entrancelogs | Tavern Mingle (INSIDE)

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Tavern Mingle (INSIDE) | OPEN

Who: EVERYONE
Where: The Dark Lantern Tavern!
When: 1/15/16 -1/18/16 - The duration of the event!
Rating: Probably PG-13, will vary by thread.
Summary: Let's go to this creepy tavern and ask for some directions! A log for staying nice and dry inside.
The Story:

For the duration of the event, the mansion has become a dingy tavern. It has two floors, the bottom being the main tavern and the upper floor has six bedrooms with one bed and one magic closet in each room for everyone to fight over, unless they don't mind sleeping on the floor or in the tavern somewhere. With the amount of people in Wonderland, everyone is cramped together and it will be very crowded. The closets will work, however they will only provide clothing and items from time periods long gone (though they do not seem to be bound to any particular time period). There are no employees to be found in the Tavern, but there's a working kitchen with a wood fire stove and enough food and drink for everyone to last the entire event comfortably. There's even a stage with musical instruments to entertain yourselves with! There's no electricity, but plenty of candles and lanterns around.

For the entire length of the event, it will be dark outside. In addition to the never-ending night, it will pour for four days straight, and it will all seem rather ominous once it becomes apparent the sun isn't coming out. Pretty much all signs will suggest that everyone should stay in the tavern and eat, drink, and be merry with their stupid new names. But it really is tight quarters, and some might be curious to see what else is out there. Maybe there's another place to stay out there, or something. Maybe the Beast Alice spoke of is out there.

(Lost? Perhaps you're looking for the outside log or the event information.)

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The door to the room flies open and the Bastard is on his feet a heartbeat later, sword drawn. He's been ambushed one too many times to be caught off-guard by someone barging in to-

Demand he leave. Huh. Well, at least he's not being attacked. Although he was just disturbed for nothing which doesn't make him any more accommodating to strangers trying to order him about for no good reason.

"Hmmm, let me think about it... No." He sheaths his sword and sets it back down in easy reach before flopping back down onto the bed. Closing his eyes he stretches out indolently, as if he's ready to doze right off which isn't far off the truth. He is still magnanimous enough to offer before he does, "You can grab a blanket and sleep on the floor if you want. It's clean enough."

The Puppet isn't a particularly large or burly or intimidating guy, but he likes to think he carries himself with a unique kind of purposefulness that makes him hard to stand up to. Or so he thought, before he entered the same room as someone who holy god who carries around a freaking sword, holy shit.

"What the hell." He finds himself less concerned with the blatant refusal and more concerned with the fact that this guy could easily kebab him if he so chose. The Puppet's carrying nothing more than a camera, where does this clown get off carting a damn sword around? "Jesus, dude, is the weapon really necessary? Who's gonna jump you, the barkeep?"

Cracking open an eye he glares at the other man who doesn't seem content to just let him nap in peace. The Bastard heaves a sigh and sits up, counting off on his fingers as he replies.

"The barkeep, another person here, a monster from the creepy forest could break in. A dragon could fly down and set the building on fire. Demons could come bursting in from the Fade." Maybe some of those aren't likely but they're all possible. And more than one happened to him before he wound up in Crazy-land. In his home with actual rules about what could and couldn't possibly happen which don't seem to apply here.

"So, yes. I think it is necessary. It makes me feel better." And if this guy has a problem with him being armed he can just take himself elsewhere.

"The fuck kind of world do you come from." It's mostly rhetorical, though it sounds like some real kind of Dungeons and Dragons shitshow. And what the fuck is a Fade.

"You didn't hear that kid downstairs? There's just one Beast, uno, and it waits in the trees to turn people into...trees, or something. I dunno. I stopped listening after a while." The Puppet's not wholly inclined to back out just yet, however. "And unless you're pregnant or elderly, I'm calling dibs on that bed."

Though Alex would be the type of person to kick a harmless old lady off the bed, let's be real.

What is it with people acting like his home sounds strange? They've been kidnapped to magic mansion that is now a dingy tavern and they act like he's the weird one for expecting to see demons?

"And that's supposed to make me less worried?" A monster turning people into trees is still a monster and still doing things he'd rather not have done so he'll just be keeping his blade handy. Just because this Beast is staying outside for now is no guarantee it's going to stay there.

