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Posted: Thu Jul 12, 2012 10:53 am
A Familiar Tune
A roleplay featuring Wickwright Finch and his Plague, Hopkin, Dragomir Meschke and his Plague, Chayele, the Cocoa Plague Lettie Arelgren, and Marian, a refugee from the town of Lindenwood. The place is Imisus, on the road to Alderbrook, and the time is late afternoon. The weather is pouring rain, with thunder in the distance, the third day of rain that week.
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Posted: Thu Jul 12, 2012 6:04 pm
The rain drummed heavy on the roof of the wagon as it rested at the roadside. Marian was out seeking shelter for Tristram before the thunder came, having argued with Wickwright about who would do it for a good ten minutes before she finally pulled the 'you're OLD' card from under her hat and marched off. Wickwright was left to sulk in the wagon and mutter about being betrayed by creaky bones, unused to the machinations of plucky young ladies.
Hopkin regarded his Grimm for a moment, but of greater concern was the oncoming storm. The thunder in the distance promised lightning, which he wished to view since lightning was a most lovely thing in his mind. He scrambled to the window and peered out the crack, but Wickwright grabbed him just in time and stuck him back next to Lettie. "Oh no you don't," he warned, "I've seen the way lightning hits weathervanes, and you're made of approximately the same stuff as that."
Sulkily, Hopkin accepted his defeat, and turned his eyeless head to Lettie, who he feared might be scared of the storm, as girls were wont to. Wondering how he might thus distract her from it, he thought of what Wickwright did when he sought to distract others, which was what he was good at, storytelling. Hopkin had told her all his stories, but that was not all he was good at. He pulled out some parchment and a quill, asking, "Would you like to tell me a story, Lettie Arelgren? Now that I am no longer a book, not as much of this writing material is put to use, so it is my job to use it when I can. A-and it is my job to record stories dutifully! Right?" He looked nervously up at Wickwright for confirmation, and his Grimm, grumpy though he was, seemed to have taken a liking to the idea.
"There's a thought," he remarked, "Make use of this storm. Why not? We have a source of stories right here to interrogate, and all of Marian's stories are woefully depressing. Lettie! Distract us with your good cheer. Bone knows there's not much of that these days."
"Lettie," remarked Hopkin, who was still justifying taking her along weeks after Wickwright had agreed to, "is full of good cheer."
"Better cheer than anyone caught in this storm, at least," Wickwright observed, glancing through the shutters. "By the bone, it seemed like the rain had let up this morning, but no sooner than we thought it was done, this great blinking maelstrom blows in! That girl better find shelter for Tristram soon or she's going to drip like a drowned rat when she gets back in here."
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Posted: Sat Jul 14, 2012 4:40 pm
Dragomir hated the rain. Hated it. It made his body ache like he was an old man and Chayele became even more antsy when it rained - she insisted on climbing out of his pocket, staring up at the rain like a stupid, brainless animal. Her mouth open, letting water in, she sat like that for hours, waiting like something great was going to come down from the sky and land in the gaping hole of her mouth. He'd tried a few times to replace her in his pockets but she seemed to be in a particularly fierce mood; she nipped at his hands and clawed as best as she was able, seemingly resolute to just climb back up onto his shoulder if he removed her. It was a fierce battle of wills and though Dragomir considered himself to be superior in every way to Chayele, he had to give a point to her pure bull-headed stubbornness.
Chayele riding, Dragomir slogging through the rain, they traveled like that, the oddest pair that likely ever was, Dragomir cursing and Chayele swallowing far too much rain than was probably good for her. He knew he should stop, find somewhere to rest and sleep and dry off and warm off, but there was, sadly, nowhere. He'd assumed the rain would let off for a little (though clearly wrongly) and was quite a bit away from any form of civilisation and had (again, wrongly) figured that he'd reach a town faster by continuing on than going back.
