agogelogs | [OPEN] The Glass Spider Had Blue Eyes Almost Like A Human's

I. A BOY AND HIS DOG

The sword Jon carries is long, and its pommel comes high on his torso, so that its flash of white stone is nearly always visible when he's strapped on his sword belt at all. Maybe it didn't stand out before, but it's obvious now: the pommel of the sword is nearly a portrait of the direwolf that stands nearby, even down to the dark red eyes. And that wolf is likely to be the largest you've ever seen.

"How many times have you gone out there so far?" Jon asks. It seems like he's preparing to go, or go again: he wears an armored leather tunic over his other clothes.

II. WILDCARD

[Ghost mostly sleeps and stays in his cargo bay stall, but he can be found in literally any open location during this BASE time. If you want an interaction with him, post your character doing something, and Ghost will pass by and take an interest in them.]

III. CLOSED TO ROOMMATES/VISITORS

No way around it: reach the top of the stairs, and there's a huge white wolf filling the area around the breakfast table. He makes very little noise for an animal of his size: doesn't walk heavily, or bark like a dog, or howl, or growl when anyone comes in. His red eyes are dark as garnets, and he gazes at any interlopers with calm interest.

Jon is in the kitchen, haphazardly dressed, fiddling with what looks at first like a raw steak that spent the night in the cold box. The color isn't really right, though, and on further examination, neither is the texture. He wouldn't feed it to Ghost if the direwolf didn't seem willing to accept it, and if it didn't seem to sate his hunger to an extent… but that willingness probably has to do with there being very little better on offer.

When he hears someone enter the area, Jon calls out, "He's just having his breakfast." A reassurance until he adds, "Don't get in his way."

Edited 2018-04-05 08:21 (UTC)

Some of this requires unlearning the things he's learned. He grew up being careful of his behavior, trying to avoid giving offense that some people took at his mere existence. It's been a while since life was like that, and even if it hadn't been, what gives Araneans offense from a person of low or indifferent status isn't the same as what gives the Westerosi offense.

In other words, the Araneans will respect him more -- be less likely to eat him -- if he behaves like a king.

The trouble is that while Jon was taught the manners of his father's House when he was a boy, he's spent very little time with his own court as a king, and even when he had, the habit of letting his gaze fall to the tabletop or stray contemplatively to the fire at mealtimes had stayed with him. And Northerners have never stood on ceremony much: respect for a lord, yes, but not ceremony, not like southrons. He can learn new titles, can try to pronounce names carefully in spite of his strong accent, but it's harder for him to resist slipping into his own introversion. His time in the Watch, where most men had rougher manners than any lord, reinforced the habit.

After the fifth glitter bomb in one meal, Jon looks at the little dactyl droid with murder in his eyes.

"I'm losing my appetite." Then, more calmly, to whoever is nearby, "I know what purpose this is meant to serve for us. What does it serve for them?"

He means the spiders.

It may come as a surprise, but Jon Snow, alternately dour, gentle, and angry, the man who's recently spoken of his outdoorsmanship on the network and whose smiles these days mostly seem to come for Daenerys Targaryen or for the huge white wolf that sometimes trails after him:

He can dance. He even has some skill at it, some lightness and grace, at least when it comes to the dances they're learning for the next mission.

His partner of the moment, however, may be a different story.

"No, light on the right foot when you're stepping forward," he says. "With a little hop. Like this."

And he demonstrates.

He doesn't like that his status will be low on this mission: it means that he'll be useful for very little other than fighting. Even then, the trouble is more that the fight is intended to be a spectacle rather than anything meaningful, not that he's likely to lose it.

He's good with a sword, excels at the dueling practice they've all been set to, good with a spear, good with shields and bows and arrows, but sword fighting is what he's practicing now -- with the big spider droid, trying to get used to its movements and the way they differ from the feints and swings of violent men. He means to avoid fighting the spiders if he can, but if he can't, he wants to be ready.

