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entrancelogs2016-01-07 12:07 pm
nascensibility) wrote in entrancelogs2016-01-07 12:07 pm
[OPEN] and you may ask yourself
Who: Evelyn O'Connell & YOU!
Where: The library, halls, kitchen, parlors, outside grounds - any public space.
When: Night/Early morning of January 7
Rating: PG, PG-13 at most
Summary: Evelyn has always had the occasional nightmares, mild hallucinations, and sleepwalking problems ever since she came to the conclusion she was a reincarnated princess, but there's something to be said for locking your door when prone to somnambulism.
The Story:
She never used to dream as much as she does now, vivid and sharp. On more than one occasion before Rick's arrival Evelyn has found herself on her balcony, in the foyer of her rooms, with no memory of how she got there.
Before her death they had been wildly distracting, a reprieve from the night terrors of old but no less concerning: another person in another time, memories seeping into her mind like dark, insidious floodwaters, emotions that did not belong to her. The wrenching pain, happiness, fear of someone else.
They had rationalized it as a past life, as if the explanation itself were a rational one.
With the smoke of torches in her eyes, lotus and honey thick on her tongue, in her hair, she slips from a bed of linen and carved wood - Hathor's image, wide and loving and lush. Lamps burning oil perfumed with blossoms from the Nile's bank, hold steady light in a chamber of swirling heat. In the far distance the sem'ayt play drums and cymbals, ney-pipes accompanying a carnal beat.
Bare feet brushing carpet and chilled wood, dressed in precious little else but a nightgown and absent the source of warmth still under the sheets, Evelyn sways in place for a moment in the bedroom, seeing and not seeing in the wake of so much loss. A new year and new hurt to compartmentalise, to measure, and she feels the pull of the music that isn't there. Her fingertips trail over a sideboard; she leaves the room.
A decoration of scented fat seeps slowly through her wig, melting into the fibers and dripping down her back, following the curve of her spine. She has become less circumspect of late, alone in the wide expanse of halls. A power in her own right as designated by the gods, by Pharaoh-and-Egypt, her father dotes but knows the will of his sloe-eyed daughter, his favored child.
The pipes are louder now, as she moves to the great hall and nods to the attendants to reach for the handles of the entrance, intricate cobras to mimic the form of Wadjet.
With her chin held high, visualising nothing but alabaster and flame, Evelyn turns the knob and pushes the door
Open.
[NOTE: Feel free to literally encounter her anywhere she might get to that isn't locked, and this is including outside, although it'll be cold as a witch's tit because it's still January. She can be startled to wakefulness but will also be incredibly confused!
Please specify preferred location of interaction in tag headers.]
Where: The library, halls, kitchen, parlors, outside grounds - any public space.
When: Night/Early morning of January 7
Rating: PG, PG-13 at most
Summary: Evelyn has always had the occasional nightmares, mild hallucinations, and sleepwalking problems ever since she came to the conclusion she was a reincarnated princess, but there's something to be said for locking your door when prone to somnambulism.
The Story:
She never used to dream as much as she does now, vivid and sharp. On more than one occasion before Rick's arrival Evelyn has found herself on her balcony, in the foyer of her rooms, with no memory of how she got there.
Before her death they had been wildly distracting, a reprieve from the night terrors of old but no less concerning: another person in another time, memories seeping into her mind like dark, insidious floodwaters, emotions that did not belong to her. The wrenching pain, happiness, fear of someone else.
They had rationalized it as a past life, as if the explanation itself were a rational one.
Bare feet brushing carpet and chilled wood, dressed in precious little else but a nightgown and absent the source of warmth still under the sheets, Evelyn sways in place for a moment in the bedroom, seeing and not seeing in the wake of so much loss. A new year and new hurt to compartmentalise, to measure, and she feels the pull of the music that isn't there. Her fingertips trail over a sideboard; she leaves the room.
The pipes are louder now, as she moves to the great hall and nods to the attendants to reach for the handles of the entrance, intricate cobras to mimic the form of Wadjet.
With her chin held high, visualising nothing but alabaster and flame, Evelyn turns the knob and pushes the door
[NOTE: Feel free to literally encounter her anywhere she might get to that isn't locked, and this is including outside, although it'll be cold as a witch's tit because it's still January. She can be startled to wakefulness but will also be incredibly confused!
