taxonomites | Entries tagged with nuada silverlance

Suddenly, the lemon sun is high in the sky and all the cocoa-dusted shadows are short, so it must be noon. There is singing in the distance, but the songs never get too far. A few lines in, something interrupts, there's a scream and the singing stops. A moment later, it starts again in a different voice.

( So many bad rhymes )

whyfearthedark

One might think that an elf bound by his own code would rush to fulfil his end of a bargain, and one would be right given a few prerequisites: one being that the elf in question didn't feel cheated, and was not prone to hold a grudge.

One Paul Smecker lost him his one pastime (or a rather substantial chunk of it), and Nuada, who can be said to be so many things, is not one to forget past slights. He gorges himself on them, and lets them fester and rot in his belly until they burn hotter than the sun.

This is not to say he's no intention of honouring their deal. He is bound by honour, after all, and as much as he is vengeful he is honourable.

Some may complain that he wiles away the days and the nights, that he does nothing to initiate his lessons in close quarter combat. Hand-to-hand, foot-to-temple, elbow-to-nose - oh, he shall teach them. He shall teach them pain, and its consequences. He shall push them until they bleed, the little cockroaches, and they shall have to prove to him that they want to learn.

All in due time.

First, he needs a venue.

He isn't particularly in the mood for shopping gymnasiums. The thought amuses: to find and make use of an ancient Greek gymnasium, with all its rules and regulations. He doubts most of the modern humans would overcome their modesty and fight in the nude.

More's the pity. What better way to learn than to be completely stripped of their imaginary armaments? A slip of fabric won't save them from evisceration, after all.

He walks the streets with purpose today, with some form of measured intent; one after the other location is dismissed and discarded at first or second glance, until finally he finds it. It.

It is a small school, where Extra children go to learn nothing at all. It is a small school with a big enough PE hall.

The Extra coach, complete with whistle hung around his neck, looks none too pleased to have him there. "Excuse me, mister, uh, if you need to talk to your kid, please do it after class--"

One white hand shoots out, grabbing the simulacra by the leather whistle strap. "This. Is. Mine. You need to leave now. You and your children."

The Extra blinks, glassy-eyed with a lack of comprehension. Nuada watches as another light flicks on behind the fake eyes, and the man plasters on a cheerful smile. "Oh, of course sir. Right away, sir."

"Yes. Run along now. Don't come back."

"No, of course not, sir." The coach blows his whistle, catching the attention of the prepubescents and the adolescents. "Everyone! Outside! Laps 'round campus!"

The desolate chorus of teenagers shuffling their feet out the double doors is like a kind of music to Nuada's ears.

There. Now to test the equipment.

trojanhorst

Horst Cabal is wearing a new suit. His skin is rosy and vibrant, his hair's been recently trimmed, and Taxon's never seen him look quite so healthy and non-vampiric. If some of that's makeup, or careful lighting and a deceptive camera angle, well, hopefully the Taxonians watching his video feed aren't interested enough to notice. The message itself is short:

Good evening, fellow residents. I believe most of us know each other by now, but this is Horst Cabal. I know the past few weeks have been hard on us all -- physically, emotionally, psychologically, spiritually, socially, or in any other way which might matter to you -- and I understand from some of you that it can be difficult to bring ourselves to deal with things that have happened when we've already been through so much -- but please believe me that this is no way to live. Or to not-live, as your case may be. If you can in any way find it in your schedule to attend a gathering a few friends and I are hosting later this week at the Kelebek Hotel, we'd appreciate the opportunity to discuss what's happened recently with Mr. Blood and his demon in the city, and what things we can and should be doing to address situations like these. We promise to be brief, and not to waste your time, but nothing we discuss as a community is worthwhile unless everyone is on board, so please make every effort to attend. Precise time and date are enclosed in the attached note.

* * * *

The friends Horst Cabal has recruited to help him host this little gathering appear to be (and are) chosen for their social graces in this particular instance: the effortless Bagoas of Susa and the genial Metody Green, the two people in Taxon he best trusts to be on everyone else's good side, and to be able to stay there. They are non-threatening and likable in a way that a vampire cannot possibly manage, and he's counting on their combined neutral-to-positive social status to be able to offset his own position as a relative newcomer and a stranger. Things that might sound naive or pushy coming from Horst Cabal's mouth may sound more reasonable if Bagoas and Metody are espousing them.

