WHO: Mad Sweeney and his new friends. WHERE: De Chima and Nonah. WHEN: July 3rd and onwards. WHAT: Continuations of TDM threads, and some other introductory situations. WARNINGS: Mad Sweeney's language.
When you're starving, you take your nourishment where you will. Stories about battles and fairies'll stick to your bones a bit thicker than the tale of the king that did his books.
[ Not that he's pressing the point. Nothing stands up to scrutiny, not even legends. And if kingdoms prosper beneath new leadership, it's not 'cause of the battles.
Though he might say something for the fairy stories.
The hand that caught the coin he conjured is slack at his side, piece of shiny disappeared without ceremony, and he removes his cigarette from his mouth to jab it in a front-facing direction. While at this hour, many store faces are dark and closed, the ones that are open are lit up in neon, music, and the din of human life within. ]
Speaking of fucking starving, you experienced what passes as tavern fare yet?
[ Arthur exhales through his nose, neither a laugh nor a sigh. He's living a goddamn fairy story, that's for sure, the life here and the life before. He'll just never quit that practical streak, no matter how reckless the behavior of a man living on the brittle bones of society looks to outsiders.
Dragons will still be parlayed with, witches will still be met. And the king will remember forever what it's like to actually live in the fucking kingdom. ]
Ain't risked consuming anything, [ he admits. ] On account I wasn't sure who brought me here.
[ Fucking fae, alright. He's been to the Otherworld, it's A Concern. ]
[ Cigarette smoke funnels through nasal passages, a little firmer than the rhythm of his breathing. Burning embers spark and rain as he flicks his cigarette out at the curb to rid it of ash, while glancing sideways at Arthur.
The knowledge of a human being with any kind of respect for the rules feels more like rust flaking off old mechanisms than things clicking into place. But it's something.
Sweeney rankles his nose, headed towards the bar regardless. ]
If this is the other realms, then they've gone depressingly to shit. But I reckon, as one charmingly anachronistic fucker to another [ Sweeney, you are neither, and an unpleasant, teeth-showing smile seems to recognise this as he places his hand against the door, turning back to ] a decent onion ring is well worth the risk.
[ He steps backwards and into the building, turning on a heel to lead the way. ]
Onions are already fucking rings, [ he points out, and then: ] If this turns out to be self-serving, I'm amending my statement about what the sword's good for.
[ Hey have you tried any food yet, says the gigantic goddamn fair-touched dude, the onions are great, it's totally fine. Side-eyes for days.
But, no, Arthur does in fact think this is a safe bet - there are too many people here, too many regular people, and he's already stuck. He follows Sweeney, comfortable with the setting - he takes in the differences, but the feel of it, well. Some things apparently don't change. ]
[ Woden is not exactly a very well coordinated sort. He always used his technology and gadgets to make up for what he lacked. The Valkyries were his warriors, much more adept than he was at this. Which was why Sweeny's long-armed swipe definitely grabbed the device, and Woden sucked in a breath from inside the helmet, but immediately stepped back, not willing to embarrass himself by flailing around. ] Say hi.
[ He said, instead of anything else. He was definitely live on BlueTube, and he laughed a little in his helmet. ] My fans might be dazzled if you perform for them.
[ The music's changed, clearly, and soaks up the tail end of Sweeney's smokey laugh. It thrashes in the background, tinny and distant. The lighting is sharper. The smells less hearty. But the people, they fundamentally stay the same -- gathered in clutches at tables, at the bar, at the dart board, around the pool table. It's a class of people that even a gigantic fair-touched dude with a ginger mullethawk can hope to fit in, at least a little.
At the bar, Sweeney leans in, elbows down, to talk to the small, heavily tattooed young woman working there. He's doing his best impression of someone who hasn't already had a lot to drink. ]
Southern Comfort and coke, [ he says, digging out some crumpled bills from his pocket, a flash of gold just visible in his efforts. But maybe it's just the heavy, silver ring wrapped about his little finger. ] And my man here will have a beer, more than likely, won't you?
[ She drops a glance at his knuckles, still colourful from the fight, but goes to draw him their drinks anyway. ]
And do you got onion rings?
[ They got onion rings. ]
They're spheres first, smartass, [ he says, to Art, on delay ] cut then into rings that they fry in oil. It's what most produce goes through, in these parts.
