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New Arrival! [Oct. 23rd, 2009|07:57 pm]
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Ray was expecting a titty bar. Not some weird-ass fancy hotel lobby. His recon training keeps the panic to a minimum as he looks around. Well, it's definitely not the Super-8. He definitely couldn't afford this place on a corporal's salary. Which does not explain why he's here, and staring at a bunch of random-ass motherfuckers instead of Sunnie Delight's voluptuous tittes.

Ray is a wiry little fucker, dressed casually in jeans and a USMC t-shirt, dogtags hanging around his neck. His hair is dark and cropped short. Tattoos peak out from under his short sleeves. His posture is alert, poised on the point of fight-or-flight that contradicts the almost pout on his face.

"Who the fuck are you people and why the fuck aren't you hot naked chicks dancing on poles? Where the fuck am I? Did you fucking kidnap me with some weird voodoo bullshit? Aw, shit, wait until Iceman hears about this, he is going to waste you pussy-ass bitches. Goddamn and I'm supposed to be shipping out in like, 3 days. Brad's gonna fucking kill my ass if I don't show up. Goddamn. ...Does anyone have any poptarts? I'm fucking hungry."

Typist: Corporal Ray Person, from Generation Kill, as portrayed by the lovely James Ransone. Recon Marine. Loquacious. Foul-mouthed. Obnoxious. But weirdly lovable.
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(no subject) [Oct. 23rd, 2009|01:49 pm]
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Before her marriage, it was widely agreed that Arabella Woodhope's most striking feature was her smile. Mrs. Arabella Strange is not smiling now--her dark eyes are cast towards the floor, and her step is slow and heavy. In lieu of a smile, her most striking feature must then be her gown, which is the color of a sunset. Not a sunset as it has ever been painted by human hands or woven on human loom, but truly as radiant and subtly shifting as if someone had plucked down the very sky one evening and draped it over her body. The golden threads twisted into her hair seem as if they were drawn from the sun itself. Her face, by comparison, seems terribly mortal and ordinary, by turns enhanced by the spectacular, unnatural beauty of her clothes, and then made to seem rather drearily plain.

The first thing Mrs. Strange notices when she steps through the doorway into the main foyer is not that the furniture, the architecture, the carpet, the walls, are different from the place she just was: she notices the silence. The music has stopped. For a moment she holds very still, expecting it to return any moment, but when it does not, she rushes to the next person she sees.

"Please," she says. "Are you man or faerie, and is this place Lost-Hope, or no?"

Arabella Strange, magician's wife, from Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke.
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(no subject) [Oct. 23rd, 2009|01:38 pm]
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Draco Malfoy would hardly know how to begin to answer if someone asked him how he feels about his life just now-- that is, were he somehow under compulsion to answer truthfully, which he would have no desire to do otherwise. His family is, of course, technically safe, but it's rarely been less of a good thing to be a Malfoy right now, in the very recent aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts, and the prestige of the name is something he's relied on for his entire life, much to the annoyance of those around him, and so all in all, everything is, for him, a bit off-balance.

He tries with great dedication not to seem afraid when, instead of finding himself back in the Great Hall of Hogwarts with his parents, who are at least willing to neither ignore him nor shoot him dirty looks, as he had hoped, he is instead in an entirely unfamiliar place, but not being yet perfect with his Apparition and considering the little fact that that prat Harry Potter still has his wand, it doesn't entirely work. Still: he draws himself up and arranges his features into a typical expression of distaste and assumed superiority. Being surrounded by people who know who he is clearly hasn't been working out wonderfully lately, but strangers could hold some promise.

Pale almost to the point of looking sickly, especially recently, and with his light blond hair just slightly disheveled, Draco cuts a much less impressive figure than he would have hoped, even with the expensive robes and the unpleasant air of someone who will only accept that you're worth his time if you actively prove it to him. "Isn't there anyone here?" he complains, lip curling a bit and voice only trembling very slightly.

