The Bear and Barnacle

He is only circumstantially a soldier but he is well trained and the first thing he does when he realizes he is not in his own bed is reach for his sword. Yet he does not draw. He only gives his surroundings an intent, searching look.

He is alone on a sandy strip beside a sea. This in itself would not be strange for in the past he and his brother have travelled together south to the Bay of Beleriand, but it is most strange because he would not have slept there in the open. Stranger still because the last he knew he was in Minas Tirith in his bed, losing himself in a book. The strangest of all for the unfamiliarity of the bright town that lies before him past the shadowy sand.

After his surroundings he thinks to examine himself. His grey-green wool cloak is spotted with fine beach sand. To his left he sees a travelling pack of the type he carries on his saddle and when he draws it close and opens it he finds it contains his own clothing, precisely folded, and a thick book. It is the book he was reading but if he were to bring a book on a journey to lands unknown he thinks he would choose a less fragile and more relevant work than this poetic Elvish history.

Again he looks up and around and tries to reconcile what he sees with any detail of the maps he has memorized in his studies. Is it just after dusk or just before dawn? He cannot tell and the stars are all wrong for the season. Is it not still winter?

He decides to wait for one hour for some memory to return or failing that for some inquisitive local who will direct a 16yearold boy who is very clearly lost. One hour and then he will go into this strange, bright, populous city, much though the idea makes him nervous and try to ascertain where he is and how he came there.

Hello to the world. Faramir and I are glad to have arrived or at any rate I am glad and he is confused. I have placed some basic info on his journal if anyone wants to see it and I am eager to play.

The first thing he feels - ( ouch )

She's accustomed to being sent to odd places with little warning or explanation. So when the Crown informs her that she's needed in Margate, Mrs Mina Harker raises an eyebrow then starts preparing to move. By the end of the day, she has her essentials packed in a traveling trunk. By the next day she's selected and secured a flat out of the stack of brochures that were brought to her with word of her relocation. She'll purchase most of her furniture when she arrives, actually less expensive and less of a hassle than shipping her existing furniture, as she's discovered; but a healthy selection of her books, lab, and her bed are supposed to arrive when she does.

Early on Wednesday evening, her hired driver carries two small cases up to the top floor flat while she manages the larger trunk in one hand and a large rectangular case in the other hand. She can smell the closeness of the ocean, only a block away, and the fresh paint in the flat. Tipping the driver, she dismisses him and puts the trunk in the larger of the bedrooms. She considers the other case then carries it to the other bedroom and leans it against the wall commenting while brusquely, "Stay out of trouble for now, if you please."

Mina runs one hand over her hair, still pinned neatly up. Her white shirt is clean, the black skirt unwrinkled, and the red scarf still neatly wrapped once around her throat. In her pocket is a torn page from one those regional magazines that publish places to eat, things to see, and people to admire. Then with a final glance at the address that's been circled and the attached map, she leaves her new residence and strides down the street, wondering just what is going on at this pub.

She's been wandering this new town her whole day off. It felt good to get out of Ankh-Morpork. The city was the center of her world, but it did get tiresome after a while. It wasn't that she didn't love the children with all her heart, it was just, well... noisy. She has no place to be alone with her thoughts, and with the exception of Quoth, who really only wanted to talk about eyeballs, and Death of Rats, who really just wanted to talk about...well...the obvious, she wasn't exactly rich with friends and good conversation.
Aside from the ghost, of course, but he was so far away from counting she didn't even want to consider it.
Pushing her cloak's hood back from her face, she steps into the warmth of the first pub she's found, hoping it will be nicer than the ones at home.
Not that they aern't adequite. She just needs something...different.

He pulled himself out of what felt like the best, most restful nap he’d ever had. In fact, he was a bit reluctant to wake, but something told his brain his work was done, and that the dream he was in could conclude itself. The boy…no, the man, had already succeeded. The world would be righted at last.

He blinked a few times, eyes adjusting to the sunlight streaking through the clouds overhead, and looked around. A beach. Well, there were certainly worse places to find oneself than the shore of England.

He knew very well he ought to be dead. Remembered dying quite clearly – a face, a flash of green light. And yet here he was, and quite sure he was living despite it all. He felt better than he had in years, in fact, as if a great burden had been lifted. Well, it had, he reasoned with himself. And his nose itched. He idly reached up with his right hand and then paused, eyes crinkling in amusement as a perfectly whole, un-cursed hand presented itself.

