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Transgender
strider
No mourners, no funerals
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Post by strider on Jul 7, 2019 9:05:35 GMT -5
It was far more amusing than Crutchie let on to see Sherlock floundering, but he wasn’t going to keep the detective at the edge of his wits for much longer. First impressions may have led him to dislike the man, but that didn’t mean he was going to be needlessly cruel to him. “Look at the board,” Crutchie whispered, casting a glance behind him. “You’ll pick up the basics.” Though Sherlock would certainly have an… interesting time attempting to pronounce some of the names. “You need any help sayin’ stuff just let me know.” He gave a wink that he was sure would frustrate Sherlock and once more turned to the kids. He sucked in a deep breath, looking around. It seemed that, for now, they had the kids attention. They were quiet, though Crutchie knew that wasn’t going to last long. He already saw some of them shifting uncomfortably. “Now,” He began, glancing quickly at Sherlock. He was trying to buy him time to read the whole board. “What do you all know about Irish mythology?” Some of the kids raised hesitant hands, and Crutchie breathed a sigh of relief. They were under way.
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Post by ®Hawkpath® on Jul 7, 2019 9:15:58 GMT -5
Sherlock scowled, if possible even more annoyed by this attempt to help him than he had been by the obvious way Crutchie was making fun of him. He looked at the board with the intention of looking away immediately, but the glance was enough to snag his interest. Names, he could in fact pronounce most of them, a few not so much but never mind those, facts, dates, events, he blinked and the board was on a wall in his mind palace. Not every detail, obviously, but he was smugly aware that it was significantly better than most people’s memory. “Think I can manage it, thanks.” He said in an off-hand sort of tone, looking back at the class. They were finally behaving themselves, and he grudgingly had to accept that this was entirely Crutchie’s doing. He did not, however, have to admit it. “You. Answer. Now.” He said, jabbing his thumb towards a student with their hand up at random. “Irish mythology. Go.”
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Transgender
strider
No mourners, no funerals
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Post by strider on Jul 7, 2019 9:32:57 GMT -5
Sherlock was obviously out of his depth and also obviously not used to being so. Crutchie had worked his whole life to hide when he was uncertain or when he was struggling… it baffled him that someone who obviously considered himself so smart (and who seemed, frustratingly enough, to actually be smart enough to back up his claims) was so obvious with his frustration. Yet even when obviously not suited to handle the situation, the detective was annoyingly arrogant. “You have the floor,” Crutchie replied, his lip curling up into the barest hint of a smirk. It wasn’t that he wanted Sherlock to fail, it was just that he wanted to prove to the detective that, despite what he may have believed, Sherlock couldn’t get through this room without Crutchie. And already, the kids were reacting to the detective’s abrasive manner. “Um…” the child Sherlock had pointed at began, “Aren’t there uh… dragons? Or fairies… or… or something?” Her face was red, seemingly already embarrassed - or prepared to be by whatever Sherlock’s response was.
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Post by ®Hawkpath® on Jul 7, 2019 12:23:07 GMT -5
Sherlock listened, tapping his foot impatiently. If some ways, kids were easier to understand than adults. They were simpler, obviously, and smarter than most people gave them credit for. More honest, too. Not to mention that, if he was completely honest with himself, he was more like a kid than an adult most times. Adults played the game they thought was life, while children knew better and played their own games, in their own heads, and knew it was pretend. They didn’t act like they understood the world, they simply asked “why?” With all this in mind, the detective managed to avoid telling the already-embarrassed child to hurry up and be more specific, tempting though it was. “Correct.” He said instead, his odd, not-totally-friendly-but-not-totally-unfriendly smile curling his lip. “Mostly mythology is a useless subject, of course, as it has absolutely nothing to do with any of you or your lives but you’re here so I suppose you want to hear about it. Well, read the board, then. I’ve deleted most of it if I ever knew it, I'm on a case, I’m a detective you know, House, not a teacher.” He stepped back and waved a hand at the board. “Probably dragons and faeries and leprechauns and rainbows, I don’t know, why don’t you all go read a book about it if you’re so interested? Crutchie, what is the point of this room?”
