TEST DRIVE MEME #1

[abraxasmods]

TEST DRIVE MEME

Welcome to the very first test drive meme for Abraxas! This meme is run a little bit differently than most in that you'll be asked to choose one of the two different arrival scenarios below for your character to take. If you have any questions about this mechanic or anything else related to the TDM, please take a look at the questions below or ask one of your own here. For general game questions please still use the FAQ.

Arrival

You awaken suspended in the abyss, silent darkness stretching out in all directions. If you try to yell, you'll find that the sound doesn't carry. If you try to move, you'll find it's impossible to tell whether or not you're actually getting anywhere. If you reach for an item you were carrying last time you remember being awake, your hand will only touch bare skin.

You're naked and floating helplessly through the void, and what little air you have in your lungs is running out.

There's a pinprick of light that almost looks like a faraway star but as it grows it becomes clear that it's actually quite close. Through the opening you can see a bright room, but it's hard to make out any individual objects, as if you're looking from beneath rippling water.

A hand plunges through and you realize water is just what it is. Whether you take hold of the hand or not it will grab you and yank you up through the surface, lifting you out until you're sprawled on solid ground. Once you catch your breath, you can get a better look at the surroundings: tall trees and even taller stone pillars surround the platform you're laying on. Behind you is an ornate fountain, the base of which is so deep and so dark you might be compelled to scramble away from it lest it suck you back in to that endless abyss. Ahead of you are the walls of a large castle with several tall towers reaching up towards the sky.

If you had any powers, they feel unusually weak. Attempts to use magic or enhanced strength or powers of any sort fizzle out without any effect, but they don't feel completely gone, either.

Set into an indent on a marble slab behind the fountain is a card baring the image of one of the arcana.

An apprentice mage - the one whose hand lifted you out of the fountain - brushes the water off on their robes and runs back to join a group of three others, who all stare intently at a mage with highly decorated robes and a large, heavy book. He peers up at you for a moment and starts flipping through the book.

"I beg your pardon," he says, so absorbed in the pages of the book that he doesn't bother to look up, "I am Ambrose Rhett, the High Mage of the Kingdom of Thorne. One of my apprentices will explain everything in a moment, but please refrain from yelling and thrashing about until then. You're quite alright, and screaming gives me a hell of a headache."

Regardless of your response, he keeps flipping through the heavy tome, until he stops on one specific page, stares at it for a moment, and then exclaims:

"Aha!"

Scenario One: Welcome to Thorne

Ambrose's expression brightens, eyes twinkling with delight. He waves one of the apprentices over with a fine silk tunic, pants, and some basic sandals and with a wave of his hand they reshape to fit you perfectly.

"Success! It's a success!" he exclaims, slamming the book shut and scurrying towards you.

Now that he's not hunching over the book, he doesn't seem quite so stuffy and inapproachable. The apprentices all seem quite relieved at his jovial outburst, and the one that handed you the tunic stops to take the tarot card down from the marble slab. If you show any curiosity about the card, they'll let you take a longer look, but won't let you touch it.

"Please, come with me, you're an honored guest here," he says, motioning for you to follow him towards the castle, "As promised, my pupils will explain your current situation. And, ah - if you had any magic of your own, or other special abilities you can't access right now, fear not, they'll return within the week. The summoning takes a lot out of you."

One of the apprentices steps forward and rattles on and on about the castle, Thorne itself, the names of a bunch of royals and nobles, and of course, your reason for being here. The Kingdom and the world itself is in great peril, and tales of your exploits have reached far and wide across universes. If asked about these exploits, the apprentice will simply smile and shrug. The High Mage was happy to see you and that's good enough.

Once inside the castle you're taken to the North Wing, which has been set up as living quarters for you and your fellow newcomers. There are four people to a room, but each generously-sized bed has opaque curtains that can be drawn around it. You can meet your roommates here and discuss your shared situation (everyone appears to have arrived within the last few days), or you can wander around and meet the others.

There's also a dining hall stocked with all sorts of fancy food to meet every possible dietary need, and a library filled with epic tales and legends and the history of Thorne. Given that this is the Thorne library, it may be a biased account that makes the Kingdom look a fair bit better than the rest of the world sees them. Last but not least, there's a study hall where a few junior mages (younger and less experienced than the apprentices from earlier) might be willing to teach you some simple elemental magic. Think holding a small flame in the palm of your hand, or blowing a door shut with a gust of wind.

You may also notice that your sign is embroidered on your tunic: the same image you saw on the card from before with the name of the sign itself beneath it. If you ask the castle residents, they'll tell you a little bit about your sign (and will mostly stick to the positives, although some might point out the negatives).

Last (and, if you ask anyone else in the castle, least) there is a worn stone staircase leading underground to the dungeon. You can go there, if you wish, but all powers are restricted in the dungeons and spending too much time with the prisoners will lead to some suspicion being cast upon you. If you ask anyone why the prisoners are being held there, you'll be told that they pose a great threat to the Kingdom (and, by extension, the entire world).

Scenario Two: Imprisoned

The High Mage scowls, grinding his teeth as he slams the book shut. "Another failure!" he barks at the apprentices, "You lot wouldn't know your ass from a hole in the ground, would you?"

All four of them lower their heads, and two of them mumble an apology that Ambrose either doesn't hear or refuses to acknowledge. "Well, don't just stand there," he says, waving a hand in the air, "We've put all this effort into getting this wretched creature, we may as well put it to good use."

One of the apprentices drops a baggy, rough-feeling tunic, a pair of pants, and some worn sandals in your lap and glares down at you until you put them on (if you refuse, they'll tell you they can kick you back down that well if you don't want to cooperate). They're glaring at the High Mage as much as they're glaring at you (when they're sure he isn't looking, anyway). You might catch one of them long enough to ask them why they're so upset with you, but all they'll say is that the High Mage knows something they don't, and he's awfully upset about it.

