multiversallogs | there's no map, and a compass won't help at all

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there's no map, and a compass won't help at all

Who: ~~Bruce~~ Tom and Ilde, eventually Seoraj.
What: PONIES.
Where: The southern farmlands.
When: S..OMETIME.. probably before the log with Wolfgang, we kept saying we were going to do this log (IT STARTED BEFORE WE MOVED TO DW), so it's happening whenever is convenient for our timelines.
Notes: BATMAN AND A FAERIE ARE GOING TO SEE PONIES, DEAL WITH IT.
Warnings: None it's ponies.

Based on what he knows of her from the network, Bruce isn't entirely sure why Ilde is here with him - hanging out. Hell, he's not sure why he's here, but it seems like she's got more of a reason to not want to spend time with some human guy, easily trumping his desire to shun all socialization on principle. Maybe she's just curious, or maybe the opportunity to do this with someone who knows what he's doing overrides whatever else - maybe Bruce should stop trying to analyze everyone else all the fucking time, and think about himself for two minutes. (Never.)

It's dark on the edges of Stoneshell, rural, lacking in light pollution or even courtesy lamps, but the moon is good enough illumination for him. This won't be the first time he's wondered about the gravity and cosmic location of Baedal; the moon doesn't look quite like Earth's Luna, or even Cruithne. His boots crunch in the grass, noises soft but deliberate - he could be silent, as he moves, but it would be strange, seeing as he isn't alone.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Bruce - Tom - is not merely 'some human guy'.

He's Hasi's human guy, and Ilde (brace yourself for this part) tends to trust her judgement, at least enough that friend-of-this-friend counts for something and she follows him in pants (leather, leggings, under a sweater-dress) and flats (...that have gold skulls on them) in the form of minor concession to both the weather and where they are. For as much as she likes to pretend, there isn't actually much about her that can be called practical and a body built to withstand very cold temperatures naked means it's not so much that she ignores the weather as it genuinely doesn't really matter. Until actually dropped in arctic conditions bare-assed, wearing a coat is just decoration and she's not very decorative this evening, mostly due to the fact that they aren't supposed to be here and drawing attention of anyone who isn't a horse isn't actually in the plan.

There's a plan. It mostly involves 'sneak onto farm, say hello to horses', but it does exist and all things considered, Ilde is in a pretty good mood about it. Even if this is the most serious-faced excursion into pure self-indulgent ridiculousness that she's ever participated in-- arguably, that's a point in its favour. Certain temperaments make explaining these things away later much easier, if only out of an ability to make them sound very reasonable.

"There," she says, pleased.

It's hardly self-indulgent ridiculousness. It's practical. Self-indulgent ridiculousness would be scheduling an appointment and coming out in the middle of the day to view horses and do it with ice cream and sunhats, or something. That would be terrible. This is just hopping a fence, and there's not even any irritatingly cheerful sunshine or, even worse, other people, to distract them.

(Let's just prove Ilde's last narrative point there even more, shall we?)

There's a few horses milling about a few meters back from the fence they're near, and the closest one raises its head, ears perked, when they approach. It's good; well-tempered and trained horses will always be interested in people, conditioned to assume they come bearing attention and snacks. "They're probably bored," he remarks, and hops halfway over the fence, momentarily sitting astride it while that first curious horse comes over to shove its nose at Bruce, searching.

(Neither of them would be properly indulged by icecream, sunhats or being allowed.)

Ilde boosts herself up after him - which involves more climbing, on her part - and glances around at the great wide nothing in particular that is Baedal's farmlands in this area. "I would be," she says, as though boredom is the worst thing she can imagine; it isn't, but she doesn't do well with proper idleness, either.

"Bored is pretty good, for a horse." Lots of space, and these ones look fat, happy, and healthy. They're probably being trained to be sold as riding horses, versus workers, seeing as how people-friendly they are.