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Transgender
strider
No mourners, no funerals
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Post by strider on Jul 7, 2019 13:16:49 GMT -5
The little girl's description hadn't been entirely right, but Crutchie didn't correct her. Of course, what she had said was true. There were dragons and fairies, but not in the way most people thought. He was about to build on whatever she was going to say when Sherlock began talking again. Crutchie was almost positive he'd never met anyone who liked the sound of their own voice that much. Anger began building deep in Crutchie's chest, but he kept it under the surface. To tell children that mythology was unimportant? That stories would have nothing to do with their actual lives? That was all he had left of his mother. That was what put the littles to sleep at night when they had nightmares or missed their parents too much. And that was as real as getting up early in the morning to hawk a headline that had nothing to do with them. "You've never had to teach anything, have you?" He demanded, his voice a low hiss. "You have no idea if these children can read! You have no idea if they've learned or if they have trouble with words, or... you don't think about anything other than what's convenient for you and your life, do you?" He was trying to be quiet enough that the class didn't hear him. "There's more to the world than what you know and what you think is important." His face was already heated with anger when he turned back to the class to breathe softly. He began speaking again, his voice surprisingly calm as he addressed the children. "A lot of you might be thinking of leprechauns and pots of gold," he gave a pointed glare at Sherlock, "But if you look deeper there's a lot more than that. That's true of a lot of things. If you look deeper there's often more than the basic couple of things you hear get tossed around by folks." If anyone had been paying attention, his accent had gotten a bit softer, turned just a touch more lyrical. In his anger he had switched to Irish, a language where he was more easily able to make his point.
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Post by ®Hawkpath® on Jul 7, 2019 13:33:20 GMT -5
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, completely taken aback by Crutchie’s apparently unprovoked outburst. He thought he’d been incredibly reasonable with his response, and yet here was his new companion, spitting mad and clearly directing it right at him. “I just said I’m not a teacher, pay attention.” He hissed back, his voice low because Crutchie’s had been. He was no longer thinking of the children. “Don’t be stupid. These aren’t even real children, they’re House generated illusions and I could throw one across the room without them if I wanted to.” The last bit hurt. No it didn’t. He didn’t care, obviously this boy could say what he wanted, he was flailing around looking for any excuse to attack the detective, probably because they’d gotten off on the wrong foot. Sherlock snorted, torn between feeling offending and something that definitely wasn’t agreement. “And not that it’s any of your business, Crutchie-“ there was a definite edge of a sneer there, “-but no one actually cares about anything but themselves and what they think. You certainly don’t, even if you’ve convinced yourself you do. I’m just more honest than most people about it, that’s all, and myths are in fact useless speculation trapped under the jar of humanity’s inability to let anything go so long it’s gone moldy.” He spat out the last part, mostly to vent whatever the weird not-feeling was out of his chest. He turned to the kids, scanning them with narrowed, piercing blue orbs. “Sorry about that, you all, just a bit of grownup talk, we’re through now.”
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Transgender
strider
No mourners, no funerals
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Post by strider on Jul 7, 2019 18:15:59 GMT -5
Crutchie was slowly but surely becoming aware of the fact that Sherlock was not particularly good at dealing with people, which, frankly, seemed like a vital skill for a detective to have. Unless he only worked with people who didn't mind being looked down on. Frankly, Crutchie wasn't entirely sure where he was from, but from what he seemed to understand, chances were they were from the same world. Therefore it seemed unlikely that anybody - especially considering the people Crutchie had met in his own world - would be willing to work with or for someone who looked down on them so much. "I ain't stupid!" Crutchie hissed in response, hating the way his voice rose to what could have been nicely classified as a squeak. "You wanna be cruel to children just cause they may not be real, fine. But we got no idea if the House brought these kids in just for this or if we's in their world or what. You think you know everything, but..." He was about to say more when Sherlock's scathing tone hit his ears. The blood was roaring in his ears so loud he didn't even hear the rest of what Sherlock was saying. That was his name, the one Jack had given him, the one that let him be who he wanted to be, the one that separated him from a life he didn't even want to remember. He hated the way it sounded in Sherlock's mouth. He reddened even more than before, his entire body stiffening. His knuckles were white where they clung to the crutch, and he couldn't quite make himself look at the kids. "You think ya can get yourself outta this room, be my guest." His voice was deathly quiet as he turned and made his way towards the end of the board - as far away as he could get from Sherlock.