Once you're fully clothed, another apprentice clamps some heavy iron shackles around your wrists and leads you on. The High Mage is far ahead of you already, muttering some long string of Thornean curses before he stands up straight and pauses, spinning to face you.

"One more thing," he says, holding one hand in the air and chanting something under his breath, "Can't have you getting too troublesome."

If you had powers, the slight connection you still had to them slips away completely and you're left with nothing as the four apprentices drag you towards the castle. They may answer a few of your questions (with some insults and curses peppered in), but they won't tell you anything important.

Once you arrive at the castle you're brought to the dungeons and thrown into a locked cell. There are four people to a cell, and two sets of bunk beds with a thin and lumpy straw mattress. If you're over six feet tall, these beds are going to be awfully uncomfortable. You might as well meet your roommates. Once per day you're dragged out to an enclosed courtyard for one hour of recreation (with some crude weights, benches, and balls lying around but not much else), where you can meet the rest of the prisoners, but you can also talk to your immediate neighbors in the cells on either side and across the hallway. Just don't yell too much or the guards will snap at you to be quiet.

Everyone in the dungeon is fed one meal a day, and for a prison meal it's decent: a bit of meat, a bun, and a salad. It would seem that the Thornean chefs take too much pride in their craft to send bad food to the dungeons. The meals are all served in equal portions, though, so the smaller prisoners may be overfed and the larger ones may be getting hungry. Feel free to fight for food or share with your cellmates.

Crudely embroidered on the back of every prison tunic is the same image that was on your card and the name of the sign beneath it. A guard may explain a bit about the sign, and tell you some negative stereotypes they hold about yours.

You may be blessed with a visit from one of the more welcomed newcomers, and they may sneak you some extra food or a small book to read or they may share some of the information they've gathered. However, rumors travel fast and some people believe the honored guests in the castle above are somehow responsible for the lot of the prisoners below. And although you may hope for kindness, there's nothing stopping them from being cruel to you if they wish. The guards will certainly turn a blind eye if one of them wishes to take out their frustrations on you.

---

Questions

How do I choose a scenario for my character?
Pick whichever situation appeals to you most. Whether your character is honored or imprisoned has nothing to do with their personal morality, or how highly they regard themselves and their own accomplishments. Anyone can be put into either situation.

Can I try out both scenarios?
You can! But please keep in mind that only the one you eventually choose can be game canon, if you decide to keep any of your TDM threads.

What happens if my character refuses to comply with Ambrose?
Prisoners will be dragged against their will. Honored guests will be forgiven for their moment of panic or anger if they have one, and Ambrose and the apprentice mages will try to calm them and persuade them further. If they put up too much of a fight and/or start actively attacking anyone, Ambrose will warn them once that he's willing to put them back in the well where they came from (see below), and if they continue to fight he will make good on that promise.

My character intends on causing a lot of trouble (destroying parts of the castle, murdering the castle staff, etc.), what would happen to them?
Characters who make too much trouble for the mages and other staff would be thrown back in the well (which will mean drowning in the void, not returning home). Brawling with other PCs and causing minor damage is fine and will be greeted with a cranky attitude (if they are an honored guest) or a punishment like denial of food or temporary solitary confinement (if they are a prisoner), and there will be plenty of opportunity for destruction and murder later, but for now the Thorneans have no desire to keep huge liabilities around.

Ambrose will take it especially personally, as this experiment was his idea and too much trouble would risk the summoning spell being scrapped and potentially result in him being demoted. Rest assured it does not take much for him to throw someone back in the well at this point in time.

Is the power loss for the prisoners permanent?
No, although honored guests will regain their powers first due to the lack of interference from Ambrose, the prisoners will be able to regain theirs soon enough as well.

Can the prisoners talk about anything private, or will they be overheard at all times?
There are guards patrolling the dungeon, but they aren't always within earshot. Most of the attention is being focused on the new guests, so the prisoners will have some opportunities for privacy.

Can my character leave the castle?
For now they will be prevented from leaving the castle, even if they are an honored guest. A bit of a gilded cage, isn't it? They'll also find that any powers they regain cease to work outside of the castle walls (this is also a temporary effect) so flying outside is not an option.

Can my character eventually side against Thorne if I choose to make them an honored guest/can they side with Thorne if I choose to imprison them?
Yes, characters in Scenario 1 will be able to betray Thorne, and characters in Scenario 2 can work themselves into Thorne's good graces.

How much will my choice of scenario affect my character's plot later on?
This choice will have a major impact on gameplay throughout the first few months of the game, and potentially a bit beyond that depending on where our players guide the plot. This decision - and every other major decision you make in game! - will also be used to flavor some mod surprises that will be coming down the line.

Don't get too anxious about this choice, though; this is just one choice you'll get to make in a game that has a lot of them, and every character in both scenarios can work their way towards many, many individual goals and outcomes. You're not locking yourself out of anything in the future via the choice you made on the TDM. It will primarily impact the immediate future with the far-reaching effects being up to each player.

Are TDM threads mandatory for my application?
No, you may use other samples, but we encourage you to post to the TDM and get a feel for this game and its mechanics before you join. If you do not have a TDM thread you will still need to choose one of the two scenarios on your application.

What if I haven't settled on a sign yet?
You can ignore sign-related prompts if you're undecided (or try out different signs in different threads).

Can a put a character on the TDM if their canon is less than 30 days old?
Yes. For this app round, anything that's at least 30 days old when the game opens on June 12th can be applied from.

Do the apprentice mages have names?
Their names are Jeffrey, Grigory, Noelle, and Jolene.

