Role Playing - Tabula Rasa || A PY/MYOC Roleplay - Page 5

degausser · 11-23-2015, 11:39 PM

SOON I HOPE.

AtomicEmpress · 11-24-2015, 12:03 AM

yes please!

Captivating · 11-24-2015, 08:00 AM

degausser · 11-24-2015, 08:18 AM

Nice gif, Libby.

Pretty sure Em said she works again tonight so hopefully tomorrow. Fingers crossed.

Shiri S · 11-24-2015, 10:55 AM

I has no plotting PMs in my box. Someone should fix that

degausser · 11-24-2015, 09:18 PM

OOC: Since everyone is ready to go and Em won't be able to get around to starting this for at least a couple more days on account of work and holiday related things, she's asked me to go ahead and get this started.

The present setting: It is late in the evening, though no one can really say what day of the week it is. The technology in the hotel suggests we are still in the 21st century, but the decor remains conspicuously outdated by about 60-70 years. Hotel guests are able to view the outside world through the lens of the televisions in their rooms, but if they actually attempt to contact the outside world, say, by dialing out on their cell phones or attempting to tap into the wi-fi, they find the signal is conspicuously out of service. There's little to do besides channel serf, meditate on the futility of the situation and ... explore the hotel.

The usual hotel ameneties are available for everyone to utalize for character placement: a classy but outdated bar that always seems to only ever have two or three people at any one time can be found on the first floor. A neglected training facility can be found on the third. A gated pool is available for guests with canopied cabanas flanking both sides. Feel free to place your characters anywhere.

And ... we're off! Ready, set ... post!

degausser · 11-24-2015, 09:59 PM

Damon Lannister
It was not too terribly out of the ordinary for Damon Lannister to rouse himself from a heavy slumber influenced by wine, ale or a combination of the two and find himself in completely unfamiliar surroundings. Such was the case now as heavy lidded eyes blinked groggily, attempting to adjust to the lighting which was mercifully dim. His first mistake was trying to sit up as quickly as he did, when he did, and Damon's right hand immedietly moved to cover his forehead where a searing pain flashed violently behind his eyes. A sound more groan than growl escaped his lips, and he found himself rolling onto his stomach as if anticipating some wretched beast was about to climb up his esophagus and pour from his mouth.

Seven hells, how many bottles of wine did I drink last night?

It was combing back to him in pieces, fragmented though they were, scattered and non linear. Damon vaguely remembered singing The Dornishman's Wife in a tavern. His brother had been there, grugingly, if his memory served him correctly. There were others as well. Most of them had the crimson cloaks of his father's house clasped to their gilded breastplates but he vaguely recalled a quiet boy no older than one and twenty with a stag stiched on the breast of his doublet. Had he been drinking with a Baratheon? It seemed unlikely what with the only storm lord he was at all familiar with being too dour and grim to ever engage in anything resembling a good time, lest it soil the white cloak at his shoulder. Clearly he had had more to drink than he thought. But he supposed that was his right, what with the wedding being the next day and all ...

Gods be good, the wedding.

Damon fell out of the bed in his haste to get to his feat for fear that he was late, or worse, had slept through the whole thing. The Lady Alissa Tyrell would surely never forgive him if that was the case. His Lord father would never forgive him either, which was the more terrifying of the two thoughts. That's when he finally noticed his room. A queer looking portrait hung on the wall, with broad brushstrokes cleverly crafted to make it look as though a bald man was screaming. The room was dimly lit, yet there were no candles to be seen anywhere, nor any braziers of fire. Instead the light seemed to be coming from a strange disk in the ceiling, though its flame was conspicuously concealed behind a glass dome. Damon shook his head in disbelief. Clearly he was still well, good and truely shitfaced drunk, or else R'hllor himself had managed to capture the sun and put it into tiny disks in the ceiling.

"Where in the Seven Hells, am I?" He whispered out loud to the empty room, blindly stumbling backwards until he had a door at his back. With his hand moving frantically to find the knob at his back, he twisted the cold metal and stumbled backwards into the strangest looking hallway he had ever seen in his seven and twenty years of existence. It was then Damon decided he was no where near as drunk as he needed to be to handle a situation such as this.
OPEN FOR FELICIA

Siobhan Easton
Somewhere along the line Siobhan Easton had convinced herself she wanted something resembling normalcy in her life. It was the primary motivating factor behind moving out of Pembroke Academy two years ago. She had longed for an environment where her surname didn't raise any eyebrows and the only oddities she might have to contend with were the silly themed parties that seemed to be common place amongst fraternities and sororities. And Siobhan had gotten her wish for the most part. A computer program helped determine her schedule from the hours of 8am - 9pm five days out of the week. She worried less about a transmutation spell accidentally turning a person into a toad and more about whether the toga she had stitched together (by hand, without the aid of any magical devices) looked authentically Roman enough. She had even gotten a perfectly boring part time job at a local coffee shop.

