Max Rockatansky (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
interception) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entrancelogs2015-08-24 10:50 pm
interception) wrote in entrancelogs2015-08-24 10:50 pm
please don't eat the fish in the fountain
Who: Max Rockatansky & Everyone else who feels like making frends
Where: The Garden, The Kitchen, The Library
When: 08/24
Rating: Mature content primarily because of Max's canon. Potential triggers can be found here that may or may not be brought up either in character discussion or Max's internal monologues.
Summary: Max kind of having religious experiences all over the place over all the food and water and green stuff tbh.
The Story:
OPTION A: Seriously put the poor goldfish down
WHERE: The Garden Part 1
(A man is situated at the edge of the fountain at the front of the gardens. His entire body is tense as a spring and he looks filthier than the dirt piled up under the several heads of flowers poking out around. His attention is wholly on the glassy surface of the fountain in front of him and should he be approached, he will show no immediate attention to whoever has decided to near him.
Bafflement of everything aside, Max had come into this world like he had left his own: hungry and thirsty. The water was a bit much to take in. He'd drunk enough to get himself a little sick upon arrival but it hadn't made him sick sick, dead sick, so it was okay. Must have been okay. Which meant that maybe these golden fish darting around under the water must be all right to eat. He didn't think to find a kitchen. Not right then. Not yet. It didn't matter that he had woken up in a mansion. Luxury was hard to adjust to and to Max, basic food and water was a luxury.
In a single movement, his hand snaps out, quicker than any human's ought to be and it crashes through the water. A moment later, he's holding a wriggling gold fish in the palm of his hand. His eyes remain dull and he raises the fish up towards his mouth, fully prepared to eat it.)
OPTION B: Yes Max those are real flowers
WHERE: The Garden Part 2
(After his fascination with the fountain has subsided, the very same man can be seen prowling skeptically through the garden. He's not very considerate of the carefully plotted flowers. He's completely crushed entire heaps in his wandering though it doesn't seem at all intentional. His eyes are a bit glassy, detached, like he's still in a fog or a dream perhaps. He stops to pick at the flowers. Rips them out of the earth and turn them up towards his face, looking almost unnerved at the sight of them and yet wholly in awe. Like he could scarcely believe what he was holding in his palm. He'd drop each one shakily, snapping his head around as if about to panic. He doesn't though. He just keeps ripping out flowers, occasionally sniffing, and on the even rarer occasion- slipping them into his mouth and actually chewing at them.
Eventually he squats down by a rose bush and digs his fingers into the bright green earth near its base. His fingers scrape it up, peeling away the grass and gouging out a small hole in the ground. He digs his fingers in deeper, completely enraptured with this process, whatever in the hell that he's doing. His hands are already caked with filth and so the dirt piling up under his nails barely deters from much that he already didn't have going from him. He tosses the dirt aside and hunches down over his legs, working his fingers deeper into the dirt until he's pulling out what looks like some kind of beetle. No, he doesn't eat it, but he does stare in complete and utter fascination as it scurries over his hand. He turns his hand over to watch it before gingerly lowering his hand down and letting it crawl off his hand and back down into the muddy earth.
He sits back with a huff, just staring at the hole in the ground before he looks up at sky. Like it might have answers he was trying to find.)
OPTION C: Eat til you puke- Wait, not literally. Shit.
WHERE: The Kitchen (puking ahoy)
(The thing about people who were legitimately malnourished was that eating, at some point, became kind of difficult when you finally got the chance to- well- eat. Some innate part of Max understood this when he discovered the kitchen but a bigger part of him had known hunger for such an intimate length of time that he nearly cried when he discovered food. Food food. The kind of stuff that came with green things and grew up out of the grown and could be put into your belly without making you sick. The kind of food that if he scraped at his brain for long enough, he could kind of remember. Potatoes...and carrots. Apples and broccoli. So many more things than just that. He doesn't think to cook. Warm food had died out a long time ago. Always too risky to light up a fire just so you could roast a lizard. Might as well be sounding the trumpets as to your location.
He's squatting on the kitchen floor by an entire sack of potatoes. He's got his gun resting on his lap and his hand wrapped around it. His other hand is vanishing into the sack repeatedly, pulling out potato after potato and crunching into it. His eyes dart about a bit nervously every now and then. A suggestion to his paranoia and really, the fact that he was pretty sure he was stealing. No one just had....food laying about for everyone to take.
He's only a couple potatoes in when his stomach begins to aggressively reject the onslaught of long forgotten nutrients. The roll of flavor and the amount of food being consumed in one time. Something that wasn't just a scrabbled bite of protein from a reptile, from maggots. He was raising a potato to his mouth when he felt the first sweep of nausea. He covers his mouth for a moment with the back of his hand, staring at the sack of potatoes for a moment, waiting for it to pass. As it did, he started to eat again but then it slammed into him full force.
