TDM The First

[lethevale_mods]

You probably know how this works, but just in case, here's the idea:

1. You put the name of the character you're testing out in the subject line
2. You write a starter (or several!) in the comment, with the Lethevale AU of your character.
3. People respond with their characters. Threads occur. Friendships are made. The world is put to rights.
4. None of the threads in the Test Drive are game-canon.

Here are some prompts to start you off!

1. Seeking Shelter

You were riding along the mountain road when your horse, terrified by some dark shadow you couldn't see clearly, screamed and bolted, throwing you. Now you're caught in the middle of nowhere, in Lethe Wood, and the rain is getting heavier by the minute.

But what's that? A light? A house? Perhaps if you knock, they'll give you a bed for the night. It'll all look better in the morning...

 

 

2. The Beast! The Terrible Beast!

You took all the precautions. You carried a lantern, kept to the safer streets. Or maybe you didn't. Either way, you were attacked by something as big as a horse, with gleaming white teeth and a hideous howl.

When you run into another person, will you warn them? Will you ask them for a hiding place, or stand and fight? If all else fails, maybe you can use them as live bait...

 

3. Eat, Drink, and Be Merry

Lethevale isn't all monsters and storms. Mostly, but not all. Tonight, there's a party in the Black Swan - dancing, music, and of course, an open bar. Take the chance to get to know your neighbours, why don't you?

4. Pay No Attention To The Passage Behind The Curtain

The two of you were just wandering around Lethe Hall, when you leant on a candlestick, and... what's this? The bookshelf's opened? There's a hole in the wall now, and a spiral staircase leading down into the dark. You know, it's probably best to just leave well enough alone - but you have to admit, it's curious...

COMMS	GENERAL INFO	NEW PLAYERS	CURRENT PLAYERS
main writings ooc mods mod npcs	rules setting premise faq/mod contact gameplay	reserves taken latest tdm application au workshop	contact (locked) hiatus/drop calendar latest hmd lethevale

Comments

Major Elim Rawne

[major_rawne]

(he's going by the name Ibram Gaunt, so if the characters have met before, that's what they know him as)

1. Seeking Shelter:
Rawne had been riding hell for leather along the narrow dirt road winding through the mountains when his horse had thrown him. He'd lain insensible for some time, he knew not how long, during which it had started raining.
He woke by the side of the road, wet through, with nothing but a wall of rain and trees everywhere he looked. He'd staggered off up the road, hoping for shelter, but finding none. After what seemed like forever, just as he'd collapsed against a tree, wholly worn out, he noticed a light up ahead, not far off the road. After a brief rest, he started resolutely towards it.

2. Pay No Attention To The Passage Behind The Curtain:
He'd always guessed that there were secret passages in this old house. When the bookshelf opened, he turned to his companion and gestured. "After you."

1

[insufficientjewel]

Half-hidden among the trees stood a small, stone cottage, in some disrepair; there were slates missing from the roof and a steady trickle of rainwater fell from a hole in the little roof above the door, but the firelight coming from the window was warm and welcoming.

The door opened before Rawne could knock, and a tall man dressed in a darned woollen suit held up his candle, stepping aside at once to gesture the stranger inside.

"Come in," he urged. "Quickly, before the rain follows you."

[tuishou]

The Hall ought to be one of the older buildings here; it certainly held the importance of one with such history. It was a behemoth of a thing for such a town, and even entering the threshold made the boy think he should first have asked permission, though such a thought is a silly thing. If one works in the damned city, then one has all the rights to its places that belong to all and none in particular. He'd set about his evening to look not the part of some tourist--

There are records kept here, old dates and happenings, and he was being pulled to find them and know them, if they were ever worth the while.

Somewhere along the line, he'd encountered the man with the mark on his face. First time, Neji was certain feigning ignorance of the man was the right call. Second time they bumped into each other's space, and the stairs mocked them as they winded down, down... made Neji want to pull a face. A ringing in his ears sing-songs something about Fate, and it's incredibly difficult to

not act as if he's just taken those two words sourly, really. "How generous of you, sir," he says, and wonders: why this, why now? "Seeing as you have been here before, then I shall assume you will know our way back out. What may we find there that will be worth the dark, sir?"

seeking shelter;

[deadandgone]

Normally, Francis can't be bothered by a bit of rain. But when the clouds overhead begin to gather, dark and angry, he curses his poor luck. It's the only explanation for how a clear day turns sour so quickly - and on land, no less.

Pulling up the collar on his coat, Francis sets off at a brisk pace for the stone bridge he knows is over the raise in the road. His companion, a large, shaggy black dog, travels in figure eights in front and behind him, seemingly unperturbed by the downpour of rain that was presently turning the dirt road into mud. When the dog stops by the tree line, so does Francis, peering into the dark of the forest where the Newfoundland has his gaze fixed. He raises his lantern, one hand on the pistol in his coat pocket as a figure emerges. The man is a stranger to Francis and looks soaked to the bone, clothes and hair threaded with branches and leaves.

Francis narrows his eyes, sizing up the man he isn't entirely sure is a fellow resident of Lethevale.

"Just taking a nap out in the woods, are you?" he says, expecting a good answer.

