Jun. 28th, 2014 09:48 pm
scorchedlily: (Default)
[personal profile] scorchedlily
[Her normally warm strawberry-blonde hair is now lacking in the strawberry component, and Milady's usually dramatic gowns in rich, jewel hues are now the washed-out pastels commonly favoured by the French Queen's ladies, and the twittering girls of the English court.


I've a surfeit of these, as no doubt most of you have, judging by what I can hear… [She holds aloft an Artois hound, utterly adorable and roly-poly.] But what's more concerning is the sudden influx of… drabness. I cannot be the only one subjected to an excess of colour-leaching.
stagstrong: (Dis chick is hella hot)
[personal profile] stagstrong
What is the use of these damned vendors? I’ve no shortage of gold in my own keep, but these stubborn fools won’t take my word for promise of payment. Not even the bloody bank of Braavos is as hard nosed as these damned fools. The closets are little better. I've tried a dozen times to find a bow or spear for hunting, but all I have to show for it is are there tiny wooden sticks.

[Toothpicks! Why does he need toothpicks? Is he supposed to be hunting moths? He groans, rubbing his temple at the growing frustration of negotiating with the people who occupy this pace. It’s part of a larger symptom in that he simply craves some action, whether it’s fighting or fucking, he’s not picky.]

What this place could use is decent entertainment. We have a tavern, aye. But a sad one at that. But where are the tourneys? The action? Gods, but what I wouldn't do for a melee now. Seven hells, but I’ll end up fat and soft if I’m expected to live like this much longer. My armor will rust before it sees use again.

[A moment's pause. He adds testily:] And to anyone who might ask, I have no wish to read anything.
dearfriend: (How many days left?)
[personal profile] dearfriend
Dear well...anyone! Anyone who might see this.

This is all really strange for me, because where I come from, we don't really have things like this. I found it in my pocket when I woke up here. It's really cool! But it's probably really expensive and I'm sure whoever it belongs to probably wants it back. I hope you don't mind that I played around with it a little bit. I was hoping to find the name of the owner or something. But it's how I found out how to send this message! Man, if we had stuff like this back home, things would have been a lot different.

Love always,


[ Should anyone wish to find him in person, he's going to spend a little while on the grass, kind of near the hedge maze and the beach. Mostly, he'll be figuring out his fancy new device. Eventually, he'll move on to explore. Fee free to find him somewhere on the grounds. ]
impalementarts: (pic#7726053)
[personal profile] impalementarts
[Clint does not like it when places screw with his head.

He has had enough people doing that in the past few weeks. He got better, recooperated under the care of friends and loved ones only to end up dressed in a sparkling jumpsuit chasing people around for validation.

He doesn't need any validation. He's good enough to be on this team without super soldier serum, without a strange history (even if -well okay his history is pretty strange.) but if people are screwing with him...

Between the pigs and this he's not particularly okay persay. Still. There's no real TV and it's really only by luck that he's gotten his music.

So he's made a space for himself out a bit into the forest where he's set up a few targets, gotten a few knives in addition to his non-explosive arrows and he's training. Some of you if you happen to pass by the forest might be able to hear him playing this song at unbelievably loud volumes.

However you're about to get a closer look. There's a loud thud first across people's filters before there's a faint video feed of...an ass.

that's right. Clint Barton's rear end across the network. Except then - in time to the music he discharges several seemingly impossible shots in time to the music before he vaults upwards into the tree, fires two more shots, then falls on the target. Stabbing it. It's a distant image but he's clearly got talent.

It switches to another song while he repeats the motions on a second hay bale. It finishes and he drops the bow exhausted before he wipes a hand over his face, grabs for a canteen and drenches himself. His hand goes to his pocket and there's a distant moment of panic before he retrieves it from it's space by the tree. The music has shifted once One more time as he reaches for it, pushing the button - apparently ready to speak...before he realizes that it's on.

Cue a very loud, highly inappropriate, very soldier swear, before the feed turns off.]

[Ten minutes later he responds with a text message.]

Unwise, to keep these things in your pocket. Hope you all enjoyed the show. So it's not a total waste, tell me your favorite song wonderland.

[Private to Tony and Bruce]

So what do I have to do to prevent unwanted broadcasts?
psalmed: (notanna)
[personal profile] psalmed
[Are you bored of seeing floofy dresses yet? Because at first the feed is of nothing but a mountain of skirts. Finally it's adjusted to Lia, and a teacup, and it's clear there's been some thought in presentation. Her hair is styled, the dress is the height of fashion (of two hundred and something years ago) to the point of impracticality.]

