The Black Pot

Once there's an opening for another speaker, he stands up and smooths out his clothes— RAF greatcoat with group captain's bars on the shoulders, worn over a royal blue shirt with a dark waistcoat and trousers. When he speaks, though, his accent is distinctly American.

"Hello, Margate!" He cheerfully waves to the room. "Well, this subsection of it, at least. Captain Jack Harkness. That's who I am, I mean, not pointing out the real one who you've probably met already, but I picked up his name and he's kindly letting me keep using it. I'll leave it up to you to figure out how to distinguish us. You can't call one of us the handsome one since we're both handsome, or one of us the American since, again... Not much height difference, either. I'm definitely the older one, though. Anyway. I've been living and working in Cardiff for awhile now, with some time in London, and if you've heard about Ianto's job back home, I'm his boss. At work, that is." He winks over at Ianto. "I can't give you too many details of the job, but trust me, I look good doing it." For emphasis, he pushes his coat back a bit as he rests his hands on his hips.

( ''I'm thinking I'm here because [continued...] )

Dora looks around the cafe, surprised at how many people are there but she doesn't recognize many people at all. Her brows knit when she sees Sirius and then again at the sight of Harry, but she can't sort out the odd feeling in her belly that comes as a result. She wonders if she ate too much jelly.

With a bit of help from Xellos to keep from falling over, she stands on her chair, clutching a large stuffed bear that's nearly as large as she is. She peeks out over the top of his head for a minute until most people are looking at her and a bit less noisy.

( Wotcher! )

Finally out of the hospital, Quirinus Quirrell sauntered with what he hoped was nonchalance along the sidewalk until he found the café. He looked at it curiously. He had no idea why the strange man at the hospital had told him to come here, but as he’d no place else to go, he decided to give it a go. He hunched his shoulders, touched the back of his head gingerly, and opened the door. Warmth and voices tumbled out, enveloping him. He took a deep breath and went in.

Look around you all you see are sympathetic eyes. Stroll around the grounds until you feel at home.

So he did. He kept to the shadows along the wall and slowly surveyed the café. From the outside, it looked like a million others. From the inside too, until he looked closer. Some of the faces he thought he recognised. Some faces looked hauntingly familiar. Others just looked haunted. Quirrell leaned against the wall and listened to the conversations going on around him. Occasionally, someone would get up to speak and he realised that is was like some sort of club. Everyone here was from someplace else and this was how they connected with each other. By talking. Interesting. He’d never been particularly comfortable in a group but it had never really bothered him. Throwing caution to the winds (he didn’t have anything to lose) Quirrell decided to take a turn.

( “My name is Q.” he grinned around. “How do you do?” )

*great, late to my own introduction*

Elric has been sitting in a quiet corner for some time: a tall, gaunt man with bone-white skin and hair and large red eyes which are to slanted to be truely human. He looks very tired – which he is. His face and hair are not exactly dirty but there are vestiges of blood and grime: he looks like has tried to wash himself with seawater. His clothes are ill-fitting and look as if they had been stolen from a clothesline, which is the case.

He is watching, trying to understand what is going on. He has seen places like this before: Places where the uprooted, exiled, the lost of the multiverse are thrown togehter. For a place like that, this one is not bad at all. It’s civilized, if not exactly cultured. The people are friendly and realxed and seem actually to enjoy their stay. He will find out soon why he has been brought here – of that he is certain. He does not even feel especially weak although he has lost his soul-eating sword – in fact he doesn’t feel any weaker than an ordinary human should after some days without decent food. And that is a miracle indeed, because if he had been in his own world, he would by now have been dying.

So he is certainly better off here than in his own time and place – everything is better than certain death, isn’t it – especially when death does not mean release. Since death will never grant him release – he knows that now – he will accept this respite, long or short as it might be, as a gift. He will try to find out what laws and rules govern this place. Best he’ll just go along with the local customs. The predominat custom in this place seems to be to introduce oneself if one has arrived recently and than to give one’s oppinion on some rather strange topic. So he will do that.

Talking about in-laws doesn’t sit well with him. Zarozinia’s loss is still a fresh wound; but on the other hand she deserves praise, and she would have wanted him to carry on.

He gets to his feet and bows slightly.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am Elric of Melniboné. I have only recently arrived here. I gather that it is your custom to give an oppinion on a given topic, so if you do not tell me otherwise, I will gladly give you mine.”

He takes a moment to pull himself together. He’ll just have to go through with it...

