How many goodly creatures are there here! :: GAME OPENER

[synergismus]

Welcome to Baedal.

These are the first words newcomers hear when the door opens and they are invited into their new world. Some fuss, some fight, some need time before they have the courage to step outside. Others, shell-shocked or jaded, go quietly along with the proceedings.

They are given brief instructions; a repeat of what's described in the pamphlet and a door key.

Please stay in your room. There will be dinner soon.

It's been almost a day for some. For others, only an hour's wait. The latest newcomer is lead straight from the arrival room to the dining hall where candles and lanterns have been set out to compensate for failing electricity. (Those who have been here longer explain about rolling blackouts.) The food, however, is warm, varied and plentiful. Seating is open, and less conventional chair are available to those who need them.

There are many strange faces around the table, the majority of these recent arrivals. The proprietor of the Valhalla Inn is here, as is some of her staff. The Sheriff of Mog Hill is introduced, his function detailed. The reason for the dinner is explained:

It's a celebration. A new cohort has finally been officiated; CeidaryBlue523. Your cohort. Please. Introduce yourself. Mingle. Get to know your fellows, they will be your brothers and sisters for as long as you live in this city.


((OOC post for discussion and coordination.))

Comments

Dining Hall

[synergismus]

The hall is spacious and can easily accommodate one hundred for dinner. Along one wall there is a buffet of simple, but generally well-prepared foods -- daal, rice, an assortment of vegetarian dishes, something labelled stoneshroom (it has the taste and texture of chicken), and a limited number of meat dishes.

[apostatised]

Much as it doesn't thrill Martel to merrily jaunt from one shipwreck to the next, he will give Baedal this: solving the problem of stabling for Kalten within a day frees up a great deal of his time. (To do what, exactly? Marinating in his own self-pity isn't that time-consuming. Perhaps now he can investigate self-flagellation; presumably someone about the place has a horsewhip.)

What's presently occupying him at the moment is an inoffensive vegetarian dish with rice, and not engaging those around him in conversation, his thoughts elsewhere, weighed down by the silver amulet hanging around his neck. Maybe he'll be more approachable after he's eaten.

[paramedicated.livejournal.com]

One hopes Martel will at least be civil-minded as, while the privacy of Mal's room had been a godsend (and the fresh clothing a miracle), he's been here for days already and the stillness is going to finally drive the medic fully 'round the bend for thoughts of what he's left his unit to back home.

Instead Malcolm has pulled on one of the drab olive shirts from his own pack as well as the new pants and, shoving the pamphlet into a back pocket, he heads into the dining hall and sits (by chance, really, it wasn't the lack of evident conversational skills) next to Martel.

Malcolm's right hand clenches and unclenches rhythmically on the table next to his glass as he offers Martel a reserved smile and nod, hmming a greeting from a throat still raw from winter weather and constant yelling.

[apostatised]

Judging by the look of him, Martel falls in the 'jaded' category of new arrivals; he glances up from his meal at the nod, inclines his head once in acknowledgement, and all in all gives the air of a man who is no longer inclined to be surprised by much. (It still happens, of course; reality has never cared much about his inclinations one way or another.)

The style of his shirt, trousers and riding boots put him firmly out of time with Malcolm - the amulet, part visible hanging on a chain beneath his shirt, is probably also not much like familiar - but for his own part, Bete Noire already acquainted him with the wealth of variety in the multiverse and he doesn't remark on what looks to him like a terribly unfortunate colour for a shirt.

[paramedicated.livejournal.com]

Unfortunate colour or not, it's comfortingly familiar in a world that is in the middle of spring and also not in the middle of war; the fact that it's unstarched is just a bonus (Starch is the bane of Malcolm's entire military existence, somewhere above lack of women and below running through mortar fire).

Mal raises an eyebrow at Martel's own style of dress but very wisely decides not to make any comments aloud about Elizabethian plays and instead just offers his name -- "Staff Sergeant Sandhurst; feel free to call me Doc or Mal or not at all" -- before digging into the food set in front of him. His bites are as neat and quick from manners obviously drilled into him from a young age but the defensive position of his arm across the table and the rate at which he's packing it away speak of either youth or borderline starvation or both.

[pureandstrange.livejournal.com]

Though he doesn't plan on lingering at dinner long, it would be foolish not to eat; he can't be trouble to actually remember the last time he ate, it's all a blur of battles and constantly being on the run. This man somewhat resembles Lucius Malfoy, but there are notable differences that give him pause, so Rodolphus endeavors to briefly and casually catch his attention by sitting down across from him. One look should be enough to establish whether there's any recognition or not.

[apostatised]

"Good evening," briefly, in an accent that's close but not quite right - a touch of what sounds like France that Malfoy doesn't have. There's a glimmer of interest that speaks to a different kind of recognition; impersonal, enough passing familiarity with the style in which Rodolphus presents himself that it catches his attention.

