(no subject)

[no_vampires_plz]

So, earlier in the week, when the Artifact-induced background music was getting really intense, Twilight had the bright idea of casting a sleep spell on herself until it was over. Sounds reasonable enough, right?

Only the music is long gone and she's still fast asleep on the couch.

You might think that's cute, but that's because you don't know that she snores.

Little help here?

(no subject)

[deadman_pirate]

It's another quiet night for the Brucolac--but aren't they all, here? No political crises or outbreaks of crime to demand his attention, no 'welcome to Armada' speeches to give, no one trying to summon monsters through portals to other worlds.

Well, the door here lets in what it lets in, and his definition of 'monster' is subjective anyway.

So here he is, doing a bit more scrimshaw. This time it's going to be a knife-handle, and the scene he's carving into it is from the Pirate Wars; it shows a Crobuzoner ship vainly, with magic and cannons, trying to fend off a ship that looks remarkably like his own. Whether this scene actually happened, and in the way he's depicting it, there's no one left alive to say. The benefits of being very old...

Totally botherable.

(no subject)

[will_scarlett]

The music has gone away. Now he doesn't have to keep hearing about Nottingham's plight. Right after it left, he went home where life in Sherwood is beginning to get busy once more.

When he enters tonight, there's a touch of blood on his top lip and he's carrying his staff, this wasn't where he expected to be. He can celebrate winning a fight and a profitable day here then do it again with the other men.

At the counter, he orders a mug of ale and some fries before finding a chair by the fire, its easier to lean his staff out of the way there.

(no subject)

[mr_gaeta]

Gaeta accidentally acquired a new pet last night.

Granted, he's not really thinking of the bird as a pet yet. Tame as it seems, he has the feeling it'd do better back out on the grounds than cooped up with him in his room. He doesn't know what it eats or how to care for it. He doesn't even know what the frak it is.

Which accounts for the sizeable stack of bird guides and encyclopedias on a coffee table near the fireplace. Gaeta's stretched out along one of the couches; in the space below his right knee, the bird dozes, its comically large beak tucked under a (just as comically) tiny wing. If he remembers right, the outside was modeled on some place called "Scotland." A Field Guide to the Birds of Britain and Europe seems like a good place to start, then.

(Gaeta doesn't know that he's aiming about thirteen thousand miles too high and four hundred years too late.)



[ooc: and the mun is off to bed, but this post is open until it scrolls!]