synodiporia_ooc | Test Drive #21

Entry tags:

test drive

Test Drive #21

Welcome to the Synodiporia Test Drive Meme! Below the cuts there are two new prompts, and here are the prompts from previous test-drives, which you’re still welcome to use in this post. When you comment, be sure you specify what prompt you want to play with, and please put up your own threadstarter—it makes for a much more friendly environment than a forest of bare toplevels! OCs are especially welcome! Please take a quick look at our Directory & familiarize yourself with the concept and setting of the game before you jump in.

Our upcoming app round runs September 16th–26th. Our next Jaunt will be Night Falls on Yensid, a fantasy Jaunt taking place in a formerly magic kingdom whose history went awry when other Travelers failed to properly complete a previous Jaunt there, one of the many forgotten Jaunts from before Synodiporia properly began as a Dreamwidth game. There will be no Walkabout run alongside this Jaunt.

Prompt #55 takes place in a punishment Liminal Space for a Jaunt that the Travelers failed to solve.
Prompt #56 takes place during the first Jaunt the Travelers made to the Kingdom of Yensid, during its Golden Age.

#55

It’s difficult to make out the shape of this Liminal Space, at first, thanks to the decor; it’s somehow both pitch black and eye-searingly bright at the same time, the pulsing rainbow patterns cutting through the darkness making it all but impossible to properly judge distance. The truly persistent, or those who manage to abuse Liminal ‘down is relative’ gravity without hitting a pitfall for long enough, may eventually determine that it seems to be a giant egg. More so than many iterations of Liminal Space, it’s completely closed off.

Unfortunately, that’s going to be very difficult indeed to figure out. It’s not just the impossible coloration that makes navigation difficult; there’s a terrible storm raging, and the whipping winds and cracking thunder make it all too easy to stumble into a pitfall by accident. And those pitfalls don’t exactly want to let go of anyone they ensnare, either. Errant Travelers may find themselves supporting an impossibly heavy overhead weight, or pushing a boulder eternally uphill, or trying to catch an ever-lowering drink of water, or pouring water into a tub riddled with gaping cracks, or any number of other seemingly endless, pointless tasks. They can be escaped with help from another Traveler, or one person can be released from the task when another stumbles in.

The only respite from this - the colors, the storm, the punishments - is in the form of Travelers’ created spaces, but those are as difficult to get to right now as everything else. Good luck.

#56

It's a chaotic time for the Kingdom of Yensid. The Amulet of Yensid, that fabled magical artifact that must be rejoined each lunar year so that the kingdom's three races can continue their peaceful magical coexistence, has gone missing. Two-thirds of it, the humans' fragment and the Forest Folk's fragment, are nowhere to be found. The capital city is just as bustling as ever despite this, with reptilian Stonefolk flitting from place to place in their usual parkour-like fashion, small animal-like Forest Folk hawking various potions and crafts, and humans making all sorts of deals.

There's an undercurrent of urgency to the day's business. Small groups of three or four of various species move through the city with enchanted mirrors, dowsing rods, fishing lures, and all other manner of magical items designed to aid in the act of finding something, but so far, no one's turned up anything solid yet. A few of the stronger magicked items are leading their owners out towards the foreboding Birdlime Mountains, but that's the most promising lead anyone has.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"It must always be a king." he informs, drinking slowly, but the wine gets a little to him anyway. "And the relationship between ACCA and the royal family is one of checks and balances. Why, it's in the constitution."

Jean doesn't think Eliot comes from anywhere but Jean's mind, but he says the name of the language they are speaking since he was asked, and it's definitively not English. He can't help but wonder why his subconscious is drilling him in grammar school's government and politics.

((ooc: definitively an acronym! But we don't know what it means. Canon only tells us it has a namesake: "acca" - the red bird they use as a symbol, their equivalent to the white dove of peace.))

