NPC Landen
He waited. Someone had to be on the other end. Landen was just opening his mouth to say hello? again when a woman began to speak quietly. Perhaps he'd worried her with his dismissal, but she wasn't selling anything. She was calling... He wasn't actually sure why she was calling, but he confirmed his identity and she mentioned Judy and five minutes later he knew far more about her than he might have wished.
Silence fell between them. The awkward sort when no one really knows how to end it. Was it some sort of contagion? A magical disease? Attracted animals to you? Hell, he didn't care anymore, this was getting a little too close to home, he hadn't known Judy had left him as a contact, but since she had... He couldn't very well leave this girl to deal with everything on her own. And maybe Judy would like the company. As Ruth-Ann raised her eyebrows across the room at his hesitation, he took a breath and her apologetic desperation clinched the deal.
"It's all right, Merry. It's a trouble you've found, same as Judy. What are you wanting to do then? We'll just talk this out together and you can take a few deep breaths, I'll try to help asI can."
Nemaisare Member
- Last Seen: 2 hrs ago
- Old Guild Username: Nemaisare
- Joined: 12 yrs ago
- Posts: 1069 (0.24 / day)
- VMs: 6
-
Username history
- Nemaisare 12 yrs ago
-
Latest 10 profile visitors:
-
Most recent →
cottonferret,
Vampiretwilight,
Krasnaya,
ppppppp,
Not a Sayan,
Simply Not Real,
Candy Cane Elf,
DizzyPrism,
JonTheArchivist,
Neziul
Status
User has no status, yet
Bio
Most Recent Posts
NPC Landen
Time was, the world was a simple place. It wasn't always that what you saw was what you got, or that everyone could claim to know the exact line between right and wrong. And maybe he sounded like any old grandpa fussing over a bit of hardware his kids had given him. They'd said it would make long distance communication easier, but he'd forgotten how to turn the damn thing on just the other day. Still, when he could make it work, the thing was a wonder, and even if the touch screen was sometimes too sensitive, it was easier to see the screen, and he thought he was getting the hang of texting, for free he'd been reassured at least four times, until he'd seen a young girl, maybe seven or so, waggling her thumbs about and writing sentences on the same device in the time it would have taken him to write one word. He'd grown up in the wrong generation, he supposed. The wrong era entirely.
And now it wasn't computers or cellphones, it was animals and magic. He'd have called it all complete poppycock if he could have, except the news channels picked up the story after he already found out about it. His wife, bless her, had brought her pigeons home with her the other day. She'd been in such an euphorically panicked state he'd not been sure what to do about it. She'd been crying and ringing her hands and cooing over her darlings all together and there he'd been, staring at a flock of birds he'd known she liked, but would never have expected she liked them enough to let them into the house. Even now, there were feathers floating about the floor, and he was just waiting for some reaction to the streak of white down the back of her favourite chair. It hadn't come yet. Neither of them had understood really what was going on, but while his first reaction had been to try shooing the birds back outside, he'd eventually gotten used to it. He wasn't sure he wanted to understand the mess, but she was his wife and a few birds didn't change that. At least they knew now that it wasn't an isolated thing, though as things got more heated and violent, he'd been working to convince her to stay home. Tell her church girls she was sick, let him pick up the groceries or do any errands she wanted to run. It chafed, sure, but she was getting fragile.
And then his goddaughter had fallen to the same strange, he didn't want to call it sickness or insanity, but calling it magic sounded almost worse to him. She didn't have anyone to keep her safe the way Ruth-Ann did though, and she'd already learned some neighbours weren't feeling friendly. When she'd called two nights ago, she'd been in tears. So distraught he'd been worried her husband was back. If that had been the case, he'd at least have known how to react, but when she'd gone on about dead birds, he'd had to clamp his teeth over a relieved, "Is that all?"
Well, they'd driven out to see her, and the women had had a happy enough reunion, but when they'd invited her back home, she'd said she wanted to get out of the city. He couldn't blame her, but it had taken a while to figure out where to send her. Finally, he'd given her the keys to their summer cottage and some numbers for the Parks Canada folks he knew who could probably help her more than he could. They knew more about birds than he did...
