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.

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[skinandbone]

The nest rustles, each bone within it twitching at once as Metody's main mind draws into the situation. For a moment, he is flickeringly unhappy; it would have been better if that part of him had fled this strange new person - but perhaps this might be a friend.

He's already made one friend, all on his own in the forest, without the help of strange powers or hallucinatory worlds, or with the pleasant guise of his flesh. Maybe he could make another?

Bone grinds against bone, crunches and shifts, and things clatter together. He can't speak like this, and that leaves body language, and if you want body language, you need a body. Specifically, you need a body shaped like that of the person you wished to speak to, and that meant legs - the number didn't matter, because what do you say with your legs? But you needed to be properly tall. And there needs to be a trunk of a sort, to tilt and bend, and it's fine if there's lots of spines in there, because what's prettier than a spine? And arms, and hands. And - oh, yes, a head. It's okay if it's really a great cluster of hands clutched together like a nest of starfish, because look, there's a place that could be eyes, and there is a mouth, and of course it's a mouth because it's in the right place, and all those fingers are tipped in teeth.

Metody pauses a moment to admire his new part. It's a little larger than the stranger, but that's fine, because skeletons are mostly air anyway. In terms of mass, they might be the same. He leans slowly forward, ponderous head tilting and lowering in a slow bow, and then he sweeps out all his arms in a joyful gesture of welcome.

Possibly a bit fewer teeth, the next time he makes this bit of him.

[whyfearthedark]

Nuada watches with something akin to fascination as bone writhes over bone and connects as if by intent rather than design: a towering creature forms, more equal to him in shape but little else. Obviously sentient, or it wouldn't shift in such a manner at his approach.

He stands, clasping his hands behind his back. "I am Nuada Silverlance. I ask free passage through your demesne."

[skinandbone]

Metody tilts his head in silent question, then steps aside and sweeps an arm out towards...some of the other passages, at least. Not counting the passage he entered through, there are five ways to go, and two of them are in the opposite direction of his gesture. The intent is there, though.

And he won't have to go alone! See, here's the original bit Nuada followed in, or a piece that looks jut like it. The creature settles down beside him.

[whyfearthedark]

Nuada, not fully content with that answer, looks between his aspiring canine companion and its supposed master. "I asked to see this one's master," gesturing with understated grace at the little one.

"Am I to understand you hold that title?"

[skinandbone]

The two creatures look at each other, heads tilting at the same angle, and then they both look to Nuada. The movements are perfectly synchronized.

A skeletal hand lifts, and tilts back and forth on the air. Metody is very firm on the idea that he is utterly independent - no ruler, no commander, no Master - but he is willing to accept that he owns himself. So....yes. The tall creature's head tilts down and up and down again in a ponderous nod.

[whyfearthedark]

Ah! A hive mind in the more poetic sense: one consciousness shared by the many. An avatar for the lake of lost souls, thusly fashioned after the bones of the fallen.

Or so he suspects: more and more he is beginning to see nothing is quite what it seems - and in a different manner than he's used to. Very well.

He bows, and his long hair spills over his shoulders to hang like a curtain around his head. His hand sweeps gracefully to his side and across his chest. "Your autonomy goes unchallenged, O Many-jointed One-and-All. I shall monopolize your time no more."

[skinandbone]

A gentle clatter goes through the room; Metody is giggling at the idea of any aspect of this part of him being monopolized. The taller creature moves to the side as dozens of slender legs extend and drag it across the concrete floor, and then it bows again to Nuada. The movement is becoming much more fluid and graceful as Metody learns how to properly balance the over-large head he has made for himself.

Perhaps next time he won't make the head so big. But still...big head, big face, big communication, right?

The dog-like creature nudges at Nuada's leg, then bounces from limb to limb, tilting up at him expectantly. Where to?

[whyfearthedark]

Of all the things Nuada could question about this entire ménagerie, he chooses not to voice them. He merely walks past, and - with a glance down at the aspiring canine - wonders what he's gotten himself into.

He's no time for stray pups.

"I asked you to bring me to your master. Your obligation to me is done, little one-of-many."