entrancelogs | [CLOSED] Sexy, but not like we're trying to.

Entry tags:

[CLOSED] Sexy, but not like we're trying to.

Who: Cullen Rutherford (

morework) & Evelyn O'Connell (

nascensibility)
Where: The kitchen
When: Wednesday, April 27
Rating: PG/PG-13
Summary: Cullen meets new technologies and old Wonderland inhabitants. Also, a dog. Most importantly a dog.
The Story:
He picks up the torn paper from the floor. Someone must have discarded it, small wonder. Guidelines on how to settle into his new prison are the last thing he would have wanted to receive upon his arrival. Now? The writing tells him little he's not discovered already, but...

Cullen stands in the kitchen, only minutes later. He's been here before, but not yet thought to disturb the unfamiliar devices. He runs a hand over the stove, cool underneath his glove. He imagines the dials on the side must activate its function somehow. He opens the door to the refrigerator instead, and cold air washes over him. He wonders if ice is stored somewhere he can't see, if it functions similarly to the cooled basements some mansions employ. Some enchantment or ambient spell he can't detect? Or-- Cullen eyes the microwave with a challenging look, and takes off his metal vambrace.

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Mornings are always slow, which is how Evelyn prefers them. A good putter through the halls, a walk through the gardens, a stroll along the edge of the beach looking out across an endless sea. She likes to think she's become largely desensitised to the majority that Wonderland offers in its downtime, after years of working out the kinks in her technological disadvantages and becoming accustomed to portable communication devices, refrigerators the size of cart horses.

There are residents yet who are becoming acclimated themselves - Evelyn privately wishes that the influx of people in Medieval garb had arrived before she issued her pamphlet, that she might cater some pieces to their needs after more research - and nowhere is this more evident than in the kitchen. Upon entering, Cinnamon at her side, one of the aforementioned persons in Medieval garb is quietly, methodically examining the culinary equipment. He moves to the microwave. He unbuckles a vambrace.

"Are you completely mad?!" she asks from the doorway, and her concern grows ever greater upon noticing one of her pamphlets on the counter. Striding toward him, Evelyn plucks the little shield from his hand.

"Or are you trying to set the kitchen on fire?"

The last event has only fanned his vigilance. Unconsciously he still listens for footsteps, and perks up when he hears- shuffling, an irregular patter? He turns around. A small dog. And its owner who, evidently, was threading more quietly. He does not get the chance to offer a greeting.

"Is that what it would do?" he asks plainly.

A mild frown is reserved for the theft in plain sight. No matter. He can use the other, if need be. And these are not his own, no matter how closely resemble them, flaming sword engraved and all.

"I read a note on it, so I'd wondered. May I have that back?"

Can use the other, but does he want to?

Evelyn does realise that she reacted poorly, too hastily, but it stems from a desire to prevent the same misfortune that had befallen her when she put a plate with gilded edges in the microwaving machine. Gently cradling the vambrace in her hands Evelyn clears her throat, holding it out to him and feeling very self-conscious about interrupting so brusquely.

"My apologies."

Whatever crest or sigil is pressed into the piece of armour is certainly not of her world; interesting, regardless.

"I...wrote that note, and distributed it. The construction of the microwave and the means by which it warms food reacts poorly with metals. They start to spark, and the box itself catches fire, and I don't really think any of us want to be victims of accidental arson today."

Cullen holds the metal contemplatively. A trial clearly would have provided faster and more reliable answers, but he can make do with this. Much as he'd have no qualms about watching the mansion burn. He puts the vambrace back on with a practiced twist.

"You wrote that note," he repeats, and suspicion narrows his eyes.

This is not your home. The microwave's workings are easily set aside, in favour of that note. He'd wondered about its origin as well as its purpose: the latter too close to a kindly invitation to settle. This is not your home. The last words of that sort twisted his mind, in ways more revolting than he cares to repeat. This is not your home.

"Are you one of the people who live here?" Should he clarify? It seems rather obvious, but- "One of the- Is this your world?"

This is not your home, again and again, and his thoughts sink into the knowledge like teeth. He won't lose it, this time.

Clarification seems to raise further questions, apparently, as what could have been a mildly embarrassing outburst-turned-introduction appears to have become an unexpected inquisition. It is not unusual that someone might exercise caution while meeting strangers, but there is a certain accusatory edge to his tone and she does not care for it.

"Yes and no. I did write the pamphlet, but I am not originally of this place."

Never let it be said that Evelyn is incapable of demonstrating civility, even with potential pyromaniacs.

There is something uneven and tense about the way he carries himself at present, but Evelyn would assume that any situation wherein one finds their afternoon exploration interrupted by a small woman and her small-to-medium-sized dog is at least vaguely uncomfortable. (Speaking of which, Cinnamon pads over without prompting to snuffle at the gentleman's knee.)

Near impenetrable as Cullen's armor may be against blades and magical attacks, its wearer lends it a glaring weakness against Dog. He succumbs to a moment's distraction, as he studies the peculiar breed. Not a war dog to be sure, but suitable enough to flush out small game and retrieve it.

Cullen makes himself disregard it pointedly.

"It mentioned events," he begins, and draws himself back into the task. "What did you write about them?"

It ought to reassure him that she doesn't claim this place her origin, but he's not yet sure that it does. A pamphlet which all but invites them to settle into their fate, is there really a good reason for that?