"Mm," Eliot says, finishing up his second cigarette and stubbing it out before taking another thoughtful swallow of the wine. He is very much not a light-weight, though the warmth of the room is lending a flush to his cheeks, as well.

"And what would you say if I told you I come from a country called America, a republic with a president, and I hear us both speaking in English, the language of the English empire?" he asks after a moment. "Any of that sound familiar to you, at all?"

Yeah...Jean is going to put that glass down before he makes a spectacle of himself. He rubs his flushed face before looking up at Eliot with tired though compliant eyes, like a man who has been been preparing himself for bad news from his doctor, and got exactly what he expected.

"Those are merely random words to me."

Truth be told, some districts attempted to have presidents in the past, but that was long before ACCA was created. Back in the age of chaos and war.

"Is there a concept of alternate dimensions or other worlds were you're from?" Eliot asks, watching the blond with interest. He wonders what Jean had thought was going on. That this was just a dream, or a hallucination? That he was back home, but had been kidnapped somewhere unfamiliar?

"Well..." he replies tentatively. "Some of us believe in such things as God and angels..."

But he's quite sure that's not what Eliot is asking.

"We have fairytales and fiction, but nobody would be able to light a cigarette with magic.."

Jean's world is as non-magical as a world can get, which is why he's so certain nothing here can possibly be real.

"Where do you think we are?" Eliots asks, bluntly. "What do you think is going on?"

It's the sort of question he would have dodged if it was not for the kitchen warmth, the scent of delicious food and the soft wine buzz. He does, however, take his time to finish his cigarette, before looking up at Eliot once more with a faint sad smile.

"I think I'm insane."

Eliot smiles, and there's that bitter edge to it again, but his voice is, perhaps surprisingly, kind when he replies.

"So I'm just a marvelous figment that your mind has conjured up? You must be incredibly creative."

He ducks his head a little.

"I'm sorry. I had the feeling you wouldn't like that."

People usually don't enjoy being told they don't exist.

"...Marvelous, especially the salmon. That's a really nice touch."

"If I'm a figment," Eliot replies, standing and stretching his long body, "Then I don't have the ability to like or dislike anything. I'm just a collection of firing neurons in your head, so please, don't spare my feelings. Let yourself go, you seem like the kind of guy who could use it."

He sets about getting the fettuccine ready for the pot, which is now at a slow boil. His expression has gone from that more wry, bitter smile which was probably more true to something aloof and affected again. Showing who he really is to anyone, displaying any genuine emotion, seldom seems worth it. And really, it's kind of funny, isn't it? A story to tell Quentin or Janet or Josh later.

The second glass of wine disappears in three gulps, and he pours himself a third while starting to chop a second bowl of fresh herbs that can be mixed with olive oils and a little crushed tomato for bruschetta.

"Hey," he protests good-naturedly. "I'm not holding myself back."

Which is an obvious lie, but Jean is doing what he wants to do, and he doesn't want to be mean.

"Besides, wouldn't that qualify as masochism?" he asks gently, saddened by Eliot's change. It's like watching someone walk barefoot on broken glass. "Personally, I've always thought that suffering was overrated."

Bruschetta sounds like a lovely idea. He stands up and brings the bread out of the refrigerator. White, not Lotta's homemade. And most certainly not his mother's, but it will have to do.

"What do you think is going on?"

"Don't you mean, 'What does one inexplicable part of my mind that my subconscious has named Eliot? think is going on?" the magician asks archly. "You don't suppose this is some kind of fantasy hallucination, do you? Do I actually have a six-pack now?"

He glances down at himself with a little smirk - there are no perfectly toned muscles hiding under that shirt, the man is very nearly a beanpole - but he's not about to strip for the sake of a joke. Instead he starts to mix the herbs, adding in olive oil a drizzle at a time.