---

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Comments

[girl_at_the_window]

Ain't you hearin' me? They won't open the door. I'd lay money on it, if I had any.

[But that doesn't stop her standing. It's ill-advised, maybe. He's still bigger than her, stronger than her. He's still more than capable of beating the shit out of her - and worse, for however small his cock might or might not be he's still presumably got one - and she's still trapped with him for the foreseeable future. Most likely, he won't even let her land a real blow, and she doesn't look forward much to seeing what his idea of showing is, either.]

[At the same time, how can she resist? How, when she's itching to slap that stupid, smirking face, when she's got all the fury and pain and frustration burning in her belly, when he's literally telling her to, can she refuse?]

[She balls up her fist, the way her da taught her all those years ago, when it was idiot boys at school who she needed to defend herself against, and raises it. Then pauses. A small, almost mischievous flicker of amusement passes across her face.]

Do me a favour first, sai knight. Turn your foot in a ways, like this.

[She demonstrates, turning her own left foot in towards the right, shifting her weight slightly to exaggerate it. She doesn't actually expect him to do it, of course - he's done nothing so far to suggest he'd ever do anything for someone else's sake - but still, she can't resist asking. It's the only she can think of, short of dyeing his hair black and giving him a dumbshit moustache, that would make this feel more like punching Clay Reynolds.]

[Regardless of whether or not he actually does it, she takes a moment to make sure that she's set her stance square and her balance right. Then, putting her whole weight behind it, she swings for his throat, her other hand flashing out (she's not finessed, but she's fast) to try and grab the collar of his shirt, and just for good measure, she brings her knee up as well. Belly or balls, she doesn't much care which, and he'll probably dodge anyway, but gods, she wants to see him hurt.]

[perforo]

[ A gamble with actual gold, wouldn't that be fun? Gold hardly seems as if it flows freely between her fingers, however. What is there to do but laugh, laugh again at how one misfortune bleeds so eagerly into the next? ]

You don't have the coin to lay on a week-old bun, my lady.

[ His own overfilling coffers do not seem to be coming to his own imminent aid, which is a rather unforgivable grievance, because there has been no price that his father wasn't willing to pay before. The guards here could undoubtedly be swayed by an offer that would not cost Tywin Lannister more than a disdainful snort. But no offer has yet been made, and they have between them no gold to speak of, so a dose of good-natured bargaining is sadly out of the question.

But she does rise, a wily little minnow to his bait, and he bares a wolfish grin before taking a step back, permitting her whatever space she might need for what he is sure will prove to be a theatrical spectacle. Her fist curls into the same ball favored by beetles just before they hope to escape unseen, or to defend against a harder blow. Gauging by their interaction thus far, he would judge her to be one for offense rather than defense. Good; so is he.

There's a glint of something that looks like amusement on her face, and he is familiar enough with the flash of steel to be wary. Fury and mischief can be an unpredictable tonic, but such is the way of women, and so he regards her where she stands, unconvinced by the modified step she would have him make. He hadn't offered to subject himself to schooling. ]

How like a girl to ask concessions of her opponent. [ As if any foe she might face would oblige her. No one would pause to adjust their stance at her behest. So he doesn't, though his curiosity does stay his hand for one moment, then two. Two proves too long, and even as he recognizes the flicker of tension that precedes neat balance, he cannot strike her before she strikes him. A fair attempt, at least, but she puts the whole of her willowy weight behind it, which affords him just enough time to lift his arm to block her fist. He looms his own frame forward, pushing into her attack and promptly finding her fingers curled into the collar of his shirt.

Steel plate would have served here, too, but the joy of being without his armor is that he is lighter, quicker, and yet still not quite as quick as she is. He ducks his head, wrenching against the hold, and then ducks his shoulder to drive at her body. This is not accomplished before she brings the point of her knee up to his groin, and a suppressed mmph tells of how nearer she is to balls than to belly.

Not enough to subdue him, no more than a swat would a lion, and he darts a hand out to snatch her by the knee, the calf, any grip he can find in that insult to turn it against her, devoting himself to the task of giving the entirety of her body a lifting, flinging shove back toward the sorry excuse of a bed. Like a pesky pup to be pushed off a lap, sent back from whence it came. ]

Ain't you hearin' me? [ His own accent makes a butchery of this mockery, but even so - ] Hit me, I said. Get up.

[girl_at_the_window]

How like a man not to give 'em, even when there's nothing lost by it.

[She isn't surprised - not by the comment, not by the scorn of it, and not by his own returning violence. If there's one thing that surprises her about the situation, it's that any of her blows actually land, even if they don't do much to stop him. She's under no illusions about her own strength: sure, she's stronger than she looks, and stronger than many girls her age, but she's a girl still, and he's a grown and war-trained man, and all the hauling bales and fixing barns in the world won't do shit to change that.]

[One thing her background as a rancher does give her, though, is a lot of experience in getting up after a fall. She lands hard on the thin straw mattress, barely avoiding catching her head a nasty knock on the upper bunk, but she's already rolling into it before he's even let go of her leg, her chest aching a little where his shoulder struck. She's on her feet again before he's finished speaking, shaking curtains of hair out of her face.]

[If I had a gun, she thinks hotly, or even a knife, you'd be dead as Dave Hollis, sai knight. And you'd deserve it a thousand times more. But she has neither, and perhaps that's for the best, because isn't there enough blood on her hands already?]

[She shifts, circling away from the bunks, tight-bunched fists held at her sides, eyes narrowed and fixed on him. Quit it, Sue, her father's voice tells her, at the back of her mind. You're doing nothing but giving him a show and a reason to hit you back.]

[So be it. If she's honest, it beats the hell out of bloodying her fingernails on cement that won't give. She comes in low this time, swinging for his solar plexus, sharp and fast.]