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Post by ®Hawkpath® on Jul 7, 2019 19:48:46 GMT -5
Sherlock turned his narrowed gaze back to Crutchie, his dislike of this entire situation evident on his sharp face. It was both familiar and strangely disconcerting to have someone in the House look at him like that. He’d found people here were much more likely to not hate him, and though he didn’t really understand why, he thought maybe it was because his deductions had a lower rate of accuracy here. But the look in Crutchie’s bright blue eyes seemed to stab at him, like so many angry faces directed at him in his own world, where to be liked was something peculiar, like finding the rarest flower in the world growing in your garden bed. “I didn’t mean you specifically were stupid, everyone is.” He muttered his answer into the space between the other blinker’s words, not because he expected to be listened to, but because he couldn’t not say it. The idea about the children being real made him blink, twice, and for s moment he forgot to look sullen as a look half of excitement and half of annoyance at himself took over his features. He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped, his elated expression draining away as quickly as it had come. Because Crutchie was angry. Crutchie was very, very angry, and Sherlock took a step back, startled at the heat of it suddenly radiating off the boy. He’d done something. Said something. Quickly he replayed their whole interaction in his mind, and it was on the second rerun that he landed on it, the bad thing that stuck out. The name. It all made sense now. But he’d understood too late. The boy had already limped to the other side of the room, and Sherlock found that approaching him was now impossible, because what would he say? He hadn’t realized that that name was so important to him. Maybe he should have caught on earlier, but for anyone else to have noticed it would be incredible, so really, it wasn’t all his fault. And the children probably were fake, anyway, and myths were stupid, and.... “I’m sorry.” He said it softly, so that Crutchie wouldn’t hear him. Then he turned back to the children, a wide, false smile breaking over his face. “Ah Yes, where were we? Of course. Irish....something. I don’t know anything about this because it’s a waste of time but if you all could convince our resident Irishman back over here, I’m sure he’d love to tell you a few good, room-ending stories, eh?”
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Transgender
strider
No mourners, no funerals
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Post by strider on Jul 7, 2019 20:26:11 GMT -5
Crutchie heard Sherlock’s words about stupidity, but he wasn’t going to answer. There was something in the compulsive need Sherlock seemed to have to reply to absolutely everything that may have served to soften his impression of the man, but that didn’t change anything. If Sherlock wanted to get out of the room of children - who were beginning to whisper among themselves - then he’d have to do it on his own. There was something odd about Sherlock, Crutchie had to admit. He was insufferable, but when he reflected on this first meeting in later days no doubt Crutchie would recognize that there wasn’t any intentional slight in Sherlock’s words. Now, however, he was still fuming. He read over some of the notes on the wall, finger tracing over familiar myths his mother had mentioned, the words looking so foreign when they were printed out in English rather than the soft pen strokes of Irish that he was only just beginning to learn how to read when that chance was stolen from him forever. He hated to admit it, he hadn’t told any of the other newsies, but the myths his mother had told him were important. Every small memory he had of his parents was important, though he was often struck with the realization that he didn’t remember the soft scent of his mother when she told him stories, or the sound of her laughter, or the light in his father’s eyes when he watched from the doorway, thinking he was unnoticed. Crutchie had tried to forget all of it, but there was so much he couldn’t let go, and so much that he wished he could still remember. And his name? The one he’d left behind had died with his family. The one he had now was a way of forgetting. Of moving on. And then he heard what Sherlock was saying. He couldn’t quite force himself to turn back around, but he listened. It wasn’t perfect, that was for sure - parts of what was said still annoyed him more than he cared to admit - but Sherlock was trying. Crutchie was almost certain he was just trying to get them out of the room, but in a way it felt like Sherlock was admitting he needed help to do so. And that wasn’t quite an apology, but it was pretty close. “If you want an Irishman, my da woulda been the one. Not me.” His voice was quiet, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear, but it was an olive branch of sorts. He was at least willing to speak to Sherlock, though he hadn’t turned to look at him or the children just yet. “Surely you haveta know at least a little bit of mythology.”