It's not going well so far. Cutting a leg off is all well and good when it's one of two, less so when there are seven left and something like a lightning bolt barely misses the spot where you stand. The next one doesn't miss, and then it's the jewel-like shimmer of false death all over him again. How is he supposed to keep his hair neat if this is always in it?

"Time for a rest." Then, he looks at the other person in the room, wondering if they're quite as dead as he is, quite as many times in a row. "Have you ever done anything like this before? Someone's death shouldn't be an amusement for others."

Edited 2018-04-05 02:43 (UTC)

The sword he carries from day to day is big in a way that belies its lightness, so Jon thinks that maybe people will be surprised at his facility with the fencing they're all learning. It's only relative skill: he'd trained in heavy swords and light, and he thinks the heavier ones are of more use, until you're fighting for show, which is something it would be better to avoid. You should fight to end a fight, nothing more or less.

But it's still more skill with this sort of sword than most people will expect of him, and when practicing at duels, it's rare for him to be doused with any glitter at all. He's an encouraging, helpful opponent. "Hold your head up," he says, or "Keep your arm straight. It's not a heavy sword: you have to be strong enough to handle it."

When he has a rapier in his hand and isn't using it -- as part of his arm, as part of his mind -- sometimes he looks at it strangely. Any interest at all may get him explaining what the narrow little sword reminds him of -- or who.

More than a few days after arrival at BASE -- the delay is because he's not used to technology of this kind other than what he's grown accustomed to through the BCE -- Jon makes a Birch Story avatar. It looks like this:

A little while later, for no reason that will be discernible to others unless they ask, it changes to this:

[You know what to do. Pretty much any of the training modules is up for grabs: I didn't write one for gaming, for example.]

The place this reminds him of isn't any place any living person should want to be… yet there's a nostalgic enough feeling to it for him, and whatever else it is, whatever else lurks in it, it's not the Haunted Forest and he's not likely to meet a White Walker.

Still, if he seems wary here, it's because he is. And Ghost is too: the direwolf moves silently among the spare white woods and rocks, his feet not even crunching in the snow, but there's something watchful in his posture, in the way he glances from side to side, or his ears perk and he looks behind him.

The pair of them have already brought back one dead sphinx.

Jon keeps his voice low when he speaks -- confidential, in the hope that the things won't learn his voice to mimic him.

"It's been a while since I've been somewhere this bloody cold. That Prompto… did he really say his feet left the ground around here?"

Jon should not have left his hair loose -- the thick dark hair that falls to his shoulders in heavy curls. A dragokeet is doing its utmost to nest in it, crooning "Tree! Tree! Tree!"

He doesn't know whether it's that they don't like the sort of food BASE offers or he hasn't hit on the right thing yet, but there's no way of getting it down, and his attempts to get it to fly back up into a tree have gone... well, it's obvious how they've gone. The dragokeet now knows the word tree in the common tongue. Grasping at it does no good: it pecks at him, eludes him, and pulls his hair, making him wince.

He looks about as happy about this as he feels. Help him out?

It sounds a little like the BOOM BOOM BOOM of a war drum, something meant to keep men marching in time, but there are no men marching here. There are other sounds, too, a little like the lute at a feast, but louder -- much louder. It seems like it's meant to be entertaining, the way it blares from different rooms and encampments and sometimes from the air-horses that take people around the fish, but still: too much like the song of battle for him to find much joy in it, as of yet.

"What in seven hells is that noise?"

He doesn't seem angry, just baffled and curious.

(And others may be curious about the origins of "seven hells," come to that.)

[You know the drill!]

She's covered in glitter. The first few attacks are from refusing to bow. The next few come from her attempts at dancing with Mordred. Suffice it to say, two women who are bent on doing things their way are not the best dance partners, and thus, she'd been consumed a total of four times thus far.