So many people are posing such fascinating questions. I would ask one of my own. Would you want to know your future? If you could peer into the next years of your life, and the lives of those you love, would you wish to see what time will bring, even if you could not change it?

And then, if you knew...would you accept it as the will of God? Of fate?

[There's a sadness there, lingering behind the polite and pretty face. Fingers are tangled in the beads of a rosary around her neck as she considers her next words, and at last she smiles and ducks her head.]

I still find myself lacking for a partner in sword practices. I would very much like to encourage anyone who wishes to learn or only wishes to stay active to get into contact with me. I would be happy to teach a beginner to defend their self and virtue, as I would be happy for someone to perhaps teach me new endeavors.

That failing, I fear I shall have to invite a few of you for tea.

[Quite the threat, there, and at least some mischievous spark has returned to her face as she shuts off the feed.]


Apr. 29th, 2014 10:44 pm
scorchedlily: (stricken)
[personal profile] scorchedlily
[She'd expected to hit the water, so when she does, it's no surprise. Instinct has her holding her breath and fighting to reach the surface even as the heavy weight of her gown drags her inexorably downwards. It takes only about twenty seconds of rapid descent through oddly pretty depths, her speed aided by the sheer height from which she'd fallen, for Milady to realise that if she wants to live, the gown needs to go.

Struggling with her skirts, she reaches through a hidden slit in the voluminous fabric to pull a dagger from the sheath on her thigh and reaches up to slice away her heavily embroidered stomacher. Despite not being able to breathe underwater, removing the hard panel gives her some small confidence (and a little less weight), and her next move is to cut the ribbons connecting her sleeves to her bodice. A desperate shake of her arms has the material floating away, leaving her only with the heavy swathes of fabric entangling her legs and dragging her unrelentingly downwards. Feeling the tightness in her lungs that signals the need for air - soon - Milady begins the frantic slashing of her waistband - and it takes almost too long. Fighting desperately to keep her mouth shut to prevent the instinctive intake of air that simply isn't there, she continues to hack at the uncooperative jacquard until she can wriggle out of it (internally cursing the stupidity of a bum roll). Judicious kicking frees her of the weighty mass which continues to sink, and she immediately strikes for the surface--

--and inhales a huge lungful of water.

Through her panic is irritation that she's going to bloody drown, of all things, and she kicks desperately

to save


Blue eyes open blearily, wet sand gritty and harsh under her cheek. Her dagger is gone, lost to the ocean, but she can see a sleeve that somehow made it onto the beach, bedraggled and limp, mocking her.

Moving is too hard.

Something much closer in her field of vision draws her focus, and while she has to blink several times for the small box thing tied to her wrist to be clearly visible, when it does happen, she's hit with a strange sense of deja vu.

Lifting her hand with some effort, she slaps at what she's sure is the button to make the thing work.]

…not again.

[En français, and in raspy, harsh tones, but undeniably her voice, for those who'd know it.]


Nov. 17th, 2013 08:07 pm
alighthouse: (eager)
[personal profile] alighthouse
[The video turns on to show an excited Elizabeth.]

I finally got it to work! It’s a lot harder than people make it look, but I--oh.. oh.. no not like that.. please stop!

[The phone is dropped and from the ground you see a yellow kite whirling around in the air. Elizabeth tugs on the string, but the kite goes zooming through the air and plants itself on top of a tree.]

Oh no!

[The phone is scooped up and she runs off.]

[ooc: You can either network tag or action tag and find Elizabeth trying to figure out how to climb a very tall tree.]
thestormcomes: (well it just so happens)
[personal profile] thestormcomes
[Athos was there when it first happened, the sudden explosion of glass as mirrors shattered and tree roots poured out. He fared well for the first day or so (he can't remember how long it took him to cut through the swath of flora); it always pays to have a sword at your side. Understandably, moving plants were not his forte -- people are predictable, much like an animal is predictable when one is indulging in a hunt, and people he can fend off with relative ease.

Plants, however, appear to be an entirely different matter. After all, the boxwoods at Versailles are not known to attack passers-by.

That was, of course, when a vine whipped around one leg and another series of thoughts - another mind entirely - invaded his own and suddenly everything was flowery prose, it was- it was moonlit nights and a strange devotion for the self, a near-maddening torrent of pride and vanity.

It was a voice in his head that sounded exactly like his own, who in the moment spoke and said:

...I say, rather dismal in here, isn't it? No flowers, no...not even a rose? Ah, but I see there was one, once!
Perhaps I should write a poem about it -- The Ballad of Lost Love? No? How about a limerick instead?