[perforo]

[ Down she goes, a victory he'd already begun gloating in, and she can be grateful for the fact that she is not so graceless as to smash her head against the top bunk. Instead, she's already taking to her feet again, not lingering to sink in the mire of defeat. She could have, of course; there was all the craven's way, weaseling into escape by refusing to engage. He couldn't scrap with a corpse any more than he could trade blows with a stone wall. Laying punches into inanimate steel and stone seems to be more her method.

He circles back as she does, a lupine smile on his face, obvious in his amusement. There is no way she can hope to win, not without some interference on the part of the gods or the guards, but even that would not be a win, truly - it would merely be a forfeit, another demonstration of his chivalry. He roves bright, appraising eyes over her form, the fury she has recovered and the curses he can nearly feel searing from her head, if not from her mouth. There is something to be said for being despised. How many men, after all, perished in their cells or their beds without ever having earned any sort of mentionable reaction from the world? No, he would sooner be detested than forgotten.

Her narrow eyes are a tell, as much as her clenched fists, and all he need do is predict the moment she will lunge again. Like a cat with her tail pulled, once, twice, three times, he knows she will. He is expecting another swipe at his face, though, not a swing at his torso, and she is a blur that he cannot swat aside. The hard, pointed force of her knocks the breath out of him, and he fumbles back a step, skirting to the side once he swiftly resumes his balance. ]

Good, use your elbows and your knees, they're as annoying as little daggers. [ Edged and fast, and entirely to her benefit if she knows to wield them. And despite the annoyance of having those weapons inflicted upon him, he breaks into a grin. ] Don't put all your weight behind it so soon. I can guarantee you'll piss your opponent off enough that he'll waste himself trying to salvage his pride, and all you'll have to do is dance. [ Mince about like the fleet little terror she is, and what good would any swing be when no man could ever land it? No sense in letting her bask in this vanity, however, so he reaches out with one long arm to aim a buffet at the side of her head with the flat of his hand, simply to bait her to fresh irritation. ]

But you are a small, whining girl, so maybe you'll be crushed like any fly.

[girl_at_the_window]

[The blow hits home. It's far from the first time she's been smacked upside the head, though, and she sees it coming enough to roll with it, his hand barely glancing against her skull. The worst that comes of it, really, is that his fingers momentarily snag in her loose and now-wild hair, pulling sharply as she ducks away.]

[Fuck you, she thinks viciously, at that careless grin. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. And yet, this feels... better, if she's honest, than what came before. Better than sitting with her misery and emptiness, better than picking at dry cement, and a damn sight better than trying to ignore him. She's not fool enough to think she can win this, or that he would take it seriously even if she did - but at least she's doing something. The last couple of days have had too much hopeless stillness in them. Hopeless movement is at least a change of pace.]

[She rolls her shoulders back, shaking off any lingering ache from his blow or her fall, and raises her fists a third time.]

Aye, and does it make 'ee feel a big, strong man to best such a girl? Strange chivalry ye've got, sai knight, to smile so at outfighting some rancher's daughter.

[She goes for the knees this time, feinting an uppercut in hopes of drawing his attention and, a split second later, kicking out at the inside of his kneecap. She saw a man kicked there by a horse, once, and ten years later he still walks with a limp. No chance of such an outcome with a sandalled foot, perhaps, but still, it seems worth a try.]

[perforo]

[ She takes that whack upside the head like she was born to it, and for some reason he finds this unbearably funny. So easily does this thoughtless hit find its mark that he barks new laughter when she is sent rolling away again. She would surely defend this as her choice, her tactic of rolling with the blow, and his fingers catch in the fall of her hair as she ducks away.

Her shoulders take on the set of fierce resolve soon thereafter, a warrior's posture, and he smirks when he is again confronted with the foolhardy sight of her. Her fists come up, and her voice is meant, he must assume, to slash at him. Is her disgust with his brand of chivalry supposed to wound him? She knows nothing, clearly, of the damage his honor has suffered, and how he has made its fearsome scars his own armor. And yet still gilded; always gilded. ]

Shall I weep for you, instead, or perhaps for your dead father? Are you so keen on joining him?

[ Girls died in dungeons as easily as any spirited lads, and his mind bounds again to the nuisance she must have been on her father's ranch. Probably fearless and curious and hungry, and he is pleased to think she may have put her erstwhile fist in some boy's yammering mouth.

He cannot press her for a fuller account of her history, however, because then her first darts up for his face. Or so it would seem to, and he recognizes the feint too late, expecting her to ally herself fully with the opposite of his advice. All of her untrained, impulsive force does not come up - instead it goes down, at his knees, like some uncouth mule's kick, and he curses when her foot connects with the side of his knee. A bit of fucking armor would have nullified that, but there is none at present.

Hers is only a foot wearing the shield of a sandal, but still it is a sting he was not prepared to bear. Never is he prepared to be insulted, let alone defeated, so he relies upon his superior size when he lunges forward, hands aiming to firmly seize her. Bodily, inelegantly, with the full intent of hauling her like a sack of oats over his shoulder, and in this way deciding that he shall subdue her, to be deterred by no flailing or squirming. ]

What now, mule girl?

[girl_at_the_window]

[Are you so keen on joining him? he asks, and it drags another hollow laugh out of her, one that isn't entirely knocked out of her by his lunge. Years she's been fighting for her father's legacy, a fight she's sure he'd know nothing of and care even less; years she's missed her da and his easy smile and his rough, gentle ways; years she's fought, in the dark reaches of the night, the sense that things might be easier if she just gave up fighting and gave up living and joined him. And here she is, dead at last for some other cause, and still parted from her da, and this stupid asshole asks if she's keen to join him?]

