taxonomites | 01 [holo] A different kind of fairy*

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01 [holo] A different kind of fairy*

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.

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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.

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?"

Edited 2013-02-08 19:45 (UTC)

Ah. Yes, very good. He tilts his chin in approval and dismissal of the apology. There's no need, but he'd rather have it than not.

"Pincers, pliers," the tug of a smile. "Hex keys. You know your stock; bring me a selection of basic tools."

He can always modify them as needed. "Tell me, is that zipper of yours purely ornamental, or does it have a function?"

~~And then Keri realizes this is literally the first EVER thread with someone actually shopping at the shop, holy shit.~~

Glitch nods and heads off to gather the items requested. It's peculiar to have someone so new focused on assembling supplies, and his polite curiosity wants to inquire about what project His Highness has his sights on--

Then Nuada asks that and his steps falter. He turns to again address the prince, and if his expression is a bit stricken...well, it can't be helped.

"No useful function," he replies with care, not wanting to lie but also not wanting to give too much away. He begins gathering display trays containing basic tools. "Which makes it mostly decorative, I suppose."

~~OORAH!~~

Nuada gives no verbal response, but simply watches the strange man with his strange ornaments and his unorthodox grace (the way you don't expect a bumblebee to fly, much less go with grace from one flower to the next). He can sense the hidden truths, but at least for now, procuring items trump his own taste for tearing into the darkest reaches, just to see what he'll find.

"Are you a conjurer of magic, or born of it?"

As he stacks the wooden display trays Glitch decides the questioning is...weirdly refreshing, mostly because he knows the answers. He's begun avoiding greeting new arrivals, aside from those ni the most desperate need of assistance, thanks to annuals of coming up short in explaining this place. Why are we here? What happens back home? You haven't tried hard enough to leave, have you?

Personal queries are nice and empirical,though he's still uncertain how much to give away.

"Born, I suppose," he replies and returns to the other counter, feet unconsciously improvising a little waltz on the way. Pliers, pincers, hex keys, crescent wrenches, screw drivers, all revealed as he lays out the stacked cases. "My homeland's magical, not as much as in the past but there's still a little in the people. I'm no wizard."

The rather more existential questions are, in so many words, of little interest to him. Wherefore art thou, Taxon? is so much tripe compared to why Glitch is here, in this particular shop, leading his particular life in a place far removed from his home: the drive for survival intrigues and delights. No, why his fellow prisoners were taken from their homes is apparent enough: they are of interest to their captors; and because of that, they are of interest to Nuada.

Particularly those with magic about them.

He looks over the proffered items, picks up one of the crescent wrenches for closer inspection. It meets his standard.

"Your homeland. Does it have a name?"

"Yes, sir. It's known as the Outer Zone, commonly referred to as the O.Z." No point in obfuscating, really.

Glitch observes with dutiful politeness the inspection, and cannot help a small, pleased smile. A good craftsman never blames his tools, but having the proper ones makes the work so much easier, and he appreciates someone taking the time to investigate rather than picking up any ol' spanner.

He considers questions of his own, the general deference owed to royalty...the knowledge that his own allegiance is unswayable, and that in this place he himself is due his own measure of respect. Longevity has its privileges.

"May I ask about your own land, sir? Discussing our origins is one way we pass time here."

The record moves to the next track: still Ella and Louis, Let's Call The Whole Thing Off. Uh huh.

At Outer Zone, the eyebrows raise, revealing more of the very yellow, very reddened iris. Were books judged by their covers (and in truth they often are), Nuada would be a bestiarium: a catalogue of monsters. But there is no blood thirst in his eyes, nor a sliver more better than thou than would be expected of certain members of a royal court. In fact, to Nuada's mind Glitch is closer to an equal than most. Born of magic, courteous (both polite and well versed in courtly ways, it seems), and a professional.

The hiss of static between tracks is too brief a blessing. Nuada's hand moves to the next object of interest only to stop dead mid-air. His head turns towards the music once more, ears peaked.

