01 [holo] A different kind of fairy*

[whyfearthedark]

It is true that the Arrival room has seen many a variation on the theme of first impressions and abduction. It is also true that, while some are more polite than others, or more eloquent, it is a rarer sight to see such calm, seeming indifference. There stands a tall man in the Arrival Room, silent and unmoving like a lone tree atop a hill. In the stark lights of the apparatus mounted to the ceiling, his long hair falls like a stark white curtain fading into vivid yellow: it is a gossamer veil, he the monster done up in fancy robes. Its eyes are a vivid yellow, though this might take a closer look for how dark the skin around them is. Otherwise it is of a pale complexion, nearly waxen, and adorned in what appears to be deliberate scarring. One such scar curves from one high cheekbone to the next, undulating across the bridge of nose. More scars run in vertical slashes down his forehead, though whether those are of ritual origin or war is less apparent. The circular markings on each side of his forehead strike a different chord: like ripples on still water, and partially hidden by his hairline. His robes are formal, sumptuous and striking: dark, slick fabrics meeting subtle details (is it armour or simply militaristic, of a stereotypically Western origin, or perhaps Asian? Is that an obi adorned with a metal emblem? A hakama?), offset by a dark metallic seal at the front of his broad belt. There are no weapons - at least no visible ones - but one might just get the impression not to get in his way. Don't wake the sleeping bear, as they say. Don't provoke a wounded beast.

But, no. His posture belongs to something other than a beast. He is royalty. He is sprung from the Father Tree, bearing the royal scars of his clan. Royal marks, not sprung from ritual or fashion.

He who walks a different path shall find himself in strange lands. It was simply a matter of time before he stumbled into the unknown. Having just sent the last of the forest gods to its demise, it seems only fair he too should be sent somewhere without consent. An eye for an eye, one sole surviving warrior for another.

Ever shadowed, yellow eyes look out, assessing its surroundings like a cat in unfamiliar territory. The head, with its vaguely High German features, tilts this way and that way. Dark lips part, revealing teeth that seem too sharp to belong to such a face (or perhaps not sharp enough). The pointed tips of his ears lift (perhaps difficult to spot, with so little contrast between skin and hair), and he walks through the open door.

He calls out to a small group of meandering non-humans (Extras of a brand new variety, as it just so happens). He barely raises his voice, in near perfect, if somewhat dated Gaelic. And by dated, we mean ancient and oddly evolved. "[I am Nuada Silverlance, crowned prince of Bethmoora.]" A brief pause follows as he slows to a stop, taking in his surroundings. The people gathered there, in what appears to be a museum idolizing the macabre, are of little help. In fact, very little help other than hesitant, too polite smiles and looks his way. A small, wry smirk turns the corners of his lips. "Entschuldigen Sie bitte...?" No?

"Je suis Nuada Lance d'Argent, fils unique du Roi Balor; prince royal de Bethmoora. Je vous en prie." He inclines his head in the faintest hint of a bow, watching these unorthodox, foreign-looking fae with barely there intrigue.

One of the Extras, visible in the very peripheral edge of the hologram (a blue-faced girl of reptilian features and colourful scales instead of hair), gathers a bit of cheerful posit-tu-itiveness, and dares tread closer.

"I'm sorry. No sprechen European. You speak Standard?"

The look on New Guy's face can be summed up with one word: perplexity. Long-suffering perplexity, no less.

"English," he says, chin lifting ever so slightly. Strange how such minute a movement would look so menacing. English, the standard of language? "How very pedestrian of you."

---
* Different indeed.

Comments

[visual]

[threelivesdown]

"Parli l'Italiano?"

She might as well try, right? Her Italian is rusty as all get out but she does have some, so she might as well try it right? This guy seems to be all about the languages. The first one isn't something she recognizes at all but the other two she understands and she thinks she heard something about... a prince in there.

He's certainly... different, Selina thinks to herself as she lounges. It probably makes for an interesting tablet visual.

"If not, English works."

[holo]

[whyfearthedark]

The tall man angles his head to his right, hand lifting in one smooth movement as his eyes spy the little trinket attached to his wrist. Token hospitality, he supposes, watching the screen - and the human female - with the long-suffering politeness of someone treading unknown waters and would rather be done with it.

She speaks Italian: what a good girl; how very clever.

"It has been brought to my attention English is the current standard of communication in these parts, madame," he notes, somewhat dryly, in the clear crisp notes of an expatriate Englishman having traversed the world for a long time.

[visual]

[threelivesdown]

"That it is, though I'm not sure if that's so much out of choice or out of design. Either way, it doesn't matter too much."