By the time she'd spied Jon and tugged him onto the dance floor, it was five times and her mood had turned sour. Glitter hangs off her in every imaginable place: her hair, her face, even her eyelashes. If they found a way up her nostrils, she'd be unsurprised. Rather an unfortunate thing, but at least her dress is the sort that is easily cleaned, the black one from Meereen.

"This is ridiculous," she says in response, watching him hop. "I've not once seen Irriella perform in this way. We're not puppets, Jon."

Her droid wheels closer, and she spins on it, holding a finger up. "Do not. Do you see your companion?" A gesture to the droid still in the wall, courtesy of Mordred. "I promise your fate will be far worse."

Pow! "You have been consumed!"

...

And now there is glitter in her mouth. Lovely.

There would be something endearing about seeing her shimmering and determined like this, except that the shimmer and the determination both come from the idea that she's made a terrible mistake, by someone's estimation, and that a monster has eaten her. It's the same as when he used to help with training at Castle Black, when he'd have to knock a boy down and say, "You're dead."

Still, she's beautiful.

"You raised Irriella... they didn't," he points out, flexing his foot, preparing to show her what comes next. "I wasn't born knowing how to dance. And this will stand you in good stead, when--"

She turns on the droid, then, and a moment later, some of the glitter from the latest cloud has gotten on him. He watches her with a sympathetic expression as she tries to push it out of her mouth.

She stands there, eyes closed and blowing gusts of glitter from her nose as if it were flame. Her hands ball into fists, more of the glitter dusting off her as if it were snow, piling around the trail of her dress. How does one remove it from their mouth without making a show of it? Carefully. When it's on the tip of her tongue, she blows a quiet raspberry to expel some of it. Then she shakes her head, more of the glitter falling away.

By the time she turns back to Jon, she's far more sparklier than she was moments ago, and there's a near pained air to her... as if all of this is beneath her. Glitter...

"She seems to have some of their qualities, even knows some of their customs." He's some glitter on him from her attack. She reaches for him to try and dust it off. "I still so no reason to hop."

The look he has on his face is incredibly fond, and there's a slight straining around his torso. He's doing everything he can to suppress laughter. It's not laughter at her, it's only that she looks charming, getting angry at the shower of gold all over her. He stands still as she tries to brush it off of him.

Less amusing to imagine it's her blood. That sobers him again.

"I hop because I'd look even more a fool if I tried to dance without doing it. Do you mean to abolish dancing at your court, my queen?" What he's implying is that if she's lucky, dancing like this will be part of her life one day. "We have more urgent reasons for learning it now, but--" He shrugs.

He's laughing at her! Well, not quite, but close enough. With a huff, she's giving his middle a light shove, stepping closer into his space as she does so to prove she holds no true ire toward him.

Maybe he does deserve that glitter on him. She's half tempted to hug him close to have it transfer from her dress to his clothing, but decides against it when he seems to settle. Whatever thought crosses his mind, she doesn't like it.

"At least you look charming when you hop," she mutters. Sulking, she's most certainly sulking--in a dignified fashion. "I had no reason to dance at my court in Meereen, my lord. Nor had I reason to as a girl. Someone will have to teach me properly."

"You look charming all the time. I'll do what I can to teach you, but I'm no dancing master."

He has been, in effect, a master-at-arms by default, and he's not bad at teaching if his student is willing to listen. Dancing and fighting are very different, but teaching them is less so than it might seem at first glance. It may be possible to get her to a point where she can acquit herself well.

"I danced when I was a boy, but I didn't really want to." An offhand comment, and he follows it with a delicate poke to her midsection, almost a tickle. "Might be that someone makes me want to dance."

The start of a smile. She would rather reach up and tug him down to kiss him properly for that comment. Charming all the time. Her king is the charming one, and he doesn't even realize it.

"You need to be light on your feet for dancing and fighting, I imagine?" It's enough to ease her ire, drawing her back into a more amicable state. "That's how I felt whenever I watched my armies."

