wall, sure makes him look like an easy target to be robbed or mugged. Be a Good Samaritan and warn him not to sleep? Tell him to go back to the cosplay convention? Or be that guy who tries to rob him! Just keep in mind that blade at his side isn’t for show and he’s taller than six feet.]

iii. Wildcard

[[ ooc: I'M LATE TO THE TDM PARTY but come at me with anything or hit me up if you had an idea! ]]

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MOLLYMAUK TEALEAF | CRITICAL ROLE

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