I think the only notes for that post are that I'm generalising some or other dialect of old French into Frankish and canonising Sidwell as knowing middle ages Latin, limited mostly to prayers or songs. It was already canon that he's a huge blubbering pansy.
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Vec,
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8 yrs ago
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8 yrs ago
If you're not trying to romance the Pokemon, what's the fucking point?
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8 yrs ago
Can't help but read 'woah' as a regular 'wuh', but 'whoa' as a deep, masculine 'HOO-AH!'
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8 yrs ago
That's patently untrue. I planted some potassium the other day, and no matter how much I watered it, all I got was explosions.
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9 yrs ago
on holiday for five days. if you need me, toss a rock into the fuckin' desert and I'll whisper in your dreams
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Bio
According to the IRC, I'm a low-grade troll. They're probably not wrong.
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Observatory.
Sidwell spun at the noise of the voice but was already throwing his arms to his temples with a pained face, blotting out the sensory world. The lordling had not even yelled, but his fragile, dreamy sense of calm had cracked and was shattering under the angry, questioning torrent. "Oh mercy," he gasped, dropping to his knees, an imperfect prayer position on the hard timber, and the prayer was already spouting. "Et dimitte nobis debita n-nostra sicut et nos dimisimus debitoribus nost-t-tris," he murmured rapidly, only slightly breaking the latin rhythm as the prayer ground to a halt at its end. 'And forgive us our debt as we forgive our debtors'. Mildly appropriate for Hell, but the teenager in finery was not quite Satan.
The questions Sidwell had heard were foreign to him, but even as they spoke a meaning was assembling itself out of them. Complete memories of words in perfect Frankish, as if there had never been another language. Voice, tone and and accent were all preserved to the finest, most human detail.
A cautious lift of the head to look at his speaker again. Not in the face, of course. "My, ah, my la- Liege," he addressed, unsure of the sex of his fellow damned soul but unwilling to stare. "Your friend is named Innocent, of the Sidwells. I believe I am dead, but I do not know."
Sidwell spun at the noise of the voice but was already throwing his arms to his temples with a pained face, blotting out the sensory world. The lordling had not even yelled, but his fragile, dreamy sense of calm had cracked and was shattering under the angry, questioning torrent. "Oh mercy," he gasped, dropping to his knees, an imperfect prayer position on the hard timber, and the prayer was already spouting. "Et dimitte nobis debita n-nostra sicut et nos dimisimus debitoribus nost-t-tris," he murmured rapidly, only slightly breaking the latin rhythm as the prayer ground to a halt at its end. 'And forgive us our debt as we forgive our debtors'. Mildly appropriate for Hell, but the teenager in finery was not quite Satan.
The questions Sidwell had heard were foreign to him, but even as they spoke a meaning was assembling itself out of them. Complete memories of words in perfect Frankish, as if there had never been another language. Voice, tone and and accent were all preserved to the finest, most human detail.
A cautious lift of the head to look at his speaker again. Not in the face, of course. "My, ah, my la- Liege," he addressed, unsure of the sex of his fellow damned soul but unwilling to stare. "Your friend is named Innocent, of the Sidwells. I believe I am dead, but I do not know."
Oh right, I forgot to mention: there is in place a mechanism by which everyone can understand everyone else no matter what language they speak. You can hear what the other person is saying in the language they're speaking, but you simply automatically understand. Theoretically you could speak in gibberish and still be understood. :)
Applicable for all languages, or would characters who know more than one language make themselves understood using their first or most comfortable language while other languages need interpretation? Relevant for multilingual characters who would pick up on the fact that other characters understand them no matter what they're speaking in.
That reminds me, I miscounted the characters in the observatory. Edits in progress.
Observatory.
The awakening wasn't quick. Sidwell shuddered and a blurring sea of vision leaked back into his eyes, but for him, one dream had merely given way to another, for he was well used to shutting the real world out of his mind. Soon, almost forcibly, he dozed again.
When the gentler dreams had tugged Sidwell's drifting body back to the shallows by the shoulder, he began to feel the intrusiveness of his new surroundings. The hardness, pushing his poorly covered bones back into him. He'd slept in worse places, but not for a long while, and this was not the feel of a hammock. His ears opened. Creaking, yes, but no wind with it. Why was his cabin creaking if there wasn't a storm?
His body woke with a shudder of effort, pushed against the floor, blinked wide. Nothing but fuzz. They blinked again, straining. Slits of light in the roof, then walls. Not his walls. Grander than that, and greener. Everything felt green, just softly greening away in the quiet. Sitting position. His eyes reached the floor and found the others.
