open.

[compensates]

WHO: tyrion lannister + OPEN. (plus superior hawkeye, mark vorkthing, mk.)
WHERE: maurtia falls #009, PKE offices in maurtia falls, the maurtia falls library.... and a park.
WHEN: february.
WHAT: catch-all for some logs i've arranged so as not to spam the comm, plus an open starter. feel free to ignore it and tag in with whatever you like, or hit me up on ambles to plot.
WARNINGS: n/a will edit if any.


OTA - any city. but probably maurtia falls.

While everybody is doing their best to clean up, the effects of the blackout can still be seen in the cities. Tyrion feels the newspapers and black garbage bags taped over broken windows are a fairly ingenious solution, though he still believes the best way to keep someone from breaking in again is to hire a man to stand there and look intimidating.

The saddest sight, however, is the statue in the park he passes, which has been pulled down from its moorings and bent into a lewd position, graffitied with spray paint, missing some of the birds that had been attached to it. One of the broken off birds is a few feet away in the grass; Tyrion picks it up and examines it in his small hands. Digs a thumb nail into the metal, and then, with a grimace that says he would rather not, gives it a brief lick.

Ugh.

Still, he's seemingly satisfied by what he's learned. Yes, this will do nicely. He comes over to the fallen statue and circles it, trying to decide the best way to haul the whole thing away.

Comments

hitting you before you can even add starters

[rathercommon]

"Excuse me - did you just lick that?"

The voice is light and girlish. Yet when Tyrion looks up, there's no human around; the only living thing in the area is a cat, a particularly small thing with gray sleek fur and bright eyes. It's sitting, tail curled around itself, watching him with an expectant air. Very expectant. And the voice did come from its direction.

[compensates]

What.

No, really, what. Tyrion hadn't thought anyone had seen him, and he can't see anyone who might have seen him, even if he's looking around. There's a cat, of course, but he's not going to talk to a cat. He's lost plenty but he still has his sanity.

[rathercommon]

One of the cat's ears flicks in irritated disapproval, and with a humanlike sigh - a humanlike sigh that unambiguously comes from a feline mouth, her jaw moves as she issues it and everything - the cat gets to her feet and moves closer. Not to inspect him, but to inspect the statue, sniffing at it in curiosity.

"Is there something wrong with it?" And then she cranes her head around to look up at him. "Or...I'm not trying to shame you or anything. If you do want to lick metal, that's absolutely fine. I just don't know if this particular stuff is - you know. Sanitary."

[compensates]

Narrative would like to note that Kitty is intensely Bartimeusing right now, but Tyrion is still stuck on "talking cat".

"No," he manages — "It's just, I need some lead." And as any pencil-chewing child can tell you, lead has a rather distinct sweet taste as well as a softness to it — oh, and it's incredibly toxic, but Tyrion missed that memo.

Also, he's talking to the cat like it's a person so it's also very possible licking bits of lead statues is actually just the first step into going thoroughly mad.

CLOSED to residents of MAURTIA FALLS #009.

[compensates]

Quite honestly, Tyrion is a weird damn housemate.

It's not just the dwarfism, which he seems genial about but will become sharply touchy if it's raised. It's also that he's from a fairly medieval society so it took him a good month just to get used to ordinary things like the layout of the house. Also, he's fairly used to having servants, so he is absolutely awful at cleaning up after himself, and he still doesn't understand refrigerators so he forgets to close the door just all the time. He comes and goes at all hours, and he's usually drunk.

However today he is exceeding even himself. There's a smoky haze in the air, pouring out of his room, where the series of makeshift alchemical instruments he's been putting together out of items he purchased from some homeware section has had a minor explosion. It's only a very small fire, but it is a fire.

"Excuse me," he says, voice pitched faster and higher than usual, but otherwise ludicrously calm, "I don't suppose your superpowers involve putting out fires?"

CLOSED to MK

[compensates]

Tyrion has always loved reading, but right now the public library in his city is a truly invaluable resource. It is absolute culture shock, to suddenly know so little about the world, and is only made worse by the fact that he prided himself on his ability to know just about anything. Years of studying Westeros environment, history, politics and economy are now going to waste — though they're all still there in his mind, of course.