The only civilisation he found, however, was another wagon. And as he approached, he spent a good deal of time cursing whoever was lucky enough to have one (since he'd paid to hitch a ride until everything had gone wrong and he'd decided to walk the rest of the way, figuring it'd be easier and quicker than sitting there, uselessly, but hadn't been able to ask for the rest of his money back), until he got close enough to hear the voices inside. Wickwright? A small voice that might have been Hopkin? Chayele looked excited too, so he was fairly certain it was them. Trying to to make himself noticeable without seeming too pathetic, he called quietly, "Hello? Could I trouble you for a moment?"
It would be.. odd and awkward if he were wrong, no doubt, but he wouldn't miss a chance to get out of the rain or see old friends if it were an option.
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Posted: Sun Jul 15, 2012 6:11 am
Leaving the village didn't affect Lettie much, strangely enough. Everywhere she traveled, be it with the Finches or without, Panymium seemed to toss death at her, or poverty, or better, marks of the Plague. She sat dumbly beside Hopkin who--almost--snuck off. The thunder outside reminded the wagon's inhabitants that everything was terrible outside and that staying in the wagon habitat was ideal. Marian, being the second girl in the finch company, had trumped Wickwright with the fact of his physical deterioration, and had gone out to seek shelter. The two Plagues sat in disquiet until Hopkin offered his storytelling skill, which Lettie would have gladly accepted were Wickwright not to suggest something otherwise.
"There's a thought," remarked the Grimm, "Make use of this storm. Why not? We have a source of stories right here to interrogate, and all of Marian's stories are woefully depressing. Lettie! Distract us with your good cheer. Bone knows there's not much of that these days."
She wanted to point out that she was a very angsty cup of Hot Cocoa at the moment, but knew better than to be impolite. Trapped, the Locos turned to her eyeless friend. She tried to plead for help with her stricken expression, but to no avail.
"Lettie," remarked Hopkin, who was still justifying taking her along weeks after Wickwright had agreed to, "is full of good cheer."
Except that she really wasn't, at least, not now.
Lettie suppressed a sigh.
"Better cheer than anyone caught in this storm, at least," Wickwright agreed as he glanced through the shutters. "By the bone, it seemed like the rain had let up this morning, but no sooner than we thought it was done, this great blinking maelstrom blows in! That girl better find shelter for Tristram soon or she's going to drip like a drowned rat when she gets back in here."
Wickwright had given her an idea. Lettie's eyes widened and glowed. She could sing about those.
Thusly, the Little Ghost opened her mouth and emitted a lamenting toll, trying her best to make it sound cheery, but failing on wholesome proportions.
"O little rat of Shyregoed, how drowned are you this day? If ne'er swimm'd then ne'er drown'd, you stupid, smelly stray. You smell and drip and do no good for the folk down at the quay. So go to hell and die and rot so Shyregoed can once more be gay.
Gay-O-Gay-O-Shyregoed you Merrygoed, free of the drowned rat down by the quay! Gay-O-Gay-O-Shyregoed you Merrygoed, in a pool of blood doth the stupid rat lay."
She thought she heard something outside, and momentarily paused mid-song before continuing on.
"O little rat of Shyregoed, how drowned are you this day? If ne'er swimm'd then ne'er drown'd, you stupid, smelly stray. You smell and drip and do no good for the folk down at the quay. So go to hell and die and rot so Shyregoed can once more be gay--"
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knife effect Vice Captain
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Posted: Sun Jul 15, 2012 5:06 pm
Hopkin paused, quill hovering over the parchment and Wickwright stroked his chin. "Yes, well, that was certainly, ah," he paused, looking for the right word, "A charming folk song."
"I've never heard a song like it before," said Hopkin completely honestly, and for a moment it seemed like he had displayed an unusual amount of tact until he continued, "Usually all the violence and murders in the stories I know are more justified."
"Yes, thank you, Hopkin," Wickwright countered, rolling his eyes. "Now, who's next to tell a story? Perhaps one not involving death?"
