driftfleet | ...And also these.

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...And also these.

[ Calibration Rooms ]
( for N-Z characters )

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ROOMS BY CHARACTER

N - Q

Nami

Nux

One

Phèdre nó Delaunay
de Montrève

R - U

R. Daneel Olivaw

Rapunzel

Remy LeBeau

Riku

Robin Redbreast

Rogue

Santanico Pandemonium

Shawn Hunter

Stefan (Alesci) Salvatore

Steve "Orion" Rogers

Steven Quartz Universe

Souji Seta

Stiles Stilinski

Syeira

Tadashi Hamada

Tekhetsio

V - Z

Wrath

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Walking in, the room about you is abruptly gone. ]

[ No, that's not true. It's simply plunged into an inky blackness — your eyes no matter how sharp they are won't see a thing past your nose. If you take a few steps your feet will echo on stone. There are soft, skittering noises, like rats in the corridor, alternating with the swish of robes, and the whisper of a blade cutting through the air. You aren't bothered. You aren't afraid. You feel calmer here than you've ever felt in your life: absolutely centred, because you belong to this place and it belongs to you. This does not need to be spoken to be felt. The air is fresh and brisk — you are high in the mountains, but there's no bite to the cold. The stone is warm under your feet, and you make no sound as you move. You know this is home. You do not need to speak or inhale to belong here. ]

[ When you walk forward enough steps the blackness slips away. You are standing in a forest, in the valley below the mountains, bow in hand, your quiver slung over your back, daggers tucked into your belt. Your steps are silent even here, and you are hunting. There's a trail of a boar leading deep into the forest, but there's a canary on the branch nearby that's singing. You should go for the boar, you know this. You came here for it. But the birdsong hooks into your heart and pulls you towards it. When you step that way the bird startles and flies away in fright. You want to chase it. You want to sing. ]

[ Two roads diverge in a yellow wood. Which way do you go? ]

[ ooc: gore and child abuse can potentially come up. will be warned for accordingly. if you'd like to avoid it entirely please let me know. ]

[ the choice isn't a choice at all -- not in truth, and not where it counts. although sansa has never felt this stealthy before (nor never so well-armed) there are solid parts of herself that remain. and the canary, bright and singing as she is, flickers like an unavoidable beacon in her sights.

who cares about boars? not i, she thinks. and besides, wasn't it some stinking boar that killed the old king? songbirds are much nicer -- and closer kin to her, the little bird who chirps pleasantries in a gilded cage.

a soft, tuneful whistle. sansa pushes aside branches and chases the canary. the choice isn't a choice at all. ]

[ You are a shadow as you give chase. The canary darts through the trees, far quicker than you, and you follow, filled with the thrill of the chase. There's a nagging thought in your mind that you should be after the boar instead, but you ignore it. You know this to be the right path. The song. The freedom. Who cares if it delays you for a few hours or a day? It's not as though Father is with you to reprimand you for being a child. You see no reason for it, anyway. You are his child, his only and his favourite. You act as you see fit. ]

[ The birdsong fades, and you soon find out why. You have come to the edge of the water. The bird is far out, on a piece of driftwood, and there is a body. A young woman, with dark blonde hair. You aren't here for her, but she isn't moving, and the tide will take her out to sea. ]

[ Do you swim out to get her, or call for the boat? You know there's one, with your men, circling the island. They will obey when you call. ]

The boat, [ she calls -- instinct taking the reins of her voice. sansa is surprised by the strength in her command: ] Bring it 'round!

[ worry -- mortal concern, in fact -- rises in her stomach. but she can't disassociate the feelings from their sources. does she fear for the canary? or the woman? something tells her she ought to swim, but hesitation holds her back. ]

[ You think, briefly, that swimming might've been quicker — Father always taught you to rely on yourself, and you do. Yet, you command an army — his, but you have always spoken with his voice. You are his heir. Your word is law. ]

[ The boat appears at your call, and your men, few but diverse in clothing and skin colour, carry the young woman into your own quarters. There, you shut the door, and you are alone with her. You cradle her head with infinite care, and give her some clean water. She gasps — she's alive, but weak. She'll sleep a while before she's lucid enough to speak. You sit, prepared to be vigilant. ]

[ Perhaps you should have let her die. After all, she was almost there. Yet, something about snatching her from Death's jaws appeals to you — if you are to be Ra's al Ghul then you must know what it is like to take things at knifepoint. You must exert your own will upon the world. (And you know what hopelessness looks like: you have seen it in the eyes of many. This woman could become useful.) ]

[ Despite the patience inculcated in you from years of training and meditation, you grow restless waiting and look around. On the wall there's mounted a pair of swords; on the table there's a bolt of dark silk, a brand (now cool to the touch), a black jacket, a chess set midway in a game, and a milkshake. ]

[ although it's gratifying to take exquisite care of another person -- and to feel protective, and useful -- the mounting restlessness drives her attention elsewhere. although the milkshake catches her eye, it's the bolt of beautiful silk that first draws sansa's fingertips. and even then, she touches it only because she feels so bizarrely at home here. ]

