witchesreign | first leaf

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first leaf | [bbs/action]

[New post on the network! New ID, new typing form...might ping some of you.]

i will readily admit that being pulled from a null universe doomed to be yet another footnote in the annals of paradox space and into whatever dimension that this school occupies was quite felicitous indeed
and i suppose that i owe our ever so gracious hosts some credit in that regard
however
i have business to attend to in the incipisphere
and i will simply not be kept from it
so i believe that my first order of business will be to find a way to reverse whatever process snatched me away from the land of crystal and mirage
and proceed to aggrieve aggress and attack
until i have stolen away the secrets that balamb garden has to hide
as i said to strider once before
lets rock the fucking house

[On the action side of things, have a kid who looks...a lot like Dave Strider? Sitting under a tree on the quad, reading a book and looking pissed. OVERDRAMATIC? A LITTLE. But seriously he'll get to the bottom of this shit. "Time compression"? Of all the...those scientists that letter mentioned had better work fast. Is it you, or did his shadow just start moving...?]

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Rose Lalonde. Delighted to make the acquaintance of what I can only assume is yet another paradox sibling.

[gauging whether or not bringing it up would be considered openly emotional or a good jab. because she is pretty sure that echo's not going away.]

[wow this is still really awkward]

Likewise, and you're right on the mark.

Lovely. I'd always wanted a Frankenstein creation of myself and Strider to fill in the minute gap that Strider's ego has left in the gaping hole of my psyche reserved for sibling relations or lack thereof.

[a pause in which her expression briefly goes sour from the sheer distaste at the situation. oh you know what fuck PA points let's get the ball rolling] Did you happen to get into a fight before you rammed yourself through my window? I ask because either someone kicked you in the throat or I'm suddenly suffering intense brain damage that alters my perception of acoustics.

I'd be glad to take the role of the psychological modern Prometheus.

[His expression shifts ever so slightly, and his shadow--looking like tumbling shifting geometric shapes at this point--shifts around completely from where it was falling before. Directly in front of him, with the light source being from the window he's also facing...]

Call it the result of an alliance with someone who has been there with me even when I was alone in the house.

Or, in a word, shenanigans.

[Did his voice just turn even more hollow on that "house"?]

[Rose has a strong urge to toe at that shadow, but she is not an idiot. she's got a feeling doing that would leave her down one foot.]

Shenanigans indeed. I'm afraid that all blackened husk behavior you may observe from me is mere genetic predisposition rather than alignment with the zoologically dubious, although I'm told that in my future I have transformation into a rave blacklight to look forward to. For the time being, however, I am forced to cede the shenanigans medal to you. Congratulations.

[Yeah, David isn't sure either. Probably harmless(it is), but who can say.]

An understandable enough predisposition, given our shared genetics and presumably mirrored upbringings. Passive-aggressive warfare with veiled degrees of sincerity and insincerity leaving the house a sentimental warzone, overly elaborate and obscene gestures in response to simple childish requests, hideous decor meant to point fun at a child's flights of fancy?

[This...actually hurts to talk about, seeing as he found out about his mother's death less than a day ago from his perspective, but like hell if he's going to show it. And his voice did that thing again when he said house.]

Edited 2011-07-11 20:53 (UTC)

I see we've found another universal constant. That's good to know, since I just couldn't imagine that house being inviting without twenty-foot belittlements of my immature interests or externalizations of mourning welded to the fridge. Nothing homey about it at all.

[has no problem skewering her mother because she is currently doing the ass-backwards mambo down the timeline and John is an emotional dick who refuses to say anything about this. ignorance is bliss, indeed.]

One couldn't walk into the living room without being assaulted by the towering presence of the Man of La Mancha.

[Lucky lucky you.]

Tilting at windmills in more ways then one, I see. Fortunately for me I was graced with growing up under the watchful eye of Zazzerpan the Learned.

[Allow him a little bit of a laugh at that. The magician girl, raised in a house full of wizard statues and paintings...]

Wizards instead of knights. Fitting.

[hardy har har. Rose's mouth is a little tighter now. she doesn't know what she dislikes more, being laughed at or that fucking statue.]

There was a fair share of princesses strewn about, but let it never be said that I didn't know when to dial into setting up running themes that would eventually become relevant and fitting.

[He wasn't laughing at you, just the situation... He linefaces a little at the mention of princesses, though.]

Ah, yes. How could I forget, the ghastly life-size prince doll...

[she sighs in irritation. of all the damn things to carry over]

Even with my present knowledge of Sburb taken into consideration I still cannot fathom why she was so insistent in forcing me into fairytale molds. At the very least the doll made for good knitting practice.

[Yeah he's kind of mirroring that agh]

I defaced it with chainmail, myself.

Creative, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to err on the side of my own personal Lovecraftian modifications. It was so nice to see her sitting on the couch with her tentacles primly crossed every morning.

The nature of the alterations even remained the same. How odd.

And wasn't it just? Always such a polite houseguest, that doll.

I suppose that a sick burn is a sick burn no matter who is applying it.

But I truly did appreciate how my lady upheld basic etiquette even when left to her own devices. I'd have rewarded her composure with a darling talk over some tea if that didn't mean acknowledging the gift.

It remained a burn of a truly terminal nature, there's no doubt of that.

Oh, but of course. The gentleman was very calm and gracious at all times. Acknowledgement would have been unthinkable, but all the same.

I gave her a fitting send-off to compensate for the long days spent staring blankly at the aesthetically pleasing but conversationally lacking foyer, I think. She was truly there for me when I needed her most.

Without the aid of the prince and dear Jaspers, I certainly wouldn't have shattered the Cruxite Mirror in time.

If only Strider had been as useful as a long-dead cat, maybe I could have avoided having to jump off a waterfall. But I suppose that comparing him to the same standards as a corpse is just hoping too much.

My own Strider is just as unreliable. Entirely insufferable as well.

I hope yours at the very least had a better sense of architecture than mine.

The house was twisted into a horrific Dadaist monstrosity of a spire.

[This is a lie.]

Oh, that must have clashed so horribly with the tranquil flow of the river. Unless that was transformed into a facsimile of a melting clock, of course. Or would that have been too surrealist for Mother's classical leanings? I'm not quite sure how far she'd have bent for the sake of artistic uniformity.

[she calls bs, but why not run with it?]

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