"What about injury and illness?" asked Hopkin, who had very few nonviolent stories in his repertoire, Panymese folklore leaning towards the grim on the whole.
"That can be discussed."
It was clear that apart from Lettie's hesitation, no one in the wagon had heard a voice, but luckily for Dragomir Meschke, the fourth member of the Finch party was not in the wagon, but making her way back to it with haste. Unfortunately for Dragomir Meschke, the fourth member of the Finch party was the only one who did not recognize his face, was jumpy and paranoid after having spent a winter in a Plague village with nothing but corpses and stunteds for company, and furthermore, could not see well in the pouring rain. What was actually a rather innocuous blonde boy whose clothes often didn't fit appeared to her to be a suspicious figure crouching in front of their transportation. As Finch and the others didn't seem aware of it, her paranoia kicked in, and she reacted in the way which was most natural to her, which was most unfortunate news for Dragomir indeed. Quietly, she edged up behind him, then pulled out her crossbow, which she didn't quite know how to shoot, but would damn well try if she had to. Aiming it square at his back, she hesitated slightly, but strengthened her resolve as she heard thunder in the distance. If someone tried to take the wagon from them, they'd be caught in this storm, and it was better to be safe than sorry.
"Don't move," she commanded, trying to make her voice a tone or two lower as she did so. "I'm armed!"
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Posted: Mon Jul 16, 2012 9:28 am
Chayele was excited by the voice. At the moment, she could not remember that she was angry at both Lettie and Hopkin and so startled, her small hands clapping together and a very excited noise escaping her throat, at the sound of Lettie singing; she cooed very quietly and slipped down his shoulder a little, wanting to hurry and get into the wagon and see her friends. Conveniently, this would make it very difficult for anyone behind Dragomir to see her readily, since she was no longer a lump on his shoulder but instead clinging tightly to his shirt. Dragomir listened quietly to the song, thinking that perhaps afterwards, they would let him in. It felt a bit like they were calling him the drowned rat (he fit the part, to be certain) and was shifting to make his presence known when a presence came up behind him and announced itself to be armed. He tried to keep himself calm, though his voice wavered slightly, his body trying to stay motionless as he spoke a little louder than normal, wanting the inside of the wagon to hear; the voices had been Wickwright's, at the very least, and he would need some help to get out of this without being shot in the back. He had no idea who this person was - and while she was assuming he was a thief or a ne'er-do-well, he equally assumed she was one too. "What do you want from me?" He tried to sound conversational, but Chayele could see very clearly that her Dragomir's pupils were shaking noticeably. When he saw that he had at least some of her attention, he motioned with said eyes to the wagon. He was under watch, but maybe Chayele could get by. "I'm afraid I've no money, if that's what you're looking for," he added, hoping the words would keep her attention to the moving plague on his shirt, afraid that seeing any kind of movement, even if it was in the middle of his chest, would incite her to shoot him.
She understood, from the atmosphere made only worse by the thunder in the background, that she needed to go. She slipped down his shirt as quietly as she could, trying not to be noticed by whatever was making her Dragomir worried. After that, she simply wiggled herself up into the wagon, sliding under and, with no sign of fear, waltzed up to the desk Hopkin and Lettie were on, still forgetting that she had ever been mad for any reason, and started her ascent up the climbing materials that were helpfully nearby, frequently using her horns as a climbing tool. Confident that there was no way they couldn't see her now, even though she was now a little tired, Chayele pointed emphatically at the opening to the wagon. For some reason, that person and Dragomir weren't getting on and seemed very angry. Perhaps they needed help? Well, either way, if Hopkin or Wickwright went over, surely they'd be able to help - in Chayele's mind, they knew everything.
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knife effect Vice Captain
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Posted: Thu Aug 02, 2012 10:41 am
"Yes, thank you," Lettie noted glumly at Wickwright's compliment. She nodded sagely at Hopkin, mulling over her lyrics without actually considering them. "Don't fret too much, Hopkin. Vermin were born to die, if not killed, then ill'd."