He makes a low, choked sound, potato dropping before he slaps a hand over his mouth but it's too late. Puke crashes out of his throat, through his fingers and his eyes squint shut. He removes his hand from his mouth and proceeds to puke up onto the floor in front of him. It's not violent and it's really not a lot but it's....Shitty and leaves him heaving a bit, eyes squinting.
All in all, starving sucked.
Feel free to stop him before he actually pukes.)
OPTION D: WILD CARD IT
WHERE: wherever you want it to
Where: The Garden, The Kitchen, The Library
When: 08/24
Rating: Mature content primarily because of Max's canon. Potential triggers can be found here that may or may not be brought up either in character discussion or Max's internal monologues.
Summary: Max kind of having religious experiences all over the place over all the food and water and green stuff tbh.
The Story:
WHERE: The Garden Part 1
(A man is situated at the edge of the fountain at the front of the gardens. His entire body is tense as a spring and he looks filthier than the dirt piled up under the several heads of flowers poking out around. His attention is wholly on the glassy surface of the fountain in front of him and should he be approached, he will show no immediate attention to whoever has decided to near him.
Bafflement of everything aside, Max had come into this world like he had left his own: hungry and thirsty. The water was a bit much to take in. He'd drunk enough to get himself a little sick upon arrival but it hadn't made him sick sick, dead sick, so it was okay. Must have been okay. Which meant that maybe these golden fish darting around under the water must be all right to eat. He didn't think to find a kitchen. Not right then. Not yet. It didn't matter that he had woken up in a mansion. Luxury was hard to adjust to and to Max, basic food and water was a luxury.
In a single movement, his hand snaps out, quicker than any human's ought to be and it crashes through the water. A moment later, he's holding a wriggling gold fish in the palm of his hand. His eyes remain dull and he raises the fish up towards his mouth, fully prepared to eat it.)
WHERE: The Garden Part 2
(After his fascination with the fountain has subsided, the very same man can be seen prowling skeptically through the garden. He's not very considerate of the carefully plotted flowers. He's completely crushed entire heaps in his wandering though it doesn't seem at all intentional. His eyes are a bit glassy, detached, like he's still in a fog or a dream perhaps. He stops to pick at the flowers. Rips them out of the earth and turn them up towards his face, looking almost unnerved at the sight of them and yet wholly in awe. Like he could scarcely believe what he was holding in his palm. He'd drop each one shakily, snapping his head around as if about to panic. He doesn't though. He just keeps ripping out flowers, occasionally sniffing, and on the even rarer occasion- slipping them into his mouth and actually chewing at them.
Eventually he squats down by a rose bush and digs his fingers into the bright green earth near its base. His fingers scrape it up, peeling away the grass and gouging out a small hole in the ground. He digs his fingers in deeper, completely enraptured with this process, whatever in the hell that he's doing. His hands are already caked with filth and so the dirt piling up under his nails barely deters from much that he already didn't have going from him. He tosses the dirt aside and hunches down over his legs, working his fingers deeper into the dirt until he's pulling out what looks like some kind of beetle. No, he doesn't eat it, but he does stare in complete and utter fascination as it scurries over his hand. He turns his hand over to watch it before gingerly lowering his hand down and letting it crawl off his hand and back down into the muddy earth.
He sits back with a huff, just staring at the hole in the ground before he looks up at sky. Like it might have answers he was trying to find.)
WHERE: The Kitchen (puking ahoy)
(The thing about people who were legitimately malnourished was that eating, at some point, became kind of difficult when you finally got the chance to- well- eat. Some innate part of Max understood this when he discovered the kitchen but a bigger part of him had known hunger for such an intimate length of time that he nearly cried when he discovered food. Food food. The kind of stuff that came with green things and grew up out of the grown and could be put into your belly without making you sick. The kind of food that if he scraped at his brain for long enough, he could kind of remember. Potatoes...and carrots. Apples and broccoli. So many more things than just that. He doesn't think to cook. Warm food had died out a long time ago. Always too risky to light up a fire just so you could roast a lizard. Might as well be sounding the trumpets as to your location.
He's squatting on the kitchen floor by an entire sack of potatoes. He's got his gun resting on his lap and his hand wrapped around it. His other hand is vanishing into the sack repeatedly, pulling out potato after potato and crunching into it. His eyes dart about a bit nervously every now and then. A suggestion to his paranoia and really, the fact that he was pretty sure he was stealing. No one just had....food laying about for everyone to take.
He's only a couple potatoes in when his stomach begins to aggressively reject the onslaught of long forgotten nutrients. The roll of flavor and the amount of food being consumed in one time. Something that wasn't just a scrabbled bite of protein from a reptile, from maggots. He was raising a potato to his mouth when he felt the first sweep of nausea. He covers his mouth for a moment with the back of his hand, staring at the sack of potatoes for a moment, waiting for it to pass. As it did, he started to eat again but then it slammed into him full force.
He makes a low, choked sound, potato dropping before he slaps a hand over his mouth but it's too late. Puke crashes out of his throat, through his fingers and his eyes squint shut. He removes his hand from his mouth and proceeds to puke up onto the floor in front of him. It's not violent and it's really not a lot but it's....Shitty and leaves him heaving a bit, eyes squinting.