He was watching the news again, willing something to have changed overnight, and trying to convince his wife that they ought to head out to the cottage themselves a little early when the phone rang. He had to leverage himself out of the chair to reach it. Too bad Ruth-Ann's pigeons couldn't carry it to him or something. But at least he had yet more proof that adding to the number of rings before the answering machine picked up had been a good idea. "Hello?" He hadn't recognised the number, "Who is this? If you're selling something I'm afraid I'm not interested." It was always best to be forward, and he couldn't think of why anyone else would be calling, they didn't get very strangers on the phone.
Time was, the world was a simple place. It wasn't always that what you saw was what you got, or that everyone could claim to know the exact line between right and wrong. And maybe he sounded like any old grandpa fussing over a bit of hardware his kids had given him. They'd said it would make long distance communication easier, but he'd forgotten how to turn the damn thing on just the other day. Still, when he could make it work, the thing was a wonder, and even if the touch screen was sometimes too sensitive, it was easier to see the screen, and he thought he was getting the hang of texting, for free he'd been reassured at least four times, until he'd seen a young girl, maybe seven or so, waggling her thumbs about and writing sentences on the same device in the time it would have taken him to write one word. He'd grown up in the wrong generation, he supposed. The wrong era entirely.
And now it wasn't computers or cellphones, it was animals and magic. He'd have called it all complete poppycock if he could have, except the news channels picked up the story after he already found out about it. His wife, bless her, had brought her pigeons home with her the other day. She'd been in such an euphorically panicked state he'd not been sure what to do about it. She'd been crying and ringing her hands and cooing over her darlings all together and there he'd been, staring at a flock of birds he'd known she liked, but would never have expected she liked them enough to let them into the house. Even now, there were feathers floating about the floor, and he was just waiting for some reaction to the streak of white down the back of her favourite chair. It hadn't come yet. Neither of them had understood really what was going on, but while his first reaction had been to try shooing the birds back outside, he'd eventually gotten used to it. He wasn't sure he wanted to understand the mess, but she was his wife and a few birds didn't change that. At least they knew now that it wasn't an isolated thing, though as things got more heated and violent, he'd been working to convince her to stay home. Tell her church girls she was sick, let him pick up the groceries or do any errands she wanted to run. It chafed, sure, but she was getting fragile.
And then his goddaughter had fallen to the same strange, he didn't want to call it sickness or insanity, but calling it magic sounded almost worse to him. She didn't have anyone to keep her safe the way Ruth-Ann did though, and she'd already learned some neighbours weren't feeling friendly. When she'd called two nights ago, she'd been in tears. So distraught he'd been worried her husband was back. If that had been the case, he'd at least have known how to react, but when she'd gone on about dead birds, he'd had to clamp his teeth over a relieved, "Is that all?"
Well, they'd driven out to see her, and the women had had a happy enough reunion, but when they'd invited her back home, she'd said she wanted to get out of the city. He couldn't blame her, but it had taken a while to figure out where to send her. Finally, he'd given her the keys to their summer cottage and some numbers for the Parks Canada folks he knew who could probably help her more than he could. They knew more about birds than he did...
He was watching the news again, willing something to have changed overnight, and trying to convince his wife that they ought to head out to the cottage themselves a little early when the phone rang. He had to leverage himself out of the chair to reach it. Too bad Ruth-Ann's pigeons couldn't carry it to him or something. But at least he had yet more proof that adding to the number of rings before the answering machine picked up had been a good idea. "Hello?" He hadn't recognised the number, "Who is this? If you're selling something I'm afraid I'm not interested." It was always best to be forward, and he couldn't think of why anyone else would be calling, they didn't get very strangers on the phone.
I am so damned sorry about this guys, but at least it's not forever, just two days! However, it looks like I won't have time to make a post until Thursday. You can skip me for this round if we've got everyone before then, and time. And I'll catch up once I've got all my readings done and papers written. Again, very sorry!
Still here.
Funny, am I?