Only Siobhan had found that anonymity was not all it was cracked up to be. She was surprised to find how lonely she had felt while at college. Making new friends had been difficult and in one of her more desperate moments she had even flirted with the idea of rushing a sorority if only because she missed the camaraderie of her coven. Several times she had found herself staring down at her Sidekick, lingering on several names in her address book still at Pembroke Academy. She had even hovered over Caitriona's name a couple of times, only to abandon he idea at the last minute. Siobhan vaguely remembered having something she wanted to prove, though she could hardly tell you what that was at this point.

Perhaps that was why she was not nearly as rattled by the present turn of events as perhaps she should have been. Her heart raced quickly in her chest, adrenaline burning through her veins as her mind scrambled to come up with some sort of explanation as to how she could be in her college library at one moment and then ... a strange hotel room at the next. Was this anticipation? Perhaps it was a sign that she was unsatisfied with the monotonous turn her life had taken, the powers that be telling her in their own way that she might want to make a few changes in her life going forward. But that was neither here nor there at the moment. She had a new mystery to puzzle out, and Siobhan was not the sort to sit around and hope for a magical resolution to just magically occur on its own.

She moved about her room, curiously inspecting a brochure left on the table and fiddling with her cell phone. No reception. Why was she not surprised? She felt mostly compelled to leave her room and explore the rest of the hotel. The hallway had been empty when she first emerged from her room, no sign of life existing anywhere, until she turned a corner and nearly walked head on into someone else. Siobhan pivoted on her leather clad heals just in time to avoid a collision and she opened her mouth to utter an apology ... only to have her jaw hang slack open as her gaze swept the queer appearance of the man before her. The man wore a tailored doublet with intricate embroidery at the breast and she noted a leather scabbard hanging at his hip.

Siobhan's brow knitted perplexedly as her gaze gave him a slow once over. She really couldn't help herself. "Is there a Renaissance Fair in town I don't know about?"
TAG TORREN STARK

Wayward Melody · 11-28-2015, 10:52 AM

Joe
Joe was never much good at dreaming. He suspected that this was the long reach of a seemingly long, non-artistic life that left his dreams vacant; lifeless sepia where nothing ever happened. His real life, the vivid tactile thing he spent chasing down whatever hedonistic pleasure he could find or else beating it into submission, was far superior, one of many reasons he didn’t sleep much. If given an hour or three he’d roll out of bed as bright eyed and bushy tailed as he was able to do. It was different here.
It had been a week, or ten days, since his arrival. Here was something of an enigma but then Joe had woken up a time or two in similar states of confusion so initially he’d thought nothing of it. He rolled onto his side, nose settling into the curve of a familiar shoulder. The weight beside him was comforting, smelt of shoeshine oil and LifeBuoy and acquaintance and Joe had fallen back to the embrace of sleep only to dream in vivid color. He’d awoken breathless and sweating, right hand curled into a fist he used to punch the man beside him awake. This was about the time feelings of dysphoria took hold and decided not to let go.

Joe had cased the joint with the eye of an auteur. He found all the exits, or so he believed, only to find them all stubbornly stuck. He himself felt stubbornly stuck too, having viewed an ostensibly taciturn George Abernathy from across a room. After that he tried to get out of the hotel with even greater fervor, to no avail. That night, he’d pressed Finn up against the door to the room they’d shared f, hard enough to rattle the hinges on the door, and kissed him breathless. He’d been doing that every night since that night, too, and though Finn never complained beside the expected quip, Joe was sure there were wheels turning in his best friends head that never saw the quickness of his tongue.

Tonight found Joe sitting at the bar. There was only the one. In the expansive foyer, decorated in a way the smacked on home whilst most of the accoutrements spoke of other he nursed his second whiskey of the evening. “You gonna sit or stare at me all night,” he asked, shoving over his half finished glass. “Two more fingers say you didn’t find out anything today that we didn’t already know. Lets bet. Winner gets the better side of the bed.”

