lethevale_ooc | TDM The First

TDM The First

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

You put the name of the character you're testing out in the subject line
You write a starter (or several!) in the comment, with the Lethevale AU of your character.
People respond with their characters. Threads occur. Friendships are made. The world is put to rights.
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

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[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.

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.

Francis' look is hard and rather searching. Curiosity wars with his strong sense of right and wrong, and he sighs, shaking his head. "We are guests in this house," he points out, his tone noticeably chiding. "We ought not to follow closed passageways and servant's halls without his lordship's consent."

And yet, even as he says it, his eyes are darting back to the passageway. At last, he sighs.

"Besides, it would be foolish to go down there without any light."

There's nothing that can move the self-proclaimed Thomas Ainsley to action more quickly than being chided. It had been a quality that had made nursemaids sigh when he was a child and only grew with him. So it wouldn't surprise anyone who knows him - though that's a group he does his best to stop anyone from joining him - that Francis' words are enough to send him over to peer into the passageway.

"It would appear that someone agrees with you," he says, holding up a lantern he'd found quite close to the entrance.

He holds it up, looking it over. It's nicer than he might have expected to find in a servants' way, but then, he doesn't think enough about servants to think much on that. "It appears to be recently used."

Ah. There seems to be little argument Francis can offer against that, really. He clears his throat a little sheepishly, brushing his hair back with one hand. It's true that it's somewhat impolite to go exploring the back passageways and secret places of a stranger's home, true that it's certainly not something he came here to do - but the lantern casts its light down what looks to him like a very old passageway, well-maintained and clearly used, and what is the worst they can find? That they come out in the kitchens, or the servants' quarters, and might be mildly embarrassed?

Besides, it seems pretty clear that Mr Ainsley means to go. Francis has a nasty feeling that this might be his fault, but it can't be helped now, and he may as well follow the other's lead.

He comes up beside Ainsley, frowning a little as he leans through the doorway. "Recently used, but not so often as you might expect. You see? These walls are very old, but the steps... hardly worn. It is hard stone, but still."

Thomas smiles at him, mood transformed into something far brighter through the combination of interest and a nebulous sense of getting his own way. He has the easy certainty of someone who's sure that he won't truly face trouble, and, besides, he wouldn't despair over not being offered an invitation to return for another evening that had reminded him a little too much of home.

"I trust your knowledge of the wear and tear of stone implicitly, Mr. Fletcher."

He kneels down a moment to touch the edge of the stair, measuring the evenness of the steps with a hand.

"Yes, it would seem a true secret passage," he has too much dignity to be as gleeful as he was when he went exploring with his brother as a schoolboy, but he can't contain all his delight at the images it conjures up for him. "Were gentry in this area often under threat of attack? My - I am aware of country houses in England secret chambers built into fireplaces for secret mass, but I cannot claim much knowledge of the history of this land."

"The Transylvanian and Carpathian regions have always been... tumultuous, I suppose." Francis sounds a little distant, as if remembering something he might have read long ago, but his eyes are drawn still to that darkness, the long spiral of the stairs descending into oblivion. His frown has deepened a little. "Incursions by the Turks, and by the Russians, of course, and skirmishes of various kinds. I suppose it's quite understandable that even in such a defensible place, a lord might want a hiding-space."

It makes perfect sense, as does the idea of a servants' stair being hidden and merely less-used than others. So why does the sight of that darkness, that cold corridor, make the hair on the back of his neck prickle uneasily, and why is he still half struck by wonder?

Francis clears his throat, pushing his hair back with both hands, and looks back at Thomas. "I suppose," he says, a little reluctantly, "that we shan't know until we see where it leads. Shall I go first, or will you?"

"Perhaps, or perhaps the builder was thinking of attackers more dangerous than Turks or Russians. Something that could get past defenses that would stop a normal man, a being of the night to which such things are nothing. I have heard tell that vampyres roam these lands."

Thomas adopts his most dramatic tone, though it's laced with humor. He's always been fond of opera. There's an almost weight to the darkness, a feeling as if the stairs could stretch down forever to a world he cannot imagine. A whisper that if his childhood belief in ghosts was real, this is surely where they'd dwell.

So he strides forward confidently, ignoring any chill. It is just the type of foolishness he enjoys in stories, and the type of adventure he enjoys for himself. He imagines hidden dungeons - unsure of exactly how fanciful that might be in this strange part of the world.

"We may run into the skeletons of long dead prisoners locked away forever in this dark passage, I would hate not to offer a first greeting."

"They do say so," Francis agrees, unsmiling, and the way he hesitates at the top of the stairs, crossing himself briskly before following Thomas into the passageway, may suggest that he is actually afraid of such things. In truth, it isn't vampires or ghosts or any such thing he fears, only that he still doubts the wisdom of prying at all. "But the vampyr is one of those tales which one hears everywhere. To listen to the townsfolk, it is not the manor that holds such creatures, but the woods... and the caves, and the mines, and the graveyards, and every place dark and dangerous for an unwitting wanderer. In any case, it is still daylight."

Not in the tunnel, of course. The passageway is pitch black, except where the lantern-light pierces the shadows. It is not long before the open door disappears behind them, as the staircase wends its way down and down, into the depths of the mansion.