The weighted words rolled into existence through her mind as her finger brushed the statue’s head. It was a response so swiftly instinctive that Aylen did not, at first, notice what had changed about his imprisonment. But as a turmoil of images and questions wove their way into his awareness, his mind turned from its pursuit of those heavy steps and reached for that contact with such rapid haste that his own shock travelled with them.
Who are you? Child? Human? Mine?
No one had ever thought him funny before. And that lack of respect surely ruled out the last. But where had she? was this a young girl? The thoughts he’d discovered held no particular flavour he could understand as gender. Where had it come from? The only reason he knew he was reaching into a mind not his own was the distinctly different patterns within and a line of separation that warned him he could go so far, and no farther.
Still, he grasped at what it offered; stealing the identity it had given him through… A statue? his prison? Perhaps. He gave himself shape and form and being, though he could create only the illusion of substance, and a life-sized version of the statue appeared beside the girl. Blinking slow, stone eyes and gradually gaining colour as he plucked and threaded ideas and images through her thoughts to create himself. It took time, too long perhaps, for a young human, but short enough by Aylen’s count, before he was standing before her, a white bearded, balding old man, with green and yellow robes as he’d once worn them, draping over sandaled feet. Bright green eyes were half-hidden by wiry eyebrows and wrinkles like canyons spreading from their corners. They peered out sharply at her from the otherwise still gathering illusion as his question repeated itself, purely for form’s sake.
Who are you?
He did not yet have the hang of adapting his facial features into speech patterns to align with his thoughts, so his lips remained still as he tilted his head forwards, inclining his body ever so slightly in gratitude.
Agatha…
The weighted words rolled into existence through her mind as her finger brushed the statue’s head. It was a response so swiftly instinctive that Aylen did not, at first, notice what had changed about his imprisonment. But as a turmoil of images and questions wove their way into his awareness, his mind turned from its pursuit of those heavy steps and reached for that contact with such rapid haste that his own shock travelled with them.
Who are you? Child? Human? Mine?
No one had ever thought him funny before. And that lack of respect surely ruled out the last. But where had she? was this a young girl? The thoughts he’d discovered held no particular flavour he could understand as gender. Where had it come from? The only reason he knew he was reaching into a mind not his own was the distinctly different patterns within and a line of separation that warned him he could go so far, and no farther.
Still, he grasped at what it offered; stealing the identity it had given him through… A statue? his prison? Perhaps. He gave himself shape and form and being, though he could create only the illusion of substance, and a life-sized version of the statue appeared beside the girl. Blinking slow, stone eyes and gradually gaining colour as he plucked and threaded ideas and images through her thoughts to create himself. It took time, too long perhaps, for a young human, but short enough by Aylen’s count, before he was standing before her, a white bearded, balding old man, with green and yellow robes as he’d once worn them, draping over sandaled feet. Bright green eyes were half-hidden by wiry eyebrows and wrinkles like canyons spreading from their corners. They peered out sharply at her from the otherwise still gathering illusion as his question repeated itself, purely for form’s sake.
Who are you?
He did not yet have the hang of adapting his facial features into speech patterns to align with his thoughts, so his lips remained still as he tilted his head forwards, inclining his body ever so slightly in gratitude.
Agatha…
His strength did not return before Hap had managed to maneuver itself into position as Wilhelm’s support. This was, however, less humiliating than having to allow someone else to feed him. He’d already gone through it was, he’d rather not repeat the ordeal. So he did not protest as his head was lifted and settled off the floor. In truth, Hap’s legs were no more or less comfortable than the furs his head had been resting on, but it was that tilted support that was important.
He might have found the help in picking up the bowl himself just as bothersome had the Keeper said anything about it, but Hap did not. So Wilhelm endured. It would not have been his place to protest any help offered in the first place, but he would have found it difficult to resist. All that truly mattered was that the food reached his stomach with as little fuss as possible. He still did not enjoy the process, and struggled once more to keep it down. But it stayed where they put it, and then threatened to return when Hap pushed a plant at him that wrinkled his nose and turned his head.