"Do they scare you at all?" Some people are intimidated by the sheer size of them, and he asks even as he shoves this one horse's nose over towards Ilde (it's not rough; you have to be a little forceful with their enormous heads to get any kind of reaction), and it sniffs her, a bit like it's not sure what to make of this lady, but there's no hostility.

"The first time I was on a horse with Daddy," she says, reaching out to lay her hand curiously on her new acquaintance's face (the horse, not Bruce), "I thought they were supposed to be scary, because my stepfather looked like he was praying."

She hadn't found them that way (and that wasn't what François was worried about); she still doesn't.

"I think I was four or five."

(Thank you for that clarification.)

"I learned early, they wanted me to play polo."

This did not happen.

Bruce eases down onto the other side of the fence, and walks around to the horse's side, near Ilde, patting its neck. One of the other horses is ambling over now, slowly, mainly just curious to see what the fuss is over - they didn't bring treats, so there's no rush, but still.

Making a face at the mention of polo is completely reflexive and something for which she can't be blamed; it is a sport designed to leave no sense of dignity unpunished. Water polo (which doesn't involve horses, at least) isn't much better.

Swinging her leg over a moment later, she settles on top of the fence, balanced well enough with her heels resting against the side below. "Riding club at school was good," she said, detangling part of the horse's mane in front of her to occupy her hands. "Some of the other girls were on the equestrian team as well, but I'm more of a hobbyist."

There's a large gap between the stories she tells offhand; things that took place in Baedal, things that took place during boarding school. But Bruce and his tendency to creep the network presumably already knows why.

"Yeah, I never actually played."

So he understood everything that face wasn't saying, yes.

Bruce never did much with it in school - clubs and teams were social endeavors, and even if he wanted to be engaged in something like that, he was never going to be welcomed into it. Too much of a sideshow. But if there's one bright spot about being kidnapped into an alien dimension, it's that none of that matters; Bruce makes a little noise, hand near the horse's chin, and lo and behold, it actually backs up a little. He pats the horse's neck after. Good girl.

Just enough social interaction to stay above noticeably antisocial was, at times, a genuinely calculated effort; Ilde finds it's easier to be background when somebody else is right there to be the foreground, when you're consistently background noise and nobody's looking at your absence. It's how she used to avoid being asked questions, just convincing people that there was nothing to ask. That they already knew everything worth knowing. Adolescent-level manipulation, the kind that's easiest when you are an adolescent and most people don't feel the need to look that hard in the first place. There are narratives into which you can fit--

"You're good with them." It's been a while since she was this near a horse, she thinks.

"They're better at body language than people are."

So, in a way, horses speak Bruce's language better than most other humans do. He doesn't seem too fussed about it; he likes people, and the quiet watchful sense he has about him makes that obvious, even if he isn't social. (Sometimes he's still really, really bitter about being such an outsider, but it's much easier not to have those moments when he doesn't have Gotham's high society to contend with. If it was all slums and dark alleys, he'd be fine.)

"Do you know how to ride without a saddle?"

"I've done it a few times," she says, a little cautiously; she can, but it's not something she has as much practise at and she's not going to get too cocky about it. It's been a while since she went on a horse bareback. (Or at all.) "It's been years, though."

Bruce seems to be inspecting something - on the horse - and, once satisfied, shoots Ilde a look. (His night vision is pretty good, for just some guy.) "Want to?"

He's a nice boy, full of a good ideas.

(And the weirdest fucking date.)

"Yes," she says, promptly; she didn't even have to think about that, look how good she is at good ideas. Or really bad ideas that sound like a lot of fun - she's got a knack for those ones, always has. It's hereditary, she's pretty sure. A lot of things tend to make sense in context of 'Emery'.

It's not quite an unholy hour -

- okay, it is, but it isn't for Bruce, and he suspects the person he's about to go irritate won't find it as horrible, either; surely working at a forge means working with the sunlight, so surely Seoraj gets up pretty early.

... If not, well. Oops?