[Tag: Finn]

Jorie
Jorie liked to stare at ceilings. From a young age she spent a lot of time staring at the clean, matte, blank white above her, allowing her brain to wander. When her caretaker had thrown her down into the basement she’d stared at those ceilings, too. She peered up at wooden beams, imagined patterns in dark wood grain and drifted. In this hotel staring at ceilings seemed a little less strange. The ceilings of Hotel California were of a bygone era. They seemed lit from behind, bathing the geometric forms in ethereal light. It made Jorie feel light, too. The sharp curves spoke to order and art both, ostentatious in a way that the austerity of her life had never managed. It was lovely.

From what she’d heard no one knew how they’d come to be here, in this place, and most of the residents traipsed through the elaborate halls in varying states of annoyance, curiosity, peace or resignation. No one seemed truly happy about it, but then, Jorie knew why. Magic. These walls and these ceilings, these floors and counters, all oozed magic. Like called to like and Jorie could feel the magic of this place, very real and very solid, but unlike anything she’d ever known. It was more powerful than she was, certainly, but it was more powerful Supreme, too. The magic here felt neither benevolent nor malicious but there was a warning in it. Every time she approached a door a feeling of trepidation or apathy filled her up. Each time she reached for a window she wanted only for a sliver of air, not even a want of a view. Logically, she knew these things were strange, but even when she focused her own will; she was unable to change those feelings. So, she worked on trying to help Hearst instead.

Hearst was mostly an unknown to her when they’d got here. A sort of uneasy truce between hunter and witch had led her to try and help him locate his family. Then they’d ended up here. At first, she wondered if her inexperience with such spells had led them to the hotel. She knew now that wasn’t the case. The hotel seemed to soothe such thoughts away, fill her with purpose instead. Still, the fact they’d ended up here had made Jorie double her efforts to make the spell work for Hearst, only to get no further on each subsequent attempt. She was on the last of what ingredients she’d had on her person and nothing that she had would truly do what he wanted but she wished to exhaust every avenue before giving up entirely.

Jorie on prepared ingredients, using a clear, shallow glass filled with water to wet her hand. With moistened fingers she drew a small circle, indicating north with Vegvisir, the Nordic runic compass she used a a focus from which to drew power. She used another clear glass and a curved hair pin to muddle and mix the bergamot and calamus root she’d always kept on her person, cloves purloined from the hotel’s kitchen, the ashes of something that had belong to Hearst’s family and a drop of her blood made by worrying the edge of her finger with the sharpest points of her teeth until it gave. She held this second glass up and using fire from a lighter burned it until the smell of clove permeated the air. She chanted but her words fell hollow. Nothing happened. When nothing happened there was a flicker of despair which bloomed in her chest. “I don’t know why,” she whispered to no one.

Jorie took to the stairs, still staring at ceilings, rather than ahead of her, making her way towards Hearst room. She knocked, waited for him to answer but did not wait for greeting when she saw his face. “I tried,” she explained. “I don’t have anything left to conjure.” Averting her eyes, Jorie looked to her hand and the left ring finger still bleeding ever so slightly. “Do you have a band-aid?”

[Tag: Hearst]

Charlie
W.W.H.G.D. What would Hermione Granger do? Hermione Granger would be out of this hotel, already, she told herself. Hermione Granger would be back in the Lebanon bunker, er, well, Hermione would be back at Hogwarts but where Charlie Bradbury would be would be back in the Lebanon Bunker, tucked into the small space beneath Dean Winchester's arm and the wall, making him finish season two of Game of Thrones before going to bed. It was, in Charlie’s opinion, sacrilege that Dean still hadn’t finished his binge watch of season two of Game of Thrones. Yes, saving people and hunting things was important but there were rules and strictures to binge watching - the primary one being that one must, you know, binge, a.k.a devote a short period of time to indulging in an activity to excess while doing nothing else. Besides, Charlie was giddy with the anticipation of watching Dean watch Daenerys (his unspoken favorite) seek refuge in Qarth. She had a thing for Daenerys, too, but, she wasn’t sure exactly how much of that was tied up in just how gorgeous Emilia Clake looked in a bitchin’ blonde wig and how much of it was general badassery. Truth be told in reading the books she’d always been more of an Arya fan. It was something about the Action Girl trope. She responded to it. Hell, she’d created her own, small version when she’d developed her LARP alter ego in the Queen of Moons.