Unconsciously, she fidgets under his poke. Lifting her chin, meeting his gaze, glitter and all, she lifts her brows. "Should I be grateful that someone inspires you enough to teach me?"

"You do. Or at least... aware of what you're doing, until it's second nature to you. You want to fall when you're swinging a sword even less than you want to dance. Although now..." He pauses, frowns at her for a moment. "Now it seems like they're almost the same thing, if you can be killed for putting a foot wrong in the dance."

He doesn't say that it reminds him of stories of the Mad King... doesn't attach it to any Targaryen at all.

When she raises her brows, he replies, "It's not about gratitude. Or -- I'm as grateful to her." A long moment while he holds her gaze, and he sees something roll into his peripheral vision.

"But we'd better get back to dancing before there's more glitter. Take my arm -- just wrap your hand lightly, no need to hold it tight."

"Mistakes will occur." She doubts Grothia would allow someone so ill prepared to attend this sort of mission. "It's how one recovers, I imagine, that would also dictate how the Day-Ones react. You are a king. You are the Warden of the North. All of the positions you've held speak of strength and power. Emulate those."

She meets that gaze, her eyes warm and soft. But soon the moment is broken, and she's doing as he suggests, curling her fingers around his arm, grip light, as she steps closer to him. More glitter falls.

"Viserys never had reason to teach me." Suffice it to say, she doubts he ever learned. "Nor were there many reasons for the Dothraki to follow a formal dance."

"It's strange to have them think I'm low, but to have to act like I think I'm high." He says this conversationally, without too much dubiousness. "Couldn't do that growing up. It seems like the opposite of knowing your place.

"Now take three quick steps. Stay light on your feet. Start with this one." The one he's tapping forward so she can emulate it.

Chiron, from not too terribly far away, heard something that sounded like speech rather than simply animal noises. Curiosity, and the logical guess that it was related to a fellow COST member, prompted him to track the source of the noise, if only to satisfy a mad bout of curiosity. (This wonderful space seemed to inspire it.)

He isn't sure what he expected, but seeing Jon versus a dragonkeet keen on making Jon's hair a home is most certainly not something that had been on the list. Temporarily at a loss for words, he takes a moment to simply drink in the entire scene before him.

"Oh dear," he finally manages, trotting over towards Jon. There's no question of do you need help the real issue is how do I help? "There's no particular food in the area that we know these fellows eat, is there?"

Distracting it with food and then fleeing is perhaps obvious, but it may work.

"You know perfectly well your place." That she has no doubt, and so it's spoken with confidence and no hint of waiver in her voice. "We couldn't do many things growing up."

She understands him, the necessity of remaining near invisible, knowing your place. Glancing down, watching his foot, she looks back up and attempts to follow his instruction.

"The point, however, is that you have authority and power. Embrace it, if nothing more than for the people you fight to protect."

[OPEN] The Glass Spider Had Blue Eyes Almost Like A Human's

GHOST - OTA

WILDERNESS SCOUTS - OTA

JHASHCH CULTURAL TRAINING - OTA

DINING

DANCING

FIGHTING PRACTICE

DUELING PRACTICE

BIRCH STORY

WILDCARD

THANKS I HATE IT // AETHERIAN SPHINX

DRAGOKEETS IN MY HAIR

MUSIC (FISH OR BASE)

WILDCARD

no subject

no subject

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"groce couple vibes" -- elizabeth

no subject

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[OPEN] The Glass Spider Had Blue Eyes Almost Like A Human's

GHOST - OTA

WILDERNESS SCOUTS - OTA

JHASHCH CULTURAL TRAINING - OTA

DINING

DANCING

FIGHTING PRACTICE

*DUELING* PRACTICE

BIRCH STORY

WILDCARD

THANKS I HATE IT // AETHERIAN SPHINX

DRAGOKEETS IN MY HAIR

MUSIC (FISH OR BASE)

WILDCARD

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

"groce couple vibes" -- elizabeth

no subject

no subject

no subject

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no subject

DUELING PRACTICE