Horst's own brother is not among the company of those invited to play host to this little soiree. While Horst certainly expects him to be present, a lifetime of having been Johannes's older brother has meant that Horst isn't nearly stupid enough to put Johannes in charge of anything that relies on his ability to seem likable. This is like putting a porcupine in charge of handing out balloons at the state fair: comically inadvisable, very loud, and quite likely to end with any number of tearful children.

The Kelebek is notoriously well-appointed and elegant, and it boasts the sorts of sumptuous lounges and ballrooms where a group like theirs can comfortably meet and talk in the illusion of a private setting. Horst and his companions have collaborated on an arrangment of chairs that encourage people to seat themselves rather than remaining standing, with the walls generally being lined with tables where food and drinks can be served (at Metody's suggestion). The feeling is of a formal meeting, rather than an informal community social.

This evening's hosts are there to greet people as they arrive, encourage them to help themselves to food, and to take seats, but true to their word, they don't intend to commence with business until everyone seems to have arrived.

In the meantime, Taxonians, there seem to be only as many chairs available as there are known residents of the city. Those who arrive first get their pick of the seats available, but everyone's going to have to sit next to at least one other person. Have at it.

* * * *

[[OOC: Welcome to the post-Etrigan meeting! I hope everyone can tag in with their characters. We'll get to the meeting discussion within the next 24 hours (RL time), but wanted to give people a chance to tag in with their characters' arrival/reactions to the message/etc. before then, as this also gives people a chance to opt out of the meeting if your character wouldn't choose to attend. IF YOUR CHARACTER IS NOT ATTENDING, PLEASE MAKE AN OOC POST ON THIS POST SO WE KNOW NOT TO HANDWAVE YOUR CHARACTER'S PRESENCE. Otherwise you are entirely welcome to assume your character is in attendance even if you should decide you don't have time to RP in this thread (though we hope you can!).

Horst, Metody, and Bagoas are all here already, so feel free to say hi to any of them if you wish, or you can handwave that and just direct your character to a seat.

BY THE WAY, THERE ARE THREE ROWS OF FIVE CHAIRS. You can feel free to decide where your character sits (though this won't impact the meeting in any way other than giving you the chance to decide who your character will sit next to/who they'll be able to lean over to talk to/etc. should they decide to get chatty). This is not required, but you can OOCLY indicate your character's seat by putting an O on the following chart where they're sitting, for example, front and center would be:

XXOXX
XXXXX
XXXXX

We hope to see you all here -- and remember, you can tag in any time you like! Although Horst/Bagoas/Metody certainly share the goal of trying to convince everyone to be more of a community, ultimately how this meeting turns out is not scripted at all, and whatever we end up with will be totally great.]]

skinandbone

'Kind' isn't the same as 'wise', and Metody is extraordinarily conscious of this as she hesitantly approaches Nuada's airy home, aided by the wonders of her comm.

Somehow, she expected him to live in a towering castle on a grand estate, like a combination of Art Nouveau and Versailles. The warehouse comes as a surprise, but this is where his location beacon thing says he is.

She lingers at the end of the street, her desire to do the right thing warring with her instinct of self preservation, then sighs and trudges forward. She's already made up the care basket, and finding an organic market for the fruits and vegetables had cost her a f- a dang fortune. Obtaining the meat had been easier, but it was no less expensive, in the long run. It would be stupid to do all the work and then turn back now.

Metody lifts her hand, and gently taps at his front door. If there are gods here (but there aren't, because she'd sense them) and if they listened to her prayers this morning (of course they didn't), he will be soundly asleep and she can just leave the basket on the doorstep, and trust to the blue ice to keep the neatly wrapped packages of meat cold.

personaldemon

In a scene vaguely reminiscent of ~~King Kong~~ Emperor Ape, there's a figure clinging to the side of the top of the Sanctuary, tonight. Gouges in the white marble-like substance show where it has clawed its way up to the top, and now studies the greenhouse structure atop the Sanctuary through slitted red eyes.

Fire creates smoke, and more tellingly, light: bright light, a splendid beacon atop this pretty little tower to draw Heroes and Doers-of-Good. It rather ruins his stealth. Those who have taken exception to his jests will come forth, raging? Bitter? Crying tears of anger?

Only if he's lucky, he supposes.

Etrigan shrugs, opens his jaws, and breathes a gout of infernal fire upon the buildings at the top of the Sanctuary. Glass erupts in bursting shards, and the wooden frames of the greenhouse, as well as some of the plants within, begin to blaze.

The demon perches like a gargoyle on the white stone and waits, watching the streets and the sky. Surely someone in the city has enough of a self-righteous streak to come and play.