Her days of Leviathan, Moondoor, of hunting, of Dorothy and Oz seemed very far behind her. She remembered it all but she couldn’t get back to it. Not that she really wanted to get back to the situation she’d been in right before she’d ended up in this funny hotel named after and overplayed Eagles song. She had been hunched over a toilet trying to come up with a cipher for the Book of the Damned before Eldon Styne kicked in the door and…well…she tried not to think about what followed because it had been painful – really, really painful. This place wasn’t painful, not in the physical sense, but it was positively primeval which was a mental anguish all its own. There wasn’t a computer to be seen, anywhere, and she’d looked, the tv was unreliable and with no tenable internet connection so Netflix was a huge, resounding no, and her cell phone wouldn’t call out and only held charge enough for her to tap into Candy Crush Saga using a bastardized charger constructed of stripped wire and fifteen lemons each attached to electrode pairs in parallels. “Just my luck, “she muttered. “Locked in the impenetrable fortress with only a match-three puzzle game for company. Dear Mario, this princess is locked in another castle.”

[Open]

Annicka
On hotel stationary Annicka jotted down some notes. She has been cataloging the residents of Hotel California since she got here. She had no impetus to move, or to leave, or, really to do anything other than keep detailed notes. In her pristine little room with everything in its place Annicka’s chest of drawers was full of pad after pad of notes rather than clothing or under things. At night, she reread her observations, lips pursed in thought.

Tonight, instead of lounging up in her room she sat on one of the flat dias’ in the front lounge, people watching. She jotted down names, occupations, problems, anything of note she could cobble together, and what her recommendation would have been for each individual. Her pen moved smoothly over the yellow page, a looped handwriting surprisingly legible for a medical professional.

Mel…nickname or given name? Easton. Pretty. Self-deserting. Sub typical. ~~Dominant archetypical?~~ AvPD/BPD? Observe from distance. Do not approach. Situational dominant.

Odette. Acquire last name. Hypersexual. Emerging Measures and Models of sexuality, conditions for further study non-applicable. NOS. ~~Hyperorality?~~ Engage flirtation in future. Record result. Switch.

Eckley, Joe. Handsome. Protection of central supply network…Finn??? Bellamy??? Preventative objective decision-making re: Finn (observe in habitat, approach with caution). Others? Analogous with signs of abnegation. ~~Loud.~~ LOUD. Self imposed dominant.

Wenthworth, Caleb. ~~Yum~~. Strained relationship with haute couture model-esque girl. Find name.

Non-Hereto Normative:
• Eckley, Joe
• Finn???
• Odette
• Amelia Blackfyre (secretive, avoidant?)

Annicka drew loops in the upper corner of her notepad and stared across the room. There was a man she hadn’t managed to get the name of and that set her upon her course. “Excuse me,” she said, blithely as possible. “I couldn’t help but notice you were by yourself. Would you mind if I sat with you?”
[Tag: George]

degausser · 11-28-2015, 08:06 PM

George Abernathy
Thirteen days. It had been thirteen days, or maybe fourteen, George couldn't be quite sure. Time was a fickle thing in the hotel. It was the third day he realized there was no reliable way of telling the time. There were clocks, but so far as he could tell they kept a time all their own. Sometimes time seemed to slow to a snail's pace, George staring at the strange numbers on the metal box in his room for seeming minutes on end before the blocked numbers would flip from one number to the next. There were other times George was sure he had lost time, the hour hand on the large grandfather clock in the entry lounge of the hotel performing several 360s around the face when it only felt like five minutes. He could have sworn he saw the hands moved backward once.

It had been disorienting, to say the least. There was a time when George was so deep into the bottle that he often lost entire days to the drink, waking up in strange places with no recollection of how he got there. This had been like that and for the first couple of days George had himself convinced he had fallen off the wagon again. Richard Warsaw had been the first to help him back on. The second time, it had been Joseph Eckley. He had neither with him at the hotel, no moral support to help see him through his moment of weakness. Yet the cravings that had once ruled his life were so far absent, and when the third day (or had it been the fourth?) came and went without his hands shaking or any anxiety attacks to speak of, he knew this was different.

Whatever this was, he could not quite say. There was no sensible reason he could come up with for his being here. Perhaps it had all been a dream, and if he pinched himself he would wake up and find Joe sleeping next to him. That's what he had heard anyway, once. George pinched himself for the umpteenth time to the same result of nothing. He was still in the hotel, doomed to aimlessly wander the hallways just like everyone else, passing the time as best he could with what limited recreation was available to him.