[ You are spinning. ]

[ The stone walls blur around you, the light of the candles becomes a continuous line in your vision. The silk pulls at your limbs, unwinding and winding as you lower yourself down and land on one foot, with perfect form, silent as a cat. You straighten, expecting to see your tutor, but Father is there. You bow, and then stand straight immediately, and you study him carefully for weapons — he only ever carries his daggers. Father claps; the sound echoes. Your success pleases me, he says, with that faint approving smile of his, and you are full to bursting with excitement, and secretly, relieved he has only this to say. He rarely takes an interest in the more physical aspects of your studies, preferring to leave you to tutors, and come only when he wishes to test your skill. You are certain one day you will surpass him. Until then, you accept his mercy. You know what his tests are like. ]

[ Father, you pipe up. Have I not learnt all I can about using the silk? He was turning away, and he looks at you, suddenly grave. You do not shrink — you're telling the truth. You have nothing more to learn and everything to practice. You're never too old to learn more, Nyssa, he says, with maddening patience. You hope you never sound like this when you are Ra's, and the thought is cut short by Father gesturing for you to walk with him. Come, dinner is ready. ]

[ the sensation is heady -- wild -- and a little like flying. something she's felt only in her dreams (or else in her waking nightmares). but there is grace here, and there is skill. and as the memory sweeps through a sense of pride and relief, then so too does sansa. foreign feelings which she tries very hard to marry to her heart.

but all of it is smudged aside by father. not her father, no -- but a vein of ownership and responsibility worms into the woodwork of this moment, and she remains a semi-passive audience to someone else's sentiment. her feet are eager.

for a moment, she wants to remember what its like to have a father. ]

[ But the memory fades away, and she's back in the cabin, waiting for the young woman to wake up. Everything is as it was on the table and the wall, but for the silk: it's missing. ]

[The canary is pretty, and something in it tugs at Eugene's heart, the little flag of each note a barb that beds in him and burns. It is important, brightness and music, he knows that in a bone-deep way even if he cannot remember why.

But he also knows that those things leave. That there is no bringing them back, not when he doesn't have wings, doesn't even have

nothing beneath his left hip but weight and the itching scream of old mistakes and no no no no

back up from the stagger that wasn't. Back up onto two feet, because here there are two feet, just like there are fingertips callused from the bow's string, and the weight of these things is more powerful than the memory of fever and blood.

He cannot fly, cannot do more than hope for the return of any songbird. But movement, and focus, and meat - these are things that he can chase.]

Edited 2015-11-13 22:52 (UTC)

[ You give chase. Your feet are silent, and sure, through the forest — you belong here, hunting. The leaves rustle as you pass. Maybe you should be chasing the boar — what can a songbird give you? A feather? A flash of yellow? This isn't a tangible thing. ]

[ Yet, you come all the way out to a cabin in the woods, and you see the bird dart through the window. You follow, after listening for anyone inside. It's empty; the bird is up in the rafters. You set your bow on the table, which also has a bolt of dark silk, a brand (now cool to the touch), a black jacket, a chess set midway in a game. Next to the sink, there's an empty plate with some bread, and a milkshake. On the wall are mounted a pair of swords. ]

[He should be following the boar, he knows it, and yet- and yet. There he is, in an unfamiliar cabin, the pad of feet on floor and percuss of bow upon table clean-edged sounds in the silence bound between the walls.

Again, the swords are solid-looking, the bread and jacket a temptation, safeguards against cold and hurt and hunger. It's the same way he chased the bird that he turns to the chessboard - perverse, purposeless unless to chase that aching half-remembered familiarity. Pacing around the board, he studies one side's position, then the other, trying to divine who holds the upper hand.]

[ Black holds the upper hand — there is no shift in the room as Eugene noticing this, like there was no space between the not-knowing and knowing, nowhere for the world to change. He just knows, like he knows he can only move white. The table is set against the wall. A white knight poised to take a black pawn almost reaching the other end of the board. A bishop ready to move to intercept a rook that's headed for the white queen. A pawn, stepping forward. ]

[The knight. A promotion won't help that disadvantage _{(last thing they need is a new queen in black's ranks)} and after giving the board another quick scan, he reaches for the knight, fingers closing around the head of the snorting charger to bat the pawn out of action.]

Edited 2015-11-14 22:53 (UTC)

[ The room changes. You are sitting now, your feet swinging above the chair, having moved your knight to take the pawn. A man sits opposite, in dark green clothes and a heavy cloak. There's no white in his hair, but his eyes are old, sharp, and watching you with some amusement. There are guards in the room, all in black, and standing so still they could be statues. The window lets in light to the stone hall — all the candles are unlit. ]

[ Good play, my child, the man says, in Arabic. You're improving. You huff. I don't see the point of this meaningless game. You itch, restless to move. You want to use a sword, and dance, what do these pieces cut that a blade can't? Father's fingers brush over his side of the board as he deliberates. Patience, he says, calmly. Forethought. There are harsher ways to learn both than chess. ]

[ You make a face. I can learn patience with the bow, you reply. And forethought from hunting. Father smiles, crookedly. Neither teaches you what to do when you have no power on the board. If you are to take my place one day, you must show me you are cunning, and wise. ]

[ You are about to retort that you can be these things easily, when the room fades, and Eugene is left holding the knight in his hand, with the bitter taste of a lesson in his mouth. ]

[His steps are dogged by duty. The bird trills, and he thinks-- there'll be others like it, the lure of its music is not greater than the sum of what needs doing. It flits between branches, sun-bright and singing.

