Noli equi dentes inspicere donati.

[baedalites]

Who: EVERYONE.
What: Swap meet.
Where: The Apache and surrounding environs.
When: Sukkardi the 14th of Haneden
Notes:

• Swap Meet Spreadsheet: Pre-chosen swaps are green. Assigned are blue. There were a few characters that were selected more than once, so objects were assigned on a first-come first-serve basis. If you have any issues or concerns, please do not hesitate to contact the mod team.
• For objects that might not be immediately apparent as belonging to their owners, there may be a picture or name attached, or players are welcome to have their characters ~just know~ it's for them. Drr drr drr, bb.
• Party post nights are a great time to come join the chatroom.
• The topic threads are just suggestions; if you've got somewhere else that your characters simply must be, make your own thread.

Warnings: None yet. Please put warnings up on individual threads.

The Apache is much the same as it always is: dimly lit, with the jukebox playing in the background, and the bartender serving whatever's on tap.

Comments

[defenestrations]

Sherlock's not quite sure what to make of this; he's known men to quake with fear at the prospect of having crossed Mycroft, but this? This is something much more visceral.

"He texted me. It's our preference for communication, texting." He frowns. "I didn't see him, but I assure you, it was him, I wouldn't be fooled by another."

[incaptivity]

Had it been video, Hal would at least know that he was human still, maybe just as terrifying but without the added pull of their shared blood. Without that assurance, he isn't certain of anything--and with every question, he's revealing more about himself than he ought.

"Shit." The crispest-sounding cuss, right there. "I should go," he decides suddenly, reaching to close the folder and pull it back in. "I shouldn't be here."

Here, out in the open, where Mr. Snow can find him. (And yet he can't run, he knows it, he just-- he needs room to breathe, at least.)

[defenestrations]

He knows his brother is not a man to cross, but could he actually have inspired such bone-gnawing terror in another person like this? This man is clearly afraid, ready to bolt now that he has confirmation that Mycroft is, in fact here. That's how he read this exchange, anyway, the how did he contact you--he assumes this man asked if Sherlock laid eyes on him to affirm that, yes, he's here, not because... vampires.

And yet he came anyway. A moment of courage? No, not to have it dashed like this. The fear clearly goes deep, and yet he came anyway, why did he come anyway?

Oh.

He's that afraid of crossing Mycroft.

Dear, oh dear.

"I wish I could help." A little, if only to satisfy his own curiosity. "But that call is the only contact I have had with him since I arrived. I don't know where he might be found to pass those photographs on to him. Which... well. I'm new here and not entirely versed in local custom, but the rules of this exercise seem to indicate that one must deliver one's boon to its rightful owner. I don't know how much power the local deities have, but I should rather hate to find out by crossing them, mm?"

Sherlock Holmes: neither helpful or comforting.