[As if she should be afraid of it. As if she should be afraid of dying, when she's done it once already today. She has no doubt he either didn't hear or didn't believe her on the subject, and no doubt he thinks he's making some kind of point, but all she can do is laugh. Even when his arms wrap around her and hoist her up over his shoulder - a horrible reminder of her own continuing vulnerability, and far too reminiscent of being hauled across Reynolds' saddle not so long ago with much the same care - she is still shaking with that laughter, just this side of hysterical.]

[On and on it goes, she thinks, bleakly. On and on, in this world and the next, and never ends. Tell me I should fear to find the Clearing, sai knight. Go on, tell me.]

[One difference does strike her at once between this and when she was last thrown around with such disregard. This time, her hands aren't bound.]

[She does squirm in his grip, but not without purpose. It's enough to twist around and up, and to free one arm to lash around his neck, aiming to choke him until he must let go of her to pull her arm away.]

[perforo]

[ The prospect of death does not generally spur maidens to laughter, but as he wrangles her up onto his shoulder, he can feel the tremors of mirth that wrack her body. Mirth or madness, he has known the two to coexist rather grotesquely, and what would be more fitting in a prison cell? Has despair over her noble sire's demise finally given way to hysteria, the way it tends to in women? Has some part of her begun to accept that their capture may not bear any sort of realistic exit, regardless of their defiance against iron and stone? Will laughter crumble into unseemly tears, a mess of fear and regret and capitulation, as is the maiden's way? For half a breath he thinks it might.

No, whatever is within her that is mad and dark and bleak does not seem to have strangled her insolence, and in her twisting, she manages to swing an arm around his neck. She is lithe but strong - it will never be a strength to pose any threat against his own, but it is the sort of strength that is swift and abrupt and desperate. She would have made a better slab of defeated meat if she'd been bound and trussed like a hog, but she is not. She has her hands to command, and her queer, undaunted spirit, even when confronted by an anointed knight, a murderer and an oathbreaker. She is familiar with none of his more famous accolades, of course, but any sensible girl would have been cowed by the mere fact of his manhood.

But she is not, and so he snarls when she presents such an inconvenience to his habit of breathing, bearing against the pressure with an ineffectual shoulder and chin. He could tear her off of him, effortlessly as a rusty piece of plate, he likes to think, but instead a smirk quirks across his face, and he squeezes his own hold more tightly against her, matching her smothering vice as if to tempt her on. ]

Go on, choke me, the guards will be most impressed. [ This is growled and breathless and gritted out, still half laughing, and tirelessly barbed - ] Your father would be proud to know you killed an unarmed man, wouldn't he? Do it, show me you can kill a man. Harder now, if you'd be the rope that hangs me.

[girl_at_the_window]

[That makes her laugh again, though this time it's a little hoarser, stifled by the tightness of his grip.]

Killed Dave Hollis well enough, and him armed with naught but his guitar.

[And she can't find pleasure in that, not remembering how surprised he looked when the black and red and void blossomed between his ribs, not thinking of that poor familiar face covered in the makeshift shroud of her serape, not knowing he was an innocent. There's no satisfaction in it, but there is a certainty that she wouldn't have felt a day earlier. Show me you can kill a man, he says, and she almost wants to tell him to speak to Janet Hollis, if he doubts it, ask her if her poor husband ever came home. Aye, she can kill a man. She doesn't yet know how to feel about that knowledge, but she has it, nonetheless.]

[And would her father be proud? Perhaps not. He'd forgive her killing Sheriff Avery, she thinks, for he knew the kind of man Avery was. But Dave Hollis? Or, for that matter, this nameless knight?]

[No way to know. In any case, it doesn't matter.]

I don't need 'ee dead, anyroad. You'd faint before you died, and that's all I need.

Let me go, and I'll let 'ee go. [Meantime, she tightens her grip a little, gripping at the collar of her own tunic to anchor herself. There's strength in her still, and while his grip is uncomfortably tight, she's confident that she can choke him by the throat before he can choke her by the chest. Even if he might break a couple of her ribs along the way, which she'd rather avoid. She's broken ribs before. It's survivable.]

[perforo]

[ He hasn't the faintest idea what this guitar she speaks of might be - where did she come from, anyway, where such weapons must be commonplace? - but he does not find it difficult at all to imagine her laying into a man with whichever object happened to be close at hand. A farrier's rasp would go a long ways in such a wily grip. These thoughts take on a mottled hue in his head, contrasted as they are against the more vividly immediate fact of her hindering the function of his throat. She hangs on just as tightly to him as he does to her, and he wonders which other names she would spit before him, in the pride of killing. Is there pride? He can't tell; judging the inflection of her tone would require a more careful study than their present arrangement allows.

He scoffs another tight huff of a laugh at her apparent kindness: why on earth would she leave him to lie unconscious on the floor? Once she had vanquished him to that point, why not finish him off completely, send him away to meet the gods they do or do not share? He wasn't likely to ever see the faces of any of his gods, he already knows - gods don't deign to visit those promised to hell. He wonders absently if murders committed by women are treated more gently, more judiciously at the hands of the gods, than those committed by men. If it comes down to the worth of a comely face, he can at least prove himself a formidable contender. He is certain that he is as comely, if not comelier, than she is. ]

Whenever you think you've got all you need, think again, my lady.

[ Another man, a man worse than him - is there one? - would wake from his smothering and deliver her to the end she deserved. It would be easy, within the walls of their present, shared home, and he feels the constricting of her arm, muscles tensed with all the discipline of a bowstring, and he knows a leonine surge of power through his own arm would be enough to do her considerable harm. Enough to end this farce, anyway, and he can already taste, through the crush of his body against her, how neatly her bones might break.