Shock finally found Sidwell, shaking him, throwing a hand before his mouth, backing up until his shoulders hit a hard surface. He stood, still in the workwear he had fallen asleep in, still pressing against the wall at his back as if it could save him. Then surely I have died, and this is Hell. For Sidwell had never known any alternative answer to a change such as this. Prayed desparately in his whispers, his free hand made a cross on himself, but his eyes did nothing but gaze at them, the strangers, the foreigners. They were three, all sleeping. A young woman in a red framework mask and two children, one with almost long hair, one completely bald, the first with almost thick enough clothes for a snow, the second in jewels of a noble's son. They were likely no more than fifteen and twelve, by height. Both were from nowhere near Flidais. They had no such look about them.
The fourth object on the floor was his hat. Thoughts interrupted, Sidwell stooped to take it back up, relishing its familiarity. It fit as well as if he had woven it for himself, and he had. It brought comfort.
In a better state of mind, Sidwell saw the curved shape of the room, and turned to follow it. He had been leaning against not a wall but a great pillar, supporting at its head a vast tubular object completely foreign to him. And the pillar, too, was green with vines. Under it was wood. Hell is the place where the worms never die, nor the fire is ever quenched. There is no fire here. There were even books, under the green- Many, many books, more than he'd ever seen even at a monastery. They brought up poor memories. There was a low table. Sidwell stepped towards it, squinting at the oddly elegant tangle of brass rings and spheres resting on it, unwilling to touch what seemed to have an importance all of its own, and a value likely greater than his own life. He turned further, restless. A man, this one wakeful, with his back to him and his face to a shelf. He wore, like the child, well-dyed and well-made clothes. There were black marks on his arms.
Sidwell removed his hat and took a step, then stopped. He did not know what he'd see if the man showed his face to him. Demon? Or merely another sufferer in this strangest circle of Hell?
What God has ordained, let be, he thought, and stepped a little closer. "God bless you and the day, friend," he spoke aloud.
The awakening wasn't quick. Sidwell shuddered and a blurring sea of vision leaked back into his eyes, but for him, one dream had merely given way to another, for he was well used to shutting the real world out of his mind. Soon, almost forcibly, he dozed again.
When the gentler dreams had tugged Sidwell's drifting body back to the shallows by the shoulder, he began to feel the intrusiveness of his new surroundings. The hardness, pushing his poorly covered bones back into him. He'd slept in worse places, but not for a long while, and this was not the feel of a hammock. His ears opened. Creaking, yes, but no wind with it. Why was his cabin creaking if there wasn't a storm?
His body woke with a shudder of effort, pushed against the floor, blinked wide. Nothing but fuzz. They blinked again, straining. Slits of light in the roof, then walls. Not his walls. Grander than that, and greener. Everything felt green, just softly greening away in the quiet. Sitting position. His eyes reached the floor and found the others.
Shock finally found Sidwell, shaking him, throwing a hand before his mouth, backing up until his shoulders hit a hard surface. He stood, still in the workwear he had fallen asleep in, still pressing against the wall at his back as if it could save him. Then surely I have died, and this is Hell. For Sidwell had never known any alternative answer to a change such as this. Prayed desparately in his whispers, his free hand made a cross on himself, but his eyes did nothing but gaze at them, the strangers, the foreigners. They were three, all sleeping. A young woman in a red framework mask and two children, one with almost long hair, one completely bald, the first with almost thick enough clothes for a snow, the second in jewels of a noble's son. They were likely no more than fifteen and twelve, by height. Both were from nowhere near Flidais. They had no such look about them.
The fourth object on the floor was his hat. Thoughts interrupted, Sidwell stooped to take it back up, relishing its familiarity. It fit as well as if he had woven it for himself, and he had. It brought comfort.
In a better state of mind, Sidwell saw the curved shape of the room, and turned to follow it. He had been leaning against not a wall but a great pillar, supporting at its head a vast tubular object completely foreign to him. And the pillar, too, was green with vines. Under it was wood. Hell is the place where the worms never die, nor the fire is ever quenched. There is no fire here. There were even books, under the green- Many, many books, more than he'd ever seen even at a monastery. They brought up poor memories. There was a low table. Sidwell stepped towards it, squinting at the oddly elegant tangle of brass rings and spheres resting on it, unwilling to touch what seemed to have an importance all of its own, and a value likely greater than his own life. He turned further, restless. A man, this one wakeful, with his back to him and his face to a shelf. He wore, like the child, well-dyed and well-made clothes. There were black marks on his arms.
Sidwell removed his hat and took a step, then stopped. He did not know what he'd see if the man showed his face to him. Demon? Or merely another sufferer in this strangest circle of Hell?
What God has ordained, let be, he thought, and stepped a little closer. "God bless you and the day, friend," he spoke aloud.
Tango time. Hold on tight.
@Mokley When our characters interact with the ship, will the short-term effects be ours to write out under guidelines, or will all effects be informed by you in or out of character?
I see rather a lot of young characters. Here goes. I haven't roleplayed in three months, so this guy will be a simple concept.
does the updated web design make my butt look bigcolour
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