rose: question your choices

[fluthlu]

[Filtered away from Kanaya; Written]

I'd never put much thought into the absurdity of finding out one's own future actions at home, particularly when they involve deeply personal matters. It has me wondering, however, about the consensus on the subject - if you had a choice in the matter, how strongly would you let such information dictate your thoughts and actions here? Particularly if they involved your relationship with another person?

Thank you for your time.

[/Filter]

[And with that, Rose is venturing down to the kitchen, looking a bit like her dear twin brother, with a pair of sunglasses perched on her nose.

If you need her, she'll be in the kitchen trying to keep down a cup of coffee.]

((ooc: backdated to Sunday morning, after this log.))

Fifteenth House of Westeros ♛ Dictated/Action ♛ Of the Vale

[songsandstories]

[A redheaded girl has woken up to a strange place indeed. A Castle, no less. But it was not the Eyrie. It was not the castle her Lord Father was in charge of. She wanders about the place, peering into a few rooms, asking after certain people.

It isn't until someone explains the journal, the book she had left behind on her bed, that she retreats back to the place that is to be her room.

Once there, she looks over the magic book, the words and voices playing from it with every turn of the page. Was this to be trusted? She could only wonder.]

I must beg a favor of any who are listening. My name is Alayne Stone, and I am in search of Lord Baelish and his charge Robert Arryn. He is not well, and I need to see to him if he were here.

I would be in your debt if any could give me information on the lords of this castle and to which House it is loyal to.

[While she may not know that she may be killed if it were under House Lannister, she knows enough of her lessons from her father.]

My thanks, and may the Seven bless you.

ooc: Sansa is on her loss now which means she has no memory of her life as Sansa and is only the girl she is pretending to be. Feel free to run into her while she's confused.

008 - Grrrrrrrr

[silentrunning]

[Chell is tired of being a cat. She's been a cat for FOUR DAYS now. She can't write. Can't speak. Can't communicate in any meaningful way. So, at the moment, she's pacing around her room. Her fur is all fluffed up, and she's growling softly to herself.

And suddenly she realizes, she can't just let this stand. The Castle's fucked her over and she is sick of it.

She glances down at her journal, lying unassumingly on the floor, where it has been lying these last four days and stalks over to it, butting it hard with her nose. People's pets are always nosing their journals open, right? Right? So why can't she?

And almost as if the journal had been waiting for this, it topples open.

But now what? It's not like she can write in it. Or dictate anything more than yowls and meows.

For a little while, she goes back to pacing furiously around her room. If only she could do something, something to tell the Castle exactly how she feels... The walls are closing in.

And then she remembers something. All that beautiful, fancy furniture in the lobby. And she realizes she really wants to dig her claws into a silky leather sofa just once. She wants to make the Castle pay somehow.

She doesn't have weapons, but she has claws. And teeth. She can still cause damage and wreck the pretty things the Castle puts forth to keep them all placid.

Crouching, she gives her open journal a mighty shove in the direction of the partially open door of her room and darts after, shoving it in front of her. The closer to the lobby she gets, the more angry and frustrated she gets.

She's been reduced to walking on all fours, shoving her journal with her face because she has no hands. Sure. She has friends who have no hands and they manage. But none of them are here, and she can't ask how they carry their journals. And right now, she only wants to be herself again.

On reaching the lobby, she pauses, eying the nearest window, and crouches down, fully intending to leap to the top of one of the sofas and run across it to rip at the drapes... But the knowledge of how to jump goes completely out of her mind. And that remembrance of her loss is the final straw.

The journal lying on the floor picks up an unearthly shriek of fury as the orange cat climbs up onto a sofa's back, shredding the leather with claws and teeth, stuffing flying everywhere.

Damn this feels good.

OOC: Hey Para. Ever seen a cat wreck a lobby?Welp, you get to now. Come join her or tell her to stfu. She'll be ripping drapes, shredding sofas and knocking lamps off tables.]

☠ 049

[molotov]

[Cross leaving was a blow that Molotov really hadn't anticipated, as foolish as it was to forget the castle's whims, and she's spent the past few weeks in a bad place. Well, bed isn't such a bad place, but it is when you're there sleeping and drinking off a depression. She's managed to slowly begin incorporating herself around the population of the castle, for small periods of time, but today is the first day that she's managed to actually stay out and function like a human being.

As long as that means being buzzed and shooting targets at the gun range. Where she can be found, basically all day.]


( Ezio )

⇒ 85 {dictated}

[ofhope]

Pharos— Ryoji doesn't seem to be here any longer. Better, more important things to tend to, no?

[ A chuckle, though it's a melancholy in nature. It seems to drift, like his thoughts, before he speaks up again. ]

This mansion belonged to Zelman Clock, then Ryoji, and now...me. It's empty, and quiet, and absolutely perfect. Except...

It needs a maid or steward. Those that served here from the city have slowly left, [ or been killed in accidental fits, you know, it happens! ] so the position needs to be filled more urgently than ever. Thanksgiving is coming up, after all.

It can...pay, I suppose. Whatever you desire.