The Bastard looks over the stranger currently informing him that he's planning to take the bed and grins. "If you can take it you can have it." But unless this guy has some very impressive tricks up his sleeve or magic to call on, Alistair is feeling pretty confident in his ability to keep his bed. "I won't even use my sword, promise."

"What, you'd rather we arm-wrestle?" So, the way he sees it, he's got three options: one is to assert his masculinity and wrassle with the musclebound fantasy hero. The second is to slink off, throw in the towel, and be done with this whole engagement. Neither option is one he finds particularly appealing.

And the third is to somehow wrangle out a compromise and split the bed, which is the kind of thing that has the Puppet wondering if the night would end with them braiding each other's hair and debating which Jonas brother is cutest.

He folds his arms. "Mm-mm. I call foul. You've clearly had practice suplexing dragons, or whatever it is you demon-slaying hero types do." What's the Puppet supposed to do back home, ask an unworldly entity to spot him while he lifts dumbbells?

"Riiight. What do you want me to do, promise to take it easy on you?" Which he'd be OK with since 'taking it easy' would only mean not hurting him but still totally winning.

"If you'd prefer we could have a duel. You can even use my sword." Now he's just deliberately being an ass. But he was here first and the floor is pretty clean. He's slept in far worse places so why should the other man have any troubles doing the same?

Alistair's half-tempted to just lay down and try to get back to sleep but he's certain that won't be tolerated by his company. So if he actually wants to be able to rest - without needing to go find a kennel or somewhere else that would actually be free to bed down in and no one else would want to use - he needs to prove that this bed is currently his and staying that way.

"If you have a problem with it, come up with something better yourself. Otherwise I'm not moving." That's fair. Letting the challenger set the terms. Until they become terms he doesn't like, that is.

The Puppet opts not to answer immediately. He simply narrows his eyes, enters the room fully, shuts the door behind him, and sits down on the floor, leaning up against the wall directly across from the bed.

Then he raises his camera.

Then he starts taking pictures.

Click-snap. Click-snap. Click-snap. Golly, listen to that shutter go. Noisy thing, isn't it? Reallllllllll annoying, he'll bet. Click-snap. Gosh, these pictures aren't coming out well at all. Guess he'll have to take some more. Click-snap. Click-snap. Click-snap.

Hmm.

Nope, still not coming out. Shame.

Click-snap.

"Sorry," he says innocently, "is this bothering you?"

It was a little weird when they guy came inside to sit on the floor and point a thing at him but it didn't seem like a big deal. Maybe he'd just decided sleeping on the floor wasn't so bad after all.

Then the noise started. The first one made him jump, staring at the thing making the noise like it might be about to explode. Nothing bad happened though and his new 'friend' wasn't concerned by the sounds his machine was making so it clearly wasn't a bad noise.

Then it came again. And again. And again. And-

"Seriously? That is just- Ugh!" How immature could someone be? Did he really think if he was annoying enough the Bastard would just give up? That was so not going to happen. Folding his arms determinedly he glared at the other man, remaining firmly planted on the bed.

"What are you even doing? Besides trying to annoy me. Which isn't working, by the way."

Right. Not working at all. Yeah.

Edited 2016-01-17 07:54 (UTC)

"Hm? Oh, I'm sorry, have these not been invented your world yet?" The Puppet is just really making every effort to come across as a pompous asshole, isn't he. He holds the camera up in one hand as though presenting it to an audience, speaking deliberately slowly and emphatically. "This is a camera. People use them to take pictures. They use them to create art. Just - " Click-snap. " - like - " Click-snap. " - this."

He's getting a whole lotta photos of this guy, isn't he? Doesn't matter. If it pisses him off without riling him up enough to actually make good on his promise of arm-wrestling, the Puppet doesn't give a shit. Besides, it's honestly a little bit hilarious.

"I'm not an idiot." So he hasn't seen one of these cameras before, that doesn't make him stupid. Even knowing he's been deliberately provoked doesn't stop him feeling defensive over it. "Your definition of art just needs some work."

The noise is really starting to grate on him now and this guy's attitude just makes it more annoying. Alistair normally considers himself difficult to provoke but he's tired, the inn is packed with people and he just wants a few minutes peace, that's not too much to ask, is it? He could just get up and leave, let Mr 'is this annoying you?' have the stupid bed and find somewhere else to can nap. He could, if he didn't hate the idea of letting someone as obnoxious as this win.