Wilhelm grumbled his protests then, a wordless refusal to open his mouth that trembled through nearly every part of him. But it merely spoke over his noise and he could not refute simple logic. If it worked, and he could get that herb down, it would be good for him. If it did not, the Keeper could not blame him, surely it could taste that scent on its own tongue. Lying so thick on the air as it was. But it was that last sentence that defeated him. It would not do to die here, lying down and inconvenient to even one isolated being. The light had called him to stay alive, and death came with walking. If he hadn’t the strength to stand and continue on his way, then he could not die here. Where someone would see.
It was a firmly entrenched instinct as much as it was a religious philosophy. In death, a troll moved on.
Finally he grunted and opened his lips and then his teeth, loosening his jaw enough that Hap could set the herb in his mouth. In this, pride did not win over the desire to keep that smell off of his hands if he could. His lips were even pulled back as tightly as he could manage. Once it was within, he chewed once, abandoned the attempt and simply swallowed over a gag, rolling over to cough reflexively as he forced the herb down. At least it was a sign that there was still life in him, if he had the energy enough to move when desperate not to choke. The movement did not agree with him, but eventually everything was in his stomach where it should be, and he could answer the question.
“Anything you have to offer, I will eat, little one.” Provided it was not of the elements, at least. Trolls were not picky, and they usually had strong stomachs. It was just his trouble that he’d neglected his a little too long. “I sympathise now with your beasts.”
He might have found the help in picking up the bowl himself just as bothersome had the Keeper said anything about it, but Hap did not. So Wilhelm endured. It would not have been his place to protest any help offered in the first place, but he would have found it difficult to resist. All that truly mattered was that the food reached his stomach with as little fuss as possible. He still did not enjoy the process, and struggled once more to keep it down. But it stayed where they put it, and then threatened to return when Hap pushed a plant at him that wrinkled his nose and turned his head.
Wilhelm grumbled his protests then, a wordless refusal to open his mouth that trembled through nearly every part of him. But it merely spoke over his noise and he could not refute simple logic. If it worked, and he could get that herb down, it would be good for him. If it did not, the Keeper could not blame him, surely it could taste that scent on its own tongue. Lying so thick on the air as it was. But it was that last sentence that defeated him. It would not do to die here, lying down and inconvenient to even one isolated being. The light had called him to stay alive, and death came with walking. If he hadn’t the strength to stand and continue on his way, then he could not die here. Where someone would see.
It was a firmly entrenched instinct as much as it was a religious philosophy. In death, a troll moved on.
Finally he grunted and opened his lips and then his teeth, loosening his jaw enough that Hap could set the herb in his mouth. In this, pride did not win over the desire to keep that smell off of his hands if he could. His lips were even pulled back as tightly as he could manage. Once it was within, he chewed once, abandoned the attempt and simply swallowed over a gag, rolling over to cough reflexively as he forced the herb down. At least it was a sign that there was still life in him, if he had the energy enough to move when desperate not to choke. The movement did not agree with him, but eventually everything was in his stomach where it should be, and he could answer the question.
“Anything you have to offer, I will eat, little one.” Provided it was not of the elements, at least. Trolls were not picky, and they usually had strong stomachs. It was just his trouble that he’d neglected his a little too long. “I sympathise now with your beasts.”
Just bonding, unless you're hoping to set up a rapport with them, or some sort of interaction, before your character bonds. :)
Whoo! Congratulations Visi!
And Bunny, if you don't want to be dragging Nikhil along behind Polly, he can drag her. :P Or they can go their separate ways. ;) I'll get a PM to you in a moment.
And Bunny, if you don't want to be dragging Nikhil along behind Polly, he can drag her. :P Or they can go their separate ways. ;) I'll get a PM to you in a moment.
You can still go with Mai if you want to, Bunnita, though Nikhil would probably appreciate being rescued from a boring day at work. :P
Also, I am not aware of any cucumbers being sold at MccyD's... Probably too healthy, it's pickles in grease or nothing.
Also, I am not aware of any cucumbers being sold at MccyD's... Probably too healthy, it's pickles in grease or nothing.
I'll pick Jack, then Danny for Al. :P Just to be complicated. ;)
© 2007-2026