Of the powers he received, this is the one he uses most often. His mind palace is something like a library itself, at least when it comes to storing obscure knowledge. He closes a book on the history of the telephone and visualizes himself walking through the hallways before placing it carefully on a shelf along with a growing collection of texts on this world's technology. Will this strange internal world truly keep those words intact on the page for recollection whenever he wants them? Tyrion doesn't know.

Anyway. He finally opens his eyes again, realizes he probably looks a bit like he just fell asleep standing up, and spots another pit of eyes peering at him through the bookshelf. "Hello," he says immediately, having never been the sort to withdraw from scrutiny.

[ewenique]

She doesn't mean to stare. She is used to being the target of it, more often than not. What's on her face? the whispers sometimes come, the stretch of burns down her right cheek and sprawling down her neck. MK's hair is dark and messy, and shows the signs of being cut by a less than professional hand. No, she doesn't stare because she's afraid of the stares she'll get back, prefers to avoid and not be seen. It's why she lives in hoodies and avoids the world as much as she can, but some things she needs to get from books. It is better to get information from all over the place.

But she doesn't know what to make of a man that looks like he's sleeping when he stands, and it's an unfortunate coincidence that maybe he's the sort of person used to being stared at, too. MK startles backwards, and hits the bookshelf behind her, making one topple from a higher shelf and unceremoniously whack her shoulder on the way down. It's a big, heavy thing, corner meeting a boney shoulder, and the gasp of pain steals her breath.

All in all, it's very dignified.

MK murmurs a quiet curse in Finnish, as she picks up the offending tome. Ow.

[compensates]

Tyrion watches the girl stumble back and winces in sympathy when a book falls on her. "Careful," he admonishes lightly, and then walks away.

But it's only to round the shelf and come through into her aisle instead, book still clutched in his hands as he approaches. "I'd offer to help you reshelve that, but I'm sure you can see why that might be a problem."

Wry, one eyebrow raised. He studies her rubbing at her sore arm. "Are you all right?"

[ewenique]

The tumble made her hood fall back - purple, faded - and as she's seated and looking at the man, the burns on her face are exposed. It's only for a few moments that she looks at him, not so different from a startled rabbit, before she pulls her hair forward over the scars and shrugs.

"I'm fine," she replies quietly, pushing herself up with a little rasp of breath that suggests, perhaps, she is not entirely fine. The moment stretches slightly uncomfortably before she makes herself add, "I didn't mean to stare." Which is apologetic, without her actually managing to articulate an apology.

She means to say more, and maybe it shows, but her mouth betrays her and her tongue tangles up, and she ends up just looking quietly dissatisfied with herself.

CLOSED to MARK

[compensates]

(from here)

[ Tyrion still feels as though he smells very slightly of the mingled perfumes from the Swearing In event yesterday, even though he showered several times — perhaps it has simply sunk indelibly into his nostril hairs. He also has no idea how to dress to meet an investment banker, but fortunately he really only has two outfits at this point so he wore the clean one. And in a pocket his triumph: a small lump of gold.

He doesn't know what to expect from Mark — the very similar looking man he had met at the ceremony hadn't seemed as though he could be trusted with money either. But Tyrion knows he needs financial advice. So he goes to the address of the offices he was given, and stands tall — or at least, as tall as someone like him possibly can. ]

[jacksonian]

[ The receptionist - a sleek, cool, icy-blond woman in expensive clothes - leads Tyrion back to the office with nothing except the crispest professionalism. Mark pays a lot for the best, and she's very good; that being very-good means she doesn't so much as react to Tyrion's stature before she shows him into Mark's office.

Mark, on the other hand, does. Mark isn't identical to Miles - not any more, anyway. To differentiate himself from his clone-brother, he's gained an enormous amount of weight. And so while he stands only a few inches taller than Tyrion, he outweighs the man by many, many kilograms - kilograms which are tucked neatly and trimly into an impeccably-tailored black suit. The effect makes Mark a startling, stark contrast to his brother indeed: while Miles is a friendly beam of energy and light, Mark is dark and dangerous-looking. A glower to Miles' perpetual ingratiating smile.

At the moment, though, that glower is lost to astonishment. And the question that tumbles from his mouth is a blurted, incongruous: ]

What did they do to you?

[ He realizes the error as soon as he utters it - some people are just like that, not everyone is sculpted into this sort of shape like he was - and so he flushes, and mumbles - ]

I mean...Uh.