"I think we're both in a world that isn't ours. I know there are other worlds, I've seen the portals to them, and been through one - a lot of old and quite ornate fountains in a place called the Neitherlands. I'm not sure how we got here - last I remember I was trying to chat up a satyr. Or was he a faun? I forget the difference. Anyway, I certainly don't remember any fountain. But still, here we are, and I don't think this place belongs to your world or mine. And I have a sneaking suspicion that if we were to walk around more out there - " he gestures in the direction of the door, "We'd find more people like us. From places who's names we don't recognize."

Jean let's out a little noise that's almost a laugh.

"No six-pack, but cooking, cigarette lighting and cloth drying are much more sensible approaches to a man's heart anyway."

Isn't that what dreams are supposed to be about? Wish fulfillment? Maybe madness follows a similar logic. He is starting to come up with a loose theory about why Eliot is here, though being Jean's theory, it's practical rather than romantic.

"As much as your hypothesis is far more exciting than mine, Lotta and Nino would be upset if I suddenly disappeared." Not to mention the resulting political issues of nationwide proportions. "If I'm just crazy, they will at least know where I am...Unless your fauns or perhaps satyrs told you anything about time being retaliative when one is hopping realities."

That said, he doesn't mind looking for other people after the rain stops - if it ever stops.

"So I am your fantasy man?" Eliot asks, sounding amused, but also with a slightly flirtatious cock of his head to one side, briefly touching a finger to his lower lip as if in thought, before adding some crushed cherry tomatoes to his mix, then turning to check the noodles.

"And actually, yes. Well, not the fauns. But we've found that time does seem to pass differently in different worlds, and all of it is different to the Neitherlands. Fillory, for example - the world we'd traveled to - had time that passed much more rapidly than Earth. It made it quite difficult to coordinate at first."

He glances over his shoulder at Jean (and really, the rear view isn't bad at all, if one likes slender men with long, long legs), adding, "But who knows how it's passing here. We;d have to go back to know for certain, and then, know when, exactly, we'd left. And it seems highly unlikely that it would be that simple. Things never are."

Just because Jean brought that on himself, that doesn't mean he knows how to react to Eliot's blatant flirting. It also doesn't help that the last time he assumed someone was flirting with him it was...a bit of a disaster. He stares back with round, blue eyes and goes a darker shade of pink that may or may not be the wine getting to him.

"It would be convenient if they didn't notice our absence at all. Am I right to assume, Mr. Magician, that in spite of your experience, you have no idea how to leave our current location? After our meal, of course."

He crosses his long, long legs and gives Eliot a self-contained, challenging smile. He wouldn't look that different from some noir movie hero if he was not still blushing like a dolt.

Edited 2017-09-22 02:04 (UTC)

"Walk, I assume," Eliot says, and his eyes do drop briefly to Jean's legs. The blond definitely isn't his usual type, but that blush does add charm, and the inspector is certainly attractive enough. The magician likes men who try to play worldly and tough when they're clearly still inexperienced in certain areas. It's cute.

He turns back to the noodles, stirring them idly again before taking up the loaf of bread that Jean brought out, and arranging some slices on a baking sheet. He brushes on the mixture of oil, herbs, and tomatoes, then slides them into the oven to warm and crisp a little. As he works, he keeps talking.

"But if you mean to ask if I know how to get home, I'm afraid not. Last time I moved between worlds it was with a magic button, but I haven't got it. It wasn't mine to begin with, I was just tagging along with someone else. But isn't all of this moot? It's all in your head, anyway."

Of all magnificent smells in the world, the smell of bread is Jean's favorite. Still a little discomfited by Eliot's continuous examination, he uncrosses his legs and leans in the oven's direction, breathing in with genuine pleasure. In that familiar smell, he finds a deeper sense of serenity that wasn't there before. His face relaxes in very subtle ways, a softness to his lips, a quiet depth to his eyes. It's clear that, for a few seconds, the inspector has gone far away, somewhere others would find hard to reach him.

"A button?" he asks, and pulls himself straight again, attention back on Eliot. He sort of expected something less mundane from the glamorous man. Why a button, of all things. "It's not moot, or at least I hope not. Have you ever hurled yourself from a cliff to wake up from an unpleasant dream?"