☢ 001 | written

[wantsiceland]

SIDEKICK FOR HIRE

One (1) newcomer looking for work as an assistant in the field of villainy and wrongdoing. Has experience and expertise in theft, infiltration, and hand-to-hand combat. Wages negotiable. Will work on commission. Contact for a complete resume.

Heroes looking for converts, don't waste your time.

104.5 - there goes the last human voice

[hard_talker]

[ten o'clock on Monday night arrives with its usual slow fanfare: the pulse and gravel of Leonard Cohen's music sliding over the airwaves and the journals. this week, Mark lets the whole song play out, then chuckles softly as he lifts the needle off the vinyl]

God, I tell ya, guys, it's good to be back, as strange as it sounds. We had a nice little listener turnout last week, let's see if we can keep the ball rollin', huh? Hard Harry likes talkin' to you folks, and hopes you feel the same. ... Not a whole lotta fresh meat this week, but everyone get on board the welcome wagon anyway for Cimorene, Marceline, Zoe, Shego, and Thamuris. Maybe there ain't many of 'em, but strength doesn' hafta come in numbers. I'm willin' to bet that at least one of you is really somethin' else in some way or another.

[there's a pause, the crinkle of cellophane and the snap of a lighter as he takes a slow drag off a cigarette, and lets it out with the briefest clearing of his throat before he launches into his weekly editorial]

Yanno, I been doin' some thinking while I was looking through this crazy magic book we all call our lifeline to Castle Wonderfuck, our way-too-near and not-so-dear home sweet home ... and it looks like eeeeeverybody's gettin' introspective, lately. Maybe it's all the people gettin' their boarding passes to whatever passes for a flight home, their walkin' papers, their discharge notice, whatever you wanna call it. Maybe it's that so much shit just keeps slowly goin' on as usual, but there's somethin' under the surface. This place is - the attitude goin' around, it's like that bruise you wake up, find, and don't know where the fuck it came from. You've all gotten one, you what I mean! You get up, you take your shower, you've got a towel around the bits you don't want anyone to see, maybe one on your head, and as you're goin' for your socks or your shorts or your over-the-shoulder boulder holder, you spot it, and sure as shit, you all say the same thing:

"How the hell did I get this stupid thing?"

No idea, guys. Even I don't have a clue. Maybe an hour or so from now, or a month, we'll remember what the fuck we all banged our collective shins on. S'pretty likely we'll never know. But even so, you guys all got me thinkin': it's not really about who comes and who goes, even though every single one'a those people is important. It's what they make, or do, or say while they're here that gets remembered. There's a gorgeous damn mural down in the clinic. Do I know who made it? No, but I sure as hell like lookin' at it every time I go see the people I know that work down there. And for that, I thank Random Mural Guy. Those of you who like the lemonade tap in the kitchen, you can thank one of at least a few guys who've been here and gone by "The Doctor". You're all gonna be remembered for somethin', each and every one of you out there. The question you gotta ask yourselves is: what?

Me, I dunno. Probably my big mouth. Or maybe the music. Whichever one it is, I've already exercised one pretty well tonight, so lemme give you the other. This week's dose of decibels comes from some close personal friends of mine, The Red Hot Chili Peppers. I'm gonna kick it off with a song that they loved enough to want to put on one of their first albums - but their producers hated the damn thing and shitcanned it for a good five years before they let it see the light of day. By the time it finally hit the airwaves, it got all the way to lucky number seven on the charts... which just goes to show you that record producers don't know shit, and they should just listen to the goddamn musicians. Without further ado, I give you "Behind The Sun", and other refinements: some of which haven't even been written yet, for me, which is still one hell of a mind-fuck, even after almost two years.

[and with that, on goes the stereo. enjoy your RCHP, Paradisa]

16

[doublethefun]

[the strains of a rather catchy theme song can be heard over the journal. Ever since she found Spike playing Zombies in a Mall in the game room, she's been poking around here once in a while. And this time, it looks like she's settled down for a game of Batamari.

Her tone is definitely amused as she speaks into the journal.] Forsooth, I must admit that this method of star creation is much more interesting than waiting billions of years for dust to accrete - 'though I suppose the basic idea is there.

[hmm. She's sort of talking to herself now.] The density of the Batamari itself may be enough to exert a noticeable gravitational pull 'pon all these objects. Verily, the more mass one doth accumulate, the greater the pull, 'though that doth not explain size of the Prin -

[and here's the sound of the Game Over lasers]

...Ponyfeathers.

[[ooc: open over journal or in pony!]]

δυο; [written/action]

[lioneyed]

[The handwriting is plain, a little oldfashioned, but neat. Also brand new to anyone who didn't see his replies to his first 'entry']

I apologize for the mess I made on the journals the other day - I assure you, it was not intentional. Had I know of these books' rather unique properties, I'd have endeavored to be a little more careful. But thank you to everyone who expressed concern.

I suppose I ought to introduce myself properly - I am Thamuris, formerly of Troia, although given how different things are here, I have no idea if that means anything to anyone.

[And he's awake and at least partially upright for anyone who wants to run into him in the clinic. Not up to getting out of bed, but he's peering around as best he can because, well, everything here is so different]