Throwing him out and barring the door is still an option. Except he has a feeling that might just result in lots of yelling and banging on the door that won't be any easier to sleep through.

"If you keep that up I will tie you up and gag you, don't think I won't." He'll have to sacrifice a blanket to do so but it's a small price to pay for some peace.

"No? Could've fooled me," the Puppet says in his best condescending, get a load of this guy tone. Now he's definitely trying to piss him off. Art can be whatever you make of it, Guy. Did someone name you the universal decider of What Constitutes As Good Art? No? Then who are you to judge. He bets this asshole's never seen good art in his entire life. He bets he hasn't even seen Pulp Fiction. Wow, guy. Wow.

"What's your name, anyway?" He makes no move to stop, though he does slow down a bit, now studiously taking pictures of pretty much any subject in the room that grabs his interest: the closet, the beams on the ceiling, the carpet, the dust bunnies under the bed, whatever. "The Killjoy? 'Cause you're doing a great job living up to it."

He's still making that noise, still taking his stupid pictures with his stupid camera and acting like Alistair is some kind of moron. Is it too soon to start tearing up the blankets to make some bindings? The snapping sound is coming a little slower though. And he'd rather not have to give up his blanket if 'Look at me I'm an Artist' is getting sick of his game too.

Fine. A couple more minutes to see if he'll stop. Then Alistair's going to sit on him and shove a dirty sock in his mouth.

"No, of course that's not my name." But he can't say what it actually is - or what he'll give it as if he tries. He knows exactly how that will go and no thank you. He got enough of that back home, telling this guy he's the Bastard? No. Not happening.

"You tell me who you are first. Because I can think of plenty of names that will fit you. The Pain-In-The-Neck. The Irritator."

"I asked first, Killjoy." He scrambles for an adequate lie, an excuse to keep from uttering the awful name he's been saddled with for the duration of the event which, in all honesty, is more likely than not to breed all kinds of curiosity that he doesn't want to deal with. Not to mention that it's utterly ridiculous on principle, and doesn't even describe him properly.

Still, Killjoy - he's just always gonna be that until the Puppet can think of a better pseudonym, because the Puppet can be a petty little son of a bitch when he wants to be - and his general reluctance to spill the beans on his title is pretty indicative. That probably means it's not something cool, like The Dragonslayer or The Hero or whatever the hell.

"C'mon, don't make me keep guessing." He settles his camera in his lap for a moment, arching an eyebrow. "It's just gonna get worse, you know."

Wait a minute. He can just lie, can't he? It's not like he has to give his real name. Title. Thing. He could say he's the Lord of the Griffons and his current problem won't know it's not true.

"Fine. I'm-" He should have though of something before he opened his mouth. This why he's a terrible liar. He doesn't think, he just talks.

...What name should he give? Actually, that's blindingly obvious now that he thinks about it. If he wants to make Ser Obnoxious shut his mouth- No, if he wants to give a name Ser Obnoxious can't make fun of. He's sure that there's not a single name he could give that would actually shut the man up so the best he can do is avoid the obvious source of mockery.

"I'm the Prince of Ferelden, happy?" And it's not technically a lie even. So there.

"Right, and I'm the Queen of Sheba." Hey, technically that's true too because he told that one guy, who apparently took the joke at face value, so from that soldier dude's standpoint, he is. So there.

The Puppet grins, the sort of self-assured, cocky grin he hasn't had the mental state to relish in forever. Not since he showed up, definitely. Harassing Killjoy is definitely ending up on his List of Fun Activities, at least unless it turns south. Which, given the circumstances and the fucking sword at his side, is pretty possible.

But hell, he's not keeping track. Nothing wrong with a little light-hearted barb-trading animosity, right? Right. That never hurt anyone.

"I am! I'm going to be the king in fact." Maybe. One person has said he will be so that makes it true enough for him to shove it in Big Mouth's face.

Trying his best to look royal and imperious - and feeling like he comes across as petulant at best, constipated at worst - the Bastard points at Ser Annoying.

"I told you my name, now tell me who you are. Or better yet, don't and just go." That's not going to work but it's worth a shot. Because frankly he prefers his barb-trading when he knows how to get under the other person's skin as much as they do his. Which isn't working so well here.