It was a small rhyme that Dorian had once nonchalantly commented on behalf of the peasantry. While Lettie didn't originally understand the connotations the words held, but after the village visit, she was reasonably enlightened on the pale rider's injustice. Death had and always would be fairly justified in the sense that it was extremely unfair. Lettie had become skilled in identifying paradoxes and this was simply one of them. It wasn't shocking or something that fairy tales brushed by, it was reality and something that the Finch train coped with. Nevertheless, everyone discovered truths differently. Lettie crossed her legs and patted them with her hands. Hopkin would understand soon if not eventually.
"Be glad no-one with us is ill'd," Lettie curtly said, tipping her hat. "It wouldn't be good for us to share the same conclusion as the village folk." She stopped talking for awhile since it was the respectable thing to do. "I'm glad Marian is with us."
She thought darkly of Dorian Arelgren.
Which one was he? The would-be killed or the would-be ill'd?
It was hard to guess. Lettie counted her fingers. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
She didn't have to guess to know. It was fact. But the well-being of someone ultimately wasn't and it was that very truth that made Lettie feel brittle and short-sighted. Hopkin still had Wickwright, but would Lettie still have Dorian? Did she want to have Dorian?
The hot cocoa girl straightened her bow.
Of course she did.
"I wish Dorian were with us. I wish we never had that stupid row." She dipped her head and mumbled, "I wish I were you, Hopkin. You are a good partner to Wickwright Finch."
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Posted: Thu Aug 16, 2012 4:32 pm
"I am Wickwright Finch's book," Hopkin replied simply. "A book has a far deeper relationship with their author than a cup of cocoa can hope to have with he who intended to drink it." He wrung his hands miserably and remarked, "Anyway, Lettie Arelgren, you would not much fancy being me. I have many problems to cope with as well, and they are most tedious loads to bear."
"No one," Wickwright interrupted, partly to distract Hopkin, "Was born to die, Lettie. Not vermin, not anyone. If there was any truth in it, then Obscuvos and Panyma and all the gods that humans believe in the heavens must see us as no more than rats." He fell silent too, but his mouth tugged into a grim smile. "Marian excluded, apparently. By the bone, whatever kept her safe in that village is better luck than any Finch man has ever had!"
Marian had taken some getting used to. Having not one but two females in the wagon was strange and unsettling, and neither Hopkin nor Wickwright was much used to the constant presence of the fairer sex. It had been trying for a few days, especially for Wickwright, who chafed when Marian tried to have things her own way and had long ago grown bored of Lettie's cheerless Arelgren prattle. Hopkin had been, not tired, but rather befuddled by the entire experience, and rather than resist, just simply let himself be swept along by it. He had run out of interesting things to say to them many days ago anyway, and now contented himself with admiring how they looked, though he thought that Marian could use some significant improvements, for she dressed confusingly and improperly like a man, and her garb possessed Hopkin of the rather uncomfortable feeling that she was being miscategorized. The last time he had two women for company, Lettie Arelgren was amongst them, but the second had been Chayele Meschke, and she was a considerable improvement over Marian, thought Hopkin, even if she was a Plague.
Imagine, then, his shock when Chayele Meschke simply clambered over the tabletop to stand next to them while Marian was out! He found his attention torn between Wickwright's words and his friend's sudden appearance, and her betrayal of him with the trickster Armaud was the only thing which gave him pause, for Hopkin never forgot the folly of his friends. He wanted very much to trust her and greet her, but she was in Armaud's confidence, and had chosen Armaud over him, and therefore she was no longer his friend to enjoy. He writhed in indecision over this fact for some moments, because friend or not, Chayele was still very graceful and elegant, and exactly the sort of Plague that he would like to look at, so he compromised by alerting Wickwright to her presence. If Wickwright treated her kindly, then certainly it would be all right to greet her as well.
"Wickwright, Chayele Meschke is here!" he announced.
Wickwright startled, staring at the new Plague on the table. As if Lettie appearing out of nowhere hadn't been bad enough in Gadu! Hopkin seemed to attract Meschke and Arelgren's Plagues like jam attracted flies, and he had certainly had enough of it. "Chayele," he began cautiously, "Where is Meschke?"
He had better be in the immediate vicinity. Wickwright was damned if he was going to babysit two troublesome Plagues who were not his own.
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Posted: Sun Sep 09, 2012 3:09 pm
Chayele was taken aback by the words that came from Lettie's mouth - the undeniably stupid girl wasn't so stupid that she didn't comprehend what the other female plague, her friend, was saying; she knew and understood death (far too personally for her own tastes) and so Lettie saying such callous remarks made her scrunch the ordinarily smooth plains of her face into severe wrinkles and made her drop her jaw so that her mouth was a neat little 'o' of discomfort. First Dragomir was having problems getting along with people and was very scared and then Lettie ignored her (looked her over? Chayele couldn't be sure) and was so sad and negative. She wrapped her arms tightly around her trunk, fingers squeezing her own shoulders like one might in a reassuring gesture, though Wickwright's words helped a bit; her shoulders went from lifted and tense to a bit more relaxed.
She still hadn't remembered; perhaps it was the stress of Dragomir's discomfort or stress at Lettie's reaction or happiness at seeing friendly faces (or seeing any faces that weren't Dragomir's at all) or any combination of the three, but Chayele had yet to recall her ire and as such just lifted her sad little 'o' of a mouth into a delighted grin when Hopkin announced her. She sashayed closer, movements still co-ordinated to the music only she could hear, though she cocked her head and stopped moving suddenly when Wickwright addressed her as if the music had suddenly and without notice ceased. She lifted one hand, beads clinking together and making a soft chime, and pointed to the door. All in all, it was a very solemn scene; she had remembered that she was supposed to be concerned about Dragomir and the pointy thing aimed at his chest and everything, so her smile had fallen as quick as it grew and her face, creamy as ever, was absolutely flawless and impassive, as though she'd been carved from stone.
And that moment, though it seemed infinitely long to Chayele (despite only grasping the barest ideas of how grave and absurd the moment had looked), passed quickly enough. Her hand fell to the side, delicate fingers clinking against the beads and gripping them loosely. She was unsure if that answer was good or what, in fact, Wickwright had expected at all. She moved closer to Hopkin and Lettie and hid behind Hopkin. While she wasn't scared of Wickwright, at least not usually, she was perhaps unsettled by the tone Lettie had set upon her entrance or just a rare moment of insight and empathy that Chayele usually seemed quite incapable of displaying. Still, though, part of her face was angled around so that she could keep her eye on Wickwright and whatever he was going to do to help Dragomir. Just to be sure that he understood, she pointed at the door again, this time a bit more emphatically and with a bid more emotion behind it.
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Posted: Wed Dec 19, 2012 2:36 am
A practical answer from Hopkin is a usual answer from Hopkin.
Lettie smiled wryly and pressed her fingers to her cheeks. Hopkin, undoubtedly, knew not of Lettie's newborn, jaded heart. Marian, perhaps, knew more of it than Hopkin and Wickright, but to Lettie, their ignorance was not detrimental. She supposed that outsiders easily perceived her as the docile incarnate of sweetness, but lately, Lettie can't help but to feel black bitter. Her dress may sported a pattern of hearts, but her heart sported a pattern disappointment.
"But a book has a more permanent purpose than a cup of cocoa, wouldn't you say, Hopkin?" she slyly inquired, partly because she was curious about Hopkin's purpose (since she'd never blatantly ask), and partly because Dorian had chosen not to discard her as a Putesco. Remembering this, Lettie applied more pressure to the sides of her face until she couldn't feel her cheeks. Many things feel numb when pressure is overexerted, and a maiden heart is one of them. "And problems are...problems are terrible, Mr.Wickwright! " she exclaimed suddenly, "I don't think I quite like them. We don't do well with them! We could do without them."
"And. And! Perhaps! Obscuvos and Panyma and all the gods that humans believe in the heavens do see us as rats, Mr.Wickwright!" Lettie proposed. Her head glows brightly; she's charged again, excited from what her revelation could mean. Lettie knew better than to accept her newfound theory about human misery, but she had grown weary of creating false joys. Her time spent with the leafy stunteds had been testament to her despising of joyful intervention, mostly because her definition of happiness had altered dramatically from "Dorian Arelgren" to "she simply did not know". Yet, there is something she did know, and Lettie, true to her maker, is not a wasteful drink.
"We are rats! Because! Then! It would make sense as to why we suffer!" she concluded, feeling proud of herself for coming to a conclusion at all without Hopkin's aid. And just in case that statement alone didn't suffice, she added a luminary "Metaphorically speaking of course!"
"Hopkin! We're rats!" she whispered, punching his shoulder lightly as she repeated "rats". Chayele's skirts brushed by Lettie's ankles, and the hot cocoa maid grabbed the shofar's wrist in urgency, with little regard to giving the phasmas usual greetings, and instead, zealously announces the news to her best friend. She hadn't truly noticed Chayele's arrival before, and while the shofar had supported Armaud's terribleness, Chayele's slight betrayal, if anything, was...unfortunate. Still, Lettie is glad to see her friend again, and in a world of rats, she's grateful that she can still meet her at all.
"You, Chayele, are also a rat," she hummed.
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knife effect Vice Captain
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Posted: Sun Apr 14, 2013 7:09 pm
At Lettie's comment about problems, Wickwright's gaze couldn't help but be dragged to his biggest problem, which was standing next to Lettie, head wrapped in bandages, suddenly quite mute and miserable looking, well aware of his situation with his Grimm. "A word of advice, Lettie," admonished Wickwright after a painfully awkward moment, "Be careful what you say, lest you become as capable of collateral damage as your damn fool Grimm."
Another moment passed, then Hopkin answered in turn. "A book has more permanent purpose, Lettie Arelgren, and more permanent loss is suffered when that purpose cannot be fulfilled. But," he fidgeted, "A book will not save a man dying of thirst, nor will it warm a man frozen with chill. It saves, Lettie Arelgren, only those who lack guidance, and even then, it can lead them astray if it has not been made properly." He is wringing his hands now, and finishes, "It is very difficult to make a book properly."
As Lettie expounded her theory, Hopkin stepped back closer to Chayele, as if to sheild her from harmful exposure to metaphors, saying "I do not understand your reasoning, Lettie Arelgren, but I do not understand the metaphorical value of many things, rats included. I know only the truth, and the truth is that I am Hopkin, you are Lettie Arelgren, and Chayele is Chayele Meschke."
Wickwright, throughout this exchange, had been listening with an increasing amount of concern, because babysitting Arelgren's plague was bad enough, but babysitting Arelgren's intensely depressed Plague was worse. The good thing about Hopkin, he had to admit, was that Hopkin was often too literal and simplistic to express any sort of complex human emotion. Plagues disturbed Wickwright, but moreso when they tried to reason like people did.
Chayele was another Plague that Wickwright felt more at ease with,as she had no voice with which she might speak, although it made it somewhat more difficult to interpret her actions. When she pointed at the door though, that was easy enough, and a blessed relief, too. "Meschke is outside?" Wickwright asked. "Well, why didn't the fool boy just knock?" He swung the door open, and immediately got his answer.
"Marian!" he barked, "Put down the crossbow!"
Caught by surprise, Marian fired. Luckily, her aim was terrible as ever, and the bolt missed, thudding into the side of Wickwright's wagon.
"That works," Wickwright shrugged. "Both of you, come in before you drown."
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