[pureandstrange.livejournal.com]

Rodolphus inclines his head in turn, not disappointed. "Good evening." Another person might feel awkward but he just accepts this slight strangeness — it's minor in comparison with the whole being kidnapped thing — and doesn't initiate further conversation unless it seems desired. He eats in a steady, mechanical fashion, mannerly enough but with a similarly inward-focused expression.

[nojudge.livejournal.com]

Whether he's eaten and feeling amicable yet or not, Martel gets no choice in the matter of being approached by this particular fellow abductee: the second Balthier spots that bastard, he all but stomps over and comes to a halt before him, hands on his hips.

"What in the thrice-damned hells are YOU doing here?"

[apostatised]

Well, would you look at that - something genuinely a little surprising. The brief flash in his eyes of something almost startled (and almost pleased) is irrelevant, however, because Martel's response is to study Balthier with a dry expression, glance down at his meal, look back up-

"I appear to be eating my dinner. Am I to be henpecked to death before the day's out?"

[nojudge.livejournal.com]

'Irrelevent' Balthier's well-toned leather-wrapped arse. That fraction of a moment is all he needs to confirm that Martel is in the very same proverbial boat he is, all bullshit aside. So he doesn't say anything, and just raises his eyebrows, because no you don't appear to be eating your dinner, sirrah, you appear to be tolerating being in yet another new dimensional prison that's not the afterlife with your usual self-imposed apathy.

But.

He sits down, moving with a particular and guarded sort of grace, like he's half-expecting all the furniture in this place to sprout tentacles and come at them. There's always a sense about Balthier that he might just flicker away into the light, a being of energy uncomfortably trapped in the world of the flesh, and it's so very pronounced, now.

"At least you're immune to whatever that's supposed to be." ...Inspecting Martel's dish, now.

[hurricane-james.livejournal.com]

Once dinner is has been served, the sheriff and his wife can be found seated at one of the long dining tables quietly chatting with each other about the new arrivals, the state of things in Mog Hill, and whatever else comes to mind. While they're comfortable talking to each other, they're both more than willing to talk to any newcomer that chooses to sit with them.

[andbreathes]

The two of them sitting quietly together talking - gossiping, partly - in attendance at something Norrington doesn't really want to be attending is familiar in a way that has very little to do with Baedal and puts a small, placid smile on Dominica's face that just barely suggests a private joke. Her husband can make his own mind up as to whether or not it's a joke he's in on.

In the midst of conversation, she is waiting until he's busy talking to quietly thieve off his plate while presenting her best and most attentive expression; she could have just had something else for dinner, but then she wouldn't have been able to have both dishes.

[patricide]

Lex has traveled back from the courtyard and into the dining room. He didn't exactly trust the food offered, but he was hungry, and there didn't seem to be much of an alternative.

When he sees the the couple in the dining room he notices they are sharing a plate. "Excuse me if I'm interrupting," of course he's interrupting, but he can at least be polite about it, "but I'm new here and I was wondering if there was some food you would recommend?"

At least it sounds better than asking straight out if the food contains some kind of horror.

[andbreathes]

"It's no trouble, honey," Dominica assures him, on the subject of whether or not he's interrupting - yes, but they're sort of here for that, so her expression is warm and her attitude ready. She's not the most animated woman in the world, but friendliness seems to be her stock in trade, at a glance. "I've really liked the daal here, with a bit of that rice. It's all none too fussy, don't worry about that."

[hurricane-james.livejournal.com]

"The Inn's food tends to be quite good and sourced from reputable dealers." Norrington is less worried about fussy and more about being served rat and sawdust filled sausage.

"And you're welcome to join us, when you've found something to your liking."

[ironshodboots]

Nazca's taken a bit of food and seated herself, but she isn't eating. For now, she's mainly watching the other new arrivals, listening, and trying to sort things out.

Her curls are loose, mostly but not entirely concealing the angry sting marks and scratches on her neck. Her eyes, behind her glasses, are focused and attentive, though she doesn't stare at any one person.

[baedalites.livejournal.com]

"Aren't you going to eat something?" It's not one of the other new arrivals that address Nazca, it's the Inn's proprietor, Esha Savitri. It's entirely possible to recognize her from earlier introductions. And she's being approachable, not accusatory.

[ironshodboots]

"I've not decided yet," Nazca says, frankly. "I'm not certain what the rules are, but people tend to be unnerved if one sits at a dining table without food, Madam Savitri," she adds, explaining the plate.

[mightyfallen]

It's been nearly a year since Jack found himself in an arrival room here at the Inn. There's some nostalgia to returning, although really he hadn't spent much time here to begin with – he had arrived more frustrated than disoriented, and finding his feet in Baedal had been significantly easier with one city abduction under his belt (and a rather well-stocked safe along for the ride this time). More than reliving the past, today he's busy welcoming the future.