"I told you, pal. Queen of Sheba." He shrugs and makes no attempt to wipe the shit-eating grin off his face. "Really, just call me Sheebs if you're having such a hard time with it. It's tough out there for us royal types, you know. Assuming we ever get back. And assuming we don't die here. I hear that really sucks."

Looks like his general policy in not disclosing his past in the public sense is paying off. He's still something of an unknown variable, one that people don't know how to play. He silently resolves to keep that pattern going for as long as he can.

"So you really do do all that crazy fantasy shit, don't you? Slaying dragons, making out with damsels, the whole nine yards, yeah?"

"You're ugly for a queen." Petty yes but given how obviously 'her majesty' is laughing at him it's totally justified. Throwing something at him would be equally justified but all Alistair has to hand is a pillow and his boots. Neither of which he wants to lose.

"Oh, now we're going to be friendly and talk about home?"

"Fine, Queen. Yes to the dragons. And monsters. And bandits." It's not a very good threat, given he hasn't once reached for his blade and it must be fairly obvious he's not about to change that. He can't just run someone through for annoying him. But it's worth a shot.

"And what does her majesty do besides take pictures and try to find a dress that suits her?"

The Puppet's smirk simply widens. This guy's sheer annoyance is frankly fucking hilarious. He also has a sword, though, and he hasn't forgotten that. If things get hairy, he can always fuck off and disappear downstairs again, get lost in the real sucker of a crowd down there.

"I make movies." Again he adopts an insufferable tone of voice that might best be equated with a preschool teacher explaining that two plus two equals four. "Mooooo-vies. Moving pictures, to you. Don't suppose you have anything like that back home. That's real art, you know."

Maybe he can sacrifice his boots and get a new pair from the closets. If they're still working. Or just go barefoot. It wouldn't be so bad.

What's worse is that the whole 'moving pictures' thing is impressive and, as guessed, not something that exists in his home. He's seen one of these 'movies' before and it had been amazing but at the moment Alistair is determined not to be impressed by that kind of thing.

"Art," he snorts dismissively. "Is that all you can do? I'm sure it's very hard work, really. Do you have someone to run around after you and take care of the hard bits for you? Making sure you don't ruin your make-up?"

"Oh, yeah, I had a whole cast and crew at my beck and call," he says lightly, before he can pause to consider the...complications of what he's just said.

Namely, the fact that most of that cast and crew is dead.

He made sure of it.

It doesn't last long, but the Puppet's expression of amused unconcern definitely wavers, slipping, warping into something that lands between regret and distaste.

They're dead. They're all dead. He checked. He had to. He had to. He had to.

He forces another grin, trying valiantly to recover. "They were all dicks."

That hadn't been what he'd been aiming for but he clearly hit a nerve somewhere. He doesn't know the Irritator's story but he can make a wild guess from what is said and the reaction that comes with it.

"Let me guess, your charming personality convinced them they'd rather be anywhere else but near you?" This crew of his were clearly gone somehow and it wasn't a welcome absence, not entirely at least. It's probably cruel to mock someone about missing friends or comrades or whatever the case is when it's something that troubles them. And he so doesn't care.

"See, your problem is you have that last bit the wrong way around. And you meant 'are', as in 'you are'."

"You don't know the half of it." He narrows his eyes, the facade of false friendliness sliding away by increments. "You want the short version? They're dead. And thank you for your monumental sensitivity over the issue, Prince Ferrari."

(~~Because he killed them.~~

No he didn't. They walked into their deaths and he made damn sure of it.)

He's not terribly interested in turning this into a questioning scenario about himself, so he rides that line of thought all the damn way to its logical conclusion. "Any friends of yours I can shit on while I'm at it, huh?"

Alistair winces and looks away, all his irritation wiped away by the blunt confession. He hadn't meant- But he had, he'd wanted to upset the other man. And then he'd gone and put his big foot in it.

"There are but they'd all agree that I'm just an idiot with a big mouth." Scrubbing a hand through his hair uncomfortably he turns back to his companion, guilt clear on his face.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." He gets to his feet, grabs up his blade and moves over to settle on the floor in a corner of the room. It's not much of an apology but it's the best he can offer at the moment. "I can keep my big mouth shut if you'd prefer."

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