(no subject)

[sunbaked_baker]

Summer is well and truly over, and the autumn cloud-cover isn't ideal for practicing a complicated new spell. So she is making do, having settled on the sand along the edge of the Caribbean inlet, where the tropical sunlight is still strong and warm. Her concentration is on the mostly horizontal trunk of the bent palm tree that hangs out over the crystal-clear shallows. Upon the top of the tree trunk - sometimes no more than a suggestion of a shape, other times almost solid, the sunlight shining on its fine, black feathers - is the shimmering form of a large bird.

Sunshine's concentration wavers as she impatiently tucks a stray lock of sweat-dampened hair behind her ear, and the indistinct bird-shape gives a rough, reproachful croak. Its form solidifies again as her attention hurriedly turns back to it - she thinks she has it.

Now she must find out if the spell can be used to send a message...

(no subject)

[never_promised]

((OOM: Harry owes Harry a horse. Cesario is here to help. Because these people are from Shakespeare, it has to involve an elaborate plot and foolproof disguises. And a lot of dubious reasoning.))

The door to the Milliways stables opens with a grand flourish, admitting two horses and two humans. The taller human pauses, open-mouthed. "Why--the way is made easier for us, Cesario; we need not march our cavalry through any inns at all!" He sounds suspiciously disappointed. Dammit, Hal had wanted to walk a pair of horses through the Boar's Head Inn. And through the Milliways common room. Having a door open straight away onto the stables is just so...so... low-profile.

((Two muns, two pups, and also two horses! Let us know if you want Hal or Viola or both. Or...a horse, but we can't actually give you a horse. :( I'm sorry. :( Also also I'm going to be out of town starting Friday morning, but I'm around for tagging till then!))

first entrance;

[faithfulspear]

The door opens, this time, for an older, weatherbeaten sort of a man, in armor that looks vaguely Roman in style. There's a gladius belted at his waist, at the slight angle that ensures the easiest draw, and he looks, very briefly, nonplussed. This is not what he was expecting, in the slightest, and he pauses to check behind him before coming fully into the Bar and letting the door close behind him.

He squares himself visibly, and drops his hand from the half-made reach for his sword. He hasn't been dropped into an active fight and this is something entirely new; it behooves him to take stock of the situation.

Listening's always served him well. Marcus crosses to the bar -- that, at least, is a self-evident thing -- and sits, negotiating the hang of his sword with the ease of a man long used to it.