The man ignores Cinnamon and Cinnamon, in a manner much like her master, continues to probe. The dog defers to sniffing at his boots inquisitively as though they might better explain why he smells otherworldly.

"Ah...that they tend to happen every fortnight," Evelyn informs him, wondering if that word is archaic to the armoured man, because Dipper Pines made certain to tell her which parts of her vocabulary sound old-fashioned. "That they last three to five days, usually, and often twist our reality in some way. Most, if not all, are based off of the memories of residents."

Evelyn wouldn't like to invite every new person to welcome Wonderland as their permanent home, but she's an exception to the rule of average stays and it sounds much more pleasant than 'this is purgatory, enjoy your time here.'

"...I'm sorry, we haven't met properly yet."

"No, we haven't."

He would say it plainly, but some tension sneaks into his tone. He had hoped for a glimpse of bias, for her to praise or condemn Wonderland in some fashion, so he might better know what to expect. Alas, her report is efficiently factual. At any other point he would have appreciated it.

"I'm--" --concerned about anyone who would put effort into devising a list of amenities rather than thoughts on escaping Wonderland's false sense of hospitality, which her writing hardly discourages.

It is only when he feels his brow furrowed that he remembers others who held so little love for their home that they would embrace this instead. That he remembers Hawke's advice. It can't hurt to be cautious, but try not to let it consume you, alright?

Cullen takes a slow breath. All right.

"I'm Commander Cullen, I serve the reborn Inquisition of Thedas. The ones of us that are here have searched for an escape from Wonderland since their arrival, so far without success."

He would do well to be honest, to voice his genuine concerns, but his dance around the subject of discomfiture slants the tone of their conversation to a very odd side, as though there are parts she cannot see and yet is expected to know. Evelyn waits patiently, fingertips braced on the nearby counter while he steels himself.

It is an unexpected title and one she hasn't heard before, this Commander of an Inquisition, but it certainly explains his militaristic bearing and the uneasy suspicion he is entertaining. Of course, the only inquisition with which Evelyn is familiar happened to have religious objectives and involved a great deal of torture, so her own approach is with some reservation.

A formal introduction deserves a formal introduction.

"Lady Evelyn Carnahan, but Evelyn will suffice. I can't say that I'm surprised by your lack of success. Even the most qualified and confident of residents are incapable of finding a way out."

She drums her fingertips on the countertop, clearing her throat.

"I've been here for almost five years."

A noble who relinquishes her title in the same breath as she offers it? Suppose there's a first for everything.

And that problem certainly is the very last on his mind, especially when the rest of her answer drags itself across his demeanour like a storm cloud. At the poor track record of success he had already guessed. But the living example of its extent is new, and drains his colour.

"Five years," he repeats, his voice quiet with the horror of it. "How do you endure it?"

Evelyn doesn't answer to Mrs. O'Connell very often - if ever - and surnames have always been somewhat superfluous in Wonderland. If a well-bred sort of person introduces himself with a proper title, why should she not do the same?

Cullen Rutherford's expression darkens further, another perfect example of suspicion and wariness, distress at the thought of being trapped here. Not so long ago she was waxing dissatisfied about the very same reaction to Philip, and it takes all of Evelyn's considerable patience and self-control not to turn to the Heavens asking for reprieve.

Horror. Always horror.

"By reminding myself that I have no choice but to do so," she replies honestly, "And taking it a day at a time."

An important thought for many occasions. Not for this. Not for here. He's seen what it looks like to be deprived of options. Anyone who doesn't see them here is either not looking hard enough, or has chosen to close their eyes.

"By convincing yourself that this is the only choice you have," he paraphrases unhappily. Horror? Pity? Disappointment? Disgust? He doesn't know. He keeps them from his voice, until he's decided. "But when was the last time you tried to escape? What was the last thing you did to try and get back home?"

Evelyn is often challenged about the length of her stay, about how she must not be looking hard enough, digging deep enough, scraping the sky for answers. Having spent the first three years or so doing just that can can say with confidence that while she has not slipped into complacence, she has come to the realisation that she may not ever leave, and that there are more productive things to do with her time.

Fingertips resting on the countertop Evelyn can feel her grip tense, tighten, release slowly with the immense control she is demonstrating for his benefit.

"I died back home," she informs him, and while that alone is little obstacle based on precedent it did become the point from which she decided it might not be worth it to reach for things that aren't there.

That doesn't answer his questions at all.

If anything it only raises more, and deepens his frown by their weight. She looks as solid and alive as any of them, does that speak alarmingly about the effect this place has on spirits? Should it have them concerned about all their fates at home? Or is it only a metaphor for bad news, a fate delivered from a point further down the stream of time? He should ask his next question cautiously, just in case.

"How can you know that?"

Remarkable, is it not, how people might appear alive when they are anything but? Evelyn recalls concern at Philip's predicament and after some time he came to terms with it, and so did she, albeit grudgingly. When it happened to her, she understood better.

Cullen Rutherford's purported 'caution' does not instill her with any sense of belief beyond that which tells him what she is cannot be true. Her jaw clenches and she knows she would ask the same question of another, whether it was right to do so or not.

Cinnamon anxiously circles the kitchen island.

"Because when I was stabbed in the wastes where we had no supplies to speak of, in the heat, I felt cold. Because the last thing I could remember before waking up here was the expression on my husband's face when he realised he couldn't stop the bleeding."

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[CLOSED] Sexy, but not like we're trying to.

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