James Fitzjames

[endofvanity]

1. Seeking Shelter
The carriage-driver in the last town before Lethe Wood would go no further, so Fitzjames took down his trunk and bargained with a local for a donkey-cart that he could continue with. The cart was rickety and the donkey a pathetic, spavined beast; Fitzjames reckoned neither would be missed. Nor him, for that matter. As he guided the beast along the road, something spooked it and somehow it broke its traces and vanished into the night. Fitzjames thought he heard it braying, and then the sound was abruptly cut off.

Now he's hauling his trunk along in the dark, soaked to the skin, too miserable to be angry, when he sees a light through the trees. He follows it to a small shelter, the sort of thing a hunter might take refuge in; there's a lantern lighted and a half-burned-out fire in the corner. There's just enough embers for him to get it going again with the bits of wood and kindling he can scrounge. Someone, he thinks, was here recently. Hopefully—if they're coming back—they're friendly.

2. The Beast
He's taken to wearing his service revolver as a matter of course, and a good thing too when the creature charges him. He gets the revolver out of its holster and up—

and then despite the chill, he suddenly feels the heat of Africa on his skin, sees the monstrous lion-thing that killed Franklin, and he freezes. He's seized with nausea, his hands shake, and he can't pull the trigger.

The Beast creeps closer, foulness dripping from its jaws.

3. Eat, Drink, and Be Merry
Fitzjames is sitting by the fire with a glass of sherry in his hand, and if you want to be regaled with his adventures in the Crimea and Africa, well, tonight's your lucky night.

Though if you catch him later, you might find him staring into the fire, not quite all there apparently, lost in thought.

2

[major_rawne]

A gun fires just behind Fitzjames, though the bullet barely scrapes the creature's skin.

"Damn!" Rawne holds his gun up and thumps it, "I paid a bloody fortune for this and the aim's off!"

He's a man of military bearing, though wearing civilian clothes. And, though the light is dim, faint bits of a tattoo are visible around one eye.

1

[ketill]

Torquil - Thomas, he has to remember that, is ready to face the possibility of robbers or man eating beasts or, as the most extreme proof of his misery in the face of rain and storm, one of his siblings some how managing to have found him as long as there's some sort of shelter. He is in no fit state to meet anyone of quality, but he finds it hard to believe he would encounter any of such type here, and hours of rain are (almost) enough to overcome his vanity.

He still pauses in the doorway when he sees the shelter already has an occupant.

2

[insufficientjewel]

Francis is not, by any means, a military man. He is fit, yes, and perfectly capable of holding his own in a fight if absolutely necessary, but he has no training and carries no weapon. He has, however, always been blessed with quick reflexes and excellent aim.

He doesn't hesitate, nor even think of running. When he sees the other man freeze, and the dark shadow advancing, he stoops at once and picks up a cobblestone, throwing it with all his might. It bounces squarely against the creature's eye with a wet thud, and the beast recoils, letting out a horrifying howl that echoes, ragged and furious, around the narrow street.

"Fire!" Francis tries to keep his voice calm, but he's all but shouting, bending to grope for another stone. He can see the other man is struggling, but stones aren't likely to see off something this size, and Fitzjames is the one with the gun.

3

[splitinvain]

If he was honest, Vere was less here for the conversation and more for the warmth. Even with the room filled with the masses, he could not shake the chill from his bones, and only the warmth of the fireplace helping stop the subtle shakes of his thin frame. In reference to the mixed company he had removed his gloves, his hat, and his great coat, revealing the ink etched into the skin of his hands, the signet ring of jade and gold on his left hand, and a high collar that does little to hide more ink on his neck. As Fitzjames finishes one tale, Vere raises his glass - maybe in acknowledgment though there's a hint of mockery in the curve of his lips - and downs his drink.

"Well told, good sir," he says, setting his glass aside. "Truly you had... adventures enough for one man."

2

[deuceoftears]

There are sounds from the up the road behind him, plodding and rustling and one sharp snort, and then soft thuds turn into thunder as a patch of night surges past him. The great black warhorse looks smaller, bearing down on the beast, so rarely confronted with anything its own size. But it rears up, refuses the comparison, and before the creature can lunge to disembowel it, the horse bring its full weight (and its rider's, another blur in black, with a face like a single lofted lantern) down on the creature's head. Something cracks and squelches, and the beast shudders and stumbles, but doesn't collapse.

Its head hangs open like a second maw.

It turns from side to side, wobbling horribly, making a snuffling, gurgling noise: both blinded and choked by its own ichors, the beast is still trying to sniff them out. After wheeling away to bleed off momentum, the horse and rider come around for another charge. Hearing the clatter of stained steel horseshoes picking up again, the beast lurches and lopes back into the thicker dark of the forest.

The horse chivvies back and forth, stamping at the edge of the road, steely-eyed and resentful of his stymied pursuit. But the rider holds him back, leaning forward to stroke his neck, murmuring in a low voice with a soft accent. "Thanks, Rev. You got him enough for tonight, okay?"

He slips down off the horse and approaches Fitzjames on foot, and they finally get a look at each other. The boy can't be older than twenty, probably closer to seventeen.