A bargain is a bit more honorable, he can concede, and so while he does not make to lighten his hold, neither does he tighten it, jaw clenched in opposition to the cocky smile on his face, which is unfortunately lost on her. ]

Let go, then. You have my word that I will do the same. I have nowhere to toss your corpse, anyway.

[girl_at_the_window]

Aye, sure. I'll trust the word of a smirking braggart.

[But she does loosen her grip a little - not letting go, not even close, but enough to offer as a proof of intent.]

Let go first, and we can call it done.

[She may, she knows, regret her stubbornness. That would hold her back, if not for the fact that she has absolutely no faith that letting go of his neck right now would actually spare her any trouble. It's luck more than anything that's got her to a point where she can bargain even this far, and she isn't going to give it up without some kind of assurance that she won't need to bargain further.]

[Her own head is starting to feel kind of light, between the crushing grip on her ribs and the fact that she is still hanging upside-down over his shoulder. Even if she isn't desperately afraid to be killed, it's still a potent motivator to get the fuck down from here.]

[perforo]

[ She continues making bargains while not even having the benefit of solid ground beneath her feet, and yet he is the one accused of arrogance? He has, once more, half a mind to simply wrestle her from his body as gracelessly as necessary, to either fling her back onto the bunk she never should have lifted herself from, or maybe toss her against the bars of their cell to remind her who is the stronger of the two of them, to perhaps rattle some sense into her. Only an idiot would assume that any semblance of 'sense' would take root.

Fine, if she wishes to waste her breath bargaining - ]

Let go, and I will give you a horse. [ To clarify, quickly and roughly, in growing annoyance over her persistent grip - ] A real horse, a fine horse, not one of your farmer's nags. [ A knight's caliber of horse, the sort she has surely never beheld in her life, and it will only come to pass once they have freed themselves, but there is little he can offer in the terms of immediate reward. Aside from the right to breathe, should she earn it.

Her hold lessens, a paltry gain, and he hardens his own grip in response. She is wise not to trust him, and he will never be accused of making the mistake of empathy. He will not assume valor of a rabid cub of a girl, with jabbing knees and scrappy claws. This will all be done by his leave, not by hers.

There is also that oddly tantalizing glimpse of oblivion, only another few moments of crushing away, and wouldn't it be a relief to lapse into some sort of dreamless dark and then wake again? He would wake a prisoner still, but it would at least be upon a map he knew, restrained by foes he had long despised, ones he understood how to manipulate. A deal easier than relying on beggar's bargains and impromptu brawling. ]

[girl_at_the_window]

[She lets out a hoarse grunt as his arms tighten on her, knocking a little more wind out of her. Her own grip tightens again in answer, a sharp jerk against his windpipe. So much for goodwill.]

[And of all the things he could offer her, he offers her a fucking horse. As if he thinks he can wave his hand and have a palfrey trot through the bars into their cell. As if he thinks she would wonder at a decent horse, as if her father didn't breed the finest horses in all Mejis, as if a spoiled brat who thinks himself a gunslinger would know shit about horses beyond that they can look good and carry him well. As if she could so easily forget the last man who deigned to "give" her horses - horses that had been hers all along, delivered as trinkets with an air of such great benevolence.]

[Offering her a horse, under the circumstances, is probably the worst thing he could have done. Now alongside of Clay Reynolds, he's reminding her of Hart Thorin, and sure, Thorin's dead, but that doesn't mean she hates him any less.]

You don't have a fucking horse. [She grinds it out through her teeth, wondering whether it would make him let go quicker if she gave up on bargaining and tried for a knee in the ribs instead.] And a horse won't get me down from here, so let go.

[perforo]

[ A mare with an attitude as sour as her own, that would be fitting, wouldn't it? Or a hound if she prefers, or a hawk, or some pretty string of cut diamonds, he doesn't care what, he only knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that there is no worldly good that his riches cannot buy her. He is inconveniently separated from those riches at present, but all will be rectified soon enough, and he lets out a fairly undignified sound as his throat closes further.

The horse seems to have won neither her approval nor her surrender, and he cannot imagine how this is so. Any plain girl should be charmed by the dream of a beautiful steed, and there was no knight who would not be tempted to inspect a worthy destrier. She does not yield for the offer, and seems rather somehow pricked by it. Of course he lacks the horse right now, and its larger value seems lost on her, so he grits his teeth again, resisting squeeze for squeeze. ]

A horse would have fought his way free of this hold by now. [ A horse would have made better company, would have proved twice as useful, and would have responded sensibly to his strength. This girl has placed herself in glaring opposition to sense, and not even brute force seems to have made any impact. He goes heavily to his knees, twisting and wrestling with the throttling weight of her, not the least bit opposed to crashing against the floor if it means he can scrape her off, a dog with an increasingly bothersome tick. ] You let go.

[ It might be kinder never to inflict her upon a horse, he is quickly deciding. ]

[girl_at_the_window]

[A horse would have crushed you by now, if you tried to hold him this way. If she had a little more breath, she might snap it at him; as it is, it hardly seems worth the effort. As he falls to his knees, her feet finally find purchase again, sandals slipping as she fumbles to get some kind of footing, not caring whether it's on the ground or on his legs. Something to steady herself, either way, not that it does anything to help with the more pressing (ha!) problem of his grip.]

[This is, patently, a ridiculous situation. She's going to get her ribs broken, if they aren't already; spots are dancing and bursting in front of her eyes, and each inward-drawn breath is harder than the last, straining against the press of his arms. He's stronger than she is, and better-trained by far, and if she's about to die for a second time today, then gods, what a stupid fucking way to go.]

[One of them has to give way. She has a horrible feeling - a feeling which she's fighting against with every ounce of her being - that once again, it might have to be her.]