He may be looking for a proper cliff, though naturally the detail and vastness of his current psychosis suggest a much more complicated setting. Most likely, it won't be one factor, but a group of them. Regardless, Eliot is now part of it.

"Though I couldn't possibly call this unpleasant."

Edited 2017-09-22 05:08 (UTC)

If it had been Eliot's choice, it probably wouldn't have been a button. But he has no idea who made the damn thing, only that it was given to some kids in the 20s by some talking rabbit sailors, a fact that, in his mind, is too ridiculous to have been made up.

"Can't say that I have. I'm a big believer in suffering. It makes one mysterious and tragic and generally extremely attractive to a certain type. Besides, who's to say that what's at the bottom of the cliff isn't a worse nightmare?"

Eliot turns and leans his hip against the over, picking up his wine glass again, since he hasn't got a cigarette to occupy his hands. His whiskey brown eyes are sharp - he may not be inspector-level observant, but he's no slouch.

"And only 'not unpleasant'. I must be losing my touch."

"Oh please, you´re mysterious and tragic enough." Jean comments as he stands up to inspect the kitchen counter, in search of anything to snack on before the meal is ready. The "attractive" part is purposefully left out, though it´s very absence is telling. "Life can be difficult, and terribly short." Sometimes too short. "The easier we take what´s left the better."

Letting out a small grateful sigh, Jean chews on some leftover bread and butter. A real feast. He partners it with another gulp of wine, even if he knows he should stay away from it.

"That's why one should always check the bottom before taking the leap." he looks down at his glass of wine, lips pressed in an apologetic sad smile as he bashfully avoids Eliot´s too clever eyes. With serene detachment, he accepts the fact that he is scared. That he has been positively terrified since he first found himself standing in the rain, staring at impossible rainbows. Truth in wine, isn't it. "I sincerely doubt you have...lost your touch. But have you ever heard of taking things slowly, Mr. Magician?"

The last sentence is pronounced as smoothly as the others, but there is also a touch of confusion and plea. There are too many variables happening at once, too many details he probably missed. And he hates how being insane forces him to connect what's happening to himself instead of taking a back seat and appreciating the surroundings and people for their own beauty.

It´s beyond overwhelming, really.

Edited 2017-09-22 16:47 (UTC)

"Heard of it, tried it out, despised it. Things were just taking far too long," Eliot snorts, but he doesn't follow up with any more challenging statements, at least not for the moment.

The magician can be a real asshole sometimes, and he doesn't have the patience for certain things or people, but there's a part of him that can be kind, too. A part that recognizes that possibly Jean isn't built for this kind of thing. He seems to be an ordinary human being - a clever one, no doubt, but not a magic, mystical, or otherwise supernaturally inclined one. And that world, the hidden, unseen world can be a shock to the system for anyone. Hell, Eliot can remember how he reacted when he really got that magic was real, and he had wanted it, so badly the longing had been choking him. Jean, he suspects, has never been that way as an adult, maybe never at all.

So instead he fully turns his back to the other man, busying himself at the stove, then fussing with plates, silverware, finding a colander. All things that innocently occupy his time while he tries to hold his tongue, to not fill the silence with useless banter or flirting or snide comments about sanity.

God, though, he's so glad he's not ordinary any more. He may be a miserable, broken person, but at least he has magic.

Jean can practically feel Eliot holding himself back. Squeezing his eyes shut as soon as the man's back is turned, he lets the glass of wine rest on the counter. Out of habit, he holds himself still, focusing on his breath before opening his eyes once more to watch the kitchen light play on the other man's dark hair as he moves about like one of those chefs his mother and sister enjoyed watching on tv.

He looks perfect.

Like the smell of bread before, the sight of Eliot helps Jean manage his fears just enough to soothe the sharpest edges. Maybe he can survive this in one piece. Sliding his hands into his pockets, he watches the meal get ready as Eliot's thoughts move where he cannot follow.