So here's Bruce, knocking on the door of this big old house, after which he leans against the house's front wall to one side of the door - out of direct light, yes, since off in the fields in the distance, there's still some commotion.

Congratulations, Bruce! He is treated (yes, why not) to the sight of a sleepy Arum in linen pants; he and Fish are probably officially the only people who have ever seen Seoraj wearing pants and only because this is what he sleeps in, here, when it's cold enough he wears anything. (His bed is a mass of furs, because he's from the mountains, what do you expect from him.)

(And Fish was a guest for a while when he needed to hide behind Seoraj's skirts until he felt better, don't even start.)

"...morning," he says, mildly. 'What the hell' is gently and affectionately implied.

"Morning," Bruce greets in response, polite and casual, like this isn't fucking weird, and he doesn't really think anything in particular about the other man's appearance. (Maybe he will, later, in some kind of bizarre moment of fridge logic, and wonder if he should have expected some kind of medieval underwear.)

"...Uh," so this is a rare moment, just so you know- "Can I buy you a coffee?" It's the first thing that comes to mind, and it's beautifully, brilliantly awful, and the wince in his voice is as palpable as the chill out here, and what's more, it's punctuated by angry shouting in the distance and a dog barking.

Bruce actually face palms. He raises his right hand and pinches the bridge of his nose, and whether he's wincing again or trying not to laugh at his own complete absurdity is hard to make out.

A pause follows this, and Seoraj just...kind of glances past Bruce, toward the source of the angry shouting (that voice sounds familiar, he probably knows that man, he knows most people around these parts and likes it that way), before moving slightly so his enormous shoulders aren't blocking the doorway.

"Yeah," he says, amiably, "when I'm a bit woke up. Come in, eh?"

This is spectacular, really.

"All right."

To his credit, Bruce is properly wry about it - not quite sheepish, he doesn't always have that in him, and it's notably absent while he's on the lam, but he is definitely self-aware in this moment. So he steps inside and shoots Seoraj a look that ... completely fails to be innocent.

(Not like that.)

The house is still in varying states of disrepair, and shows signs of the fact the only person living here just does not really give a fuck about things like 'interior design'; his furniture is solid wood, hardy, well-crafted but more functional than decorative and that's the whole place all over, functional more than anything else. It's like a half-finished project and there's evidence of that, too, tools and parts.

He takes Bruce through to the kitchen, where there's a fire going already.

"Trouble?" he inquires.

He likes it, he decides immediately. It's more comfortable than most places, and it makes sense in context with the the resident. As much as Bruce can like design - and like it a lot - there's something he understands effortlessly about putting something together with your own hands. He still looks around, but it's just glances to see where he's going.

"No."

.. Bruce. "-Not deliberately."

Seoraj offers him a mug of whatever it is in the kettle; it's been cooling a little while, so it's warm but not overly hot, and has an interesting scent, spiced and sweet at once, with a thick texture and rich red colour. "Don't ask me what it's called," he warns, "my tongue's too clumsy for it."

It'll wake you the hell up, though, and it tastes pretty good-- well, in Seoraj's estimation.

"What'd you do out there, then?"

He takes it and smiles, faint - surely the other man has figured out Bruce will drink just about anything that resembles tea, by now. He holds it in his hands for a while, habitually.

"...Looking at horses."

Bruce sips his drink.

"So I'm harboring a wanted horse-botherer," he surmises, sitting down at the rough-hewn kitchen table with general unconcern for his lack of clothes or epic bedhair. (When you have that much hair, it's sort of impressive, really.)

(It is pretty impressive, though Bruce ends up looking more at his tattoos and scars, than anything.)

Bruce slides into a chair across from him, his posture still on the polite end of the spectrum - he's never tense, this guy, but he's also not exactly making himself at home. He's a guest, and he's a guest who's really pushing Seoraj's hospitality.

He glances up at him as he takes another drink. His expression is inexplicable.

(He's a cute wanted horse-botherer, though.)