"Are you alright, sir?"

Faramir ("Francis Fletcher") | Lord of the Rings

[insufficientjewel]

[1. Seeking Shelter]
It's his books that spring to Francis' mind first of all when his horse, usually so mild-tempered, shies and rears; when he catches his breath after splashing into the mud, he scrambles for his bags before even thinking to check that he himself is hurt. Thankfully, the leather-bound volumes are well packed in oilskin, and although he doesn't dare expose them to the rain long enough for more than a cursory check, they don't seem too visibly damaged. Francis breathes a sigh of relief that catches in his bruised ribs, buckles the bag closed again, and pushes himself carefully to his feet.

The rain lashes down so hard he can barely see a yard ahead of him, even when the flashes of lightning illuminate the muddy woods. Francis is limping a little as, a heavy bag slung across each shoulder, he begins to follow the road, a tall and slender silhouette disappearing into the lashing, howling storm.

When he sees the light, he hesitates. It seems dangerous to leave the road in such conditions, even for something that seems as close as that light through the trees. Thoughts of will'o'the wisps and witch-lights hang heavy on him. But his bags are heavy, and there is little choice, really.

His knock on the door of the little cottage is loud and insistent, and whoever opens the door will be met with an intimidating first impression. He is a tall man, and grim-featured, and his cloak shadows his face and flaps around him, making him look bigger still. Even so, when he speaks, his voice is friendly enough, gentle and slightly accented, pitched over the roar of the storm.

"I'm so sorry to bother you. I... may I come in?"


[2. Eat, Drink, and Be Merry]
There's no sense in missing out on an opportunity to get to know people, although Francis has never been much of a barfly. Getting himself a mug of small beer, more for the sake of politeness than anything, he looks around the inn for some time before spotting someone who appears to be without companionship.

He stands now beside your table, beer in hand, and clears his throat politely. "Excuse me, is this seat taken?"


[3. The Passage]
His first response, when the door slides open from what had looked to be solid oak panelling, is a kind of panic. Before he entirely registers what's happened, he's very afraid that he's broken something, that on visiting the manor he's immediately started to accidentally knock it apart.

But that isn't reasonable, and he knows it. It doesn't take long for him to understand that this entrance has been made by design - and quite cunning design, too, by the looks of things - and then guilty panic gives way to equally guilty curiosity. He turns to his companion, frowning slightly.

"Do you suppose we ought to... find a way to close it?" he asks, slowly, and his sharp grey eyes scan his companion's face, trying to gauge their own response.

The Passage

[ketill]

Thomas, as he had introduced himself, is lounging against a wall that hasn't mysteriously opened, initial surprise having been quickly hidden by a degree of affected casualness. These sorts of happenings are only to be expected in a proper house, and he hates looking like he doesn't know something.

"One would think that if they did not wish such a door to be opened, it would be far harder to do so." He tries for a careless drawl, but he's a bit too interested in what might lie beyond, even if it's probably just servant stairs.

1

[deuceoftears]

The man who answers the door (boy, really, Jedao looks all of seventeen) is at least a head shorter than Francis, but he carries a sleek double-edged sword with the casual ease of someone who knows how to use it. The sword is low between them, almost insultingly unthreatening. He doesn't have his heels together for a proper first position, but the quiet readiness of his relaxed shoulders and the downward angle of the blade suggest it.

He takes in the stranger's courtesy, his gentle voice, his muddy saddlebags heaped awkwardly in his arms.

He takes a step back, out of the doorway. "It wouldn't be fair to refuse you," he says, and his voice has a soft accent from somewhere quite far away, but the gentle tone of it isn't too different from Francis's own. "Given that I'm only seeking shelter myself."

The room beyond him is badly dilapidated, and there are a few leaks and a few rotten floorboards sprouting mushrooms and dandelions, but Jedao has managed drag a mattress through the dust and rip it open, using the worst of the hay for kindling and heaping up the rest around a bedroll.

2

[withoutswords]

Eona is without companionship, certainly, sitting at a table on the side and nursing a beer of her own. She glances up at the man's approach, takes in his appearance quickly with a small shrug. "No, it is not. You may join me if you like." Her language is formal, educated; her accent speaks of better breeding than her clothes suggest.

She sits up straighter, eyeing her new acquaintance further. Bookish sort, from the looks of him, tall and beaky, but with sharp eyes. As clean-shaven as she is, which makes her smile a little to herself. She knows what he'll see: a tall beardless youth, blond hair worn a bit longer than fashionable but tied back neatly, in good clothing that's worn out most of its goodness. If he dismisses her as callow and untried, as most people do...well, that suits her purpose for now.

She looks back at the dancers, nodding towards them with her chin. "There's a good view of the dancing from this table, at least."

[cast_iron_bitch]

1. seeking or not seeking shelter:

Ever since his brother's death, Laurent had dreaded getting on a horse. That didn't mean he didn't do it, of course. To ride was far easier than to be hitched behind a horse, and like most things he set his mind to, Laurent was excellent at it.