("Future voting populace" might be more accurate.)

So here he is, offering the newcomers what guidance he can, or commiseration when he can't. He's taken up a position in the dining room and is not so much eating as hanging about near the food, grazing and drinking the punch. That it isn't spiked is, he thinks, rather cruel all things considered.

[nojudge.livejournal.com]

Gods. What is going on? Well, no, Balthier knows what's going on, he read the pamphlet, and while he generally finds this up front and organized approach to the experience somewhat refreshing, he's really about had enough and his nerves - which were already fraying in the LAST universe he couldn't escape - are nearly shot.

So of course he all but materializes behind Jack with no warning. "If you don't remember me I swear I'll curse you something horrible."

[mightyfallen]

"–Balthier." Jack doesn't quite jump, but he's startled enough not to quip, at least. With a quick glance around as if to check if anyone is looking (yes, apparently he's still paranoid), he claps the other man on the arm, smiling. He could hug you, sir. (But he won't; this is how you know he's not a pod person.)

"You're lucky I do, it's been ages. Did you just arrive?"

[jysiri.livejournal.com]

When first presented with the situation and the explanations offered for it, Jysiri had felt relief. He was free of his employers and all of their projects which sapped his time away. He was quite curious to meet humans, by virtue of all the things he knew they made.

He was less enthusiastic about being dropped into a place crawling with mammals, with barely any of his belongings. He missed his wardrobe and his jewelry boxes and sketchbooks, unfinished work... heavens, unfinished work for which he had been paid! And he wouldn't be able to reach Xax. That, too. Was that worth being free of his employers? It didn't seem as if he had much choice in the matter, either way.

He did his best to make himself presentable, with what he'd been wearing on his arrival. He was just glad that his robes were clean. They were not his worst, only the sort of thing he would wear while at home, away from view. Layers of dark blue fabric, without embroidery, lined with softer cloth and cut in such a way as to allow his small wings and his tail. He wound the two agate bead chains he had around his neck, leaving them out of his hair, and after some debate - these things are important - strung the aquamarine he had onto the chain.

He'd taken off the ring of his order almost immediately upon his arrival. The gem was better than the aquamarine, but he was glad to be rid of that. He could sell it. Hopefully he wouldn't have to sell the rest... but... that would come later. Now it was time to go see the humans.

So, the peacock made his way to the dining hall, in his humanoid form, like a blue-skinned elf, with his long tail wrapped with enough ribbon to keep it in order and off the floor, but not so much as to keep it hidden. His expression is calm, and without comment, he goes to investigate the food.

[paramedicated.livejournal.com]

The food, in Malcolm's opinion, is worth further investigation but that might just be because he's been living off army-supplied rations for two and a half years -- anything looks good after even the best they have to supply and Mal certainly hasn't had the best. His opinion on the matter might explain why he's still sitting at the table after being here for so long. A second plate of food, mainly an assortment of fresh vegetables and the occasional succulent piece of meat, sits in front of him with all the different varieties sectioned off into their own clearly defined grouping. Occasionally the man spears a piece with his fork and spends a moment or two savouring the flavor as he cradles a glass of water in one hand before he moves on to the next section.

Malcolm himself is leaning comfortably back in his chair flanked now on either side by empty seats; a young man with roughened skin and chapped lips, lines etched deep around his eyes and mouth. His clothes are no where near as beautiful as Jysiri's. Mal's shirt is a slightly wrinkled plain cotton in a drab olive colour that look as if they've been washed many times and then shoved into the bottom of a sack (which is exactly what's happened). His pants at least are new, the black is unfaded and the fabric crisp; it's obvious they didn't arrive in Baedal with him.

His eyebrows, when he notices Jysiri, climb directly into his hairline and he takes a quick sniff of his glass to check for alcohol content he may somehow have missed while drinking it. As it appears to still be water, a quick glance to the pamphlet laid on the table to his right follows but other then that the medic gives no outward sign of surprise.

[jysiri.livejournal.com]

Jysiri might have noticed Malcom's brief reaction, but it's more likely that, once he's done loading up his plate (whoever coined the phrase "eating like a bird" had no familiarity with avian metabolism), he's after an empty place to sit, and happens to pick the one next to this fellow.

He noticed some of these foods set out had eggs in them, which is vile. He will focus his disgust on this, because he doesn't even want to touch the fact that "chicken" is a perfectly acceptable menu option, right now. Expression slightly vexed, he sets down his plate, then turns the chair he's picked sideways. The tail tends to get in the way, after all.

"Oh," he says, hesitating a moment, a jerky, sudden stop, and then he tilts his head, equally abrupt. Right. Talk to the humans. "Excuse me. It's all right, if I sit here?"