Feb. 21st, 2014

strangewonders: (nonchalant)
[personal profile] strangewonders
[There's the pop and sizzle of something cooking in a frying pan, though at least the journal seems far enough away to not be spattered in the grease of whatever is merrily cooking away]

First our ever esteemed castle manipulates me into cleaning for days, and then it goes about turning my room into some weird fantasy version of itself for a romantic holiday. It's all back to the way I like it, but now I'm concerned that one of you out there will have some holiday where you nail everything to the ceiling in the worship of some deity, and we'll all be sleeping on bare floor. Try not to encourage the place, if you do, I'm quite tired of having everything rearranged.

[There's a pause, and a muffled bit of grumbling as the cooking noises stop]

Anyone fancy a bacon sandwich? I seem to have made too much.


[Open over the journal/in person in the kitchen]
i_rule_me: (Eyebrow raise)
[personal profile] i_rule_me
[The last thing David remembers, he was on the Psychosphere, viewing his own future from the outside, and making the conscious decision to end his own existence. He'd turned the decision over a thousand times in his mind, searched the fractal fern of his choices and possible futures for a way out, but it always came down to his own death, or the death of mutants as a species. Obviously, he couldn't kill his own people. Not when he'd mucked about with the timelines as many times as he had already. It wasn't his choice to make. So when he finds himself inexplicably on the floor of what looks like a hotel lobby, he's obviously a little confused.]

...Huh. Never thought the bloody afterlife'd be so...welcoming.

[Picking himself up off of the floor, he looks around, spotting his journal nearby, with it's neverending chatter.]

This's definitely....woah. some kinda fancy-dancy magical journal thingie.

[After that, he goes quiet for a while, paging back through the journal to see what's what. He sees a couple of mentions of mutants, a few of his father (or someoone similar to him, anyway), and a lot of things that remind him, really, of his own mental landscape.]

So...lemme get this right. Accordin' ta some o' youse, I've been kidnapped by a sentient building, am stuck here with no way ta get back intentionally, an' some kinda somethin's been taken from me fer the price o' admission. Have I got it right so far?

[For those out in the lobby, you'll be greeted by the sight of a skinny young man with tall, pointy hair, who looks none too pleased by his predicament.]

toobravehearted: (116 Studious)
[personal profile] toobravehearted
Some may have heard my voice over the radio and journal recently, or, well, I don't know, perhaps you didn't or chose to ignore it, it wouldn't be for the first time honestly, and in that case I will actually say well done to you for taking no notice on that occasion, that was very much the best thing you could have ever done. As for what I appeared to say and for what I appeared to do... I could never and I am very sorry.

[Filtered to those that encountered the Mara.] )

[Filter: Felix.] )

[Filter: Lady Galadriel.] )


Things have been quite... Busy, in the castle so far this year, haven't they? Not that busy is the best word to use. Frenetic, disjointed, lots of smaller things happening, isolated mostly, like squalls, touching or affecting just a few of us at a time or more, for a day, two, and longer. Residents with lost memories or other afflictions, monsters in the upper halls, rooms decorated at a whim, dragons in the dining room. Add them all up, mark them down, there's no pattern to discern so far, just random pockets of activity and where does that lead us?

[Or what follows a squall? The castle makes him feel restless sometimes. He feels restless now and yet it's not so simple a feeling to define.]

[Filter: Tenth Doctor.] )


[What do you do when it's that time in the afternoon and your mind is preoccupied? You make tea, of course. Except the Doctor doesn't tend to do things by half, especially when tea making becomes Olympic Tea Making and it is looking like he may very well take the gold.

The forty-cup tea urn is out, a beautiful, blessed machine, stoked with hot water enough for, well, we shouldn't have to say just how many cups at this point, should we? On the counter next to that are a myriad of cups, mugs, saucers, delicate china tea receptacles painted exquisitely, gaudy large and kitsch mugs with all sorts of designs and what-not twisted jokily as the handles. If anyone was guessing, yes, he did empty the cupboards looking for everything and anything that would hold that such oriental and noxious fluid known as tea.

At the other side of the tea urn, this is where the real magic is happening. The Doctor is actually blending tea. He's taken down everything and all he can find, flavours and strengths from far and wide, a little bit this of, a small pinch of that, just a dash of that one there, tea perfectly tailored for an individual.

And then there's that moment when he takes stock of what he has accomplished and the kitchen counter doesn't look that far away from pleasing John Adams for how much of a mess he has made.
]


Er... Would anyone like any tea?


[After all the writing of filters, after all the tea making, there's still room for one more. What does he have to lose? Or what is he trying to prove? Nothing.]

[Filter: Crowley.] )


[[ooc: Wide open for journal or action and those that just want to say Hi or have tea. :) ]]

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Paradisa

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