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: 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?"

Autor starts to squirm, and stops before he does more damage to himself. "I don't know how that matters!" he squeaks. "I didn't pay attention much except to the texture of the thing. And when I was running around."

"Breasts matter, silly monklet!" Poins declares.

Autor grasps for a subject change.
"No, but do you know what does matter?" he says, cheeks aflame. "Pockets. Women's clothing lacks them entirely and it's very inconvenient."

What sort of horrendous whimsy infected my brain to cause me to think this was a good idea!

Edited 2013-06-10 21:42 (UTC)

"Wouldst thou wish for some ale and cakes," Poins asks, as they are just sitting there.

Autor blinks at him, surprised that he offered an alternate course of discussion. Why?

"Um," he says, about to ask for a cake, but then realizes he'll not be able to lift it. His fingers were fine for texting, but he doesn't think he has the wrist strength to eat.

"I'll be all right," he says. "Thank you for bringing them. How are you otherwise?"

"What happened to thee, monklet?" Poins asks. "Wherefore wouldst thou not have thy cake? Wast drunk when wert a wench?"

Autor sits up. Carefully. "No, I wasn't drunk," he says, "nor will I ever be. I used my witchy powers to fly--as I've said--and run across the lake, and punch through steel... and I suppose one could say I was drunk on that instead."

He sniffs, feeling sort of silly overall. "I'd love a cake, but one of the consequences of playing at Icarus is that I can't move my arms."

"What didst do with them, bar punch through steel?" Poins asks.

Autor blinks. "What did I do with what? My arms?" he says and glances down. "Build things? And throw a ball for a dog."

"Why are they sore so thou canst eat no cake?" Poins says.

"Oh!" Autor says, finally understanding the problem. "They're broken, Poins. My gloves and boots and wings had the power to put holes through steel, and protected me just enough. I was just a wench, with mortal strength and mortal bones."

And a new center of gravity, and a completely new range to compensate for. Not my best plan.

"Wouldst thou then that I feed thee?" Poins offers.

Autor's only context of one person feeding another is a warm, visceral memory of a girl delicately offering him an omelette from her chopsticks.

"No!" the boy says quickly, flushed. "That, um, shouldn't be necessary? I'm not hungry at present and I won't starve. But thank you for bringing them! That was rather thoughtful. Um."

He furrows his brow. "Don't be afraid to eat without me."

"Art odd today, my friend," Poins observes. "Thy wench-dom hath confused thee, and made a furnace of thy ordered mind."