“I married late in life, an our time together was only short.” He clears his throat, but then rapidly continues: “My late wife, Zarozinia, was the best thing that ever happened in my life. She was all a man could desire: young, and strong, and beautiful. She was also level-headed, down-to-earth and very brave. If she had a flaw than it was her compassion and her folly to marry me.”

He looks around, and his eyes rest for a moment on Sirius. “Now the gentleman who made the last but one statement certainly has a point: the family of your beloved certainly can be a horror. I should know that, because many years ago, long before I ever met Zarozinia, I was going to marry my cousin, and that would have meant the worst in-law you could get. Not a family I’d reccomend marrying into, this family of mine...”

His eyes look distant, and whatever he sees doesn’t seem to be pleasant.

“But this never happened, and the in-laws I got in the end... they were among the best people I ever met. If you had known Lord Voashoon, you would not have wondered where my wife had gotten her level-headedness, her compassion or her courage, because her father had all of that, too. He gave his only daughter to me – a man of the worst reputation at that time, and believe me, not without reason. But even if he wasn’t happy with her choice at first, he trusted her judegment enough to let me marry her, and he gave us a home in his city Karlaak. In the short time we had there, I had the only peace I’ve ever known. My fater-in-law did not care at all wether the rest of the world loathed him for that. And later... he was steadfast to the very end. I dare say that I was very fortunate when ist comes to in-laws.”

He sits down, his eyes down-cast.

“Oh, oh, oh, my turn next!”

Abby says, smiling brightly, jumping to her feet and taking a sip at her glass of cola through the white and red striped straw before she begins. She'd wandered into the café ages ago, taking a break trying to get out of this place. She'd being driving herself crazy trying to make it all the way down the road that led to Canterbury, always ending back at the other end, by the beach, when she reached the town's edge. It had given her a headache, and rather have to deal with the Quantum Physics of it all, she blamed it on a lack of Caf-Pow. And so some helpful locals, who had watched her for the past ten minutes beat her fits against thin air, told her to visit the café where they said all the 'weirdos' hung-out. They'd given her some odd looks at the time too.

She'd been expecting a different type of weirdo, her sort of weirdo, but this group seemed pretty weird anyway. But when in Kansus...

“In-laws are like your adopted family, aren't they? I don’t have anything like that. I can’t imagine having any extra family.” She’d hardly met any of her ex’s parents, let alone be related to them through marriage. “Can’t imagine being married. Almost was, when I was in High School, but he was a jerk. If I was going to get married, Gibbs would want to pick who I got hitched to. He doesn't trust my taste. And he’s way too over-protective.” Apart from no-one here knew Gibbs here, and she should probably explain. “He’s like my not-boss-boss. If I got to pick adopted family, I guess I'd pick him. But he's not got any kids, that he talks about anyway, so I guess that rules him out of being an in-law...”

She takes another slurp. “Oh yeah. I’m Abby. I’m meant to be giving a seminar on Forensic Sciences in one of the colleges ‘round here... at least, I was. It might have been yesterday. Or the day before. I seem to have, ha, got a little lost...”

She glanced around, still smiling brightly. “I don’t suppose one of you would like to show off your famous English hospitality and get me to Canterbury? Or back to the airport? I’ve tried to ring my friends but can’t get through to any of them…” Not even the emergency English contact number Ducky gave her seemed to work. “And I’m kinda running out of money...” Her American Bank card didn’t seem to work now either. “...And my cell and mp3 ran outta battery, and...”

Abby pauses; smile fading quickly, energy and spirit all but gone “...The Director’s gonna kill me!” She groans, sinking back into her seat, pushing away her unfinished drink, rest her head in one hand. Coke just didn’t give her the perk she needed.

"Right ... I obviously came into this conversation at the wrong time. I've really got nothing to say to that, and frankly it doesn't sound like it's the kind of thing I should have an opinion about right off since I might get lynched. But I guess I should introduce myself since I'm new here.

"When I woke up this morning, it was January 21, 1941. Now it's January 21, 2008. I guess this kind of thing has happened to a lot of you here. I look forward to meeting you, trying to figure out why this is happening.

"I'm Captain Jack Harkness, RAF volunteer reserve, Eagle Squadron hundred thirty-third. Pleasure to meet you all."



OOC: Jack is American and his accent is very clearly so. Should clarify since his information might suggest otherwise.

Rusty takes a quick look around and one last swallow of his near-empty beer before he gets to his feet. He smiles like the kid in tenth grade science class who didn't do his homework but has gotten called on anyway and is gonna try to wing it.

