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RP MEME: MEDIEVAL TIMES
Pick a scenario, post with your character and roll for the scene. Or just pick. That's cool too.
For the setting:
1) CASTLE. Throne rooms, private chambers, long hallways.
2) TAVERN. Rough-hewn tables, rough-hewn clientele.
3) DUNGEONS. Iron bars, rusty chains, and terrible food.
4) JOUST. The knights of the realm are battling.
5) FIELDS. It's a hard, long day working to grow food.
6) MARKET. There's a well, there are some craftsmen selling things. It's a medieval mall.
And once you've decided the setting, decide your role:
1) ROYALTY. You are a King, Queen, Prince, Princess or close relative.
2) KNIGHT. You are a warrior of the realm.
3) WITCH/WIZARD. Official court magician? Crazy old lady with a lot of herbs? You decide.
4) PEASANT. Yeah, your life sucks.
5) CRAFTSMAN. Blacksmith, woodworker. Apprentice or master is up to you.
6) SERVANT. Your life is utterly devoted to the one you serve.
BONUS: 7) TIME TRAVELER. ???
For the setting:
1) CASTLE. Throne rooms, private chambers, long hallways.
2) TAVERN. Rough-hewn tables, rough-hewn clientele.
3) DUNGEONS. Iron bars, rusty chains, and terrible food.
4) JOUST. The knights of the realm are battling.
5) FIELDS. It's a hard, long day working to grow food.
6) MARKET. There's a well, there are some craftsmen selling things. It's a medieval mall.
And once you've decided the setting, decide your role:
1) ROYALTY. You are a King, Queen, Prince, Princess or close relative.
2) KNIGHT. You are a warrior of the realm.
3) WITCH/WIZARD. Official court magician? Crazy old lady with a lot of herbs? You decide.
4) PEASANT. Yeah, your life sucks.
5) CRAFTSMAN. Blacksmith, woodworker. Apprentice or master is up to you.
6) SERVANT. Your life is utterly devoted to the one you serve.
BONUS: 7) TIME TRAVELER. ???
1. You bagged a princess, pal.
She slips past the guards, quiet as a ghost, and down the hallway. There's a little cell-rattling at the sight of a beautiful noble lady of the court, but nothing too awful, and she reaches Charles' cell none the worse for wear.
Being the third daughter of the King, she's dressed in an extremely lovely deep blue gown. She picked this one because -- yes -- it was the cheapest and most tattered that she owned. OH THE ROYAL LIFE.
It happens to expose a fair amount of cleavage, but that wasn't on purpose.
She crouches next to the lock on his cell, checking it against the keys on the ring she stole from her father an hour earlier. Doesn't bother to say a greeting. She's pretty sure he can hear you idiot, you idiot, you idiot coming from her head.]
somewhere Raven is offering him a congratulatory spiritual fist bump
Not, he thinks, ruefully, that she would be directing any more favorable descriptions in his direction if his shirt had lived to see morning. (In truth he wouldn't have it any other way; Moira's mind, always a pleasure, is especially attractive, angular and spare, when piqued.)
Hello, Your Highness. Very kind of you to drop by, I'm sure, he projects.]
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She opens it just far enough to slip inside, and crouches down in front of him, snatching at his manacled wrists.
Hissed:]
I can't believe you got caught.
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What? He's only human.
Kind of.]
That's a lovely gown, Highness. Contrasts with the red in your hair, you know.
[IF HE CAN'T DEFLECT BLOWS, HE CAN AT LEAST DEFLECT POINTED OBSERVATIONS. Right? Right??]
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Sigh.
She unlocks each of the cuffs, muffling them similarly (don't get any ideas, Charles!) and slipping his hands free.]
Quickly. We've only got a couple more minutes.
[The change in guard shift is always like this. She knows because for a while, her father had her come down and serve food to them during the shift change. Hoping to marry her off to one of the knights he used to head the shifts. That hadn't gone well.]
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He rubs the abraded skin of his wrists (not on the pleated folds of her skirt, despite the temptation the heavy material presents, because Charles may not be a gentleman but he is, so to anachronistically speak, a gentleman), and follows her on tiptoes out the door.]
So. What now, Highness?
[He has no idea why he almost just called her 'boss'. No. Idea.]
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None are.
She slips it back in her pocket. Takes his arm, and slips out of the cell, leading him directly the wrong way, not towards the entrance at all but towards the back end of the dungeon.]
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This is the pit where the guards throw all the prison refuse. It also happens to be the bottom of the indoor privy directly beneath the King and Queen's chambers. Which means the smell is not the most pleasant.
She releases Charles, and steps forward, holding her breath. She sticks her arm, up to the shoulder, inside the hole, and reaches to the left, grimacing. -- There! A catch, a hook, and she deftly undoes it, with the ease of practice.