Blessedly, there had been a gym in the hotel on the third floor, or what passed for a gym anyway. There was no ring, but there had been a heavy bag at the far end of the room, its leather cracking and peeling along the seam. In the corner had been a lonely speed bag as well. Without any gloves, George made due with some tape and gauze he scavenged around the hotel. He was just coming from the gym now, face and chest both drenched in sweat. The lounge was typically quiet when he arrived and not more than two minutes (or ten, or an hour, who knew with this place?) could have passed before an attractive woman approached him. She had not been the first nor did he suspect she would be the last. What else was there to do but talk to the other displaced souls in this place?

He thought it a bit curious that she should notice his being alone until he realized there was little else to notice with so few people around. "Not at all," he said while gesturing to the vacant seat across from him. Equally curious was the notepad cradled in her arm, though he didn't think it his place to pry. "Alone as well yourself, or just in need of a diversion until better company comes along?"

Amelia Blackfyre
It was a miracle no one had murdered the other yet. Amelia had still been seething quietly when the trio of witches had suddenly found themselves on the ugly green speckled blue shag carpeting of the hotel room, a number of ritualistic objects scattered in the middle of the small circle they made. It had been an asinine exercise, designed to force them to work together and through their problems under the guise of simple spell work. Transmuting such a small piece of lead to gold required a rudimentary incantation, one that any of the three girls should have been able to perform on their own. Amelia had been distracted though. She blamed herself for their predicament, even if she didn't say it out loud. It had been her fingertips on the athame, her energy directing the flow of the spell.

Several days later and Amelia couldn't even remember what exactly it was Mariah had said to make her so mad. One would think she would be used to it by now. Her retaliation had come in the form of a quick incantation she had read in the margins of a book. Like something out of a Harry Potter novel, she had uttered a couple of words in Latin not fully knowing what they would do. Mariah looked like she had taken an axe to the face in the Battle of Blackwater after that. It had been temporary, fortunately. Horrified by her actions, Amelia was too slow to ward against the retaliating hex that followed and suffered the boils on her face longer for it. That was when poor Mellark Easton had stumbled upon them in their room, Mariah with half her face missing and Amelia unrecognizable under a mask of boils. It might have made for an amusing sight had Siobhan Easton not walked in on the three of them right then and there and judged Mellark guilty by association.

Amelia felt bad for that as well and expressed it with a perpetually contrite expression anytime her and Mel's eyes managed to lock.

That had been five days ago. Several failed attempts to recreate the circumstances that supposedly brought them here later and the three were barely speaking to one another. Frustrated and growing increasingly stir crazy, Amelia raked her fingers through her recently shortened hair. "I'm going for a walk. I'll see if I can replenish some of our dwindling herbs from the kitchen ..." she trailed off, leaving the statement open ended should either of them wish to join her. Amelia never quite learned how to ask for the company she desired.

In the hallway she came upon a girl with red hair cropped short similar to her own and was struck by a strange and uncanny familiarity she could not quite put her finger on. "Who are you talking to?" Amelia blurted out inelegantly. The girl glanced back at her, startled or irritated, she wasn't quite sure. Amelia cleared her throat awkwardly while glancing around the empty hallways. "An anthropomorphic turtle with claws isn't going to jump out and breathe fire at me, right?" The girl was pretty enough to be a princess worth guarding.
TAG CHARLIE -- SEMI TAG MELLARK AND MARIAH

Wayward Melody · 11-28-2015, 10:36 PM

Annicka
Annicka smiled broadly, making a mental notation, flipping her notebook over so that all of her observations and scribbles were kept secret from the man in front of her. The unknown man was fit but he’d worked himself into some sort of sweaty stupor much more than he needed to. Some people tended towards over exertion but this man didn’t wear the hallmarks of a gym rat but rather the lithe limbs of a runner. Interesting. “The current company looks fine to me,” she said, sitting directly across from her intended target. “And alone is relative, don’t you think, we’re all alone and yet none of us are.”

Though Annicka mostly believed that to be true, it wasn’t the real reason why she was asking. She found out more about people by posing thoroughly, infuriatingly vague and open ended questions than she did through niceties. “I’m Annicka von Trent. I take pride in knowing as many people as I possibly can.” She tilted her head, a stand in for the traditional handshake, with all the clinical detachment that her warm smile belied. “This is quite the place, isn’t it? It has a little bit of everything for everyone.”

