RP MEME: MEDIEVAL TIMES

[cerebel]

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. ???

Comments

[godxavetheking]

[He can't hide the smile that blooms, honestly affectionate if a little bloody, at her menacingly capitalized thoughts and their conclusion.

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.]

[mactaggd]

[She has a little piece of glass -- a shard, which is appalling, given how rare glass is. But she grabbed it, after her elder sister broke it, dulled the edges, and now she uses it for excellent purposes. Purposes like tilting it at an angle around the corner of the cell to make sure, via the reflection, that no guards are watching.

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.]

[godxavetheking]

[He shoots her a wary look, and sends an inquisitive curl of thought her way as he's tugged along: barely a word, let alone a sentence. If he'd spoken aloud, it would have been Wha...?]

[mactaggd]

[She doesn't bother to respond. Instead, takes a left turn, down towards the dankest and dirtiest cells. Back here, the hallway ends in a heavy wood wall with a small hole in it, hardly big enough for a cat to get through.

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.]

[godxavetheking]

[He's impressed despite himself, and also a little thrown off; he'd thought he knew Moira quite, quite well, but in all their conversations, vocalized or otherwise, he'd never caught a glimpse of this particular skill set.

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.]

[mactaggd]

[She huffs, unamused. And then quickly closes the door behind her, crosses the board, and kicks it so it lands down in the muck. People won't be able to follow them that way if they figure it out.

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.

[godxavetheking]

[He hauls himself up and, once out, pauses to admire the slight ruffling of her hair before retorting,]

Yes, but he actually chose privy-cleaning. As his vocation. At least I was only born a witch.

[mactaggd]

He chose it to care for his cousin. He was a blacksmith by birth.

[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.

[godxavetheking]

[under his breath] Very noble of him.

[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?

[mactaggd]

[For a moment, he might able to feel how much this prison break might cost her. She could be banished. She could fail, and he could be killed. She could succeed, and never see him again. He might see the hours she paced inside her chambers, always asking the same question: What next? After that, what next?

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.]

[godxavetheking]

[He gets glimpses, in rapid succession- shakes off the possibilities as quick as they come, but lingers, despite himself, on the image of her pacing. Not that he could actually see her pacing, in the space of her memory, but he could see her slender shadow, long and liquid on the flagstones.

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.

[mactaggd]

[No, no, no. Now is the time to be practical, not emotional, and she doesn't accept that sorry. Doesn't let it land and ripple into her thoughts.

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.

[godxavetheking]

[He winces a little at the closing off that happens after his fumbling apology, but... the rest of her mind remains open to him, and certainly practicality is of the utmost.

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...

[mactaggd]

[She's not blushing.

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.

[godxavetheking]

[As if one could tell, in the faint, silvery light of the moon! No, the secrets of her complexion are safe from prying eyes.

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.

[mactaggd]

[And here there's a hand firmly repositioning his arm to exactly her waist. Ensuring that it hasn't strayed either upwards or down.

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.]

[godxavetheking]

Ah, that would be the stress. Near brushes with disaster make me slightly less effortlessly charming, you see.

[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.]

[mactaggd]

[She makes a quiet scoffing noise.

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.]