milliways_bar | (no subject)

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"Shiva wept!" Autor yelps, crumpling to the floor of his room in a heap.

He expected every break, sprain, and bruise to stick around after he changed back, so he wasn't surprised at his unsteadiness when his Lego-fused braces dissolved.

But what was viciously unpleasant was that the medication he'd been popping to keep from feeling every break, sprain, and bruise dissipated when his bloodstream changed.

And that he had to feel everything snap again--all at once--in his new bones.

The boy laugh-sobs, quietly sick, and props himself up in the doorframe to catch a wait rat by the tail. When it returns, he takes some tea and some ice and some serious pain pills, and waits for it all to kick in so he can drag himself down to the infirmary.

And so, just because he's in a genuinely good mood and he can't exactly move, heirDrosselmeyer is signed on.

[OOC: Millitimed to around midnight.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

FT: Thou wast a girl-child with a witchy power, not a wench!
FT: Oh my sweet monklet, how well that befits thee.

HD: What! Child!
HD: I claimed the same years as I always do
HD: And I am not at present a child
HD: But you are correct in the other bit
HD: I was a wench to which witchery was well-suited

Edited 2013-06-09 18:01 (UTC)

FT: Thou wert a wench" Thou wert a wench! How funny.
FT: I'm laughing loud here, but thou canst not hear me.

HD: There are a lot of people laughing
HD: And not all of them at me
HD: Where then is here
HD: So that you may further torment me thus
HD: Like unto your first iniquiry?

FT: Here is the gentle side of our dear Lady Bar,
FT: Where I am sat, snuggling against the wood.

HD: Most excellent!
HD: As I am not inclined to move
HD: I will remain where I am
HD: Ready the hot irons
HD: You can poke at me from there

FT: Where art though, then, that thou wouldst stay for aye?

Poins' screen remains blank for a long, long while, and then fills with blue text.

HD: As well you know
HD: Wenches put me in such a state
HD: As I am like to swoon and break my head
HD: What do you think then would happen when I am one?
HD: A witch's disposition suits me not
HD: I am rather indisposed to revelry now
HD: But I do confess
HD: That I was as giddy as any son of Daedalus then

FT: And thou didst crash and burn, poor friend, like to his son?

HD: Covered in wax but not yet drowning!
HD: And I had three full days to kiss the sun
HD: Never enough, always worth it

FT: Wouldst thou now rather be a wench again?

HD: My being a wench had nothing to do with my possessing witchy powers
HD: Wenches are odd
HD: Their bodies are weaker and slower and more wiggly
HD: And they wear lacy contraptions
HD: And have no pockets
HD: Really, on the whole it was rather inconvenient
HD: But my hair was soft

FT: Thou didst wear lacy wench things?

HD: I asked Bar for a clothing befitting a girl
HD: And there was some pink confection with bows
HD: Fastened in the back with strings
HD: One of the many, many uncomfortable things about being a woman, I've been told

HD: I'm going to assume you went without when you donned the wenches' garb?

FT: I never saw such things upon a wench,
FT: And did not wear them, either.

HD: You've never seen one? Really!
HD: Does that make me more experienced than the great Poins?
HD: Give me a moment to figure out how I feel about that

FT: But I have seen a wench without her dress well often,
FT: And e'er enjoyed the view before I fell upon the feast.

HD: Yes
HD: Well
HD: The fact that you and
HD: But then they

HD: That's been established

HD: Thankfully, I am a monklet again
HD: Who favors bitter tea and drudgery
HD: With no need to undo the silken strings of lacy things

There's another pause, and then ping!.

HD: Which is still in my room if you wanted to see it

FT: Where is it? I would come forthwith
FT: And see thee in thy chamber, monklet, with
FT: Thy unchaste wench-clothes made of silk and lace.

HD: Bar gave them to me, okay
HD: I had absolutely nothing to do with this aside from the asking
HD: I didn't do anything remotely unchaste with them
HD: And the clothes themselves aren't unchaste
HD: No matter the materials
HD: They are damnably scratchy
HD: And that is all

HD: Upstairs, to the left
HD: I'll be the one cringing in the doorway
HD: Already regretting this decision

A bare five minute later, Ned Poins will turn the corner, bearing a jug of ale, and a large plate of spicy honey-cakes.

Autor shakes his head, greeting him with a pale-faced grin and battered limbs. He gestures with his head, as he's not about to move his wrists. "The frilly thing rests on the bed. I'd meant to burn or bury it."

Indeed, the girl's outfit is the only thing in his room, should Poins care to look around.

Poins puts his offerings down.

"Tis made to hold the breasts aloft, for sooth!" he says.

Autor had been expressly avoiding that word, so he takes on a significant more amount of color than he had. "It's called a brassiere," he says. "And it's completely useless."

There have been many surreal moments in meetings with Poins, but educating him about unmentionables is far the most bizzare. At least he brought cakes?

"Useless?" Poins says. "Hadst thou no breasts?"