But since seeing August trampled under hooves, Laurent could never truly love the act again, all the moreso now that his mare had thrown him from her back and into the ditch below. "Loyse," Laurent hissed into the darkness, but the horse had long fled, spooked by the shadow that had streaked across their path.

The shadow that Laurent was now alone with.

Mouth set in a grim line, Laurent reached past the books in his satchel to the LeMat revolver beneath them.

The brush stirred.

He cocked the hammer.

3. there was an attempt at being merry:

Laurent only came here for accomodation. A warm, dry bed, potentially a bath, seclusion from prying eyes. Yet on arrival he'd been told that there were no beds, but one might open up at any moment.

That was...unsettling, but with nowhere else to go and his horse long gone, all Laurent could do was wait. Perched now at the bar, he could not feel more out of place. He did not drink, a fact that grew only more resolute the number of times the barkeep cajoled him.

"Water," he said, not for the first time as the barkeep returned. "And stew." Pale eyes flashed. "There is extra coin in it for you if you leave me be."

4. the passage:

Laurent stared in consternation at the hole where the bookshelf had only just been. A part of him - a small, ragged part - thrilled for the sudden adventure, while the rest of him pined for the spines of books he'd truly wished to see.

In their place, darkness beckoned, as well as the tremble of distant candlelight against the walls. Laurent hesitated.

He should not go in alone, yet he did not know a soul here.

4

[major_rawne]

Rawne paused in the doorway, taking in the room. He'd been merely intending to discover the layout of the place, but here was a greater mystery. A secret passage through a bookshelf. Who knew where it went?

"Are you going in?"

1

[insufficientjewel]

The man who stumbled out from among the leaves was no shadow, no spook in the night. True, he was tall, and shrouded in a dark cloak, and moved with surprising grace and silence for a man who was limping so heavily - but he was solidly human, and at the sight of the gun pointed at him, raised his hands in pacification. He carried a heavy satchel on one shoulder, and no weapons that could be seen, and by the look of him, was as weary and cold as Laurent.

"Please." His voice was calm, but not without emotion; there was a thread of weary desperation that carried through in his tone. "I am looking for shelter. Nothing more."

4

[her_rose_is_red]

It is likely that he was not expecting a young girl's voice to pipe up behind him. But there she is, one hand over her mouth to cover a small gasp of surprise.

"Oh! The wall opened..."

After a glance at the empty space where the bookcase used to be, Ib looks up at him curiously.

"How did you do that?"

Boromir Wójcik Ectheliowski

[hobbitstho]

1. Seeking shelter:

He's a skilled rider, but it doesn't save him from the fall. Skill and luck mean he doesn't hit the dirt as hard as he could have, and not headfirst-- but when he gets to his feet it's with a shooting pain in one leg that says he shouldn't hike any mountain trails tonight. Not a break, he thinks, but it will want rest. And anything he might have used to ease his way is gone with the horse.

He curses his misfortune aloud, but the rain swallows the sound. And then he pulls his wide hat-brim down further and starts up the trail, favoring his bruised leg.

He's beginning to fear he'll have to sleep as best he can sodden under a tree when he sees the light in the distance. With a cry of relief he starts toward it, pushing over the uneven ground faster than he ought, and not caring what branches tear at his clothes.

But he pauses to compose himself before he knocks. Even though the beckoning warmth from within is so close as to be maddening, he straightens, and shakes the rain from his hat before he puts it back on, and beats what mud he can from his cloak. Let whoever answers the door know they are receiving a gentleman, and not a robber on the road or a soldier begging quarter.

He raises a fist and pounds on the door three times, and prays to God someone answers.

--

2. The Beast! The Terrible Beast!

It lurched out of an alley like out of a nightmare, and he lost precious fractions of a second staring at it, trying to force it to be something he recognizes. By the time he has the presence of mind to reach for his gun it is upon him, slamming him back into the stone wall behind him, burying horrible white teeth in his shoulder.

He manages to connect a fist with one of its eyes, and it gives a howl that he feels through every one of his bones and stumbles back away from him-- just long enough that he can fire off a wild shot and then take off running, back toward wider streets.

His mind races: There may be others on the street. He must drive them ahead of him, if he finds them. He must remain always between the townsfolk and the monster.

"Go! Go!" he shouts at whoever he sees, in a voice he used to make heard across the chaos of a mountain battlefield. The blood running down his arm, the pitch of his shoulders, and the pistol in his hand lend him urgency - to say nothing of the second furious howl that bursts from the alley behind him.

--

3. Pay No Attention To The Passage Behind The Curtain

"Aha!" He takes a hasty step back when the candlestick gives under his hand, but leans in as soon as he sees what result the action produced. It's equal parts trepidation and excitement.

"How curious," he says, and his voice echoes faintly in the darkness of the stairwell. He glances over his shoulder. "--We should fetch light. A torch, a lantern."

There seems to be no question that he intends to venture down, and that he assumes his companion will come with him.

2

[insufficientjewel]

It is the second howl that draws Francis' attention, sends him darting out into the street despite the danger. The shots make him think that this other man can handle himself against one wolf... or bear, or boar, or whatever that great, shaggy form is. But now?