Please specify preferred location of interaction in tag headers.]
no subject
Of course, no servant could be as dashing as a apprentice having run from his tower and joined up with the Grey Wardens, but who's counting?
Anders follows patiently just slightly behind her while she uses the help of his hand to find her way. "You're welcome. At least I'm going to assume that was a 'thank you, my handsome rescuer'. I'll pretend it was." The spell still encases them in a pocket of warmth so that when he reaches for the door handle the touch of cold metal isn't quite as severe. "Not to worry, I'll get the door."
On the list of weird things he's seen in the last month, a sleepwalker doesn't even rate, but he'd feel a lot better once he got her inside and settled back... wherever she'd come from. With luck, perhaps someone's noticed her gone and knows which room she calls home in these seemingly never-ending halls.
no subject
Shepsenut is her most trusted and has earned the right to touch. The favored daughter of Pharaoh is her own, constructed of the god's flesh and entitled to physicality when she pleases. Unlike her siblings, brood of her father's other wives, she is required by no edict to wed cousins or brothers, the arrangements for them have been made and she may bask in unadulterated freedom.
Evelyn steps past the threshold and back into the warmth of the foyer, her original path interrupted but harbouring no ill will toward the perpetrator. Consciousness creeps back in slowly around the edges, a sudden awareness of temperature and the thin slip she wears sending a shiver through her.
no subject
If he were still in the Circle and had found one of the apprentices wandering around like this (which had been known to happen from time to time), ideally he'd simply walk them back to bed and let them sleep it off without them being the wiser. And maybe tease them a little on their nightly adventures the morning after. He can't exactly do that here--this isn't the Circle Tower where he knows every face, every room, every nook and cranny. He's an unwilling guest in someone else's domain again, but he lacks the same years of familiarity.
Take her somewhere a little more private? Wake her up? Those seem his best options unless he wants to wait for her to settle down on her own--and who knows how long that could take.
"What do you think?" he asks the sleeping woman beside him. Nodding down the hall, he says, "Shall I get a fire going and we snap you out of it before you walk into the fountain or off a balcony?"
no subject
(She would also agree that being awake might behoove her, but she can't exactly nod her assent either.)
Humming quietly, not so much incapable of forming words as she is incapable of processing what he is saying, Evelyn is sadly in the position of relying upon her good Samaritan for safe passage into a warm space, and her head lolls onto his shoulder in response.
no subject
"Ahhh, it's been a while since I had a pretty girl on my arm," he still muses remorsefully. "When you're not busy counting druffalo, you'll have to let me know if you have a sister who's single."
But as enjoyable as this one-sided conversation's been, it can't last forever. Anders steers them toward the tea room where he can settle her down by the fireplace and retrieve a blanket to drape over her to protect her modesty. A flick of his wrist sets a cheerful fire blazing.
"Now let's see..."
no subject
The tea parlour is warm and so is the localised bubble around her, which dissipates slowly as a swathe of fabric takes its place. When he begins his work, it feels like a vague tugging at the back of her mind, too distant to touch on her own in a state hovering between lucidity and forgetfulness. With a Night Mare the size of the great Sphinx sitting on her chest it feels a bit like gasping for air without anything to breathe: trying to inhale underwater, or through fabric.
Evelyn's fingers, resting on the ottoman upon which she sits, twitch anxiously while her eyes dart beneath closed lids. He pries gently and a hand takes Nefertiri's, Shepsenut again and they leave this great room, away from the scent of perfumed oils and melting fat, honey and meat, the cymbals still ringing in her ears as-
She gasps sharply and sits ramrod straight, looking about in wide-eyed shock with all the surprise one might anticipate from a woman who expected to awake in her own bed. Warily, and with no small amount of concern her gaze trails to the man not far from her, whose garb reminds her of medieval tapestries.
"...who are you?"
no subject
For that reason, the mage scoots back a ways when he feels his light brush of magic start to wake her, sitting back on his heels. When she snaps out of it, the first thing she sees won't be a long-limbed mage looming over her. Although he'd like to think his face isn't the worst a woman could wake up to, it's probably not the one a married woman wants to see.
Anders, still in his crouched position once her gaze settles on him, offers a humored smile. "I think the better question is, who are you? I'm Anders. You strolled past me on your way into the gardens for a walk. A sleepwalk."
And frostbitten limbs are a pain in the neck to heal properly, he can attest.