Knowing quite well that he is useless in the kitchen, he finally moves away to the counter to set the table. He may be the most non-magical person Eliot will ever meet, but he is strangely familiar with where all the silverware and glasses should go, his table etiquette far more polished than one would expect from a mere inspector.

Jean is more comfortable with long stretches of silences than most people. It's one of those traits that endear him to no one. It takes him a while to realize that he hasn't said a word for way longer than most people would.

"You know I can practically hear you teasing and pitying me in your head, right? And I'm not even psychic." A small twitch to his lips is the only sign of nervousness. "You're very kind."

Edited 2017-09-23 02:24 (UTC)

"I'm really not." The reply is sharper than Eliot would like, and he turns his head to look at Jean over his shoulder again, smiling wryly. "Besides, you still have the cigarettes. It's a smarter move on my part if I play nice - maybe you'll let me have one after dinner, like a good little boy."

He turns back again, opening the oven, and finally pulls out the salmon - it's cooked for some time in the tomato sauce, and smells delicious. Eliot drains the noodles, serves them out on plates, then covers them in the sauce. A nice piece of fish is set atop each plate, and then one of the bruschetta covered pieces of bread is set at the side, artfully arranged.

That done, the magician brings his offering to the table, setting one plate in front of Jean at his neat, very proper place setting, and one out for himself. Finally, he grabs the wine bottle, and refills their glasses. After all, they might as well finish it off, mightn't they?

Yup, gentle with a guilty conscience. Some fair amount of self-hatred too, but that was expected from someone like Eliot, wasn't it?

"I'm always a little good boy." he lies shamelessly. That said, he has no intention of denying Eliot his cigarettes. That amount of drinking though, is not healthy. Not that Jean plans to comment on it. Considering how his head is turning, that would be more than a little hypocritical.

Instead, he comments on the small miracle just in front of them.

"We used to have tables just like this when my mother wanted to celebrate something. Truth is, she always found some cause for celebration. Or maybe that was just her excuse to have nice dinners with her family. Drove my dad a little desperate, though. All the dishwashing. So Lotta and I would help him, which usually involved breaking some dishes, since she was too small to know better. I guess most of our fancy dinners ended up with broken shards on the kitchen floor and my dad stepping outside for a smoke. Didn't stop any of us from looking forward to the next time, though."

He goes straight for the bruschetta. It's so perfect he feels like he's about to shed some tears over it, even if his face remains nearly as expressionless as usual.

"Oh."

Eliot is a real magician.

It's a scene right out of Norman Rockwell, Eliot can imagine. The sweet children, trying to be helpful, the exasperated but loving father, the joyful and slightly frazzled mother. He wonders if those were the kind of memories his brothers recounted, only marred by the presence of their peculiar, pitiable youngest brother. He shakes off the bitter ache of the thought, his own face impassive, though his lips do turn up slightly when Jean bites into the bread.

"It's only a simple little thing, but I suppose it'll have to do," he sighs, taking refuge in snobbery and disaffectedness. He picks up his own fork, spearing a bit if the salmon, secretly rather pleased that it all turned out so well.

"Nothing like mother's home cooking I'm sure."

The first part of his childhood was, indeed, very Rockwellian, except for the spies lurking in the corners, always watching, always reporting, always making sure no harm came to the Otus family... until it did. Sometimes, he wonders if his mother knew she was being watched. He is almost sure she did. Perhaps that's why she was a bit of a show off.

Speaking of...

"False modesty doesn't suit you." he says with a faint smile, which falters as soon as Eliot speaks again. "... I'm afraid that would be a tough competition."

He realizes that his mother would have liked Eliot. Fiercely. A piece of the pompous home she left behind with no strings attached. They would cook up a storm together. If someone like Eliot had been raised around his mother, would he have turned much different?

Edited 2017-09-23 19:22 (UTC)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject