(no subject)

[herr_bookman]

"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.]

Comments

[herr_bookman]

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!

[poins]

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

[herr_bookman]

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?"

[poins]

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

[herr_bookman]

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."

[poins]

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

[herr_bookman]

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

[poins]

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

[herr_bookman]

"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.

[poins]

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

[herr_bookman]

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."

[poins]

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

[herr_bookman]

"It's not the wench-dom that has flustered me," Autor mutters.

Then he turns a grin on Poins. "Have you forgotten that oddness is my natural state? In fact, I am surprised it has taken this long for me to squirm! Apparently you've begun corrupting me well enough, much to my consternation."

[poins]

"I shall corrupt thee wholly, and tame thee to my hand," Poins smirks. "One day, thou shalt fain listen to me for a whole hour without flinching."

[herr_bookman]

"Ha," Autor says, "never. Even broken, I will stand against you whole and steadfast, shrewish and untamed. Indulge in your sweetened cakes, Poins; I'll remain sour."

[poins]

"Thou art like a proud maid that tosses her head and swears she'll never marry," Poins laughs.

[herr_bookman]

"No," Autor says, grinning. "That's what I was yesterday. Today I'm a monklet."

[poins]

"That dips his head demurely and swears he'll ever be chaste," Poins smirks. "What is the difference?"

[herr_bookman]

Autor thinks about it for a moment, and then offers the man a careful, one-shouldered shrug. "One dons lacy things."

[poins]

"It would be odd were a chaste monklet to wear those frilly wench-clothes under his rough habit," Poins says, eyeing Autor.

[herr_bookman]

"I am odd but not that odd," Autor scoffs, "nor a masochist, as the texture is like to drive one mad. You can have them if you want them; elsewise they'll gladly see the fire, as I've said."

[poins]

"Oh I would keep them, and one day, I'll see a wench in them," Poins says.

Level of awkward: Milliways

[herr_bookman]

Autor turns his head away as a blush scalds his face. "I don't even--" he sputters.

"Well. Yes, well, good luck with that. You do whatever you want, but that thing is so dreadful, I doubt a wench will want to put it on, even for you."

[poins]

"For sooth, it might be pleasing!" Poins says, holding the garment between his eyes and Autor, and squinting at it.

[herr_bookman]

Autor yelps, rather flustered and undignified already, and turns his head away.

"Tch," he snaps, "stop imagining me."