Because fun as this playing about with fears and whispers has been, he's very, very bored... and idle hands are indeed the devil's workshop.

personaldemon

It's surprisingly difficult to faithfully reproduce cave art while being badgered by questions from Sherlock Holmes.

Jason Blood sighs to himself as he closes up the leatherbound journal he'd been filling with sketches of the symbols (many of them completely unknown to him, which is novel in its own right, interesting), wraps the tie-cord shut, and slides it back into his leather messenger bag.

"Given that Taxon's stars are different from Earth's, Mr. Holmes, I'm afraid most of what I could tell you about traditional astrology may be somewhat moot. I have been charting the local stars since my arrival, and if you think that information would be useful, I suppose I can share it."

(And walking back to town to retrieve those things will feel like less of a waste of his personal time than sitting here attempting to draw while the terrier of empirical knowledge gnaws at his heels, so.)

Only half-listening to Holmes's reply, Jason Blood heads back out the shallow cave's mouth to the comparatively bright sunlight, squinting for a moment against it. Caves, caves; after the ice tunnels and now this, he's beginning to be tired of caves, but the art had been too interesting to pass up.

The path, or ledge might be a better term, that leads down the side of the cliff face to more level ground, is fairly treacherous going. Jason keeps one hand on the rock face, and minds his footing as he goes-- there's a granite scree underfoot which can wrench an ankle all too easily.

Judging only by the sounds of Sherlock Holmes moving behind him, he would wager Holmes is not quite so careful with his footing.

...if Holmes sprains his ankle, Jason resolves here and now he is not carrying him.

theextras

The snow has stopped falling.

The air is bitterly cold, still as a grave. If you listen very quietly you can hear the accumulated snow settling, settling, a little denser, a little thicker.

The silence is pierced at noon by a ragged scream.

One of the Extras comes floundering through the deep snow down one of the central streets of Taxon, leaving a bright scarlet trail behind him. One bloody hand points back towards the ominous mountain.

"She's coming!" the man yells hoarsely, and collapses onto the virgin snow.

[OOC: Subthreads in the comments! Throw your characters wherever, whenever. A chaotic final huzzah to the Taxsicle plot, because organization somehow still eludes me.]

aintnoconvict

"All right, I'll try and make this quick:"

Glitch? Getting to the point in a reasonable amount of time? Is it possible?

"For those who don't know me: my name's Glitch, I'm that guy who's been here since forever and kinda know the most about all the...stuff that goes on here. Sorta."

No, no it is not.

"Anyway, ah...I've been studying the lighthouse and found some peculiarities with the light-beam thingy which I wanna discuss with everyone. Or most of you, if you can make it. Plus there was that whole hanging out and having drinks thing which I mentioned before all the stuff north of the river happened-- hey we can talk about that too."

Yeah he is taking notes now, all frowny and confuzzled.

"Right! Unless you've got something drastic going on, let's meet at the Black Friar after sundown for the...sunlight-avoidant. First round of drinks is on me. See you later."

ooc: Gathering of the citizens! This is a mingle log so tag in, tag each other, frolic away. I will be adding a tag of Glitch discussing his Very Scientific Observations and there will e a Q&A to follow which I hope will e full of threadjacking. And here havesome pub details. Go go go!

apackofone

The full moon comes with cold, pale inevitability.

Remus is settling into his routine. He gets himself settled down in the basement, blanket, tablet and wand safely hidden away from the wolf and gives himself a mild sedative to ease the start of the transformation.

He's lost his worries about breaking out of the basement. The wolf is cunning but by now, he's closed all the loopholes it could use to get out.

So when the moon rises, the wolf investigates, howling and roaring its defiance to the world and sulkily eating before it settles in for a long night of tearing itself to pieces in frustration.

somelittleinfamy

There is something stuck to Johannes Cabal’s wrist.

Oh, and it does rather appear that someone’s abducted him--again. But that’s a matter of secondary concern. There’s something stuck to his wrist and that’s annoying. It’s some sort of lady’s wristwatch and it’s fused straight through the skin of his wrist: molded seamlessly into his body like some demented surgeon’s flayed the skin off his right arm in a ring and lovingly stitched it back up with a smooth hard bracelet where his flesh had used to be. He worries at it with the fingers of his left hand but all he succeeds in doing is turning the skin around the wristwatch rash-pink: it won’t come loose. The watch is useless, too. It’s covered in pointless buttons and it hasn’t even got a face.

“Verdammt noch mal,” he mutters and resigns himself to looking around.