"What would you say to them, sir?" he asks, suddenly, and with a real, clear interest in his tone. "If you did come across such remains?"

"I would think a vampyr one of the lesser dangers of those areas, I would rather face an undead remnant hungry for blood than go into a mine or face a... bear." Thomas doesn't know if there are bears anywhere near, but it seems the best beast to sum up his feelings about the abundance of 'nature'. "Or a pack of ravening wolves." He doesn't need to listen to the townsfolk to stick to lights and something that could almost be civilization, if he felt like widening his definition considerably.

"Why, I would offer my humble apologies at interrupting their business and tell them to not think I view myself superior through the fact of my possession of vitality." He goes down another step, avoiding brushing his hand against a wall, adding more seriously; "I would likely do my best to ascertain who they might have been, and how they met their deaths. Then hope to move them to them to a place where they could receive a Christian burial. A matter of respect."

Pleasantly surprised by that answer, Francis actually smiles a little, and there is a slightly greater warmth in his manner. He seems to relax slightly, as though this hint of respect and piety from his companion is enough to offset what they are doing, and makes an approving sound in his throat.

"I hope," he says, a little drily, "that it need not come to that. Still, I am glad that you would think of them so."

The steps still go on, and Francis cranes past his companion to see how far it may be to the end. Still, there is no sight of an exit, only the shadows deepening ahead of them, swallowing them up into the earth. He frowns, and goes down another step.

"You would rather face a vampyr than a mineshaft?" Changing the subject back, out of interest more than anything. "Strange to hear, from a man so keen to head into the dark."

Thomas laughs, dismissing thoughts of bones left unclaimed in the dark and graves that have no one to visit and think of he departed. It's too easy to imagine that they're heading into a grave themselves, or to drift off in thoughts of the family he does his best to put out of mind.

"Ah, but it is strange only until you think of it in terms of preservation of myself. This is a passage in a hall built by a lord, and has been kept up by his descendants. I have no doubt that such men would be careful to be very certain that they will not have to risk a collapsed passage ruining their library. Such men often don't care as much about the stability of the mineshafts they send others down. I could perhaps converse with a vampyr, a fall of stone has no mind to change."

"I suppose there is little argument I can give to that," Francis concedes, not without some humour, "save that vampyrs are not known to be much swayed by conversation."

It is strange, he reflects, to hear laughter in this place. He wonders how long it has been since there was simple merriment on these stairs, if there has ever been any at all. It is not a place that lends itself much to joking. Part of him feels it is almost profane, like dancing in church; a greater part of him just welcomes that warm, human sound. The darkness is beginning to feel closer than he likes, the air cold around them.

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.

Francis looks down at the sword, then back up at the young man's face, and a faint, rather dry smile tugs for a moment at his lips as he ducks inside, shutting the door behind him as best he can. Setting down one of the bags - its weight is clear in how much more easily he moves once its weight is off him, he pushes the hood of his cloak back, shaking rainwater and mud out of his face, and offers a shallow bow before putting his hand out to shake.

"Francis Fletcher, at your service. And I'm much obliged, sir."

He is a handsome man, under the hood and the mud, but by the firelight it's clear what a battering he's taken from his fall; there is blood on his face, and a bruise swelling on one high cheekbone, as well as his limp and the way he gingerly rolls his shoulder and grimaces before shaking the younger man's hand. His own hand, slick with rainwater, is cold as ice.

"I imagine we must be far from the only ones so stranded," he comments, after a moment, glancing back over his shoulder as another roll of thunder echoes through the mountains. "Thank God we both found this place."

Jedao sheathes the sword to keep himself from staring too much, and manages not to start at the touch of his hand. The cold helps, in an odd way: he can tell himself that's what's shocking, and not the contact itself, after so long traveling alone.

"You've been hurt," he realizes, and his voice climbs a little but mercifully doesn't crack. "Please, sit, I'll -" Do. Something.

"My horse threw me." Francis' tone is rueful, even apologetic. He reaches up with one hand, touching the swelling under his eye, and clearly it stings, for he flinches a little. "It is little enough, next to the broken neck I might have found myself with. But... Yes, sitting would be a good idea."

And so he does sit, as close to the fire as he can manage, hoping more than anything to chase some of the numb cold from his bones. He rubs his hands together, blowing into them to work some feeling back into the fingers, and looks up at the younger man over his shoulder. "Nothing is broken, I think," he says, after a moment's consideration. It's all the reassurance he can think of to give.

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."

Edited 2019-04-14 23:02 (UTC)

"There is," Francis agrees, and offers the youth a little smile as he sits. "And the dance itself..." And here, he gestures towards the dancers, tilting his head a little, considering. "It is a very unusual one, in some ways, had you noticed? The Turkic influence in the footwork, and something almost Celtic to the arms. I've never seen anything quite like it."

Still, his eyes linger on the dancers for only a moment before turning back to his new companion. The boy is younger, Francis thinks, than he had first guessed - still with the soft jaw and smooth skin of adolescence. A lord's son, perhaps, or some student travelling the mountains for his education? Certainly, from the manner of speech, someone better-bred than Francis himself, despite clothes almost as hard-worn as his own.

"You are not from around here either, I take it?" He sips his drink, and those grey eyes are scanning Eona's face now, considering. "From your accent, in any case."

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TDM The First

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

The Passage

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