Typist: Draco Malfoy, from, of course, Harry Potter. Taken from almost immediately after the pre-epilogue end of Deathly Hallows.
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On a mission [Oct. 19th, 2009|10:57 pm]
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[Current Mood |annoyedannoyed]

It's high time that someone started looking around this resort, to try and figure out if any exit is possible.  At least, Bruce figures it's high time for this to happen, and so, being of an impatient sort of mind, he is out taking stock of the resort.  So far, he's found a few outbuildings, the pool, and the stables. Bruce is not entirely pleased with these discoveries, as none of them seem to contain a way out.  He's in the garden right now, headed for the forest -- he figures maybe he'll find someone else looking around, or maybe someone who can actually be helpful.  Fellow explorers are welcomed, but be warned, he's not in the best of moods.
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OF LAST RESORT ARRIVAL [Oct. 19th, 2009|06:16 pm]
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Phedre is nothing if not adaptable, but this. This is different. She'd gone to sleep in palace chambers of Ysandre's court, Joscelin beside her. She'd been content, nearly truly happy, just then. One night of celebration. Her and Joscelin formally announced, and him named Queen's Champion. Melisandre out of Terre D'Ange.

Illyria, Skalia, Caerdicca. She's been to many worlds, spoken to the Master of the Straits, fought her way from lands long forsaken or long forgotten by Elua and all his kin.

But now she's at a loss. There's nothing familiar here, and the metal of the door under her hand is cold. The tile floor on her bare feet is chilling, and the silence even more so.

She is instantly on guard, a shiver down her spine.

typist: oflastresort arrival. approach at will, but she's gonna be a little freaked, obviously. phedre, from the kushiel's legacy.
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(no subject) [Oct. 15th, 2009|08:49 pm]
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In the life of a magician, the bizarre becomes commonplace, and one must soon learn - not to expected the unexpected, as that would be rather self-defeating, but at least not to show one's surprise when one does run across the unexpected.

Actually, as unexpected goes, this is hardly the most bizarre unexpected Jonathan Strange has encountered in his years as a magician. It does not even rate the top hundred list, as it happens. Jonathan Strange's life lately has been... well... strange.

Therefore, walking through a door which previously was known to lead to the library, and discovering that it now leads, instead, to what appears to be a large assembly room of some sort, designed in a very elegant, if curiously unfashionable, style, does not in the slightest take Strange by surprise. Considering that he was previously in the house of a magician (and doors which one believe lead to Norrell's library do have a reputation for leading elsewhere, after all), he hardly even notices it.

"Oh, damn," he says, stopping short just within the door. "This is certainly not where I wanted to be." He turns to leave just as swiftly as he came, but upon opening the door, he discovers that it now leads to a grand, sweeping lawn, beyond which the green and grey smudge of a forest can be seen, and not anything like a corridor of Hurtfew Abbey. That is hardly the only thing that is different, however...

Strange looks up at the cloudless, warm blue sky; he looks slowly round at the sun-drenched lawn, and the wrought-iron rail of the front porch, which glitters in the sunlight. He steps back inside, a bemused smile coming slowly into existence upon his face.

"I am not quite sure how I managed it," he says aloud, "but I do believe I have finally succeeded."

Typist: I know, took me long enough. x____x anyway, Jonathan Strange, from the novel Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, by Susanna Clarke. And, to anyone responding who doesn't know the book - Strange is from the early 19th century and dressed accordingly.
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(no subject) [Oct. 13th, 2009|07:29 pm]
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One thing Merlin has learned over the course of the past year or so in Arthur's service is that a servant's work was never done. If it isn't cleaning the armor or the stables, it's fixing his meals. And when it isn't doing these tasks for Arthur, it's working for Gaius and making sure his supplies are well stocked. And then on top of all of that, he of course has to make sure Arthur doesn't die by the end of the day with the amount of times he's faced almost certain doom. And let's not forget that he has to make sure his gift remains a secret shared only between him and Gaius (and occasionally Lancelot), lest he end up being thrown in the dungeon and executed by mid-morning.

Sheesh, his work is never appreciated.