"I think I'll probably buy one from him. If the dog doesn't remember me."

"I thought about it for myself," with his mysteriously comfortable supply of marks, "but it didn't work out to so practical. Good beasts, mind. Sir Hellsing had hers from around here, if I'm not missing my mark."

For others, yes, he can see the value-- but while he can ride, he's used to walking and for the most part, he does just fine with his relatively localized lifestyle and public transport when he needs to head further afield. (Or when he's just curious about what's over that hill, which is-- often.)

...also he's just really fond of Integra's horse.

'Mysteriously', sir, he met you coming out of the Arena.

"There's a stable down the street," he says - so, there's space, even with apartment living. "And I hate the train."

He was totally just shopping, out there. In the middle of the night. Really.

Sure, that seems believable. (No.)

Seoraj grimaces. "The cabs make me feel like a wanker," he says, "but better than the train." Sitting in a carriage like some posh piece of work is just not exactly his style, but nice, trustworthy horse-power and a driver he can chat with are significantly preferrable to getting into one of those hulking great steel beasts.

He likes steel. He does not like trains. He probably wouldn't like cars, either, sorry, Bruce.

"There's a real big one, that runs through the city like it does here, and parts up like the skyrail, in my hometown." That's finally, finally running again - Bruce hated that the train had ended up so damaged (thanks to him) and is pleased it's back (thanks to him, appropriately). It felt worse than his parents' house being burned down; his father actually put effort into the train. The house had just been inherited. "It doesn't track you, though."

Aha.

Much as Seoraj likes Baedal, he's no fonder of their government than anyone else; he keeps his head down and his nose clean and he listens, because he's used to listening, to acting when he has an order and to staying alert so as to make sure following orders involves 'being alive afterwards'. He grimaces again, but less good-naturedly, and quieter as he drinks from his mug. He's seen regimes not unlike this one before and it's a nasty, ugly business that's all the more successful because of the seductively distracting surface that he'll own he's a part of now. Some people know better than others the reality of what they're all living in.

"That's as is."

Edited 2012-01-12 07:49 (UTC)

Not everyone notices; not everyone notices it for what it is, either. And it's not like Baedal is endless terror - what's good is good, and the regime isn't as bad as, say, Gotham.

But it's still pretty damn bad.

"It's something worth keeping an eye on." Gently corrective of as is - like he takes the status quo as a thing that's out to irritate him personally. (That Bruce has the soul of a troublemaker is not something Seoraj needed this morning to notice, narration suspects.)

Fluidly: "If I woke you up way too early, I can just creep out the back, you know."

Very mildly, "Fire doesn't go lighting itself, Tom." A few beats later, because Baedal: "In this house."

In other words, he was already up, he's just still in the process of achieving actual wakefulness. Which may or may not have something to do with the fact one of the locals pays him in good ale, uh.

"Besides," sipping, "the wood out the back's still no good. Porch out that way's all blocked off for now." Surely Seoraj would love to explain to locals why there was some random dude hopping out his window. Surely!

After a few moments, "I pay my share of attention. When I'm awake."

Hey. If Bruce went hopping out of his window, no one would notice. There are some things he is not actually inept at.

Still - the mental image is perhaps a little more scandalous than either of them needs, and he smiles a bit to himself, though he hides it behind his mug. That's very nice of you, Seoraj, combating a potential hangover to put up with his crazy ass.

"Well, I wasn't kidding about coffee."

Seoraj chuckles into his own, before he sets it down. "Let me get decent, eh?" Because he's one of those people in the city for whom getting dressed involves taking his pants off, yes. No one can judge his kilts, and you all love his knees.

He cracks a bit more of a visible smile - works for him. The kilts are indeed just fine, though Bruce personally would still wear pants under it. (There are too many scars on his knees that shouldn't be there.)

The sun'll be coming up in a bit. He's always liked this time of day.

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there's no map, and a compass won't help at all

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