He cannot bear to stay inside any longer. Against the protests of his host, he rushes out of the pub at the end of the street, snatching up a poker from the hearth as he does so. There is more valour than wisdom in the act, certainly; he is a scholar and not a warrior, and truthfully has little idea of what he can do besides act as a distraction. But perhaps a distraction will be enough.

As the creature lunges again at Boromir, Francis dives at it, swinging the poker like a bat with all the strength in his wiry body. A surprising amount of strength, judging by the sickening, wet thud as the hook of the poker pierces the beast's bloodshot eye and the bone beneath. Breathless, shocked at himself and at his own ferocity, he yanks the bloodied poker back with another thick squelch, staggering back a couple of steps, his eyes wide.

V

[splitinvain]

3 - Eat, drink, and merry still -
It was suffice to say that Vere - as he calls himself these days - was not much of a social person. Certainly he shows up and mingles, but a close observer would notice that the mingling was only long enough to greet people before he drifts to some where he could just observe the rest of the room. Tonight was no exception. V appeared, greeted a few people and then took his drink and himself over to the fireplace, where he settles to watch the rest of the room.

He however was not silent in his observations; if anyone drifts closer to him they would no doubt hear some of his comments - What are they thinking, wearing those pearls with that collar? and Oh dear lord, and I thought I was so oblivious towards a lady's flirtations and other such lines. If anyone drifts closer, well they will be treated to a few lines -

"The best wine is the oldest, the best water the newest, though I wonder when the wine here was new."


4 - Passages -
It was inevitable that a passage would appear. Any old building in this deary land, especially ones made by a family as unique as this one would have hidden doorways and mysterious halls. Vere barely jumped as the wall moved soundlessly open next to him, giving the darkness beyond a critical look before snorting in wry amusement.

"'A vague and starry magic; Makes all things mysteries'... Shall we explore or should we forget what we've found?'

3

[her_rose_is_red]

Ib occasionally finds herself at one of these gatherings, usually with her uncle Jack or Marie. But they always wind up going off to do grown-up things and leaving her to her own devices. Which usually leads to her drifting around the room aimlessly until something catches her attention or it's time to go.

"You could ask. The innkeeper probably knows how old the wine is."

She isn't even sure if that comment on the wine was directed at her, but she may as well answer. You never know when a person might be fun to talk to.

Joker ("Jack") | DC Comics (Preboot)

[criminallysane]

3 - Merrie Melodies

a. Jack’s in his element at a party, and this soirée at the Black Swan is his very favorite sort: crowded, loud, and casual. From the moment he escorts his young wife through the door, he’s all smiles and handshakes and chit-chat as he works the room, and he’s clearly having a ball. No shyness here, folks! He’s out to greet everyone, friends and strangers alike, and from the relaxed, easy smile he’s wearing, one would think he’s known these people all his life.

He catches sight of someone standing all by their lonesome, and saunters over to stand by their elbow. Proper etiquette dictates that he ought to have someone introduce him, or at the very least introduce himself. Instead, he leads with, “Well, now, you look like someone who’s got something interesting to say. Don’t suppose you’d share it with me?”

b. Once he’s chatted up damn near everyone, it’s time to hit the dance floor. The fiddle player’s really tearing things up, with bouncy, joyful reels that kick Jack’s smile up to eleven. This is the kind of music he loves, the stuff of tenement rooftop parties and wild dance hall nights, of circus campfire circles and late nights on the trains. He could dance to this for days and never get tired of it.

His first dance, of course, is with his wife. After that, he seems to see every woman in the room as a potential dance partner. Young, old, lovely, plain—it doesn’t matter to Jack. He wants to see every lady at the party cut loose and enjoy herself for a song, and he’d be just delighted if they happened to do so with him. If your character appears to be female, it’s only a matter of time before Jack will come over, flash a smile, and offer his hand. “Dance with me?”

Wildcard 1 – Conman Coming

The circus won’t actually open for another two weeks, but it’s never too early to start building anticipation. Jack has a roll of beautifully chromolithographed posters tucked under one arm, and he’s working his way through the center of town, putting them up with a pot of paste and a brush.

The posters feature a brilliant, dizzying array of circus icons: somersaulting clowns leaping over an elephant, a beautiful trapeze girl soaring overhead, a roaring lion with glistening teeth. Jack himself is featured in the top left corner, wearing a sharp purple suit and a ringmaster’s top hat. Handsome text reads:

Mister Napier’s World-Famous Pandemonium Show
Three-ring circus, meadow carnival, and menagerie of wonders!
The finest attractions and most daring of feats!
Smiles Positively Guaranteed for All Ages
—Arriving soon—

This is the sort of job that he really should have sent one of his employees to do, but Jack wanted to get a better first-hand look at the town. He's not just here to put on a show, after all. He needs to recruit new talent. Hire someone to repaint the wagons and repair the carousel. Perhaps even find the Next Big Thing, something or somebody he can use to draw in the crowds throughout Europe and make his circus truly shine again. And for any of that to work, he needs to get to know the locals. So he whistles as he goes, wanting people to know he's there. His songs are all cheerful and child-friendly, classics like There's a Hole in My Bucket and Alouette.