[ The gold isn't an odd sight. That's what money looks like, to Art. He can flip coins around on his knuckles, too-- impressive that Sweeney can do it mostly hammered, but it hasn't sunk in just yet that such a thing might be odd, overall. The paper money's what's weird, but he's already had a first go at that, at least, having purchased the jacket he's wearing.
He shrugs amiably at the idea of a beer, and flashes a smile at the inked up bartender. It's nice, he thinks, seeing women and men around doing the same jobs. At least, if this is the future, things pick up a bit in that regard. He thinks of his girls at home (his family) and how much they'd have liked to be able to make a living wage doing any number or professions. ]
Sounds revolting, [ he says casually, but of course he'll eat it. ] So what do you do in this day and age? Being an anachronistic lad, yourself.
[ Mad Sweeney doesn't have to break in, and doesn't. He uses the key he was entitled to and lets himself through. That he sort of behaves like he has is just instinct.
He feels like a thief in the night of this entire world.
He's folded his file in half and stuffed it down the back of his jeans, visible where it's hidden beneath the flap of his denim jacket. He brings with him the smell of having not showered for a time and stale cigarette smoke, which seems to immediately melt into the walls to linger whenever he inhabits a room for more than a minute. The kitchen, first of all.
Fridge opened, pouring white light and cold out of it. He ducks into a crouch and ransacks for anything he can eat immediately, peeling back the lids on leftovers, as curious as he is hungry, and callous about both. If there is any kind of beer, finding him levering off the cap with his belt buckle.
At least he sleeps in his own room, eventually. Fully clothed, boots on, his file emptied of its contents and scattered on the carpet.
The next day, he sits on the stoop, lighting a cigarette he just finished rolling and fingering through his file's contents, the pages of which are already rumpled, out of order, stained variously. He squints through a hangover alongside existential confusion, and mutters complaints to himself along the lines of what the fuck and fucking hell and fuck. ]
[ Lando hasn't really interacted much with the other people in Noah #2, treating the house instead just as a place to sleep and regroup for the next day. He can tell immediately when he leaves his room that there's a new inhabitant, however. The stale smell of smoke is a dead giveaway.
No matter, he has places to be, business to attend to. He's leaving to sign some paperwork with his boss at Disco Dan's House Of Moves to grant him official permission to use the back room as a staging area for his moving business. Then he's off to see a man about buying a cargo container.
He's stopped, however, when he opens the front door to find the new resident sitting on the stoop, smoking a cigarette and leafing through his file. Must be new. ]
So you're the reason the house smells like a cantina.
[ The front door opens, a thing Sweeney only acknowledges when a voice then comes with it. File papers in his hands like rumpled tissue paper, he twists where he sits to look up and over his shoulder, cigarette in the corner of his mouth -- a clue, to be sure -- and one eye squinting, as if it were overbright.
Maybe it is, for those who feel like hammered shit. ]
Take up the habit and you'll get used to it, [ he suggests, tight-lipped around his smoke. ] But as for reason, I'd say we're just leaves in the fucking wind, mate. And I just blew in.
[It's early enough in the evening that Andrew is still wide awake and flipping through the day's newspaper, a habit he's picked up as a result of his job in the news field and the need to stay informed about the events around him.
The sounds of movement coming from the kitchen and the tell-tale swish of the fridge opening draw his attention from his reading and out of his room. He hasn't developed a close relationship with any of his housemates, but he does his best to be friendly when he does interact with any of them. Moving into the kitchen, he raises a hand, about to greet whichever housemate is present, and stills.
He's never seen this guy before. So, either he has a new roomie or one of said roomies has brought a guest. He watches the man wrestle with a bottle of beer for a moment before clearing his throat.]
You know, there's a perfectly good bottle opener in the drawer to your left.
[ He's returned his attention to his file, leafing through it with the edge of his thumb, less reading its contents in detail so much as being offended by it existing. ]
I had business in Kentucky. Still got business in Kentucky. As soon as I work out what the fuck brought me to the fucking Carolinas, I'll be on my merry way.
[ At the sound of approach, Sweeney pauses in place, mid-belt-buckle application. He tracks the sound through the walls, so by the time golden boy has rounded the corner, he has the leprechaun's full attention. Just a hint of madness in a fixed stare, one that holds a few seconds after the stranger invites him to peruse the drawer to the left.
With a firmer twisted, Sweeney cracks the bottle open, the lid bouncing off and away like a loose penny.