( Baby, it's cold outside )

The sudario was thin in the grave yard, and Isabel would have no trouble peering beyond the shroud into the Shadowlands. The spirit storm had claimed some of the souls she had planned to tithe at the anniversary celebration, and she wanted them back. She looked up once at the Red Star still glaring balefully down upon the earth; she was not reassured that its presence meant nothing as the elders claimed. She supposed it meant nothing to them either that it had snowed for seven midnights in a row. In Orlando. Florida.

Raising her arms, she intoned the rite in a tongue that none now living remembered. A black portal opened in the air, roiling and rippling as the fabric between the worlds was ripped in two. A cold spirit wind lashed her hair as she steeped into the bleak, barren landscape beyond. The sky was a sickly green and ominous black clouds rushed toward her as she stared in horror at the approaching maelstrom. Seconds later, she found herself inside a monsoon that was fighting a typhoon, while twisting inside a thunderstorm. Shards of broken glass rained down around her, and Isabel screamed out the incantation that would rend the sudario once more.

Unceremoniously, she was dumped out onto a sandy beach. The gentle sound of waves reached her ears. Opening her eyes, she looked up to the sky. There was no Red Star. Taking stock of her situation, Isabel watched as her cuts healed themselves. She looked back to the sky and the lack of the Red Star. She smiled to herself. Perhaps she'd escaped Armageddon after all.

Seeing a warm light beckoning in the distance, Isabel brushed herself off and walked into the seaside cafe. A pleasant voice welcomed her and asked her who she might be.

( Who am I? )

Susan Ivanova, a late arrival, was led here by Lyta Alexander to try to find her missing belongings, but stayed when the meeting kicked in to find out what the hell is going on. Hmmm, seems everyone else in the café really is disjointed in space-time, too, like Lyta said. She's been listening in to catch up, and snaps right into Not Amused mode when she finds out how people were asked to introduce themselves. Her uniform is rumpled and sandy from an unfortunate beach landing and her insignia look like a seagull tried to steal them— what is WRONG with that beach? Still, she carries herself like she's pressed and crisp and rested. Without accommodations or cleaners, she hasn't been able to really attend to anything yet.

"'Who are you?'" Susan presses her lips together and glares. "'Who are you?' First off, let's rethink that question, shall we? Let's try, 'What's your name?" or 'What do you do?' or maybe even a drunken, 'So, come around here often?' I opened fire on the last person who demanded my identity." It's been weeks since then, but considering what happened in that battle, it's still prominent for her. "And the beings who liked that particular question a little too much left for beyond the Rim after the war."

She tugs down on her jacket once, briskly, considers the presence of Lyta in this Margate place. Presumably, this Lyta also recognizes the question's significance, unless her life was actually very different from that of the one Susan knew. It doesn't seem like it, though. But hell, maybe she's not actually a form of Lyta after all, just an uncanny double who for no apparent reason is pretending to be her to lure Susan into something. It could happen. Susan lifts her head and resumes speaking.

( ''My name is Susan Ivanova'' [...] )

Fred walked into the cafe, noticing that there seemed to be a group discussion going on. He was usually late for everything anyway, so instead of attracting attention to himself while others were speaking, he stood at the back of the room.

Finally, there was a lull in the conversation, and he noticed that it now seemed to be his turn. He was a bit nervous for once, since he was used to to having George right by his side. Being alone was a new concept for him.

Still, he felt that not saying something would be bad form, so he finally spoke, mustering up his usual air of confidence as best he could.

( Who am I? )

ooc: I wanted to answer this prompt even though I know there's a new one, I hope that's all right. I'll answer the other once Fred gets situated.

There was a sound like the universe clearing its throat and a circle of light shone terribly bright for a moment and then became fiery lines on the sand. Something dropped out of the empty air and landed heavily on the beach.

It was a large metal-bound chest. It lay on the cooling sand for a moment and then extended hundreds of little pink legs and reeled about for a moment, as if getting its bearings. It flapped its lid weakly a couple of times, rather like a hung over person deciding whether or not an incontinent wombat had taken up residence in their mouth overnight. It turned in a circle. It heard noise down the beach, but this was ignored. There was another box, a tall one, not far away, and the luggage staggered over and sank down next to it. When the other box made no response, the luggage rose to its feet and shuffled away, turning back briefly to give the other box a kick, not in any hostile way really, just out of frustration. It could sense its master nearby, but nearby was a relative term. Rincewind was somewhere and the luggage would find him. Eventually. And if various and sundry things got in its way, they would be dealt with accordingly. VERY accordingly.