He's just pasting a poster up in front of the King's Head Inn when a sudden gust of wind snatches the paper from his grasp. Jack twists and tries to catch it, but it darts away like the Devil himself's caught hold of it. It's heading right for a pedestrian, in fact, and if they don't look sharp, they're about to get smacked in the legs with it. Jack waves an arm at them, trying to get their attention. "Hey--look out!"

Wildcard 2 – Pandemonium

The circus sits at the outskirts of town, and it's currently only halfway set up. The tents are up, looking faded and dingy, and the animals are in their normal enclosures, but none of the signage is displayed yet. None of the frills are in place; there are no bells or whistles; and the only foods being cooked are the ones the circus folks make for themselves. It's like a house that hasn't been moved into. And as Jack stands in the empty Big Top on an unseasonably chilly afternoon, he can see that it's become a pretty shabby house, indeed.

He walks to the center of the tent, where in a couple short weeks he'll be smiling and cracking his whip as he tries to help the good citizens of Lethevale shake off their mortal cares and escape to his world of enchantment. He wants to give them a show they'll never forget, the kind of show he knows he's capable of. Something that'll put a smile on their faces that will never fully fade. But what? He closes his eyes and tries to remember the early days, when he was impossibly young and full of optimism. Before the hard times came, before Jeannie and all the rest. Back then, anything had seemed possible. What would that Jack have done to reinvigorate the show?

He has money to work with now, thanks to having duped dear little Marie into becoming the latest Mrs. Napier. But he's terrified of screwing this opportunity up, of squandering it on the wrong things and watching his show die around him. Pandemonium's people and animals are all depending on him to get this right. And, even more than that, he's put his name on this show. It's his legacy; it's all he has. He's saddled himself with a woman for the sake of it, he's done all manner of other unconscionable things for it, and he'll be goddamned before he sees it fail. He just needs to find the right approach, that's all. He just needs to think this through...

He's so deep in thought that he doesn't hear the footsteps behind him at first. When he does, they're very close, too close. Instincts take over, and Jack pulls his revolver out in one fast motion as he spins toward the sound. He's got the gun pointed at his visitor before he even sees who they are, and the hard look in his eyes isn't welcoming at all.

3b.

[gloves]

Jack had been bright and charismatic and charming in New York; it was part of why she’d so easily and quickly fallen for him. Things had been a bit more touch-and-go since arriving in Europe, where he’d been forced into a number of admissions. Like the circus isn’t actually making any money. Like by the way, my goddaughter lives here. Like other than the money we got from your father, I’m flat broke.

So it wasn’t a stretch to say that things were a little strained.

Luckily, with Jack so busy moving the circus to Lethevale, and then preparing for a grand opening (and, she was fairly sure, spending the money he’d been given by her father in order to do so), it meant that it was a little easier to pretend that things weren’t strange. That she didn’t hear the whispers from the carnies about his first wife’s death. That Jeannie’s train car wasn’t practically a shrine to the dead woman’s memory. That there was no estate, no house, no nothing, except a failing carnival.

So when they entered the Black Swan and she saw the Jack that she knew vibrantly come back to life, it lifted a weight from her shoulders that she hadn’t quite been fully conscious of. This was better; the money didn’t matter that much (and definitely not nearly as much as that she didn’t understand why he’d lied in the first place). So things were a little rough now. They’d work through it. Everything would start to look up. And this would be the life he’d pitched to her: glamorous and exciting.

She’d let him schmooze on his own halfway through said schmoozing process, opting to lean against the bar and watch the people in the tavern. It was a big change, that was for sure. Loud music, boisterous laughter, and drinks that could have been anything. It was nothing like the parties she’d been to back home, which were delicate and specially fitted with their own rules of etiquette.

Marie was sipping one of those aforementioned drinks, carefully holding it with both hands; the weather here seemed to make her fingers stiffer than normal and while, at worst, a stranger might think her gloved hands were a little clumsy, she didn’t want to dump the whole glass on the floor because she wasn’t paying attention. And even though she’d been upset with Jack as often as she’d been happy with him since arriving in Europe, now her eyes lit up at the sight of him approaching her to dance.

“I have no idea how to do this,” she said with a laugh. Dancing, to her, had always been a specific, pre-determined set of steps that everyone followed. Not actually moving whatever which way the music took you.

Marie Napier | Rogue/xmcu

[gloves]

1. Seeking Shelter
Marie was beginning to see why stomping out in a huff earlier had been such a terrible idea. Somewhere on the fringes of Lethevale, as the sun had begun its steady descent, the moon, only a small crescent, had risen, lending an eerie glow to the woods, and a fine drizzle had started. All fine! She could withstand a little rain.

Then the sky had seemingly opened up, releasing a deluge of water that thoroughly soaked her through to the bone. Her skirts were plastered to her legs like a second skin, making it difficult to walk back the way she’d come through the woods. And her boots, which had been clean and shiny when she’d started this journey, squelched in the mud which sucked at her feet and was more quicksand than damp dirt.

And, still, she didn’t think she quite wanted to return home yet — home which was, in fact, a patched up old tent.