He blinks, and pulls his focus away. Back to the hex keys, yes, very good.

"You may not enjoy my answers," he warns softly. "Be my guest."

Edited 2013-02-20 22:30 (UTC)

Glitch straightens his posture just a bit further under the perceived scrutiny. He's not used to feeling small - Cain's ever-present bulk is an afterthought, a strudy shepherd to his bounding greyhound - but at the moment he feels the need to claim every milimeter of space he can.

Then with Nuada's glance his own attention turns to the music (speaking of ever-present afterthoughts) and he gasps a tiny oh.

"Well to start, seeing as you're my guest: I can turn that off, if you like?" The offer comes with a soft, wry smile. "If it's not to your taste."

That's a guess at the distraction. He remembers the first time he'd come into the shop and DG's been blasting Give It Away Now, and he'd politely endured the coarse, grating noise through a couple repeats before she'd caught on and skipped to the next track.

Again the brow twitches, one dark shadow angling slightly higher than the other; the smile is met with a small pull to the lips which soon turns into something more of a smile. And, as per his own code, one unexpected concession warrants another.

"Please, and it's quite the other way around," he offers. "I find music distracting." It is an understatement, to be sure, but like someone in corporate risk management once suggested: to a reporter or journalist, the one most desirable thing in the world is denial. Denial is what gets you the big headlines and follow-up stories or views. This won't.

"Ella Fitzgerald. That is her name, isn't it."

"No trouble, and yes, it is," Glitch says and moves to the Victrola. I'll order oysters and cancel the-- and he carefully picks up the needle, moving it aside as he swicthes the player off. Nuada identifying the artist gives him a clue though, and somewhere to start making his inquiries.

"I take it you have some knowledge of Earth, then?" He walks back to the counter, idling straightening a slightly-skewed gizmo as he passes. "Just about everyone I've known here does, even my home is...kinda connected to it. We call it the Otherside."

Glitch moves, Nuada turns his main focus on assembling a basic toolkit. Glitch talks, and Nuada listens with one ear - connected, other side (other-side? Other Side?) - while nimble fingers test the weight and grip of one slim means-to-an-end after another.

"My people is sometimes titled the Sons of the Earth." He picks up an adjustable wrench, tests the tiny little spiral and watches the grip close and open accordingly. Mechanics. What a delightful thing. "It means little in this day and age." His eyes flick, and if they seem clearer, surely it can't be for the ambient silence of the shop.

"Once upon a very long time ago, my people lived in peace, side by side with all manner of creatures. But, as is nearly always the case, one of the peoples begat a war on the rest of us. After a time, a truce was called. It was said the truce would be honoured until the end of time, and yet... Greed knows no bounds; it breeds invention and industry, and little by little the terms of the truce were--"

Is that a bitter taste on the back of his tongue? "--circumvented, if not outright broken. Now, the Earth is dying. We are nearing the point of no return while apathy reigns omnipotent."

One little world, so many variants, is what Glitch thinks but doesn't say.

"I'm sorry," he says instead, though he knows it to be inadequate. "Can anything be done?"

"No," says Nuada, laying out the last of his tools of choice, amounting to seven variants in total.

"That's the simple answer. The complicated one is 'yes'. Now, how may I repay you for these?"

Glitch tilts his head, blinking, then thinks about it a bit. Yes, that's...several divergent paths present themselves as he considers what he thinks is the situation in his own world. Will things be better now? Yes. No. Maybe. It all tangles itself up and shakes his head, considering the next question.

"The currency here is credits, which are stored here." He says and holds up his right hand to display the bracelet. "Usually once a transaction is confirmed they just zap over from one person to another. This'll total up to...well, a good chunk of your allotment of three hundred and fifty."

Those are some nice quality tools you've got there, Nuada.

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01 [holo] A different kind of fairy*

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my ability to tl;dr is broken, sorry

no worries

aaaaaaaugh