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Post by ®Hawkpath® on Jul 7, 2019 20:40:20 GMT -5
Sherlock had not expected it to work. No, it hadn’t worked exactly, Crutchie was still across the room and not looking at him. But he’d answered. That was something, right? Most rooms, when they only had two people, needed both of them to escape. In this one it was especially obvious, as Sherlock knew nothing of Irish myths and Crutchie clearly remembered a good deal of what his mother had read to him. It occurred to him now that, since she was more likely dead than not, that almost certainly had something to do with his sensitivity over his name. That’s what he was good at. He could pick up a piece of a puzzle and fit it in with his eyes closed and one hand tied behind his back. He could remember the details of the board behind him, that he’d stared at for about two minutes. He knew that Crutchie was angry and he was pretty sure he knew why, but this wasn’t a case he had to crack, and there was no deducting what he was supposed to do now. It seemed likely that anything that came out of his mouth was going to make the boy hate him more, which he didn’t mind, but he also didn’t really want. It was.... Complicated. He eyed Crutchie’s back, opening his mouth and then closing it several times before he could actually get anything out. “I probably deleted them.” He said carefully, but in a tone that suggested carelessness. “Extraneous information, taking up space I need for cases back in my world. I can guess though, it has to do with supernatural creatures tricking humans and humans tricking them back, all over some moral lesson, right?”
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Transgender
strider
No mourners, no funerals
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Post by strider on Jul 7, 2019 21:15:56 GMT -5
Deleted. That was an odd term, Crutchie thought. How could you just delete pieces of information? He supposed he did it subconsciously with things that didn’t matter to him - for example the faces of some of the people who bought from him and didn’t make a habit of returning. Yet he couldn’t imagine deleting whole sections of what was taught to him. And, if he were honest, there were probably plenty of things that he wished he could just delete. It sounded so simple, and maybe it was for Sherlock. Maybe he came from a world where everyone could just delete that which they didn’t deem important. Or maybe he was just unique in his world. Crutchie had certainly never met anyone like him. He turned just enough to see Sherlock’s face. There was no malice there. Crutchie wasn’t sure there had ever been. There was smugness, sure, but perhaps any slight hadn’t been intentional. They all snapped when they were frustrated, right? Wasn’t that an experience almost every living being shared? It sure seemed that way for the people he’d met in the House, though that tended to be more disastrous for those with powers. “That’s the gist of it,” he murmured, almost laughing at Sherlock’s guess. “Though in general there’s no moral other than don’t trust anything that’s not human. The Ulster Cycle is a lot more human, though. Other than the cow that can feed an entire army from one milking…” he took a small step forward. “There’s a lot of human battles and human romance and some very human heroes.” He didn’t share that when he was little he wanted to grow up to be Cú Chulainn. That his mother had always gotten upset at his muddied dress after he’d chased after some of the other children with a makeshift sword and challenged them to grand battles. That was probably information that nobody else needed.