Well. He's starting to remind her of Jason, just a little bit. Something about the accent and the... demeanor. "My name is Selina Kyle and this place is Taxon if you haven't already figured that out."

[holo]

[whyfearthedark]

Design?

Taxon?

If she had the gall to stand right here in front of him and speak of such nonsense he would have her by the throat. 'Taxon'. There is no such place, no such place name, but it rings entirely too close to certain other words he's no love for. Taxonomy. Taxidermy. Taxi cabs.

His black lip curls in blatant disgust. He stalks away from the blue, feathered reptile and her entourage. "You take me for an imbecile, Selina Kyle. What is your business with me?"

[visual]

[threelivesdown]

"I don't. I really don't. I'd welcome you but this isn't really a place that you welcome people into."

Selina doesn't seem ruffled at all with his stalking or his disgust. Perhaps it is silly but whatever this guy is doesn't frighten her at all - especially not at a distance.

"If you'd rather not be welcomed, though, that's fine. I'll leave you to your business."

[Visual]

[personaldemon]

It's the titles that catch his attention, muffled by the drawer holding the damned tablet, but still audible. The Gaelic attracts his attention too, for that matter; it's not often he hears it spoken.

Jason uncrosses his legs and stands up, leaving behind the meditation circle he's been spending more and more time in, lately.

He fishes out the tablet, studies the holo with an interest that borders on relief. It's something to focus on that isn't Etrigan. That's valuable.

One of the Fae. Hmn. He has a silver knife already, because of Remus Lupin; clearly he was remiss in not stockpiling some cold iron as well.

Bitter princeling wages war
Loses what he's fighting for
His sister and his people dear
All consumed by hate and fear

He filed this away. Jason turned the tablet over in his hands, thoughtful, and then tapped the buttons to initiate a visual reply.

"Your Royal Highness," he says with a nod. His tone is, as usual, neutral and blank, neither welcoming nor overtly hostile. "I won't offer a welcome. One does not offer a welcome to a prison, as a rule."

[holo]

[whyfearthedark]

The bitter princeling, should that be his moniker forthwith, has found the aforementioned macabre portion of the museum: a display of upright (well, mostly upright) human corpses sealed into a glass cage. Animated human corpses.

As horrifying a concept as it would be, or should be, to anyone else, he seems amused more than anything. Were one of a politically correct persuasion, one might call it 'intrigued'.

Less so when he's once more accosted by a helpful denizen. He holds his arm out, eyes the tablet with distaste of the object itself (though that may be difficult to distinguish from distaste of the man on the screen). Then, long nimble fingers detach it from the bracelet - another novelty, of course: trinkets for idle minds to stew over.

At least the title is worth something. "Then what do you offer, sir? Not fealty, I hope."

[visual]

[personaldemon]

Perhaps the faintest smile on the human's face. "No."

Jason's had dealings with the fae, in his time. (He's had dealings with almost everything, but that's neither here nor there.) At their best, he finds them intensely irritating-- the capricious ones, the cheerful ones, the good-natured ones-- and at their worst...

Well, the Unseelie Court is but one of those horrors-in-the-night that he has wound up appointing himself guardian against, over the centuries. And Etrigan is as pleased to sate his wrath and fire on faeries as he is anything else.

"A warning, Your Highness. Displaying courtesy with this city's inhabitants would be... wise."

And by courtesy he means 'refrain from violence towards us'. The brief images he's had so far indicate the fairy doesn't seem the especially benign sort. This particular fairy, this Nuada-- well, the name rings old bells (ha), but Jason is an expert on how legend and reality can differ from one another.

[holo]

[whyfearthedark]

"Courtesy," he says, seeing through the glamour of politeness on the redhead's behalf. It is what it is, but beneath it lies a different warning. It sounds suspiciously like a gauntlet thrown to the floor.

"You deign lecture me on courtesy. By whose authority? That of the Christian godhead? Our captors'?"

He brings the trinket closer, and indeed, he thought he spied something interesting in the background.

"You don't strike me as the pious sort."

[visual]

[personaldemon]

"I'm not," the man answers.

He raises one indifferent shoulder to the question of whose authority. Etrigan's, he supposes, if he must put a name to it. But even aside from his own ego (so indistinguishable from the demon's), there are others here who could likely give the fae a difficult time-- the city has no shortage of magicians, of superlatives of all stripes.

"The authority of a largely peaceful co-habitation. Whatever war you're waging, I suggest you leave it where you came from. Your Highness."