[ He thrusts out an awkward hand, not meeting Tyrion's eye. ]

Lord Mark Vorkosigan.

[compensates]

[ Is the awkwardness endearing, or just awkward? Hard to say, really. Tyrion is of course eternally touchy about his condition, but also goes to great pains not to be touchy about his height; to throw his dwarfism in people's faces. The secretary's lack of response is professionalism, Mark's is the opposite, but Tyrion knows (in the way people believe they know things) that they had both noticed his height before anything else. ]

It's a very long list,

[ He says mildly, and shakes the other man's hand. Somehow it's easier that he isn't much taller himself. Probably some secret part of the reason he trusts Daenerys Targaryen is that she's quite short. ]

Tyrion Lannister, formerly of House Lannister, Hand of the Queen.

[ Since they're being formal and all. ]

[jacksonian]

[ Mark looks up, a little startled at that response. With Tyrion talking about Queens and the like, and with Tyrion dressed like someone from the Time of Isolation, odds are that he's not some techno-monstrosity like Mark himself. Just a regular sort of monstrosity. Not a creature created, but a creature born. So it's not like it's an instant connection with him, some recognition that they're the same, because Mark has very little doubt that they are not remotely the same. But, well...You don't have to have been subjected to what Mark was subjected to in order to be subject to a very long list. Miles, after all, was also subject to a very long list, violence and cruelty that even his status didn't protect against. So Mark doesn't recognize his own voice in Tyrion's mouth; he recognizes Miles'.

Which does not, to be completely fair, guarantee a positive response. Mark hates his progenitor just as much as he loves him. Hell, he hates Miles more than he loves him, most days. This just happens to be a day when he feels a little bit more love, that's all. And so the stare he turns on Tyrion is - uncertain, and wary, and just a little nervous and curious, too. Mark doesn't exactly look like a kid, with that suit and that guarded hostile expression and the shiny opulent surroundings, but that look is the sort a child gives. Not as adult as he's trying to seem. ]

Why formerly?

[ Which isn't the question of a professional trying to do business. A professional trying to do business would immediately move on to the drinks and the negotiations. But a kid recognizing one-of-us can't quite swallow down his hunger to know. ]

[trouvaille]

The first thing Tyrion will hear out of Gwen's mouth is a firm, decisive--

"No,"

--which will be explained swiftly if he cares to look behind him where a dog that might actually be bigger than he is happens to be currently engaged in trying to convince his mistress that Tyrion badly needs to be investigated, possibly aided. The small person is struggling with the big thing, why are they not immediately herding him to safety, probably? Is she unaware that he is responsible for all small things in her immediate vicinity? Are they not helping? Why are they not helping.

"Just because someone starts licking things in the park doesn't make them your people, Putin, much as I get the kinship--"

So at least she's not shit-talking his height.

[compensates]

Having just had his own delightful talking animal experience Tyrion, once he has turned with his eyebrows all lifted, does actually wait a polite (and perhaps expectant) beat to see if the dog will reply. When it becomes clear that the hound will do no such thing, beyond expressive tail-wagging, he huffs a little air out of his nose and then speaks. "Terribly sorry, did you have something to say?"

[trouvaille]

"I said it." That seems reasonable enough. Regardless of whether or not she particularly intended him to hear it - it's amazing how quickly you can adapt to 'talk to your pet like it's a person', even if you've never had one before - he obviously did, and the only natural response is absolutely did I stutter.

It's not friendly; it's not hostile. It's somewhat aggressively matter of fact:

"I refuse to believe there's a 'world'," he can probably hear the scare-quotes, "where licking things in the park is a normal pastime of not-dogs, so whatever you're doing, I recommend owning it instead of trying to pretend it's not weird."

Putin Onaritz leans slightly towards Tyrion.

"No," she repeats, more firmly. "He's not ours, we do not herd strangers, that's very rude."

[compensates]

Tyrion leaves off trying to keelhaul the statue entirely and comes properly over to where the dog can get at him, maybe to be contrary to the woman or maybe to be closer to her. He isn't particular alarmed by the animal, even big as it is, but he also doesn't address it.

"It's not as though I go around licking things all the time," he informs her, drawing himself up to his full height (ha ha). "It's simply the fastest way to determine if the statue is predominantly lead."