On a beach, seemingly whole and healthy, and with not a care in the world for once. He looked around again, and seeing buildings in the distance, began walking toward them. Being not-dead and waking from a long nap left one exceedingly thirsty. He looked at the signs above windows as he walked, finally seeing what was unmistakably a pub. Adjusting his hat and lifting the hem of his robes slightly, he stepped up and in the door.

He’d been on the run for so long it seemed he could scarcely recall a time when he wasn’t. After being left for dead at the Battle of Hogwarts, he’d escaped and managed to stay hidden until his wounds had healed. Then, he’d just wandered. Anywhere and everywhere it seemed. He’d fallen in with smugglers soon after he’d healed. Working just outside of Perth, he’d been an enforcer for a gang, a task he was eminently suited for. That had ended when a dispute over territory left key members of two gangs the victims of a group entrail-expelling curse. The dock warehouse had gotten rather messily redecorated and he’d gotten two suitcases full of money. So all in all, it hadn’t been too bad, even if he did have to work with muggles. Muggles! Merlin how he hated them! It was ironic that he was safer with them then with his own kind. And so he just…drifted. Glasgow, Edinburgh, Cardiff, Liverpool, Swansea. All the bigger cities where a stranger wouldn’t get a second glance. He avoided London though. No sense begging for trouble. He’d let his hair grow out and grown a beard and mustache as a disguise of sorts. But he had no purpose any more. All he’d held dear was gone. Revenge, of course he wanted revenge. That could wait though. Wait until they didn’t expect it. And it would be all the sweeter for the waiting. But there was something, some niggling something that seemed to be calling to him. Not all the time. Sometimes months would pass and he’d feel nothing. Then, out of the blue, there it would be and he’d be off again. He had no idea what it might be. He didn’t dare hope, he just went. Finally, finally, he came to Margate. Here, whatever it was that had been calling him seemed to tell him. It’s here. He walked down the streets, noticing the shops and inns that were being readied for the summer tourists. He saw nothing and no one familiar. He ended up on a lonely stretch of beach, with only the distant cry of seagulls for company. “Show me,” he murmured to the air. “SHOW ME!” he bellowed, his face reddening. The only answer was the pounding of the waves. He picked up a rock and heaved it angrily out into the ocean. Then, Rodolphus Lestrange turned and stalked off toward the town.

Hordes of monsters and demons and other scary-looking things were rushing towards them, weapons drawn. What looked like...could it be a dragon??...was swooping down at them. They all knew that this was most likely the end. They had fought the good fight, proven their point, but there was no way that Spike could see any of them getting out of this. Well, maybe Illyria. Out of sheer defiance of death.

As blows began flying, Spike found himself wondering what it would be like now, to finally die. The final sort. How many times could a bloke come back, after all? Well, Angel had done it a few. And Buffy. But really, maybe it would be nice to rest now. Except that, either because of his re-earned soul or in spite of it, he was most likely going to be headed for some version of hell.

He was fighting valiantly, but it was not going well. Everything hurt, and he could feel the blood dripping down his face. There were too many of them. He couldn't even see Angel, Gunn, or Ilyria at all in the sea of fighting. And that was when, in his moment of glancing away and losing a bit of concentration, that the butt of a crossbow hit him square across the head. And then, the sea of monsters and blood spun and abrutly went...black.

( The dark was peaceful... )