[location]

[aintnoconvict]

Outside a warehouse-looking building hangs a bright wooden sign, a shock of color in the bleak winter landscape. Gears, wheels, springs, and a pair of pliers are painted on it, along with Langwe and Gale's Mechanical in a proud, flowing script. On the door below there is a second sign declaring that the shop is open.

Inside is, as ever, several rows of shelves with tools, parts, and gizmos. Also (as ever) there is music, though with the light snow and continued chill outside this selection is clearly an exercise in masochism.

Weirdly, Glitch is standing by the cash register, leaning on the counter and studying a book, brow knit in fierce concentration.

"Dust dâ-- dârid bâ man ber...aqsid? No, that's not--" He's trying, but for now he scowls at his ineptitude. "Dust dârid-- oh."

It's finally occurred to him that someone's come in, and he hastily closes the book and looks up with a bright and sheepish smile which quickly vanishes. "Oh! Um. Can I...hello."

[location]

[whyfearthedark]

It may come as a surprise to some - why else would anyone go to a mechanical shop than to take stock of the goods available - that despite it being one of his many fascinations, he is not here primarily for the promise of tools and material or even services rendered.

He stands in the doorway, and raises one of his hands ever so slightly at his side. Silence. His eyes close halfway as he drifts into the shop proper, seeming drawn to the source of that music.

Music. Has it been so long since he let this siren's call lure him? How long since he let himself be swayed?

It would seem Glitch has stumbled across a particularity of the fair folk. Unable to make music of their own, they are drawn to it like moths to the open flame. They cannot resist.

[location]

[aintnoconvict]

...okay, weird newbie is weirder than initially anticipated, and that outfit isn't entirely encouraging, but being what he is Glitch forces himself not to judge. Time was he'd get a stone thrown at him for saying hello, silence is not discouraging.

Well, except in that thing where he can't let a room stay quiet for too long.

"You've just been brought here, right? Well, lemme appologize for that to start with." The smile comes back, wry and tired. "I'm Glitch, by the way. Did someone tell you to come see me?"

It happens. With great extended kidnapping comes great being expected to help people.

[location]

[whyfearthedark]

The eyes open at the disruption, the spell broken for the moment. Most notably the irises are too big for your standard, garden variety humanoid, but then again there's very little about him that fits the norm - why should the eyes be any different. He's tall, easily as tall as another blond man, who frequents Glitch's shop with the regularity by which one could set a timepiece. He's slim, but not from idleness: when he moves it is with a surety and purpose that you rarely find among the general populace.

But enough of that: there are more important matters at hand. Such as the magic that perforates every little trinket here, such faint traces as to be the stuff of dreams and yet he can feel it. And the man himself, Glitch (what a name, how familiar in tone and purpose). Glitch, and the gleaming metal zipper atop his head.

Should Glitch suddenly feel the need to weld said zipper shut, well, his instincts would serve him right.

"Apologize?" Asks the elf, but not because he expects an answer. "I am prince Nuada Silverlance, here to procure items. Tools, mainly, if you've any to spare."

That it was the music that brought him here (still a constant pressure against his skin, it won't go ignored for long), well, that's hardly anyone's business but his own.

[location]

[aintnoconvict]

With those eyes on him his posture shifts, the casual slouch replaced with a courtier's attentiveness, and he thinks of the more alien aliens he's known in the city. Chiana, Ax, Ilyria...yes, definitely more on the Ilyria end of the scale. Respect where it is (probably) desired, whether or not it is due, is likely the best tack to take for now.

"Pardon my familiarity, highness," he says with a little half-bow, though showing more of the zipper does send a chill down his spine. But then that's normal around strangers. "And yes, I have a fairly wide selection of tools available for purchase. Can I assist you in finding anything specific?"

[skinandbone]

Somewhere in the dark and wet of the sewers, a bone creature clicks along a tunnel with all the busy purposefulness of a dog that has somewhere to be.

This is where the resemblence to a dog ends. The creature's body is a massive skull, complicated and radially symmetrical, turned upside down so that it is crowned with a ring of clenched and grinning teeth. Below these are a dozen eye sockets, each one bristling with a clutch of multi jointed and slender limbs. Some of these end in sharp breaks, too short to reach the concrete below, and so they drag along the walls instead, clattering and scraping as the creature hustles along.

It is busy. It has exploration to do. There are many new tunnels, and Metody does not know all of them yet, and this is a sad thing indeed.

[whyfearthedark]

In that same darkness stalks something worse than a predator, or even part of one: he is the pacifist who learned to fight from necessity, and so wounded by the thoughtlessness of war, fashioned himself accordingly.

Light footsteps echo along the narrow pathways either side of the larger pipes - for a moment he remembers Paris and London, their respective take on the underground necessity. He remembers the archways and the seeming endless corridors - and of course the stench of human waste.

