030 ± [visual / location: outside a second-hand shop] they're bankrupt on selling

[aintnoconvict]

It was a bit of a mess: Things arranged next to piles of Stuff, This right across the way from That, and one figure roaming through it all, apparently content with the hodgepodge and disorder.

Glitch's noggin was in a right state also, but he was more concerned with navigating the little shop. He liked it, all the miscellany sharing space, and he imagined it was a real second-hand shop and all the items had mysterious histories that could only be guessed at. The place was weirdly homey. With a bright smile he picked up a delicate porcelain birdhouse--

--then gasped and dropped the gewgaw. It shattered on the floor and Glitch blinked and glanced around, lost. He was standing in some sort of jumble store, someone had broken something, and from the looks the Extras were shooting his way he was the culprit. He gave a few abject apologies and made his way to the exit as inconspicuously as possible.

Once outside he looked around for any familiar landmark, and upon not seeing any he consulted the tablet map. No wonder everything seemed strange, he was well off his usual beaten path. What was he doing in Osten, how long had he been there, why was he in that weird, mixed-up shop?

It had to have been one of his glitches, and a pretty big one at that. He knew his brain wouldn't be forthcoming with information so he opted to check with his other brain, namely the citizens of Taxon. Glitch switched from the map to a visual broadcast and sighed in frustration.

"Does anyone know why I'm here? I I I mean here specifically, not here as in here."


ooc - warm-up for the Big Scary Reset Button, feel free to provide stupid answers to the stupid question. Also I'm going to bed now but will tag back in the morning ♥

005 || [Accidental Audio] || Fifth Son

[patternal.livejournal.com]

There is precious little to occupy Corwin’s time in a place such as this. No family crises to deal with, no wars, hell not even a decent barfight. It was the worst kind of place for him to be—all peace and no excitement. For a soldier, that spelled complacency, and complacency was equivalent to death. Always alert, even if it was unnecessary. Always vigilant, even if it was superfluous.

But it was damn hard to stay that way when there was nothing to at least irk him a little bit, put him on edge. The lack of anything to be on edge about had him on edge, though not the kind he liked. More paranoia than preparedness—which was still a feeling that was a little more than kin and less than kind.

The sound of metal striking wood is, perhaps, less jarring than metal striking metal, but the force behind it is still evident. It doesn’t take much to figure out that Corwin is hacking at a tree with Grayswandir—something that an experienced fencer would know is terrible for the blade, but, experienced though he is, Corwin evidently doesn’t care, as the sound continues for several moments. Less exciting than live targets, but effective for venting stress. And it would give him several more hours of activity as he re-sharpened the gleaming silvery sword after the terrible treatment his old friend was getting, and all for the sake of some venting that he could very well have done with his fists.

Anything to occupy a soldier’s time, right?

When his voice drifts into the post, it truly sounds just like that—drifting—and only serves to further erase any doubts about the posts intentionality—clearly, it wasn’t done on purpose. The language is strange, though, almost sounds ancient, tones softer and angrier all at once. That, though, may simply be that this is the language he has the greatest command of—it is the tongue of his birthplace, after all.

“…if farli gra’dar…sevath’ri…”

((DISCLAIMER: This is not a real language. I made it up. There is one sample in Corwin's canon of the language, about three words long, and I based the sentence off of that--at least in terms of sounds. It doesn't work grammatically at all, and, in fact, has no meaning. Corwin's not likely to translate, but, if necessary, I'll come up with something~))

9% [location: all around Taxon]

[numbersnfigures.livejournal.com]

A very odd sight is about to come roaring down your streets, Taxon.

The sound of a '94 Harley Davidson Softail is one not often heard in this town and the people riding on it certainly don't look typical either. Driving is Kate Beckett, wearing a leather jacket, jeans and a pair of sunglasses. She looks determined, nonplussed. On the back is Dr. Spencer Reid, genius, wearing black khakis, a sweater vest and an expression of utmost terror as he clings to Kate for dear life, despite the fact that they're only going about 30 miles an hour.

Yes, Kate managed to talk Spencer into going on a ride on her motorcycle. How exactly she did it is anyone's guess.

[OOC - So they're riding around Taxon here, there, and everywhere. Feel free to flag them down and lol at Spencer's horrified face.]