It turned to face the lights of Margate (which was a bit odd, considering it hadn’t got a face) and began to march determinedly toward them. There was a pub or a café around somewhere too. And the luggage was thirsty. Traveling through the space/time continuum could really take it out of you.

OOC: finals + sick = not much time online, blargh.

I am Severus Snape, Potions Master, former Potions Professor of 17 years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, former spy against The Dark Lord.

At the end of this past school year, my employer succumbed to the effects of a fatal curse he'd received the previous summer. I have never taken a holiday in all my years at Hogwarts, despite my employer urging me on numerous occassions to do so. I finally decided to take his advice, and here I am.

Having lived in the dungeons of Hogwarts Castle, I thought a holiday by the sea sounded ideal. I had no particular destination in mind; needless to say, I was - and am- quite suprised to find myself surrounded by so many people I know, nevermind the fact that we are not all from the same reality.

I had planned to take the time to research while on holiday. It seems that whatever spell has brought and trapped us here is highly limiting my ability to obtain potions ingredients for brewing, which makes my research nearly impossible.

Rather than sit on my arse like a lazy sod, since my ultimate goal is no longer an option, at least for the time being, I've decided to spend my time with another hobby of mine - baking.

Any of you who know me can stop that sniggering right this instant.

I do have a supply of potions ingredients, should particular potions be needed in an emergency, and I will brew potions on a case-by-case basis, as needed. For right now, though, there's a recipe in my kitchen for Chocolate Gateau that is calling my name.

Dahlia stands in the next gap, supposing that she too should probably do the whole introduction rigmarole. Hands kept demurely in front of her, she gives the room a rather haughty glance before beginning.

( “I am Dahlia Yaxley. )

( Read more... )

The Doctor sits at a table in the corner, staring pensively into his teacup. As a silence falls on the cafe, he glances up and finds all eyes on him. "Guess it's my turn," he murmurs.

"Who... Are... You...?" he asks, weighting each word carefully, looking around the crowd. ( Then he laughs... )

Jack levers himself up from his chair, eyes narrowing when the ground shifts suspiciously—land's supposed to stay put, it's what land's for. Several bottles litter the table he'd been occupying and his fingers drift over each, upsetting them enough to gauge that all of them are dry as bone. There's a lull in the conversation after the last bloke yammered on only to trail off. Jack grins broadly as he weaves his way towards the most visible part of the room.

"My name," he says, hooking a box with his boot to scoot it over and use it as a pedestal, "is Captain Jack Sparrow."

( He spreads his arms wide as he begins... )

Ianto takes another sip from his drink and stands up, realising he's one of the few people who hasn't introduced himself yet. He hadn't intentionally waited until most people were engaged in other conversation, it had just...happened.

( Well, there's not that much to tell, really. )

Wandering through the quiet and empty town, at first Gideon thinks it's part of his eternity, another perfectly quiet place in the afterlife. Then he turns the corner and sees a bright café sign on a building. Not only does he suddenly realize he's hungry (how long has it been since he's needed food anyway?), but he can hear noise and see people milling about inside. Confused about where he is, Gideon sits at one of the few empty tables and waits for someone to help him but no one has yet.

Some people have already stood up and introduced themselves with varying levels of confusion. Just like him. Several have glanced at him, as though they are waiting for him to take his turn as well.

Turning to a man at the table next to him, a captain who insists he's not a pirate, Gideon realizes that he's really in a town. He asks a few questions, learns that several people have come here, some from situations similar to his own, and Gideon is told to go introduce himself.

( Read more... )

Sam nudges Dean on the elbow for the third time, trying to get him to agree to stand so they could introduce themselves like the rest of the patrons. The place was weird, and half of what people were saying didn't make much sense. Dean ignores a second, less subtle nudge, and Sam breathes out a puff of annoyance. Before anyone else can stand, Sam shoves away from the table, his ears heating when the legs of his chair ( make a horribly piercing squeal. )

It’s a whole day after the full moon, but Sirius still looks visibly tired. Happy – but visibly tired.

Without bothering to stand, he waits for a natural lull in the conversation and chatter around him before he starts to speak, addressing himself almost exclusively to his tea cup.

( “I’m Sirius Black. The more perceptive of you have noticed that I have the same surname as Regulus. He’s my younger brother, only…” Sirius pauses, trying to think of the right words before smiling apologetically at Regulus, and saying, “Only not really.” )