All in all, starving sucked.
WHERE: wherever you want it to
B! >.>
dirtyman digging through the gardens. Plants are strewn everywhere and as he watches another flies out of the soil to fall a few feet behind the man, a step away from his own boots. He's dressed in simple leather armor, a sword at his hip and a shield hooked over one shoulder to rest against his back. All in all, he probably looks like he stepped out of a local Renaissance Fair, but in contrast... he's not actually sure where this stranger might have walked out of.Certainly not a place with a bathhouse. ]
Are you the gardener here or do you just have a vendetta against lilies?
[ He finally speaks with bemused skepticism, crossing his arms over his chest as he eyes the stranger curiously. ]
no subject
Definitely not a bathhouse.
Belatedly understanding what he was asked, he shakes his head to both.)
Just. There's plants.
(That's all that he can really say about what he's doing that would explain why he's doing what he's doing. Maybe.)
no subject
...Yeeees? That is typically what one finds in a garden. Are you... feeling alright?
no subject
...Fine.
(He pushes himself up from the earth and stands awkwardly for a moment, feeling as though he couldn't keep looking through the garden.)
Is it yours?
no subject
No, not at all. It probably belongs to.... this place. Much of what you'll find here does. Are you... Have you just arrived?
[ Brennan's only been here a few short weeks himself, so adapting is still certainly a thing. Max is the first person he's come across that seems as confused about this place as he's still feeling. ]
no subject
Doesn't really remember all of it too well but he definitely hadn't been here previously. Nothing was like this back home.
What the man does say is a bit interesting though. Did he seriously not know who owned the place? It had to be owned by someone, right? Max takes a quick glance around, as though expecting it to become immediately obvious as to who that person could be. Of course, it doesn't.)
What is it?
no subject
[ Brennan motions behind him to where the manor house looms over the hedges that ring the gardens. ]
It's not a very big place, but we're stuck in it. No one can through the forest without getting turned around, and the ocean seems to be the same way. This place - or whoever runs it, I suppose - is magic. it brings people here from all manner of strange worlds and times. I apologize for not leading with that - you're the first person I've met who's arrived after I have. I'm still pestering most of the others for answers when I come across them. 'Tis a strange place, but pleasant enough, for somewhere to be stuck, I suppose.
no subject
(A dull repeat before Max's eyes are following after the motion. The odd mansion that strained Max to look at for too long. Stuck.
His attention is drawn to the forest that he had been looking at earlier. The trees were every bit as fascinating to him as the plants around the garden were. But then the man says something that has Max snapping his head back around and his eyes widening. It was one thing to have the fountain but...)
Ocean?
(Yes, he is seriously skipping the entire magic part. Magic wasn't really a thing Max could just wrap his mind around at the snap of someone's fingers. Strange worlds, times, all of that. It didn't matter because he didn't know how it possibly could matter. He'd accept it quickly enough but the ocean was familiar to him in that it couldn't possibly be.
He tries to reel himself back in. He needed to pay attention. He was realizing steadily that this was a place he was going to be for a while. Accepting it as a truth. Listening to what people had to say about it was important.)
Uh...you're kind of new then?
no subject
And yes, yes I am. I've been here... [ He pauses and squints to count back for a moment. ] A little over a month now. It's very strange compared to where I'm from. This place has magic like I've never seen, and people from stranger lands than I've ever heard of. [ Which is impressive. He's learned a lot about strange lands in the past year or so. At least in his opinion. ]
no subject
Magic.
That does pull his attention away from the ocean and back towards the man himself, brow raised up.)
Real magic?
no subject
Depending on your definition of 'real', I suppose. [ Not according to Dorian, who is still having a fit over the closets and the magic that sustains them. ] The magic in this place seems to react to what you wish, or need. It's shaped by will, it seems. The rooms up in the manor house, they shape around a place familiar to you, when you seek a home in one of them. There are cupboards, closets, that you can imagine what you desire - food or clothing or weapons or anything mundane - and when you open the doors you will find it within. It's a strange brand of magic, to be sure, but very useful.
no subject
Weapons was worth remembering. So was food but that was a bit more of a sensitive subject. Not too unlike water.)
How can we really- trust it then? If it's just magic.
no subject
Because it is magic? I don't know how it works - I'm no mage - but the things it conjures are real enough, and some people have lived here for months. Years even, I've heard mentioned. Magic's merely a tool - it's the intent behind it or the person wielding it that should be questioned. Unfortunately I've seen no one point a finger at a source of it yet, other than this place being magic itself. And it seems to go through a lot of trouble to typically see us safe and comfortable.
Except for the events this place randomly throws at us, it seems. Those are still confusing me. Maybe it fears we will get fat and bored if we merely laze around all day and enjoy ourselves. Instead it crafts challenges for us shaped around the memories of realms people are drawn from.