Charlie
Charlie’s face contorted, a ready retort on her tongue but it died there upon turning. “I don’t know,” she replied. “This place has a little bit of everything but I haven’t run into Boswer, yet.” A genuine smile graced her features and she flicked at the screen with the tip of her pinky finger, effectively ending her Candy Crush game. “Aren’t you are little svelte for Mario? I mean, rule 63 aside you’re missing some very important paunch in some very important places. Not that’s I discriminate, I have been known to be all about that bass.” A cursory look up and down the speaker had he hasten to add “or the treble,” without a second thought.

For reasons unknown to Charlie the hallway was one of the best places to experiment with keeping her phone charged. It was one of the few areas long enough to support a conga line of lemons and a long criss-crossing on thin, copper laden wiring. Plus, Charlie had always sort of preferred sitting crossed legged on threadbare carpet than lounging about on poofs or sliding chairs, a sort of unintended response to what had been, at least recently, a rather nomadic lifestyle. This lifestyle and a rather strong black light had alerted Charlie that beds and sofa and various other more civilized places to sit had more residue than the floor, so the floor was where Charlie chose to sit if she was given her druthers. “So, what makes you want to brave flying turtle ducks, power flowers and goombas?”

AtomicEmpress · 11-28-2015, 11:26 PM

OOC - Does anyone want a tag from any of my characters?

degausser · 11-28-2015, 11:57 PM

OOC: Pammie, I'll take Gemma for Alexandre.

George
The current company looks fine to me. Much and more could be read into that statement. Outside of making the observation, he didn't put any more thought into it, never one for being presumptive. Nor was he a philosopher, much less the existentialist. Skeptical he could be though, and he eyed the mysterious beauty with careful curiosity as she leaned back into the chair, the leather groaning quietly beneath her. He couldn't be sure that her question hadn't been rhetorical, so he merely quirked a brow and shrugged.

But the answer was obvious. Everyone was always alone at the end of the day.

Her frankness struck him as being rather forward. The times, they are a changin' or so a willowy voice declared at the back of his head. The youngest Bellamy girl, no doubt. Strange, he hadn't thought of her or the rest of the Bellamys in a while. "George Abernathy," he offered reciprocally. As to the hotel he could only glance around distractedly, idly dabbing the towel in his hand along his sweat soaked wife beater. "Yes, I suppose it is rather convenient in that regard," he said in a tone that suggested he did not share her enthusiasm. Muted curiosity danced on his face as he glanced back over at his new acquaintance. Too convenient, he might have added, though if George learned anything from his time at Helmsley it was to withhold a potentially unwanted opinion with unfamiliar company.

"And what is it the hotel provides for you?"

Amelia
This place has a little of everything but I haven't run into Bowser, yet. She smiled, a brief, tepid smile that faded just as quickly as it materialized on her face. "The day is still young," was her attempt at being witty. At the accusation of being svelte Amelia could only glance down at her ensemble, her brow wrinkled in confusion. Svelte? What about her was svelte exactly? She was skinny, yes, but nothing of her skinny black jeans and terribly cliche Beatles t-shirt from Target was elegant. Amelia nearly piped up to verbalize her confusion when she realized the girl was simply observing that someone such as herself did not look to be the sort that was even remotely familiar with video games.

I've been known to be all about that bass. "I don't under-" Or the treble. "What?" She shook her head, the question more a coda to her own confusion than anything else.

Her fingers absentmindedly brushed along the small pouch hanging at her hip, a flush creeping into the small apple of her cheeks. What could prompt a svelte wiccan such as herself to brave the perils of the Mushroom Kingdom? Why, only a quest of the utmost importance of course! Some of the most common herbs she worked with could be found in the kitchen pantry. Basil and rosemary should be easy enough to come by. Maybe if she were lucky she'd find some sage growing in an outdoor garden, assuming there was one. Yet the more she thought about it, the more boring it sounded. What would the girl think she was trying to do? Make some sort of poultry rub?

"Restlessness," she said, deciding to be honest. "I was tired of sitting around in my room all day trying to figure out why ... how ..." Amelia trailed off, thinking it sounded crazy just now as she was saying it out loud. "... how we all got here. And how to get out." Surely she and her classmates weren't the only ones trapped? Her lips parted to voice her inquiry when she finally noticed a queer line of lemons leading away from the girl down the hallway. Amelia blinked once, then twice, glancing between the copper lined lemons, the girl on the floor and back again.