He thinks it'd make a nice picture.

Just that one thought, and then he carries on. Hunting.]

[ Your eyes follow the bird as it disappears — and only when the echoes fade into the sounds of the forest are you free of its grip. You follow the trail of the boar. You are a ghost over the leaves and fallen twigs, a seasoned hunter. If the prey is big enough you think you might have a use for the tusks. ]

[ There's a grazing ground near where you set up camp for the night. You could keep going now, but wounding it will draw other predators you've no interest in facing. Best to wait for the dawn. ]

[ Inside your pack, there is a bolt of dark silk, a brand (now cool to the touch), a dagger, a white chess pawn midway in a game. And leftover bread. ]

[Setting up camp is a brisk affair, he's done this-- (how many times? Back in Europe--) enough that everything is known by rote. The pack is another matter, he tends to travel light, and each item gets studied in turn. There's a furrow between his brows, then, as he reaches for the loaf of bread. Best to keep his strength up.]

Edited 2015-12-20 16:52 (UTC)

[ The bread is freshly made, soft to the touch — odd when you're supposed to have been out here for hours. You pause before you bite into it, and wonder: there's no birdsong. Then, you dismiss it immediately. It's of little matter. You are hunting. What can a bird do but distract you? ]

[ The world changes. You are in a stone hall. There is a man standing next to you, in dark green clothes, with a heavy cloak, the glint of rings on his hands. Father. On his right side stands a man in black, hood and mask pulled down. Al-Owal. The first and oldest of your father's lieutenants. He may live long enough to serve you, when you ascend. Father turns, his face is younger than his eyes, which are serious, and steady, warmed by looking at you. ]

[ The man being brought through the door commands all the attention. His eyes are hollow, there's something crusted under his fingernails. The men in black — masked — carrying him drop him the moment he's in front of your father. He trembles, violently. Father holds his gaze, then he says, calmly, in English, Stand up. ]

[ You have seen this so many times you have lost count. Even before you were named heir. People come from the outside, like cracked stones, broken statues. All of them, lost, and helpless. The first thing your father commands them to do is stand. Some do. Some don't. You eye this ghost in front of you and you wait to see what he will do. ]

[ He obeys your father. He struggles to his feet. In Japanese, he shakily states his name. Yamashiro Maseo. He has come here to be freed of his pain. ]

[ Your father nods to you, his eyes sharp and old. Take him inside, give him bread. To Maseo, he says, This is my daughter. She will ensure you are cared for, until it is time for you to be tested. The two men, silent, close in at Maseo's side, and Father dismisses you. You lead Maseo down a hallway, to a small chamber recently used by another, but it is clean, well-kept. There is soft bread, its aroma permeating the room. Remain here, you tell him. You will be brought food, and water. The chamberpot is in the corner. You may wander with an escort. Ra's al Ghul will send for you, when he is ready. The man looks at you, still hollowed by the cruelties of the outside world, and you think, if he survives the test and you are allowed to name him, you will call him Sarab. ]

[It means ghost. The knowledge is not his own, and it jerks him out of the reverie. The bread has gone cold in his hands, but the taste lingers. He stares down at it, and then up across a sparking fire to the woman he sees there.

Speaking is an effort, the forest seems to yearn to keep its silence. It's a fight to be free of its influence. At length,]

Who are you?

[ The forest keeps its silence. The flames crackle. She's standing there, fully armed, and pulls down her mask. ]

My name is Nyssa. Who are you?

[People wear masks for so many reasons he's lost count. That she removes it so easily is a panacea to the suspicion he always nearly always harbors of strangers.]

Rogers. [He breaks the bread. Offers her half in the dim light.] Steve Rogers.

[ He is offering her own bread. The corner of her mouth twitches, but she takes it without hesitation. ]

We are well-met, Steve Rogers. This is my hunting ground. Are you lost?

[He gestures for her to pull up a place at the fire, the light flickers and jumps, casts their shadows like titans behind them.]

I don't know where I am.

[He says that very slowly. The forest is familiar, but it's not the Ardennes.]

Guess the rest depends on your definition of 'lost'.

[He's a man out of time. Being lost has variable meanings for him.]

[ Nyssa listens to the sound of the forest, and satisfied they're alone, removes both swords and sits. The bow gets set down between them, closer to her than him. ]

Very lost, then.

[ But not hopeless. She knows the bare-bones of hopelessness, and he, like Caesar, is far from it. ]

We are hunting. We should find it by tomorrow and return home. I believe there will be a way out, then.

Nyssa al Ghul

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