[Grimacing, she gives it one last shot.]

If you let go, it ain't like I can... [She has to pause there for a moment. Talking is getting to be really hard.] ...can go anywhere without letting go of 'ee too. And then ye can catch me again in a moment. You got nothing to lose.

[Another long, wheezing pause.]

If I let go, and ye don't, I'm no better off. So it has to be 'ee.

[Reasoning with him is a pretty last-ditch effort. He doesn't seem a reasonable kind of man. But the alternative is letting go and trusting herself to ka and his goodwill, and Susan's never been much of a one for that kind of trust.]

[perforo]

[ A shame that she has once more the privilege of solid ground beneath her, but holding her aloft was proving more cumbersome than helpful. Her fumbling feet make hard contact with his legs, and he is reminded of wrestling hounds when he was a boy, proving his strength against thrashing, energetic beasts, covered in mud and growling with laughter. They are, here, without the thrill of splashing mud, and her laughter has been thus far a madness sprinkled over his own breathless growls. She is not a hound, cannot be commanded back to a kennel once this is done (well, the kennel is now implied for the both of them), and he is not under the impression that she will have learned anything once she is released.

At the very least, there is the satisfaction of feeling her breath thinning, her words grappling for purchase much like her feet. If he can feel his pulse thick and worried at the base of his skull, surely she is swimming in an encroaching dark, too. He manages another wisp of laughter; he will be coughing up laughter alongside bone and blood when his final hour comes. ]

You don't know what I have to lose, mule girl. [ She knew nothing of him at all, and clearly failed to grasp the notion that it was the principle of the thing: he would not be the one to surrender. He would not have his dignity and his honor slighted by being the one to first decide that he could not go on, that he must give in. Let her do her worst, choke the last breath out of him and leave him lying in defeat on the cold floor, but he'll be damned if he chooses the luxury of breathing over victory.

The bunched muscle of his arms tightens at the note of that wheeze that leaves her, testing once more how far she will let this farce go on. Because this is her own doing. ]

Take your chances, then. You've got nothing to lose. Wit and strength haven't saved you, let trust do the trick. [ He is banking, more and more stubbornly, on the fact that he cannot be put into this position himself: in this contest, he will always have the fallback victory of overpowering strength. ]

[girl_at_the_window]

[Her fury and frustration is as blinding as that ache in her chest. Here he is, again, another man who'd stake every life in his reach rather than let a girl win even the smallest victory. Another man whose stubborn cruelty is rewarded by strength, who'll waste everything just to prove his stupid point. She's not even sure what his point is, save that he thinks he's better than her and he'd rather die than hint otherwise.]

[And are 'ee so much better, then? she demands of herself. What's any of this to 'ee, but proof of something you could prove another way?]

[It's my life. It's my fucking life, stuck in this cage with a madman, and if he thinks I'm easy beaten, then what does that spell for me?]

[And if this goes on? If you choke each other out, if neither of you gives way, what does that leave when you come to? The voice of her thoughts, for a moment, sounds almost like her father. When there's no choice, Sue, hesitation's ever a fault.]

[There's no choice. And if she's alive, as it seems she is, and if she's like to stay that way, she has to at least try to do it with her ribs intact. Even if it means trusting in the word of a man whose promise seems less than spit in the wind. The alternative, it seems, is that neither of them back down an inch, and that isn't looking all that much better.]

[Gritting her teeth, and with a sick and sinking certainty that it will do absolutely nothing to help her, she whips her arm loose from around his neck.]

[perforo]

[ His stolen breath returns in a rush, a famished inhale that is at once sweet as honey and sharp as steel. With that lean little noose of her arm flung free of his neck, a second breath follows the first, and he teeters for a moment on the divide between waking and dreaming. That black flood recedes, the dappling of colorful spots before his eyes vanishes, and with his throat his own once more, he could crunch the body in his arms in stark punishment.

Punishment for trusting him, and for thereby considering the possibility in the future that trust might be more than a lie told in songs. Punishment for having wrapped her arm around him like that in the first place, driving him to bargaining simply so he did not have to resort to killing her. Committing murder shortly after having been assigned this cell would not paint the most flattering image of him for his captors. And what would her death prove?

But her arm has come loose around him and so he lets his own fall from her, pleased both with his victory, such as it is, and with the fact that he can defy the terms of his lack of honor at will. He might have earned the infernal brand of 'Man Without Honor' for the rest of his living days - and his dying ones, too, if the gods truly did give a second glance - but he can still insult the stark infamy of the title by flecking honor where he will, as he likes.

He lifts a hand to rub at his throat, as if her rabid hold were scarring, and then flicks tousled golden hair from his face as if this were no more than a minor interference in the usual proceedings of his day. ]

There, we'll both live another hour. Isn't that a sunny thought? [ And a generous one, too, to assume a murderous impulse can be held at bay for a full hour. ]

[girl_at_the_window]

[Susan genuinely doesn't expect him to let go, and as a result, almost falls when he looses her, struggling to find her footing on legs that feel weak as a newborn foal's. She has to catch herself on one of the bunks, her breath coming in coarse, whooping coughs. And... aye, when she moves, the stabbing ache of it tells her there's a very real chance that's a rib broken.]

[But she's loose, and she's down, and it's more than she'd hoped for. She looks up at him through the tangled curtain of her hair, rubbing her side ruefully, and, for a moment, says nothing at all.]

[She'll have to watch him. Oh, she'll have to watch him very close. And if there's any way she can get a blade, something to even the odds a little, she'll have to watch for that, as well.]