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Post by Auransky on Jul 7, 2019 22:49:56 GMT -5
The Towns People : Town Square , Monster Room - Breaking Point
Key: Crowd : Individuals unarmed in the square Round Man : A local government authority figure Yard : Scotland Yard Vicar : Church authority figure Lady with the whip : Widow mob : group of citizens that arrived to the square, with the yard and vicar : armed and angry Doctor : “Leader of the Monsters” The lines of uniformed yard, took several steps back when Izaya landed, and positioned himself besides the mummy. It wasn't helping the group of oddballs. Instead, it only further added to the fuel. The indiviudals in the yard seemed displeased, with being outright ignored. Despite being ignored-briefly, the yard re-positioned from their close proximity. When Izaya turned his attention back towards the Yard, and the crowd of people to the far back, the yard pointed their weapons, not only to Izaya but to the mummy, dragon, and many other creatures present. What further didn't help, was the sudden appearance of a loud mouth. The individual known as Rodger caused the Yard, to further twitch with their weapons at hand. Regardless of an introduction, the man blinked besides the monsters. This further caused credibility to tank. The mob in the distance, the group twice-if not three times the size of the people already gathered in the town square, made their way towards the already present crowd, and the blinkers. They seemed angry, given their aggressive stomps, and mutters-chants. It seemed like they had one goal in mind. ...Burn the door, close the morgue...The unison chant echoed down the street, followed the moving light of dozens of candles, torches and all mediums of light being upheld by the approaching mob. Then a ghost blinked in? A spirit? It didn't have legs, and didn't stop a woman from screaming at Sky from the crowd standing in the square. Then it started the muttering, and fumbling of disagreement over the fact that the individuals present in the square were unarmed and open prey, compared to the yard and approaching mob. The large round man made his way down the platform, ordering the two volunteers from the crowd to hurry up. He ignored their minor complaint about the prisoner giving them trouble, and instead persisted again that they hurry up. The two men used the opportunity of dragging their guest, to kick the man seeing as their prisoner was acting limp. The two men carrying the prisoner dragged the young man with a crushed will. Their eyes screamed bloodthirsty revenge. And so they followed the large round man out of the square, and into the closest allyway; making their way for hellfire. Another dozen or more of people from the square followed suit after the round man, and prisoner. The Vicar slowly followed the group heading for hellfire, but he stopped to face the crowed, pulling out a pocket bible. He quickly flipped it open, and began to read from a particular page. It was a verse in latin-brief but emotional by the sounds of it. Granted, the crowd drowned out any and all of his goodwell, making his actions go unnoticed. When completed he closed the book, and rushed off after the group that had gotten a further start down the allyway for hellfire. The woman with the whip at hand made her way off the platform. What caught her attention was the sudden appearance of Enjolras. She slowly made her way towards the back of the crowd where the self inserted leader statured himself besides the other creatures. Yet she stopped weary, and at a distance from the back of the crowd, so midway at best. "Oh, they come to collect their treasure." She spoke in a disgusted tone. She wasn't hiding her hate, it was personal. Someone in the crowd, closest towards the group of blinkers overheard Sky's comment about a witch. They stumbled back, bumping into a few others behind them. "They got a witch!" They screamed loudly to the crowd. This response triggered the Yard, the individuals in uniform further twitching and taking another step forward towards the cursed group of blinkers. From the back row of the yard, the formation took steps towards the retreating group. It was evident that not everyone was backing away-notably the dragon. Hence the gap despite the last line in the yard formation slowly seeping closer. The mob was now on the other side of the courtyard. They reached the presence of the crowd in the square, and despite the heavy fog-the outline of a massive beast was noticed. Furthermore, the sound of weapons being aligned and aimed towards the outline, and the retreating figures could be herd. It mob had made their way through the courtyard joining the Yard, to accumulate their attack. Perhaps it was fate, or rather a trickster, but the outline of the dragon followed by the question-followed by a roar, then stomping which caused the earth to shake and rumble. The crowd screamed, the mob cried out, the yard tumbled grabbing one another to stay standing. But they didn’t stand in place for long. The dragon-its figure its roaring had made its intention known. The dragon was stompping and the people in the square ran to avoid its massive paws. The women in the crowd screamed and scowled away, in desperation to what was suddenly taking place. The men In the mob though scared used their weapons at the dragon, as did the yard. With the combined efforts of the yard and mob, they attacked, retreated and attacked again. But clearly-their weapons made no