Ahem. There once was a man named Athos-

Coping with the voice was no easy feat. A whole evening's sleep wasted on composing sonnets, Athos would only occasionally relinquish control to allow himself better peace of mind since his mirror (as it introduced itself) seemed decent, if frivolous.

And the voice isn't so bad when it isn't embarrassing him horribly.

[[ NOTE: Athos will be wandering the mansion attempting to help people -- his mirror will do much the same (with lesser success). Please specify in the subject bar which Athos you would like to start your interaction with!

Warning: MirrorAthos is like a High Renaissance Gilderoy Lockhart. Converse with to your own detriment at your own risk.]]
confessyoursins: (judgement)
[personal profile] confessyoursins
[Aramis' mirror has taken over quite handily. You might notice him stop and take a deep breath, even twitch very slightly on occasion, but the mirror's determination to prey on this side of the glass for the first time is strong. You can find him anywhere in the castle. Let me know when and where in the subject line!]
justguidelines: (☠ for future reference a lint roller)
[personal profile] justguidelines

[When the feed kicks on, the most obvious thing is that the air is full of soot. Or smoke. Or maybe both, though the ratio isn't really all that important. Hector's got it smeared down one cheek, as though he's wiped his face with a dirty hand, and across the front of his shirt, invoking the same idea.

However, it's apparent just from his expression that he is having an absolute blast, and his grin couldn't get any wider if it tried.]

If ye have need of the sixth floor, I suggest ye watch your step. Might have gotten a little overzealous with the grenades. They work a treat to blow the bloody things apart, but.


They work just as well on walls and floors, don't they.

[He gives a snort, before another cloud of smoke, along with the sound of the grenade exploding, goes off behind him, and he kills the feed.]

video (01)

Jul. 26th, 2013 06:04 pm
cabineyes: (pic#6176497)
[personal profile] cabineyes
[ a man in a black leather coat appears on the screen. he doesn't seem confused or out-of-place in the least. instead he idly waves the hook at the camera as if to tell things to get a move on -- yes, he is missing his left hand and there's a hook in its place. peculiar. ]

Ah, Wonderland? I thought we settled this. [ they wouldn't want their queen back, would they? he once attempted to kill the queen of hearts but that was ages ago. they wouldn't even remember, would they? but then again who could forget about this face? ]

[ it's a funny thought so he smiles to himself. oh well back to business. the smile fades as fast as it appeared. his voice sharpens. ]

The queen of hearts is dead, I hear, so I couldn't tell you where she is. Or her body. Or what is left of it.

[ glances to the side as if he's expecting a piece of the queen to appear out of nowhere. turns back to the camera. ]

And believe me when I say that I do hate to be the bearer of bad news but that is just how things are, I'm afraid... We were friends once, she and I. Terrible how things turn out. Please accept my sincerest condolences.

[ he doesn't look that sorry. he stares expectantly straight into the camera. the man has places where to be. obviously. ]

With that out of the way, may I go now? Or is there something else you would like to discuss with me?

[ the smile is back. ]
scorchedlily: (oh i'm but a poor helpless woman!)
[personal profile] scorchedlily
[The average court garb of a noblewoman in the 17th century weighs approximately forty pounds - that's around eighteen kilograms, for those who like to think in the metric system.

When that garb is completely submerged in seawater and then dragged over dunes and unfamiliar gardens by a wearer who's not quite sure if she's not really dead, it weighs considerably more. That's why each quiet swear word as a somewhat bedraggled Lady de Winter hauls her ruined gown across the grounds is more like a whispered threat... it sounds much nicer in French, though.

There's a brass and walnut box with a glass inlay hanging from a velvet ribbon on her left wrist. She couldn't really say why she'd picked it up, and after several experimental pokes and prods that apparently yield no results, it dangles, forgotten, any curiosity it held overshadowed by the desire to find out just where on God's green earth she is. Or isn't. Anyone who happens to be interested in this struggle will be treated to a view of waterlogged jacquard silk in what used to be a lovely silvered mint green, and is now just... grey, interspersed with grass and sky that careen past with every staggering step.

The narration hopes no one gets motion sick, but Milady wouldn't give two figs if she knew - she just wants out of this sodding, sodden dress.]

...somebody must live here. Of course they do. Even purgatory has staff. Continuez à marcher, et il y aura une femme de ménage ... ou un jardinier ... ou un marmiton.

[tl;dr? Damsel in apparent distress. Cue rescue party.]

[ooc: All my Franch has hover text, for your convenience.]


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