This is how this always works: 1. Someone abducts him. 2. They want something. 3. The something is either something to which he might assent, like creating a horrific monster for them, or something to which he won’t, like being tortured and executed. There is not usually a point in this process where someone consults Johannes. There is not even always a point in this process where someone explains to Johannes what’s going on. So finding himself in an odd room with some sort of collar fused to his wrist and not the foggiest idea of what’s happening isn’t quite as disquieting for Johannes Cabal as it might have been for other persons of his acquaintance; this sort of thing is, not to put too fine a point on it, always happening to him. He’s never been at a loss for enemies.

Usually, though, they have the decency to turn up at all. He takes inventory: he’s wearing everything he was when the ship he was on--er, crashed--and he’s got his cane, which is a trifle insulting, really, because no one ever leaves a prisoner with a weapon unless they’re making a point. And he still hasn’t seen a sign of who sent him here.

The metal room is bare, clinical, even a little laboratorial, which doesn’t surprise him: cells tend to be featureless. What they don’t tend to be is open. This room has an open doorway: waiting for him, it seems, to walk through. To Hell with the doorway. It’s clearly a trap. He ignores it: anyone who goes to the trouble of kidnapping him can damned well come and explain things to him themselves; he has no interest in running some sort of ridiculous rat maze for his captor’s or captors’ benefit.

The really irritating thing about this is--all right, all of this is the really irritating thing. This is a really irritating situation. Look, resigning yourself to this sort of thing and developing a tolerance for it are not quite the same. But the really, really irritating thing about this is he has no genuine idea of what’s happening. He hasn’t stolen any books recently. He doesn’t think this suits the modi operandi of any of the people he’s recently angered, most of whom are dead, anyway. If he didn’t know better, he’d have to say that about this whole situation, there’s something curiously--impersonal, almost.

This is stupid. Someone is going to turn up sooner or later, they’re going to tell him what they want, and either he’s going to give it to them or he isn’t. This is stupid, he tells himself and, still clad in his black waistcoat and jacket, sits down on the floor to wait.

As far as Taxon’s concerned, he’s a nondescript, yellow-haired man of about thirty wearing spectacles and a three-piece suit cut in the style of the late nineteenth century; he looks peeved, but not shocked, and like he has every idea of what’s happening and just doesn’t care for it. (In fact, he’s cultivated this expression; it’s amazing how far you can go in life simply by looking as though you aren’t surprised by anything.) As far as he’s concerned, he’s a necromancer of some little infamy and things don’t just happen to him without a distinct purpose: someone always wants something. Ergo, he’ll wait here until they tell him. The only thing that casts a shadow of doubt over his straightforward hypothesis is the open door: when he glances at it some rebellious part of his mind says, and what will you do if there is, in fact, something you haven’t accounted for?

whyfearthedark

If there's one thing that can be said for Nuada, it is that he does not suffer idleness. Since his arrival he has gathered information from Long, traded for tools with Glitch, found a friend in an upside-down skull monstrosity under the delusion it's a canine companion, proposed a bargain with a werewolf - and generally made quite a nuisance of himself.

He has a standing arrangement with the barriers surrounding the city, for instance, and he knows for certain there are two residents here who would like nothing more than for him to make an untoward move. Or, well, one of them; the would-be knight, the tarnished champion of the 'peaceful' residents. The other one, the woman, he's not so sure would raise a hand unless it served her own agenda.

If she sets her filthy paws on his crown, he'll rip her voicebox right out. That goes for anyone, human or simply a fool.

But, all that aside, as mentioned, idleness sits very poorly with him. Having ventured into the Northern district, it seemed to him a natural progression to see about weapons. The Extra patron wasn't too happy about relinquishing his forge, but Nuada can be very persuasive.

And so, one elven prince can be found in the Medieval village's forge, day or night, fashioning himself a pair of blades. Bare from the waist up and perfectly covered in soot and grime, handling the metal and the heat as if he's done so a thousand times before. Perhaps so. But a more relevant question is this:

Do you dare approach?

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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The City of Taxon

Entries tagged with nuada silverlance

So much doggrel

[location: central] let's do the time warp agaaain - backdated to before the system glitch :D

[visual: all > location: Kelebek Hotel] Town Hall

(no subject)

[Location] [Big Brawly Doom] ~nighttime~

[Location] Adventure Zone [Sherlock Holmes and Jason Blood, for now]

[~THE SOUND OF WIIIINTER~ shut up I'll riff on Bush if I want to]

061 ± [visual / location: the black friar] done with all the circlin' round

[Locked | For Nuada]

[holo] [location: Sanctuary] a devil put aside for me

02: Who says you can't appropriate a forge?

01 [holo] A different kind of fairy*

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