contact, or maybe it appeared that way. The fog was thickening, closing in on the square. It was very difficult to see, but the sounds of movement could be clearly herd. Then in the mist of the dragons rage, a few blood roaring shrieks could be herd-then silenced out by the confusion, anger and screaming of many others. There was much confusion, in the town square. But the lady with the whip quickly jumped to address the yard. “Split someone up, go after those runaways!” She ordered the captain. Next she jumped to the side brely missing a head of the eleven headed dragon. The captain quickly blew on his whistle, and the yard started taking formation. Despite the rampaging dragon, they attacked back in unison , though messy with daggers, revolvers, swords, knives, bows, whips. The mob caught wind and in between the yard’s attacks, they too entered with their pitchforks, scythes, daggers, and other farm equipment they grab from their homes. A dozen individuals fell out of the square and began to rush after the retreating group in the mist of the chaos. While the entirely of the crowd was occupying the square, it gave this dozen the opportunity to slip off in pursuit after the blinkers. Back in the yard, amongst the screaming, shouting, and overall chaos, there was a low growl rumbling from the mist of the many people. The waves of people drowned the abnormal sound, making it seem human in comparison to everything going on. The fog was intense making it even harder to tell anything apart, making the mob, and yard appear like a wave. Then, a very large figure jumped from the crowd, its jump was very high to aim for the dragon. Hidden by the intense fog, it was only when the figure was close to the lowest of the heads that it was revealed to be a werewolf. The Towns People : Town Square , Monster Room - Fog levels IncreasingThe Towns People: Towns Square , Monster Room - Welcome
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Post by mintedstar/fur on Jul 8, 2019 2:18:37 GMT -5
Hector had been paying attention, having noticed Mal's malcontent with the religion in his world, but he didn't make any connection between his thoughts on fate and Mal's expression. "If it were easy, the gods probably wouldn't reveal much." The Trojan guessed. Hector followed the vampires glance to the hallway. "No, I never have: I've either just stayed in the living room or been blinked into a room already going on. Some of the others are quite hesitant to go in, especially alone. But I have been curious to try one. Would you like to?" Maladict didn't hesitate. It meant getting out of the room and seeing something new. He let an eyebrow arch and then nodded. "A room sounds good." He glanced in the direction of the bookshelf and then turned toward the hallway. His footsteps were light, even in boots that did not look like they should have been able to move that softly. He walked several feet down the hall before he looked back at Hector. "What door would you like to choose?" There didn't seem to be any difference in his voice, but he seemed to have moved forward with a bit more eagerness than he might have otherwise. (Have any room ideas?)
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Post by mintedstar/fur on Jul 8, 2019 2:24:46 GMT -5
<Raintalon> Auransky HᥲꙆƒꙆɩɠᖾtThere was almost a moment where Myrnin was sent coughing, unsure what was going on in the sudden chaos. But he took the piece of fabric and pushed it over his face, not really sure how this would help. It made it only a little easier to breath in the end. His small green eyes darted around, trying to see what was going on, but for the most part all he could see was Hange. He couldn't help trembling a bit against them. He'd never been in this amount of serious danger before and he really didn't know what to do.
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Post by mintedstar/fur on Jul 8, 2019 15:49:10 GMT -5
Hector stood from the couch, taking long strides to the hallway. He took in the space, peering down the long corridor. He'd never been down all the way. He inclined his head towards the far end before heading that way. Hector didn't want to antagonize the House, but he did want to see some more of it. If Maladict wasn't going to follow him, he'd retrace his steps. He could always try it later. "People have probably seen all the closer ones." Hector reasoned, unaware of the more nuanced peculiarities of the House. "Perhaps we'll have a better chance farther on." (I'm tempted for there to be some room where Mal is forced to turn into a bird again, but that was his last room. Then the other temptation would be having him 'die'. But I will withhold temptation. Bubble room sounds fun! XD ) There wasn't much reason not to continue to follow Hector, but Maladict still snorted a bit in amusement. "Actually, I don't think it matters. I saw several people open the doors which were closer, so I just assumed that there was yet another thing that was magical about this place. I don't believe it matters whether we enter close to the room or not." He nodded into the distance. "However ... I'm not sure whether or not this place has an ending. It might. Or it might be like a library." Before libraries had been banned by an insane god, that was. "It could just go forever." Or maybe not forever, but sometimes you felt like you had walked far longer than the surrounding space should have allowed. He was getting this impression now. "Were you going to pick a door like you wanted to?"
