multiversallogs | How many goodly creatures are there here!

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

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.))

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

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.

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.

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.

The low drawl in which Martel speaks sounds incredibly European for someone who's never been to Europe; a cultured, upper-class accent that sounds like a blend of something British and the south of France. "Martel," he supplies his name, drinking water, "Lord Margrave of Damerel, for what it's worth."

Little here, he expects, but the pretense at his past suited him in Bete Noire and it will continue to suit him here. For now.

"Worth something to you, isn't it?" Mal refrains from wiping his mouth with the back of his hand but only just as he reaches for his own cup. His accent isn't anything special; typically stilted north-western but his voice is low and soothing out of habit and a little rough out of abuse. "It doesn't much matter outside of that I don't suppose."

He snorts. "Makes as good an introduction as any, anyway, if they expect us to sit here and beat our gums at each other all night."

It's probably best not to actually dwell on exactly what Martel's former title is worth to him; that road leads no where good.

"That's one-" colourful, "-way of putting it."

A shrug as Malcolm raises his eyebrow at Martel. He's not sure what else to add to that but an agreement of "It is." before cradling his water glass carefully between his hands and looking down at his plate as if he can't believe there was food there.

Or that it was fresh. The fresh part still gets him.

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.

"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.

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.

Not feeling significantly more sociable than Rodolphus and comfortable with the silence - in part because between the two of them they've just extended their combined silent personal space a good three feet of 'not interested' - Martel lets it lie at that.

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?"

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?"

'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.

It is an apathy that serves him well, Balthier, so get bent. (With love.)

"If I'm not, I expect we'll know in short order." Because using the dead man (who isn't dead any more; it's been months and he still doesn't know precisely what to do with that) as a canary in the proverbial coal mine is a good idea. After a moment, because even Martel's dedication to bland sass isn't limitless, "How long has it been?"

He can't be sure. (This irritates him.)

"How the hell should I know?" He makes a face and actually looks his age for a moment as he rubs the center of his forehead in irritation. "I remember being in the city of sin, falling asleep on the roof, a very long, abstract dream, and then waking up here. You'd think I'd end up at home in the interim, but no. Do we have blasted multiverse pheromones on us, or some other damn thing. Shiva's tits, man."

"Perhaps I should've had something stronger than water," Martel reflects, to no one in particular. (He is aware that a solid part of his indifference to the situation - or his ability to feign it - is the simple fact that he truly has no where better to be. He prefers not to think too hard about this, on the whole, since it only leads to brooding alone in the dark, and that's just sad.)

"Oh, shut up." How would you like to be kicked under the table, Martel - no, he's not actually going to do that. But he considered it. For a while, Balthier actually manages to look both like he's lounging and sulking at once (it's a skill), until he sighs and leans forward on his elbows, speaking to the older man but watching other people about the room.

"Think there's an apocalypse in this one?"

"I smell bureaucracy in action," he returns dryly, ostensibly returning his attention to his meal (but by now, Balthier likely knows him too well to think that means a damn thing). "There'll be something - mark me." Bete Noire fed on them in some way, as he understands it; Baedal lacks that same oppressive taint, but he has his doubts that any place wholesale pressgangs its population just for giggles.

Though, he thinks sourly, perhaps he shouldn't underestimate the ability of gods to go about a particular whim in the most arse-about-face fashion possible.

"My favorite things," he sighs. "Gods and politics." The familiarity of it only makes his impossible bitterness even more biting. Would it be too much to ask to have trapped Fran with him, if he had to be trapped?

Might as well grab something to eat.

"Just so." Right down to the part where they might as well eat something while they're here; if this is life for the foreseeable future, it isn't as though he serves anyone (least of all himself) by standing in a corner sulking. (...well, not right now, at least.) "We'll see which way it goes."

In time, which seems to be all Martel has an abundance of.

"Bugger everything." Deadpan.

The food isn't bad, and he manages not to seem too sullen as he eats it - it's a deceptive bit of posturing, anyway. He doesn't want any of these strangers in here to get too secure of an idea about him. The closeness of it all is positively unnerving; he's going to bolt at first opportunity, but then, it's likely Martel knows that already.

Having already found somewhere to stable Kalten, Martel won't be far behind Balthier when it comes to getting the hell out of here; he needs a job and a place to live, and practically speaking it'll likely come in that order. All the same, he (correctly) expects Balthier to be out before he is, and they'll do as suits them.

Conveniently, it tends to suit them to coordinate. (He doesn't really think in terms of 'friendship', even if he knows that's what it is.)

After a while, "I brought the horse."

With all the drama Martel is surely expecting from that, Balthier sighs and throws up his hands. "That thing."

Your world's animals, man. Why.

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

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