synodiporia_ooc | Test Drive #21

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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.

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"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)

"It's not false," Eliot says, utterly confident in his statement. "I can do much better, given enough time. I'm used to planning dinner parties ... "

It might, indeed, be that Jean's mother and the magician have a lot in common. He takes another bite, staring a little moodily at the door, brows pulling in a little.

"Why would you even assume you might be insane?" he asks, not looking at the inspector, but rather at the door. The question seems to come out of nowhere. "Family history?"

"If that's the case, I can't wait to find out what much better tastes like. "

He finally tries the salmon and is completely distracted by the perfect harmony of flavors. Better? Maybe he won't mind this hallucination as much if that is the case.

He's about to push that tiny and yet still sharp shadow of grief away, and show his appreciation for the main dish when he notices the shift in the magician's attention. How puzzling. And the not so random question is quite successful at taking him by surprise once more. Is the wine making him slow? He can't quite catch up with Eliot's thoughts no matter how long he looks at him.

"You could say so." he answers carefully. Since last year, the expression family history has acquired a completely different meaning to the Otus siblings. "There was some inbreeding on my mother's side, and her elder sister can be...violent."

He offers him an apologetic smile. He still doesn't wish to be mean to Eliot.

"Besides, since alternate worlds and magic don't exist, madness is far more likely."

Edited 2017-09-24 03:12 (UTC)

"Why do you think they don't exist?" Eliot asks, his gaze shifting back to the blond, his expression still serious, but quizzical, eyebrows raised.

He ducks his head and looks down at the salmon. He knows how magic must be important for someone like Eliot.

"Isn't that common sense?" he asks with a touch of sadness. "Besides, if those things existed, we would be waging wars over them...or maybe we would know a little better. Maybe we would be healing one another and resurrecting our dead."

Does magical powers entail greater wisdom? He wouldn't know.

"Common sense 500 years ago was that the world was flat," Eliot counters, then pauses.

"Or it was on my world, maybe yours actually is flat. Besides, how do you actually know wars aren't being waged, or people healed or resurrected? There are a few magicians who manipulate world politics for fun, start wars as a way of keeping score. It's a frankly shitty thing to do with our power, but it happens."

"The world is not flat." Jean draws a circle with his fork. "And if that's the case, your colleagues are doing a terrible job. We have been fighting our own wars and building our won peace, working daily on keeping things together even. Moreover, I've never heard of anyone being healed or resurrected. Even those whose lives would matter for those who are in power, like tycoons and kings. No." he says after a short pause, going for the glass of wine again, because honestly. "They are still dead. Would you really have me believe I've not lost my mind when nobody ever came back?"

Not his family, at least.

Edited 2017-09-24 17:54 (UTC)

"Jean," Eliot says frankly, looking the blond directly in the eyes, his expression both blunt and a little sad. "Do you know how easy it is to hide these things from ordinary people? How simple to make political leaders, agitators, even peace-makers think that what they're doing is their own idea? An unprotected mind is child's play to manipulate, for those with that kind of skill. Memories, too, are simple to erase or alter - we do it all the time. Half the people you know could be resurrected, and if a magician with a mind manipulation discipline didn't want you to know it, you wouldn't have a clue."

He takes another sip of his wine, and then turns back to his meal, adding more casually, "But bringing the dead back to life doesn't really work, you're right. It's one of those things magic can't quite get around."

"Then that's all a little pointless, isn't it."

To hide his frustration, Jean wolfs down a forkful of salmon and pasta. What's the point of magic if it doesn't give him the only miracle he would ever wish for? Though it's not like he had hopes it would be any different. That would be silly.

In the end, he realizes it's all a matter of belief. He can't disprove what Eliot is telling him, except for the fact that it's completely unreasonable and absurd. His own explanation is not as exciting and exotic, but it's by far the most likely.

"I happen to know a little about conspiracies.They have been foolish, bothersome, and quite mundane." he shrugs, taking another bite. "That said, unprotected mind or not, I believe you have been nothing but kind to me."

And that's, perhaps, what matters most to Jean when even reality itself has become controversial. He may not trust Eliot's portrayal of a world guided by magical conspiracy from the shadows, but he trusts him.

Edited 2017-09-24 19:12 (UTC)

"It's not my kind of magic - my discipline is physical," Eliot says vaguely, probably purposely missing the point of the inspector's comment. He is trustworthy, Jean's right on that count, but that doesn't mean he wants to talk about his supposed kindness. "Besides, it doesn't matter here - probably no wizard court or any of the structures or rules that keep us in check back home."

He wonders about Jean's parents - he'd mentioned he lost them, hadn't he? And that he'd had to raise his sister. There is a whole discussion which could be had on the ethics of magic, of the theories about death and why that barrier can't really be crossed, but he doubts the blond is particularly interested in that right now.