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Post by HᥲꙆƒꙆɩɠᖾt on Jul 8, 2019 22:57:39 GMT -5
"Uh huh." Astolfo didn't move from his position on Hippogriff's back right away, his only reply a noise of confirmation. Eventually he did sit back up and regain his normal demeanor, even if it was mostly just to keep his balance when his mount shook it's neck in an attempt to get it's rider to straighten out. Giving Julius a wide grin and a thumbs up, "I'm good as new!" The beam of light in the distance caught the Servant's attention, causing him to point at it in case his companion hadn't noticed it yet. "Look at that! Think it's the way out?" It was the only thing that stood out in the room anymore, so he figured it warranted a look. He tapped his heel's against Hippogriff's sides to get the beast to strut forward and set off. (Oof, short post. T.T)
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Pansexual
Cloverleaf
For certain as our banner flies, we are not alone. The people too must rise.
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Post by Cloverleaf on Jul 9, 2019 0:04:18 GMT -5
"So they're not really doors. More like... opportunities." Hector hazarded, not really sure how much of that he believed. He would come to his own conclusions, he was sure, but he didn't mind hearing the ideas of others. Hector kept walking, curious to see a bit more of this place.
"Yes, yes, hold on a moment." Hector came to a split in the hall- both identical in appearance, drab wood paneling, gas lights, worn floorboards. He turned left, trailing a calloused hand over one of the dark oak doors. Logically, the one that was on the left hand corner would cut into the room that was 90° away from it. And the room wouldn't expand to the left at all, because the hallway was there. Wanting to test his theory, Hector turned the brass doorknob and stepped inside...
...and instantly got all his theories blown out of the water. His feet sunk into soft foam, and the space was wide open, with light coming from no apparent source. To the left, where he'd expected to see a wall, a stream of small bubbles the size of ping pong balls was floating gently through the air. Farther into the room, beach ball sized ones drifted around, passing by various small ones. There were no apparent walls or ceilings, but then again, one couldn't just see for miles and miles. There was just sort of a vague sense of containment.
Hector just stared. It was totally different from anything he'd seen before. The rooms he'd been in before had been more mundane, or at least more familiar. This was totally new. He shifted his weight, and the foam adjusted under him. It seemed that the floor more the idea of a floor, instead of a concrete, absolute barrier. He turned to see what Maladict was thinking of the room. Instead of being able to see back into the hallway, more bubbles gently bobbed around. Which didn't make sense. The door had been right there. Ok, so maybe the House had a few more tricks up its sleeves.
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Post by mintedstar/fur on Jul 9, 2019 2:13:36 GMT -5
"So they're not really doors. More like... opportunities." Hector hazarded, not really sure how much of that he believed. He would come to his own conclusions, he was sure, but he didn't mind hearing the ideas of others. Hector kept walking, curious to see a bit more of this place. "Yes, yes, hold on a moment." Hector came to a split in the hall- both identical in appearance, drab wood paneling, gas lights, worn floorboards. He turned left, trailing a calloused hand over one of the dark oak doors. Logically, the one that was on the left hand corner would cut into the room that was 90° away from it. And the room wouldn't expand to the left at all, because the hallway was there. Wanting to test his theory, Hector turned the brass doorknob and stepped inside... ...and instantly got all his theories blown out of the water. His feet sunk into soft foam, and the space was wide open, with light coming from no apparent source. To the left, where he'd expected to see a wall, a stream of small bubbles the size of ping pong balls was floating gently through the air. Farther into the room, beach ball sized ones drifted around, passing by various small ones. There were no apparent walls or ceilings, but then again, one couldn't just see for miles and miles. There was just sort of a vague sense of containment. Hector just stared. It was totally different from anything he'd seen before. The rooms he'd been in before had been more mundane, or at least more familiar. This was totally new. He shifted his weight, and the foam adjusted under him. It seemed that the floor more the idea of a floor, instead of a concrete, absolute barrier. He turned to see what Maladict was thinking of the room. Instead of being able to see back into the hallway, more bubbles gently bobbed around. Which didn't make sense. The door had been right there. Ok, so maybe the House had a few more tricks up its sleeves. "Good way of putting it," Maladict muttered to himself as he looked over the doors. The vampire watched Hector look at the door, not sure of what was going through his head, but waiting for him to finish whatever it was. He'd already seen space defying rooms before and they just kept being what they were. Maladict only tensed when Hector entered the room and hurried after just in case the other soldier fell off a cliff before Maladict caught up. His feet ran first into bubbles and then nearly into Hector. The vampire froze, feeling a slight sense of wet. Caused by the bubbles, he was sure. There was nowhere to stumble back to, of course. Nowhere that didn't include more bubbles. Looking around instead, Maladict steadied himself far quicker than a human would have so as not to be tripped up by the soap. Though whether there was a floor under there to trip on was another matter. You couldn't really tell in the House and all Mal could smell was soap, bubbles, and Hector's confusion. "I suppose I should have expected this," muttered Maladict. "Or rather, expected anything other than normal. Those what all this ... mess ... is supposed to be about I don't know. Kelsier said it was something about puzzles." (That is so cool! XD Maladict can change into a magpie.)
