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]

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.]

[perforo]

[ Something funny happens to his name in her mouth: its edges are blunted, a blade smoothed. He's never heard it said this way before, and his face crinkles in confusion, but then again, he is not sure he has heard anyone speak the way she does, and he has passed more than a handful of hours with soldiers from all across the realm. His name is hardly queer, in sound or connotation, and he makes a point of enunciating how it should sound. ]

Jaime. They'll know it. [ They'll know his last name, if they know nothing else. Even now his father will be scheming a way to win back his son's freedom, and this thought broaches another. He turns onto his back, finding nothing of fascination to look upon in the ceiling above, but searching the blank span anyway. ]

You'd be wise to tell them you're some kin of mine, if you want to see daylight anytime soon. [ His House was known for its alarming fertility, after all; she could easily be some twice-removed cousin or niece or sister or otherwise forgettable Lannister. She had the hair, not to mention the imperial and unpleasant attitude. If their captors were interested in riches, as most captors were, they would be quick to barter with that golden name. Lannisters always paid their debts, and how would they know she wasn't one, in truth? ]

[girl_at_the_window]

[She could laugh, if there was laughter left in her after that earlier hysteria. Gods, he really believes it, doesn't he? He really thinks that they will hear his name, whatever that name means to him, and bow to it.]

[She's glad, frankly, that he's on the top bunk and can't see the look on her face, because it would definitely piss him off more.]

I'll keep my own name, say thankya. I've not forgotten my father's face so much as to claim another.

Where is it ye think we are, Jamie?

that icon is hilarious and perfect

[perforo]

Believe me, your tragically departed father will not begrudge you for replacing his name and face with a better one.

[ And really, wouldn't any scavenged name be better than the one she had? A lie was more useful in instances of such lean hope. What could she think to accomplish with a name that was approximately as valuable as pissed-upon dirt?

Then again, she does strike him as exactly the sort to cling in all valiant faith to her father's legacy, regardless of the fact that said legacy is cold and dead and of no service to her now. She would die as all peasant stock did, proudly clutching her mud-smeared name and little else. He takes on a lighter tone for her exceedingly philosophical question. ]

A prison cell, I'd wager, judging by the stone and bars and sorry excuse for amenities.

why thank u made it myself

[girl_at_the_window]

[She rolls her eyes, starting to twist her braid up into a kind of bun at the nape of her neck. It's not how she'd choose to wear it, but it's something to do with her hands, and besides, if she knots it up enough, it might not fall out of its braid immediately.]

Sure. And a cell's a cell, wherever it might be.

But wherever it might be may still matter. In what land? In what world? Where is it that ye'd say ye are, in relation to what that name can bring 'ee?

'Cause I know for damn sure we ain't in Mejis, and if they can bring me here, there's naught in any world to say we're anywhere ye'd be known, either.

[perforo]

[ A cell's a cell, she has the right of it. Captivity is captivity, ask any bear or hound or horse. Where precisely on the map they were was not going to count for anything until they were removed from the cell, which does not seem particularly imminent. ]

It matters a little, I'll grant you. [ It mattered in terms of where his father was in relation to this cell, for example. Aside from that, gold was gold, and their captors were sure to be hungry for it. Rarely was it more complicated than that. Wherever they were, his name meant wealth, and men were uncomplicated creatures at their core. ]

I'd say we're on some rather godforsaken swathe of map, judging by the company. [ He leans to study her from his higher perch, eyes flicking over her face and hands and hair. ] Never learned the art of wearing your hair like a real southron lady, did you?

[ If she'd had a more noble aspect, that would've been more promising. Or if she spoke of anything he was familiar with. ]

Don't flatter yourself, you couldn't have blundered us into a place where they don't know me. They know my name in this world and they'll know it in hell, too, if there's any distinction between the two. I'd never be so lucky as to be no one.

[girl_at_the_window]

Give me a ribbon and a brush, and I'll wear my hair a little neater, sai.

[Thee's tart as unripe lemons, and twice as bitter, Aunt Cord would have said. But she can't help but snap a little, at such a time of this, even knowing he's baiting her. Is he really going to sit and snipe at her for not wearing a hairstyle to his satisfaction, in some prison cell where she's not even got a comb to her name, much less pins and ribbons to hold anything together?]

[Of course he is. Fucker, she thinks, with some relish. Oh, you self-conceited old fucker.]

This ain't hell. But it ain't my world, neither, and I'd lay money it's not yours. Not if we're branded the same and set in the same stable.

[perforo]

It'll take more than a brush and a ribbon to get you sorted, I think.

[ He grimaces at the thought of her combing her hair sleek and shining, anyway - more likely that she'd be at home with hay and burs tangled in, and something insolent dancing on her tongue. Not that her hair was going to signify anything useful to them, much as each and every observation proves futile. Make some play at harming her? There was no guarantee that the door would open. Have her present herself as a hostage of some nobility? Even less likely.