The entire wooden wall swings open. Open to emit a blast of stench.
Moira picks up a seemingly superfluous wooden board just beyond the wall and sets it down, neatly bridging the pit full of filth below them.
She turns to Charles, and beckons. He should go first.]
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He goes rifling while she's negotiating with the catch, and finds: a young man's smudged face, another midnight escape that had found her in a much less exasperated mood than this one, and- hm.]
The privy boy, Moira? Really?
[It's a sign of how flustered he is that he's using her name, although he'd deny it to the end, of course.
He steps onto the plank, and crosses, carefully, wobbling only a bit. Concussion! Clearly the fault of the concussion. Whatever a concussion is.]
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Then next there's a trapdoor and she climbs her way to freedom, managing, through this whole adventure, to look barely mussed from her usual regal form.
She lets him pull himself out. Points out:]
He was a better prospect than you are.
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Yes, but he actually chose privy-cleaning. As his vocation. At least I was only born a witch.
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[She takes a moment, even though it's dark, to look at him. Really look at him. The bruises, the injuries, everything. There's a sharp ache of sympathy, a snap of damn it all, Charles.]
Come on. We have to leave.
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[All right, all right, so that was unfair even by his standards.
Just as well he had prodded the guards a little, he thought, watching Moira's eyes soften. (In point of fact they didn't so much soften as roll, but it was different when you could feel the sentiments behind the act.)]
Lead on, fair lady. But tell me- where did you plan for us to go?
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She has the horse ready. They'll be able to get beyond the castle walls easily enough. And from there, to the forest. Untamed wilds, full of bandits and hunters and homeless.]
Not us. Just you.
[Because she's taken enough money for him to get a start somewhere else. News travels slow around here. She plans to get him to the forest and then return.
She slips around the curve of a tower wall, and there's her horse, a strong stallion, taller than what was strictly proper for a princess. But Moira had a good hand with animals.]
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He thought he regretted his stupidity truly and deeply earlier, when he was alone in his cell, more or less. Now he knows better.]
Moira-
[He stops, and bows his head.
I'm sorry, he projects, with feeling.
Inwardly, though, he's already beginning to plan.
Moira doesn't know the extent of his powers, he's fairly sure, and thank god for that, or she would have been a good deal angrier with him for putting them both in this position. Which leaves him with some options, although none of them are particularly pleasant.
He has until they reach the forest, he knows. Perhaps a little longer, if he's very lucky.
His thoughts are interrupted by the appearance of the horse. Charles isn't good with animals; he resents that they're so living and so alien, closed off to the probing of his mind, and in the case of horses, he resents that they're all so damn tall. This one seems to be looking at him with its nostrils.]
Hadn't realized you brought the cavalry.
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She links her fingers together, to give him a place to step.] Just step up and swing your leg over. I'll help.
...you'll have to ride behind me.
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He sets his bare foot in the warm cup of her hands and... gets on the horse, more or less. It's not the most dignified maneuver he's ever performed, but the horse doesn't actually move out from under him while he's doing it, so he'll count that as a victory.
And only then catches her next words.]
Dear me. That doesn't sound like protocol, Highness...
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That's because she has excellent self-control.
She steps up and mounts in front of him (oh, bad mental phrasing, and now she is blushing, damn it all). Arranges her skirts, partially to cover the saddlebags. There's a bow and a quiver that she hooks on in a convenient place.
And then she leans forward and murmurs to the horse. It nickers at her, and she gathers the reins, and they're off.]
I wouldn't trust you with a horse.
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Less so the secrets of her brain, though. Not that Charles would dream of taking advantage of his access. Ever.
He lets out a yelp of what is 95% genuine terror when the horse sets off, and wraps an arm around Moira's waist, more tightly than is strictly justifiable even in the interests of not falling off like a telepathic sack of potatoes. Especially since, after he gets used to the rolling gait, rather than easing off he leans closer and rests his chin on her shoulder.]
Your mistrust pierces me to the quick, madam.
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No one stops them as they leave the walls.]
You're a terrible flirt, Charles.
[Her heart is beating quick. Half from the danger they're in; she's acutely aware of their surroundings, listening to every noise of the forest. She's out here so often, she knows it well.
The other half... well. His proximity isn't so unwelcome.]
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[He's murmuring directly into her ear, looking at the near curve of her cheek- but his mind is stretched out around them in a shivering web that stretches and snaps around the movement of the horse, scanning for dangerous thoughts.
He does nevertheless reserve about half his attention for the warmth of her back against his still-sore torso; the solidity of her shoulder under his jaw. Anything less would be a waste of a remarkable opportunity.]
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It's hard to believe that this man managed to charm her out of her castle. That he managed to inspire her loyalty, on top of her--
Not finishing that thought.
She focuses on the road ahead.
...though she shifts both reins into her right hand, moving her left to cover his hand.]