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Post by ®Hawkpath® on Jul 9, 2019 6:15:49 GMT -5
Deleted. That was an odd term, Crutchie thought. How could you just delete pieces of information? He supposed he did it subconsciously with things that didn’t matter to him - for example the faces of some of the people who bought from him and didn’t make a habit of returning. Yet he couldn’t imagine deleting whole sections of what was taught to him. And, if he were honest, there were probably plenty of things that he wished he could just delete. It sounded so simple, and maybe it was for Sherlock. Maybe he came from a world where everyone could just delete that which they didn’t deem important. Or maybe he was just unique in his world. Crutchie had certainly never met anyone like him. He turned just enough to see Sherlock’s face. There was no malice there. Crutchie wasn’t sure there had ever been. There was smugness, sure, but perhaps any slight hadn’t been intentional. They all snapped when they were frustrated, right? Wasn’t that an experience almost every living being shared? It sure seemed that way for the people he’d met in the House, though that tended to be more disastrous for those with powers. “That’s the gist of it,” he murmured, almost laughing at Sherlock’s guess. “Though in general there’s no moral other than don’t trust anything that’s not human. The Ulster Cycle is a lot more human, though. Other than the cow that can feed an entire army from one milking…” he took a small step forward. “There’s a lot of human battles and human romance and some very human heroes.” He didn’t share that when he was little he wanted to grow up to be Cú Chulainn. That his mother had always gotten upset at his muddied dress after he’d chased after some of the other children with a makeshift sword and challenged them to grand battles. That was probably information that nobody else needed. Sherlock’s blue eyes searched Crutchie’s as the boy turned, scanning for a hint of what he was thinking. He looked cautious, but not really angry anymore. Why had he gotten over something that was clearly very important to him so fast? Well, no, not gotten over it, it was clearly still bothering him. But for some reason, he was letting the consulting detective draw him back to the board. He probably just wanted to get out of the room even more than he wanted to yell at him. “Stupid moral.” He answered immediately, thinking mostly of Myrnin. “It’s humans you’ve got to watch out for, really, aside from creatures who want to tear you limb from limb of course but mostly, trust as a rule is overrated.” He tilted his head slightly. Clearly, Crutchie was very fond of these stories. Time to find out why. “Human? Human how? Some positive way I suppose, although finding positive traits about humanity is like herding cats in my experience; as pointless as it is difficult.”
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Post by ®Hawkpath® on Jul 9, 2019 8:10:38 GMT -5
(Someone said magpie and that means Hawk has to jump in because magpies are one of my favorite animals I love them so much. )
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Post by »ƑαƖcση on Jul 9, 2019 11:46:41 GMT -5
(Hi all!! Woah what is going on xD This looks amazing )
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Post by mintedstar/fur on Jul 9, 2019 14:35:42 GMT -5
(Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaalcon. RP with meeeeeeeeeeeeee. Otherwise we're talking about magpies and I'm catching up on the monster AU room so I can reblink Kid.)
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