There is a sliver of steel in her voice, and in the absence of all else, he is pleased to have that. Pain and frustration will always be preferable to dull silence, to sea-vast emptiness. He sits up, the better to disdainfully regard her. What could she know of hell? ]

So much money you're laying about when you seem to have precisely none to speak of. [ A bright smirk attends this quip before he continues - ] We aren't branded the same, make no mistake. This is some fool's folly, for which he will hopefully lose both hands. And whatever glorious notions you have of hell, I'd advise you to put them aside. You'll find that the gods are rather unimaginative, compared to the miseries we make for ourselves.

[girl_at_the_window]

[There's the anger again, bubbling up hot and bitter in her chest, a fire fuelled by the grief and the deeply aching hollowness that echoes beneath. Despite her (already flagging) resolve not to make her situation worse, she can't help but give him a look loaded with all the scorn in her sixteen-year-old body - which, as he has no doubt noticed, is a lot.]

In the space of a day, sai knight, I've lost my lover, my child, and my life. And on top of that, I find myself stuck in here with a man who'll mock me for laying money I don't have, but think nothing of offering me a horse rather than quit gracefully in a fight he started.

Don't talk to me of miseries.

[She stands, restless, uncomfortable with how much has just spilled out of her. He isn't going to be sympathetic, and he doesn't need to know all that she's been through today, and she shouldn't have said that - but it's been burning like smoke in her lungs, waiting to be coughed up, to momentarily dislodge the pain held breathless in her throat.]

[Folding her arms, she begins to pace. There's no goal to it, only a deep restlessness that grows by the minute. After that first harsh glare, she doesn't look at him.]

Better still, don't talk to me at all.

[perforo]

[ She's just as restive as he is, and he watches with aloof amusement as she takes up that futile, pacing vigil at the bars. This is unremarkable, but her words do grate, like steel on stone. Her losses are laid before him as if they are precious stones he ought to appreciate: her lover, her child, her life. None of these things leave him aghast; children have been bearing children since the dawn of time. That she is no maiden would almost seem implied - who would she have been saved for, back on whatever dismal ranch she hailed from? - and her life was no luminous tragedy, tossed down in these cells among so many others.

That she thinks herself so privileged in her misery would be laughable, if only he did not share in the utter convenience of those agonies. He hops back down off the bunk, with the annoyance of a lion who has just had his tail tugged. ]

Is that all you know of misery? Did I not also lose my lover, my child and my life in the space of a day?

[ He had been separated from all three longer than that, in fact, but his imprisonment seems to have significantly worsened. Now he doesn't know where he's held, or by whom, and her urge to toward motion only tempts him to approach her again, to hinder what progress she can make, which is, even without his interference, considerably none.

Her request to leave her in silence, in particular, is one that must be answered with its opposite. It's not as if she can walk away. ]

You've never known misery and you've never known the cost of quitting gracefully. Tell me of all the gods have taken from you, or better yet, tell me of all the things you've let slip through your fingers, and then we'll take a measure of our miseries.

[girl_at_the_window]

[She barks a laugh at that, derisive and disbelieving, and when she does finally look at him again, there are high spots of colour on her cheeks - not embarrassment, but anger.]

[You've never known misery, he tells her. He, who's done naught but brag about his name and his knighthood and his strength. He, who's never been a girl, never known how men's eyes and hands can burn, how someone's prettiness can be turned into a stick to beat her with. He who jokes about her father's death, who never had to feel that sick uncertainty of a death that could not be, who needn't live knowing that she talked and joked and trusted in men who had taken everything from her. Have you starved, sai knight? she wants to demand (and her fingers are trying to curl into fists again, digging into the flesh of her folded arms. Have you sold everything you loved for bread and a roof? Have you sold yourself, let an old man fumble you with crackling knuckles, had a whole town know you for a whore in all but name? Have you been spat on, hands dripping red as everyone you called a friend cursed you, noose on your neck as they drew you to the Charyou Tree?]

[She doubts it. She doubts it very much. Such a man as he seems has no doubt felt some stings in his life, some miseries - a soldier, she supposes, must - but he is a rich man, and a strong man, and most of all, he is a man. Men and boys, she supposes, must have a very different view of misery, for certainly few enough of them seem to understand women's.]

[Her lips press tight, and she scowls at him.]

To hear it of 'ee, ye've lost naught at all today but time. After all, ain't you gonna tell 'em your name and let 'em bow and scrape as they pull you, apologising all the while for the trouble, out into the light? Ain't they gonna set 'ee on a fine steed and sell 'ee back to whatever father ye're so ungrateful of? Ain't that what ye've been telling me?