Quirinus Quirrell walked out of Bookman’s on Northdown Road clutching a largish paper parcel. He’d taken advantage of the ten books for ten pounds special that the man ran frequently. Bookman guaranteed that the books had all their pages, but that was all. You got what you got and too bad if you didn’t like it. However, Q was interested in quantity, not necessarily quality. Replacing all of his books, especially the magical ones, was quite impossible, but he had to start somewhere. He opened the parcel and rummaged inside without looking, vowing to read whatever his hand closed on first. He pulled out a massively thick volume, gave a satisfied sigh, and began reading, the parcel tucked up under his arm. He retained just enough presence of mind to not step out into traffic. Sure you have. Sure. I never forget a face. Come on over here and let me shake your hand! Q walked and read, oblivious to where he was going. Tell you somethin’: I recognised you by the way you walk before I ever saw your face good. You couldn’t have picked a better day to come. . The back of his neck prickled and Q rubbed it absently, his fingers straying to the ragged hair on the back of his head that would never completely grow back. Again the prickle, as if he was being watched. Q glanced around, not recognising the street he was on. His mouth was suddenly dry. Was he being watched? He closed the book on his finger and swallowed nervously, his eyes darting up and down the block. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, just rows of flats. He opened his book again. Can you sit a spell with me? Over here on the steps will be fine. Q inadvertently looked at the steps of the building he was passing. Did he see a curtain twitch? "Stop being such a ninny," he muttered to himself. "No one’s watching you. You don’t even know this street." But an icy shiver ran down his spine. Q shut the book and put it back in the bag. He’d read it later. Right now he figured he’d best keep his wits about him. He patted his pocket, feeling for his wand. He started walking again. He couldn’t be too lost, he reasoned. He’d just walk to the beach and go home from there. Everything would be fine. Just fine.

Providence, Rhode Island
April 27 1997

( Read more... )

FWUMP

ought to be the approximate sound made by a small body (say, four-or-five-years-sized) falling from a fair height and faceplanting semiconsciously into the soil.

In this case, it's more like

CRASH
*squeal*
crackle
snap!
thud

because there is a large rose trellis in the way.

He's still for a moment after he hits the ground, shocked -- not so much by the impact as by the presence of any ground to hit -- then he begins thrashing wildly. The winged boy claws his way half-upright. Golden eyes glimmer out at the world from behind a veil of dark feathers, a tangle of briars.

Not quite aware of what has happened, only knowing that what was supposed to be destroyed is still there, still obstinately existent, the last Ancient Dragon has arrived in Margate.

He stays tremblingly quiet for a few long seconds, staring through the ruined shrubbery at the grey and drizzling sky, then continues to fight the thorns caught in his black-feathered wings.

Sherlock Holmes sat up and blinked in surprise. Why on earth was he on the floor? He looked around. He was in the basement laboratory, right where he should be. He frowned. Something had happened, but what? ( Read more... )

The scattered particles of what had been Rincewind’s mind pulled themselves together and drifted up through the layers of dark unconsciousness like a three-day corpse. It probed its most recent memories,( in much the same way one might scratch a fresh scab. )

It was a cloudy day, but pleasant. Cool for August and made cooler still by the steady breeze ruffling flags and tugging at hats. Weathervanes were spinning wildly all through the morning until, rather suddenly, they all pointed to the east.

The wind was shifting and folks that knew how to watch the sky would be able to tell that something, someone was coming. This was something that had happened before when the wind turned to the east.

Soon enough, a tiny dot appeared in the sky. It passed through clouds and over villages and towns before finally starting to drop down right by the seashore. Eventually, and perhaps a little sooner for those with sharp eyes, it became clear as to just what the dot was.

It was a woman holding an umbrella that was being carried along on the east wind. In her hand was a carpet bag and on her head was a smart, sharp sort of hat. On her feet were comfortably and well-shined shoes that soon touched the gritty sand of the Margate beach.

Mary Poppins had been on this beach before, as she'd been almost everywhere, but it was a long, long time ago. This time the wind had found her place for her; she hadn't planned to come here. But then it wouldn't do to lose your head at just anything.

She closed up her umbrella as she looked around at the water lapping at the shore and the wooden building just down the way. Once she had her bearings, maybe that's where she would go. Hopefully, things wouldn't be too crowded- tourists can be so trying.

"Right," she said to no one in particular as she opened her compact to check her appearance in the mirror and nodded to what she saw there. "Off you go then."

Then she closed it with a snap and took off down the beach.

Victoire finishes packing the small basket with the last apple as well as a hunk of fresh goat cheese and bread, placing them atop the cold chicken. After a moment of thought, she opens a cupboard and takes out a small bottle of wine and puts that in as well.

Tall and slightly shaggy-haired, Teddy lingers by the open doorway, face tipped to the sun and breeze with a beach blanket draped across his arm as he waits. He glances back at his girlfriend with a raised brow at the wine. "Isn't that your dad's?"

( More than Bill's wine is about to go missing. )