[ Because if Sweeney were to get philosophical on the topic, it's more job than identity, an answer most relevant for matters of day and age, and what he does in relation to them.
Granted, the edges start to blur up to a certain point. ]
Specialising in the acquisition and re-distribution of goods and property what unexpectedly comes into my possession. Here, it's either that or become a, quote unquote, Cereal Mascot.
Which you don't know what that is, but all you needs to is it's a joke. A tired one.
[ According to google, Arthur's mental image of leprechauns are solitary mischief-makers (mischief ranging anywhere from pranks to murder) who wear red coats. Huh. ... Well, that seems about fitting, and given his life - a world where magic and myth are taken are obvious, daily fact - he doesn't disbelieve.
The rest of it is equally familiar. Except cereal. ]
You're right about that last, [ he has no idea, and no desire to, ] but otherwise sounds like we were in the same field.
[There's something off about the man's gaze, something that keeps Andrew on his guard even as he casually leans against the door frame, arms crossed at his chest. He watches as the bottle lid pops off and rolls across the floor.
The man's statement earns a raised brow.]
No, I'm not actually. If you've been assigned this place then technically I'm in our house. There are a few others who live here to. Welcome to the family.
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nonah. closed to arthur pendragon.
When you're starving, you take your nourishment where you will. Stories about battles and fairies'll stick to your bones a bit thicker than the tale of the king that did his books.
[ Not that he's pressing the point. Nothing stands up to scrutiny, not even legends. And if kingdoms prosper beneath new leadership, it's not 'cause of the battles.
Though he might say something for the fairy stories.
The hand that caught the coin he conjured is slack at his side, piece of shiny disappeared without ceremony, and he removes his cigarette from his mouth to jab it in a front-facing direction. While at this hour, many store faces are dark and closed, the ones that are open are lit up in neon, music, and the din of human life within. ]
Speaking of fucking starving, you experienced what passes as tavern fare yet?
no subject
Dragons will still be parlayed with, witches will still be met. And the king will remember forever what it's like to actually live in the fucking kingdom. ]
Ain't risked consuming anything, [ he admits. ] On account I wasn't sure who brought me here.
[ Fucking fae, alright. He's been to the Otherworld, it's A Concern. ]
no subject
The knowledge of a human being with any kind of respect for the rules feels more like rust flaking off old mechanisms than things clicking into place. But it's something.
Sweeney rankles his nose, headed towards the bar regardless. ]
If this is the other realms, then they've gone depressingly to shit. But I reckon, as one charmingly anachronistic fucker to another [ Sweeney, you are neither, and an unpleasant, teeth-showing smile seems to recognise this as he places his hand against the door, turning back to ] a decent onion ring is well worth the risk.
[ He steps backwards and into the building, turning on a heel to lead the way. ]
no subject
[ Hey have you tried any food yet, says the gigantic goddamn fair-touched dude, the onions are great, it's totally fine. Side-eyes for days.
But, no, Arthur does in fact think this is a safe bet - there are too many people here, too many regular people, and he's already stuck. He follows Sweeney, comfortable with the setting - he takes in the differences, but the feel of it, well. Some things apparently don't change. ]
no subject
[ Woden is not exactly a very well coordinated sort. He always used his technology and gadgets to make up for what he lacked. The Valkyries were his warriors, much more adept than he was at this. Which was why Sweeny's long-armed swipe definitely grabbed the device, and Woden sucked in a breath from inside the helmet, but immediately stepped back, not willing to embarrass himself by flailing around. ] Say hi.
[ He said, instead of anything else. He was definitely live on BlueTube, and he laughed a little in his helmet. ] My fans might be dazzled if you perform for them.
no subject
At the bar, Sweeney leans in, elbows down, to talk to the small, heavily tattooed young woman working there. He's doing his best impression of someone who hasn't already had a lot to drink. ]
Southern Comfort and coke, [ he says, digging out some crumpled bills from his pocket, a flash of gold just visible in his efforts. But maybe it's just the heavy, silver ring wrapped about his little finger. ] And my man here will have a beer, more than likely, won't you?
[ She drops a glance at his knuckles, still colourful from the fight, but goes to draw him their drinks anyway. ]
And do you got onion rings?
[ They got onion rings. ]
They're spheres first, smartass, [ he says, to Art, on delay ] cut then into rings that they fry in oil. It's what most produce goes through, in these parts.
no subject
He shrugs amiably at the idea of a beer, and flashes a smile at the inked up bartender. It's nice, he thinks, seeing women and men around doing the same jobs. At least, if this is the future, things pick up a bit in that regard. He thinks of his girls at home (his family) and how much they'd have liked to be able to make a living wage doing any number or professions. ]
Sounds revolting, [ he says casually, but of course he'll eat it. ] So what do you do in this day and age? Being an anachronistic lad, yourself.
nonah. closed to the inhabitants of nonah #2.
He feels like a thief in the night of this entire world.
He's folded his file in half and stuffed it down the back of his jeans, visible where it's hidden beneath the flap of his denim jacket. He brings with him the smell of having not showered for a time and stale cigarette smoke, which seems to immediately melt into the walls to linger whenever he inhabits a room for more than a minute. The kitchen, first of all.
Fridge opened, pouring white light and cold out of it. He ducks into a crouch and ransacks for anything he can eat immediately, peeling back the lids on leftovers, as curious as he is hungry, and callous about both. If there is any kind of beer, finding him levering off the cap with his belt buckle.
At least he sleeps in his own room, eventually. Fully clothed, boots on, his file emptied of its contents and scattered on the carpet.
The next day, he sits on the stoop, lighting a cigarette he just finished rolling and fingering through his file's contents, the pages of which are already rumpled, out of order, stained variously. He squints through a hangover alongside existential confusion, and mutters complaints to himself along the lines of what the fuck and fucking hell and fuck. ]
the next day
No matter, he has places to be, business to attend to. He's leaving to sign some paperwork with his boss at Disco Dan's House Of Moves to grant him official permission to use the back room as a staging area for his moving business. Then he's off to see a man about buying a cargo container.
He's stopped, however, when he opens the front door to find the new resident sitting on the stoop, smoking a cigarette and leafing through his file. Must be new. ]
So you're the reason the house smells like a cantina.
no subject
Maybe it is, for those who feel like hammered shit. ]
Take up the habit and you'll get used to it, [ he suggests, tight-lipped around his smoke. ] But as for reason, I'd say we're just leaves in the fucking wind, mate. And I just blew in.
no subject
That so. Where'd you blow in from?
fridge raiding
The sounds of movement coming from the kitchen and the tell-tale swish of the fridge opening draw his attention from his reading and out of his room. He hasn't developed a close relationship with any of his housemates, but he does his best to be friendly when he does interact with any of them. Moving into the kitchen, he raises a hand, about to greet whichever housemate is present, and stills.
He's never seen this guy before. So, either he has a new roomie or one of said roomies has brought a guest. He watches the man wrestle with a bottle of beer for a moment before clearing his throat.]
You know, there's a perfectly good bottle opener in the drawer to your left.
no subject
[ He's returned his attention to his file, leafing through it with the edge of his thumb, less reading its contents in detail so much as being offended by it existing. ]
I had business in Kentucky. Still got business in Kentucky. As soon as I work out what the fuck brought me to the fucking Carolinas, I'll be on my merry way.
no subject
With a firmer twisted, Sweeney cracks the bottle open, the lid bouncing off and away like a loose penny.
He turns, leans against the fridge. Says; ]
You're in my house.
no subject
[ Because if Sweeney were to get philosophical on the topic, it's more job than identity, an answer most relevant for matters of day and age, and what he does in relation to them.
Granted, the edges start to blur up to a certain point. ]
Specialising in the acquisition and re-distribution of goods and property what unexpectedly comes into my possession. Here, it's either that or become a, quote unquote, Cereal Mascot.
Which you don't know what that is, but all you needs to is it's a joke. A tired one.
no subject
According to google,Arthur's mental image of leprechauns are solitary mischief-makers (mischief ranging anywhere from pranks to murder) who wear red coats. Huh. ... Well, that seems about fitting, and given his life - a world where magic and myth are taken are obvious, daily fact - he doesn't disbelieve.The rest of it is equally familiar. Except cereal. ]
You're right about that last, [ he has no idea, and no desire to, ] but otherwise sounds like we were in the same field.
no subject
The man's statement earns a raised brow.]
No, I'm not actually. If you've been assigned this place then technically I'm in our house. There are a few others who live here to. Welcome to the family.
no subject
You're welcome to go to the Kentucky they've got here, but from what I've heard it might not be the Kentucky you're looking for.