[callhousekeeping]

"Tasty?"

The question comes from a woman on a bench not far away. She wasn't there before, and she's not even facing him -- she wears sunglasses, but one gets the feeling that she actually saw him through the back of her own head or something. She holds a parasol above herself, and she's twirling it slightly.

It's only when he looks over that she looks back, smiling.

[compensates]

Tyrion clears his throat, startled and a little embarrassed, in spite of, or perhaps even because of, the strange woman's composure. "Well," he admits, "Not particularly. I believe it mostly tastes grassy — plus the metal, of course. But it is precisely what I was hoping for."

[callhousekeeping]

She does not seemed fazed by his apparent taste for dirty metal. She is not fazed by his embarrassment. Instead, she acts like he's told a vaguely amusing joke, relatable on some level. After all, one can only drink blood for so many decades before one gets the appeal of a metallic sting on the tongue.

"You'll have a hard time eating the entire statute before it spoils."

[compensates]

"Does lead go bad?" he asks in surprise, giving the metal a second look as if to see it spoiling before his very eyes. "Fortunately, I have no intention of letting it near my mouth a second time."

/casually slides in here

[baetiful]

It's surprising that it's taken this long for Baelish to approach Tyrion Lannister, and even this is only because he happens upon him. The scene is an odd one, and Petyr thinks to himself: oh. It looks like the dwarf has finally lost his mind. But unlike others who have approached him with comments, Petyr lets the whole thing slide in favor of broaching a topic the two of them can probably agree upon.

"How likely is it for your brother to survive an encounter with Daenerys Targaryen?" Tyrion knows her far better than Baelish. And Tyrion also has more of a rapport with her. Perhaps he could talk her down from her ire. Because while Daenerys has claimed she wants Jaime brought before her alive, Petyr has a sinking suspcion he might not be kept that way.

[compensates]

Perhaps that's one of Baelish's most enjoyable attributes: while Tyrion is certain he's stored away what he just saw, he doesn't actually try and say anything pithy about it. Tyrion prefers to be the one making the pithy remarks, thanks you, and he doesn't feel like explaining once more that his mind is still perfectly sound.

Instead he brings up politics from home. Something he has been trying very hard not to think too much about.

"Highly likely," he says, turning over the licked lump of lead once before pocketing it, abandoning the bigger statue as a lost cause — at least for now. Perhaps later, when it's darker, he'll return with brute force. Anyway, he straightens his shoulders, as if that makes any real difference to his height, and looks up at Petyr. "There is of course the chance that my dearest brother will say something incredibly stupid and she'll have him fed to the dragon." He is willing to make the allowance that Jaime's pride and Daenerys' temper will turn the whole mess into a tragedy, but he's tried very, very hard to prevent that outcome.

[baetiful]

"A chance I had originally believed to be more than simply a chance and the most likely outcome, in all actuality." Petyr confesses with a hint of a frown. Yeah, this would all be great if killing each other had been what he was going for, but Petyr wants peace. He wants the Westerosi storm at bay until a time when it could be utilized for his own personal gain.

Chaos is an unfortunately simple matter. Peace, however....well, Baelish may very well have met his maker.

"But it is relieving that you believe it to be otherwise. An entirely new world, and yet all of the politics of Westeros seem to follow us over here." Mildly lamenting, Baelish smooths his skirt robe beneath him and settles on the edge of the cracked fountain. Still taller than Tyrion, though. "Not many are as sharp of mind as you and I."

A compliment. That's when you know Baelish wants something.

[compensates]

Indeed. Tyrion's eyes narrow slightly; he's not sure he would ever put Baelish on par with himself (out of ego and vendetta rather than any unbiased reflection on their intellects) and he would have expected Baelish felt vice versa.

Similarly, he doesn't particularly want to explain that he begged, shamelessly, for his brother's life, and that his faith that the meeting will go well comes entirely from a vulnerably new trust that Daenerys Targaryen might truly be his friend rather than simply his ally — one of the first he's ever had. So he just hums with infuriating obliqueness. "Politics from our worldis as much about the sharp blade as the sharp mind." Is he referring to a certain dagger? Perhaps. "I hope you're not expecting me to make any promises on Jaime's behalf."