Just now, he has finished up the last of Gaius' jobs and is rushing on his way back to the palace to serve Arthur his meal. He stumbles through the kitchen and picks up a plate of food that he would almost certainly like to eat himself, but alas, Arthur would have his head if he even found out that Merlin took so much as one bite out of it. He groans as he knocks on Arthur's door, but is surprised to see it open on its own.

"Huh, curious." He pushes it open with his back and steps inside, keeping his eyes on the meal instead of where he is going. It's of course just his luck that he ends up tripping on a loose tile and falls headfirst into what he assumes is Arthur's room. What it is instead is a rather large room, not too unlike the throne room in Camelot, only not at all. Merlin looks up in awe, ignoring the gravy that has splashed on his head mid-fall, and instead takes a careful glance around these new surroundings.

"I don't think we're in Camelot, anymore," he mutters to himself, only just now realizing that he's far from alone. He smiles sheepishly, hurrying to wipe off the gravy and other remnants of Arthur's dinner and offers the bystanders a most hearty wave.

Typist: Merlin from BBC's Merlin :)
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(no subject) [Oct. 13th, 2009|03:34 pm]
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House was hungry. When House was hungry, there were two places he could be found: 1) anywhere Wilson was, and 2) anywhere Wilson was. Wilson hadn't been in the cafeteria when House had pushed through the double doors, so the next best option was Wilson's office. The walk to Wilson's office was down the hall, up three floors on the elevator, and then down the hall to the left until that hall forked. This took only two minutes for House (it would have been a quicker stride, but he had been stopped about a new case.

"Not now," he had dismissed the nurse, "Let me at least get something to eat before you start shoving new cases down my throat." He turned and looked the nurse in the eye. "Paper isn't one of my favorites."

He quickly turned to race to Wilson's office before the nurse could say anything more, opening the door and pushing it closed with his cane. House's brain didn't register that he wasn't in Wilson's office until after he had started talking as if Wilson were right there, at his desk.

"Huh," he started, looking around the lobby. "This is... unexpected."

Typist: Dr. Gregory House from House, M.D.!
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(no subject) [Oct. 12th, 2009|11:24 pm]
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Arthur cannot believe it, he simply cannot. He's spent a long day at the practice fields and expects to come back to his room to find supper and a warm bath waiting for him, and what is there? Absolutely nothing. But what should he expect from his idiot manservant but foiled attempts and amusement. Well, today, he is not in the mood. He storms out into the hall and calls after Merlin - perhaps, maybe, the boy is within calling distance (if he did his job properly, he would be) - and heads back into his room to try and get out of his armour.

But, when he steps back into his room, he's suddenly not in his room. Instead, he's in a much larger room, filled with upholstered chairs, lots of small tables, and strange contraptions that seem to emit light. This is clearly the work of sorcery and when he gets back to Camelot, he will make sure that whomever is behind this will be punished. Severely.

But first, he must get back. Perhaps there is someone who understands where he is.

Typist: Arthur Pendragon, of the BBC's Merlin.
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(no subject) [Oct. 12th, 2009|01:42 am]
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The front doors of the resort burst open and a young woman stumbles through them and onto the patio. With her silver-girt white gown and long loose hair, she looks distinctly out-of-place amongst the deck chairs and potted plants. Her eyes are closed and her hands are clasped, as if she is taking in a last deep breath before a plunge, and so does not notice her surroundings at first. Indeed, several moments pass before she opens her eyes, straightens her back, and starts to turn... when she realizes abruptly that where she is is no longer where she was.

Eowyn whirls around to try and go back the way she came, but stops short, seeing at once that she need not open the strange door to know that Meduseld did not lie behind it. Until someone can tell her what is going on, she will be found striding purposefully across the patio, the lawn, down the paths, trying to find a way back to home. If she is confused, her cold, set face does not show it, and though she is panicked, it is laced with an edge of exhilaration she cannot fight off. As sudden and inexplicable and bizarre as this is, it is something. Something has happened in her life.

typist: Eowyn! From Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien. Taken from earlyish in The Two Towers, before Helm's Deep. Here to perform her traditional duty of attempting to boost the male-female ratio. >_>
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