"So you believing you're insane - is that going to have any practical effect on your behavior? Am I going to habe to stop you from being eaten by monsters or something because you're too busy denying their existence?"

"Physical." he repeats, remembering what Eliot has done so far - warmth and fire -, happy that now he has a name for it. While he has been dismissive about the idea of magic itself, he is perfectly capable of indulging the thought when he relates it to Eliot, because it fits him and Eliot is fascinating.

He can't help but smile at the way the magician dodges his comment about his kindness, just to go for that specific choice of words am I going to have to stop you? "Do I look like I could outrun a monster?"

But the question is important, so he takes a while to answer it, carefully working on the delicious dish.

"If such metaphors are the product of my mind - and I believe they are - it would be unwise to ignore them before I have an idea of what they stand for. Especially when they are so strong. The food is still delicious. The rain is still cold. I'm quite certain pain will hurt." Adopting a more self-deprecating tone, he concedes: "And in the very unlikely chance that you're right and all this is real, I wouldn't wish to die for my stupidity either. Lotta would be very angry if I did."

In the end, he will have to look at things for what they are and make his decision when he's better informed. Isn't that always the case?

"Why monsters, though? Have you encountered them before?"

"In a way. On my world we have our fair share - " he makes a vaguely encompassing gesture with his fork, " Vampires, werewolves, all that kind of thing. One of the staff at school was a pixie. He had an excellent overcoat. But other than him, I didn't exactly hang with that crowd."

He starts to swirl fettuccine noodles onto his fork, as he adds, "But when my friends and I went to Fillory - one of the other worlds I was talking about - we encounter a sinister little bitch of a naiad, a talking bear, and a walking and talking tree. None of which quite qualify, but close enough."

He finally takes the bite, neatly pulling the sauce covered strands into his mouth without getting a drop of the rich red sauce anywhere.

Jean's eyebrows arch noticeably - or at least noticeably for Jean's standards - as Eliot's enumerates each one of those creatures. The talking bear and walking tree may have been a little too much for him. Yup, he's totally bonkers. That's the only reasonable explanation at this point. And he also suspects Eliot is being particularly thorough in his description to tease him.

If that's the case, it's working splendidly.

"What was so excellent about the overcoat?" he asks after a small pause, focusing on the only part that seems to make any frigging sense.

All the while, he's working on the pasta with a little less preternatural dexterousness than Eliot. In fact, a drop of red sauce on the corner of his mouth gives him a somewhat childish look. Apparently, no amount of shock and nonsense will prevent him from enjoying good food.

"Oh, it was this marvelous old Victorian thing. It's not something I would ever wear, god forbid, but it was probably actually from the Victorian era and it made Bigby look like a side character from a period piece. He was our advisor in school," Eliot explains, and then very casually reaches out and uses his thumb to wipe away the stray sauce from Jean's mouth, as if it was something he did all the time and he and Jean were old friends.

The touch is very pleasant, and Jean can't get over how real it feels. It also causes his ears to go red. Eliot's reaching out had felt so natural he had relaxed into it without a second thought. Or maybe it was just the wine taking his defenses down with each sip. But now that his mind has caught up with what is going on, he can't help but feel a little confused.

Still flushed, he blinks slowly at Eliot, as if he were one giant puzzle.

"I don't think we have a Victorian era. What were they victorious about? Overcoats made to last? "

Jean himself is a little partial to overcoats. After all, they're one of the charms of ACCA's uniform. There's actually a heavy, European atmosphere about them. Not that Jean has ever heard about Europe either.

"An advisor...Why would you hang with him for?"

That little flush gives Eliot a moment of amusement. Jean really is bad at flirting. He wonders idly what the man might be like in bed. More pertinently, he wonders what the inspector is going to make of all the details he's about to provide about his world. Where will Jean think they come from?

"The Victorian era is named for Queen Victoria. She reigned for a ridiculously long time about 150 years ago, and was the queen of what was an extensive empire. Which I suppose makes her an empress, but I never heard her referred to that way. Her era was known for rampant sexual mores which most everyone secretly ignored, and really excellent waistcoats. And overcoat, and hats."

Eliot takes a bite of his bread, washing it down with the last of this glass of wine.

"And our advisor, Bigby, was the advisor for what I guess you would call a magic club. At Brakebills, the college I went to, students were sorted into clubs based on disciplines, so I was part of the physical kids. We were the smallest grouping - there was never more than 5 or 6 of us at any one time, usually. So Bigby would come to offer seminars and lesson specifically on physical magic. He wasn't bad at it, actually."

Eliot gives a mournful look to the now empty wine bottle. "Did you have to go to inspector school?"

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