Let the scoundrel (which was how she was going to think of Jack until she’d had ample time to be angry and stew, upon which he would likely revert back to her love or her darling dear) wonder if she’d drowned in a puddle, or worse, twisted her ankle and was now fending for herself in the wilderness with a stick. It would serve him right! Assuming he would wonder at all.

Which, of course, was not the train of thought she wanted to be having at the moment. Not when she was still in the middle of a very well-deserved temper tantrum.

Except that she naturally was completely turned around by the time she stepped out of the trees. The circus tents and cars were surely to the left, right? Though nothing to the left looked familiar and she decided to go right. Which led to a whole lot else that didn’t look familiar. All the while, the rain started falling heavier, in silvery sheets that, at times, Marie could barely see through. By the time she found a home [ooc note: cottage, creepy mansion, tavern, shack, whatever your character lives in/wherever your character currently is:) ], her carefully designed hair style had been weighed down with water, most of the waves pulled from their pins and stuck to her cheeks. The bottom inch of her dress had a thick layer of mud caked on it. And her shoes... well, forget about her shoes. If she’d been safe at home her father would have just bought her a new pair. Here, she imagined, she’d be expected to clean them off as though they weren’t ruined.

“Hello?” It was said with a knock at the front door. Between the rain and the barely moonlit sky, she wished she had a lantern. Even a lit candle. Something to provide at least a bit of light so this didn’t feel so foreboding.

Not that either would have done much good in this weather.



2. The Beast! The Terrible Beast!

It was truly amazing how easily she could find herself out in the dark, in questionable weather, in this place.

But it was only when Marie began to feel like she was being watched that she felt a chill slither down her spine. It was a cold, unsettling feeling that had her eyes darting from tree to tree, looking for something that would either confirm the feeling or the absence of anything that would tell her she was being silly.

Truthfully, there was an excellent chance she was just being silly. This town had given her an eerie, uncomfortable sensation since they’d arrived, which she’d mainly chalked up to the confusion over her current predicament. ie: being in a different country with a new husband who hadn’t been entirely forthright with her from the beginning. Never mind the fact that his circus wasn’t the cheery, brightly lit fantasy she’d been imagining. It was more than a little creepy and that environment had left her unsure of just about everything.

Her eyes caught a glimmer of something in the trees. Yellow and shimmery and bright. Then it was gone again.

It was followed by a rustle in the bushes. And then a large shape leaping in her direction, dark and menancing, that hit dead center and knocked her on her back.

Marie started to try to draw in a breath to scream and realized the fall had knocked all the air out of her.

Then she realized that the warm, wet feeling on her face was a result of whatever had jumped on her licking her cheeks. A woof soon followed and as she started to get her her breath back, she couldn’t help but start laughing.

A stray dog. She’d been terrified of a simple, friendly stray dog.

[her_rose_is_red]

Ib still didn't know quite what to make of Marie. She was nice enough, but it still felt a little bit like she was here to replace aunt Jeannie. She didn't want a replacement. That made it hard to for the girl to talk to her. But she certainly doesn't dislike her and when something shot out of the woods and knocked the woman over, Ib dropped the bucket she'd been carrying and rushed over.

"Miss Marie! Are you alright?!"

Masumi Sera (Masumi Akai) | Detective Conan

[tactlesstantei]

(Note that she's using her father's family name [Akai] rather than her mother's [Sera] in this AU.)

1: Seeking Shelter

Having been flung off her horse and left alone and on foot in the woods, Masumi was forced to admit that maybe travelling alone, at night, during a storm wasn't the greatest idea she'd ever had. Regretting her decisions would get her nowhere though, so instead of moping around, she brushed herself and took stock of her surroundings.

And good thing she did too, because tucked back away from the road was what appeared to be a small building. Hoping that someone was home, Masumi approached and knocked on the door, calling out at the same time.

"Hello? My horse threw me and I need shelter, can I come in?"

4: Pay No Attention to the Passage Behind the Curtain

While uncovering the hidden passage had been an accident, Masumi was certainly not going to ignore it and pretend nothing happened. She'd always been too curious for her own good, too willing to put her nose where it didn't really belong.

After all, putting her nose where it didn't belong was the entire reason she'd ended up in Lethvale.

"...You want to see what's in there?" She turned to the nearest person, a slight grin lighting her face at the thought of seeing whatever might be hidden in there.

Re: Masumi Sera (Masumi Akai) | Detective Conan

[her_rose_is_red]

"Yes."

Ib's answer is immediate, and she flashes a small smile in response to that grin. Because she's also far too curious for her own good. And this might even be fun.

On a closer look into the passage though, she hesitates.

"Should we get a candle? It's awfully dark down there..."

Eowyn ("Ian/Eona Ryder") | Lord of the Rings

[withoutswords]

[[ooc: Eona is disguised as a man and has been for a few weeks, so if you want to already know her you have the option of recognizing 'Ian Ryder' or the mysteriously vanished Miss Eona.]]


1: Seeking Shelter

Eona limps up the road, swearing as colorfully as any soldier. After years of watching and listening to her brother, she knows all the vocabulary. All the mannerisms too, and how to wear his clothing convincingly. Not his soldier's uniform; she's not that foolish. True, she'd rather like to be a soldier, but she knows better. Her disguise might serve her on the road, but it would fail her in the army, and she'd be trapped in her uncle's home again in a blink. Still, aping her brother's mannerisms is serving her well enough so far.

Not so her horse. That she didn't steal, for Windfola is hers, a gift from her eighteenth birthday, now some years ago. Though even years of companionship and a lifetime of being horseback was not able to keep Eona in her saddle after some dark shadow scared the poor beast. The good God only knows how far Windfola may have run by now, and in the middle of the night and in unknown territory she will have no chance of finding him again. Her only options are to bed down in the forest, or to chance this house. Between the pouring rain and whatever spooked her horse, it is no difficult choice.

"Open!" Eona shouts, knocking hard on the door. She tries to lower the pitch of her voice a little, though in truth there is little need for it. She is tall, and has a low voice by nature. Those combined with a straightforwardness completely unbecoming in a young woman has let her pass easily for a young man since she left home, now some weeks ago. But it is best to be cautious. "In God's name, I pray you be merciful to a passing traveler!"


3. Eat, Drink, and Be Merry

Eona's first experience in a tavern was, to be frank, disappointing: dirty, overcrowded, and loud, with beer hardly worth the effort. After weeks on the road she's gotten used to it, and they are useful places for gathering information if you can be quiet and listen. Which she does. A lady learns far, far too much about being quiet and listening, whether they want to or not.

Fortunately, this one is better than the sort she's been able to afford on her journey. The musicians have kept all their strings in tune, for one thing, and some of the dancers are quite enjoyable to watch. She makes no move to join in, however, merely sits on the side and watches, although her foot taps in time with the beat.

1

[acidwashed]

Barry isn't used to late night visitors. Back at the university he had the occasional colleague popping in for a night cap or the one time a student had tracked down the address to his flat to beg for an extension on a research paper at half-past twelve but judging by the loud knocking and begging to be let in this isn't a social call. He rises from his desk and, grabbing the kerosene lamp he'd been scribbling his notes by, approaches the door with some apprehension before opening it.

"Awful, uh, late to be out on a night like this." His accent is clearly American, tinged just slightly with what sounds like German. He holds his kerosene lamp up just a little higher, leaning out the door just slightly to get a better look around the stranger at his door. Better safe than ganged up on by a group of robbers because he was foolish enough to open his door. "You lost?"

Francis Crozier | The Terror

[deadandgone]

⚓ NO SHELTER
It has been a long, long time since last Francis sat astride a saddle. But like many things, Francis finds that riding a horse is a skill that returns as quickly as soon as he begins.

The horse is a fine creature, a middle-sized bay borrowed from a farm in town. She takes to Francis quickly, ambles slowly and sure-footed across the cobblestone as easily as the muddy terrain beyond the edge of town. When the clouds begin to gather overhead, Francis turns back, eager to abandon this fruitless hunting trip for a roaring fire he can find at the Inn - or at home. But a few minutes into the return trip, something happens. A shadow dashes unnaturally soundless across their path, as though blown by the wind of a gale. The mare rears, throwing Francis immediately to the ground, and takes off at a gallop, between the trees and out of sight.

Damn it.

Picking himself up with a curse, Francis rights himself, collecting the shotgun he'd had slung over his shoulder, and follows the horse's patch through the woods to head back into town. With the sun beginning to set, Francis holds a steady pace, demeanor coolly collected until the very moment the sound of branches crunching underfoot echoes from behind. Whirling around, Francis aims his shotgun, peering between the trees, and tries to ignore the sound of blood thundering in his ears.

"Who's there?"

⚓ KILL THE BEAST!
There should be little about the town that feels familiar to Francis, but in the moment before the enormous creature charges him, Francis thinks of Sir John. Sir John Franklin, noble, idiotic Sir John, lifeblood smeared upon the ice like a broken bottle of wine. Francis' creature, like Sir John's, will remain a mystery to him: it has come for Francis, seemingly only him, and disappear back into the hell it emerged from before Francis has even considered his own mortality.

But he does not die. He lives, long enough to pull the pistol from his coat, and clutch it to his chest until his breath returns to him. And when it does, Francis rises on shaking legs, hands trembling for the excitement rushing in his veins. He cannot help but consider Sir John's last shout for Erebus and the assistance that would not arrive in time. Would he suffer the same fate?

He's nearly over the stone bridge on Gallowgate when a dull throb in his arm alerts Francis that he's suffered some kind of injury. He pats a new gash in the arm of his coat, surprised somehow to find his fingers stained with blood. Blinking, Francis continues, crossing over the river and toward the building he recognizes as the surgeon's.

⚓ WILDCARD!
[ Come with your own prompt! Chat up this grumpy patron at the inn! Write him a letter! Invite him to the traveling circus! The world is your Victorian horror oyster. ]

[endofvanity]

The surgeon is nowhere to be found, but there's another man who just happens to be walking by the surgeon's door at that moment—a tall, well-dressed fellow, a bit dashing, though rather frayed at the moment. When he sees the other man approach, he stops in his tracks.

"Halloa there. Are you all right?"