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

[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.

[apostatised]

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.

[paramedicated.livejournal.com]

"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."

[apostatised]

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."

[paramedicated.livejournal.com]

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.