This is different, as though very little excrement has passed through these winding, serpentine underground rivers. Cities. Taming the elements, bending them to their egoistic agenda.

...but lo, the faint glimmer of light bouncing off a surface that doesn't blend in with the rest. Something moving, and the pitter-patter-tap-tap of something bony.

[skinandbone]

This creature is an extension of Metody, not very big and not doing a job of particular interest or importance. There is no reason for him to be paying close attention to it, and so the creature has only baseline intelligence. Which is to say, not overly much.

It pauses when the man comes into it's field of awareness, whole body tilting in puzzlement. And then it slowly approaches, slinking along the wall now, body low, drawn back, ready to flee at the first sign of aggression. Or screaming.

[whyfearthedark]

It is unlike anything Nuada has ever seen: that is reason enough to draw closer and fold into a crouch.

"Hello, little one," he greets the thing with a modicum of respect. "I hope I am not trespassing into your master's demesne."

[skinandbone]

Dimly, the thing can recognize that this is not the expected reaction - but no one here behaves as respected. It lifts a few limbs up and waves them in the air at him in a gesture of greeting, then skitters a little closer. Something inside the hanging dome of the brain case rapidly clicks at him.

Elsewhere, Metody is busy cleaning the little cave he now calls home. And in another elsewhere, Metody is busy rearranging his nested bones, far below the clustered city. And in another elsewhere, he is investigating a particularly interesting rock, or wandering down a tunnel, or gathering pebbles.

[location: forest]

[apackofone]

Having been pause-frozen hasn't really put any damper on Remus.

He's caught himself up with the changes as best he can and set about his life as normal. He hopes that his foraging, hunting and gardening will be enough to keep him going. He barely touched his unearned income before and hopes to keep that trend going.

The elderly buck isn't the best meat, but it's also not going to harm whatever ecosystem the hosts have set up here. He crouches down to thank the animal for the food it will provide, lifting his head in the next instant to listen, to scent the air.

Something else is in the woods with him.

[location: forest]

[whyfearthedark]

Farther in, in fact much farther in, there is a new presence in Taxon Forest: someone not content with the denizens' unsupported claims that there's no way out.

Nonsense. No matter what they are, they are not fairy folk. He goes wherever he wants (that he's welcome). Such has always been the case.

So he goes, phasing out of the mundane world only to phase in at a different location, driven only by ambition and the sheer inability to accept defeat.

Further in he goes, consistently dragged down by the so far unknown consequences of altitude sickness. He's scaled mountains, suffering no ill effect. He's watched the world from such high places as the human mind can only imagine, and yet here he is, stumbling over uneven ground like a drunkard. Still he pushes on.

Black dots swim before his eyes, pinpricked by too sharp points of light and still he fades out, fades in, fades out, fades in--

--and folds, at last, like a house of cards.

Unconscious, whatever mechanism at work regarding the barriers, something unknown brings him back a ways so as to be relatively safe from harm.

For someone like Remus, that faded scent trail just got refreshed...somewhere in the deeper reaches of the forest.

[location: forest]

[apackofone]

With his usual irrepressible curiousity, Remus drops the deer home under a tight stasis spell and teleports himself back, pocketing his wand and setting off into the forest to find the smell that seems almost familiar and so vastly unlike anything he's ever known.

He tracks his way for a while until he finds a clearing and a body lying in the middle of that clearing.

Alive, breathing and unlike anything he knows in his extensive knowledge of magical creatures, but everything in him says this is a magical being. The wolf's hackles are shivering.

He comes closer anyway, wand sliding to his hand and then gently tapping one shoulder. "Are you all right?"

[location: forest]

[whyfearthedark]

To sleep, but not to dream; to while away the waking.

He lies unarmed and opened up to attack by anyone, be they friend or foe. His clothing, so militaristic yet foreign and not of this world, stand in stark contrast to the snow-powdered ground. It falls in lighter drifts this far in than in the city proper, but still enough that his hair and skin seem nearly translucent where it lays.

When touched, the eyelashes flutter barely visibly against the backdrop of seeming eternal insomnia. Dark circles, a brow furrowing as though from a bad dream, the flash of teeth and then:

Eyelids part in woozy weariness, revealing vivid yellow irises that nearly take up the entire expanse.

"Wh--"

Re: [location: forest]

[apackofone]

Remus' own dark amber eyes widen slightly and then relax. "You were passed out. In the middle of the forest. We're in a glade." A flick of his fingers conjures a warmth over them briefly, stilling the snowfall for a few moments. "Do you need help?"