[For now, all she can do is hope that their tangle has done something to dampen his enthusiasm for a fight. Under the circumstances, it seems to her that the most she can look for is brief reprieve, and if he's been put off a while, that's better than nothing. She lets out a long, slightly rattling breath. Now, don't go prodding him again, Susan. Don't make this worse.]

Sure. Sunny as a fine summer's day. And I'll not even ask after that horse.

[...Apparently, "don't make this worse" is too much to ask of herself right now.]

[perforo]

[ She's fully capable of catching and righting herself, so he leaves her to do so, giving his attention instead to his own careful rise. Bruised he will be, that is certain - where her thrice-damned foot caught him in the knee, but that can be hidden easily enough. He gives his rough tunic a cursory dusting, giving the girl a glance before prowling back toward the bars. She does not look terribly worse for wear. Her breathing is far from musical and her hair is far from silk, and her preferred answer would seem to be silence.

No guards appear to be scurrying out of the darkness, to his disappointment. Maybe he should've made her scream, yelp out in some serviceable pain so someone would take note. No, she likely would have denied him that, and she might be right - why should they be foolish enough to open the door? Their captors might well be armed with some sort of device to reach through the bars and tame unruly prisoners. A useless fight was still better than no fight at all, he must console himself.

He heaves a sigh, freshly restless, not even having had the pleasure of tasting blood. And she's not even clever enough to lapse into her silence; she sees fit to flaunt her haughtiness as if she has any right to it, and he turns to face her, a predatory glint in his eye. ]

You didn't want the horse, if I might remind you. Although for all your fighting's worth, an ass would've been a more judicious trade. Be certain that I would never suffer the poor beast to share a cell with you.

[girl_at_the_window]

[Careful now, Susan. Must you sharpen the knife against yourself at every turn? She pushes her hair back out of her face with both hands, still a little unsteady on her feet, and, for want of anything better to do with her hands, begins to braid it back, the better to keep it out of her eyes next time he starts in on her. For there will be a next time; of that, she's sure.]

[With a great effort, she holds back the urge to tell him sharply that an ass would at least be a better companion than he is. She's dug a deep enough hole for herself already, and if there's one thing that wave of panic when she couldn't breathe has taught her, it's this: dead girl or no, she doesn't want to die again.]

It'd be a poor stable for even a mule. On that, I guess we agree. Stable two horses as close as this, and they'll be taking bites of each other's hocks ere the day's out.

[That none-too-subtle metaphor is the closest he's likely to get to any kind of apology, and she's sure he won't take it as one. That's fine. She doesn't really mean it as one.]

[perforo]

[ She seems to have some appreciation for the gift of living, if nothing else. She's in no hurry to throw it away a second time, and he lifts his hunting gaze away from her to again pace before the bars. How long until someone is sent to barter for his release? How long until he is treated at least as the hostage of nobility that he is? He is owed that much. This scrap of a girl belongs down here, a farmer's daughter, more worthless than a crust of bread.

He bristles as these thoughts slither through his head, when there is nothing he can do to keep them quiet, no way to sever them with a sword, as he would actual snakes. He has no sword, and these doubts are too slippery.

She has her hair braided by the time he snaps another glance her way, and he snorts at her pseudo-agreement. Some kind of reconciliation, recognizing themselves as two wayward horses boxed too close, pinning their ears at one another? It only serves to remind him that he is not a mule, and this is not a stable, and not even biting at his supposed stablemates grants him any relief. ]

Only two horses they didn't give a dusty fuck about. [ Two respectable mounts would not be kept so poorly. Why the two of them are being held here together, he cannot fathom. ]

They'll realize who I am, and I'll have new neigh-bors soon enough. Don't get too accustomed to the pleasure of my company.

[girl_at_the_window]

I'll hope and pray they realise it soon, then. [Blithe as you like. If it weren't for how she's acted up to this point, it would be easy to mistake it for genuine well-wishing.]

[Since he seems to have taken his attention off her, she takes the opportunity to sit back down on the bunk, twisting the end of her braid around her finger and watching him suspiciously from the corner of her eye.]

Ye've still not told me who ye are, sai knight. Could be I'd know the name.

[Deeply unlikely, she's sure. He's no part of her world, at least not of her time. The thought of him riding down the dusty main street of Hambry, on his horse which he's so damned sure is the finest in the world, is a laughable one. But she's curious now, and he's had her name, after all.]

[perforo]

[ While he stood here awaiting the recognition he was due, the hours would go on passing overhead, and the wars he was meant to be fighting in - the victories he was meant to be carving - would be claimed by another. Hoping and praying were two tactics reserved for the craven, and he would have none of it. The gentleness of her tone only makes the words feel that much more venomous.

He abandons his impatient vigil of the bars, bypasses her to climb up onto the top bunk, and there drops himself into some splay of rest. She doesn't know him - if she did, she would have recognized him, even without his golds and scarlets. Wherever she came from had no appreciation for the histories of the realm, clearly. ]

You haven't had the courtesy to ask. You wouldn't know my name, otherwise you'd have known my face. [ Curious, though - this may well be the first time since his youth that he's had the dignity of introducing himself, instead of bearing the name he was so visibly branded with. But she gave him hers - she gave him a name, at least - and they had mutually revoked their chokeholds, so perhaps this is necessary for their ongoing balance. ]

It's Jaime.

[girl_at_the_window]

Jaime.

[She pronounces it just a little oddly, eliding the J in a way that someone listening (someone from a world that neither of them are from, of course) might recognise as almost Spanish.]

Queer kind of name. Ye're right, I don't kennit.

But you think they will?

[They, of course, meaning their captors. She leans forward where she sits, wincing a little as her ribs crackle at the effort, and drapes one hand over her lap, the other still twisting her braid idly. Now that Jaime's out of sight, she returns her own gaze to the corridor beyond the cell, wrinkling her nose.]