Aziraphale (az_unfallen) wrote in misplacedrpg, @ 2020-04-16 00:08:00 |
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Entry tags: | !rp, character: aziraphale, time: 2020 04 |
RP: Oh I say, this is unexpected
Who: Aziraphale and Open
What: Aziraphale arrives and is confused and uncoordinated
When: April 2020
Where: Cabin 9 and towards main road
Warnings: None
Completion Status: Ongoing
Waking up wasn't something Aziraphale was used to at all. That wasn't to say he hadn't attempted sleeping before, but it was rare. Mostly if he felt the need to rest he went in for something along the lines of what humans might consider daydreaming. Just a little more extended.
He had definitely been asleep though, he remembered deciding to nap on the chaise longue in his living room rather than miracle himself sober for once. He had a feeling Crowley had said he would claim the bed. Sleeping always made him a little fuzzy. And had slept longer than his usual hour or two if the change in light was anything to go by. Pushing upright he tilted forwards alarmingly, meeting his knees. Slowly he turned his head to the side. Something was wrong.
He held on to the soft surface and sat up more carefully. He was definitely off-balance. And this definitely wasn't his flat. Or Crowley's flat. He appeared to be in a bed, an object he hadn't used in several centuries, and a totally unfamiliar room. It seemed pleasant enough, if a little lacking in books for his usual taste.
He wasn't quite sure why he was so off balance, but he still swung himself carefully to the side of the bed and stood up. The fact he had already fallen forwards once was probably the only reason he didn't end up on his face. He still felt like he was leaning forwards. Had anyone been able to see him from the side they might have made comparisons to Michael Jackson, not that Aziraphale knew who that was. He reached out for his wings in the hidden space behind him. It was an easy mental action. He may not have used them regularly for several millennia but he knew exactly where they were. And there had been the incident at the airfield. He frowned. Nothing. He shook himself, checked in with his head and noted a lack of headache, and a suspicious lack of connection to Upstairs. To Her.
He spun around, trying to catch his wings out. For his trouble he ended up face first in the bed. At least it was soft. "Ooft," he said involuntarily.
He picked his face up off the bed and frowned. No wings. Aside from the duvet the bed was empty save for a piece of folded paper. He picked it up and examined the outside. Modern. Reasonable quality. And of a type more suited to handwritten letters or home printing rather than bound books. He opened it.
Welcome to Nowhere, Maine. You’ve been misplaced here. Good luck. P.S. Crowley will be fine. She still holds you in grace. Don't worry about Upstairs, or Down.
As notes went it was rather more reassuring than most, but also about as intelligible as some of Agnes Nutter's more unfathomable prophecies.
"Well then," Aziraphale said to himself. "Tea." He might not technically be British, but it had been his base of operations for several hundred years and some habits definitely rubbed off. Tea was an all purpose comfort.
He was very careful through the making of tea (which he was pleased to find the small home had in stock), drinking of tea, and careful dressing. The clothes provided in Nowhere were very like his own clothes, but a little less fine. His own clothes he had bought from small producers in the time honoured tradition and worn for decades on end, keeping them clean by miracle. They were soft and of the best fabrics. These were...good quality, but distinctly rougher. He brushed them down in any case.
He decided to venture out and look for other people. He was in little rush. Now that the apocalypse had failed to happen he found that very little required unnecessary speed. Especially since his wings were missing and he was feeling rather unstable. Holding himself upright was taking far more effort than usual. Taking smallish steps he carefully made his way out of what proved to be a small cabin. Which made sense if he was in Maine. The Americans were very fond of rural cabins for some reason. He took note of the number he was in, assuming he would be coming back if there was no way out of the place.
He walked along the path by the road, heading towards what he hoped were the fronts of the large buildings ahead of him. They certainly hadn't seemed to be at the end where his own cabin was located.
Every now and then he tried to walk faster and almost tripped on something non existent as his centre of gravity shifted.
He stopped after a slight undulation in the ground combined with an attempt at speed very nearly sent him to his knees.
"Oh dear," he said faintly.