"What are you doing with those lemons?" It had come out far more abruptly than intended. "I mean, uh ... are they connected to your phone?" And then it was as if the sun appeared from behind a wall of clouds, blanketing Amelia in an epiphany. "You're trying to tap into the wi-fi, aren't you?"

Wayward Melody · 11-29-2015, 05:44 PM

Annicka
Annicka eyes tracked over George’s face, one elegantly shaped brow arched. Professional opinions aside she read a vacancy in those sky blue eyes, a sort of disinterest but not an unfriendly one. She couldn’t chalk it up to anything clinical. “I believe I asked you first,” she said, demurring. With a lowering of her lashes to change tactics, Annicka began testing a new theory. “Or do ladies always come and go first where you come from?”

She uncrossed her legs at the ankle, crossing them instead at the knee. The white suit she wore stretched in comely fashion across the skin of her legs and she’d chosen the gesture purposely. Like many a psychologist, Annicka von Trent had studied the masters, and like her favorites Stanley-Hall, Brill, Jung and Freud, she saw far more into sex and its implications than mere propagation of the species. There was a lot one could learn by measuring and calculating responses to sexual overtures aside from the doing.

Though Annicka had based her practice on the importance of dominance and submission, on the mood enhancement provided by physical touch, the socio-cultural meanings behind mounting and the excitement of chasing climax, it was also the temporal and spiritual aspects which were exciting to Annicka. For some reason this George seemed to present an interesting case study though she knew nearly nothing about him. In that following her gut was something Annicka did with alacrity and regularity, she made the decision to use this man for just that for as long as they were both residents. “In the interest of transparency, this hotel presents a large pool of interesting people,” she said truthfully. “And I like interesting people.”

degausser · 11-29-2015, 06:57 PM

George
His hand slowed in its movement, the damp towel resting momentarily at his chest. Her eyes roved freely over him and George could not help the feeling of being scrutinized. Years of living two lives had found him well practiced at the faces he put on for both the public as well as in private. Joe always hated that other face, calling it his false face. The way Annicka von Trent looked at him now as unnerving, as if her meticulously manicured nails had managed to somehow slip beneath the second skin he wore to peel away and see the ugly truth that hid beneath the surface.

Or maybe it was the manner in which she shifted in her seat, the gesture of which struck George as being oddly obscene. He kept his eyes glued to her face.

"I only figured someone such as yourself might be waiting on someone." Objectively speaking, she was an attractive woman. Even George could recognize that fact. He couldn't imagine someone such as herself remaining alone for very long. "In the same spirit of transperency, I can't say that I've met any woman such as yourself from where I come from." He sensed in her so-called honesty an attempt to make him feel more at ease, so naturally he felt the opposite. George's gaze once again flitted to the concealed notebook, conveniently skipping right over the generous neckline provided by her blouse. Interesting people, ey? "I would hardly consider myself interesting," he addmitedly truthfully, his gaze flitting back to meet hers reluctantly. "I fear your interest may be misplaced."

Wayward Melody · 11-29-2015, 07:13 PM

Charlie
Charlie fiddled with the prongs of one wire, pushing it deeper into the lemon. She was going to run out of juice soon, literally, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to raid that kitchen for a second stash of produce just yet. “Not a Meghan Trainor fan,” she said absently, eyes going flinty as she observed the fruit conga line in front of her. “No connecting to Wi-Fi. I don’t think this place has actually ever even heard of a computer, let alone Wi-Fi. Even the t.v. is analog. We don’t even have access to Crackle,” she lamented, tongue peeking out of the side of her mouth as she made minute adjustments to the wiring.

“The whole hotel is linked with copper wiring, annealing aside it’s like this entire hotel is stuck in the nineteen twenties, which, you know, I can dig. Like everyone I dream of undressing Dita von Teese and then having a shower…” Charlie tensed up, short red hair swishing as she shrugged and peered up at her conversation partner. “That last part, I totally said that out loud, didn’t I?” She nodded, aware of her mistake, self deprecation manifesting itself in an over large smile meant to appear somewhat modest to contrast what she’d just said aloud. “I make an great first impression. If I was more limber I would take my foot and insert into my mouth…I should just stop talking. Stop talking, Charlie.”

Annicka
She had managed to unnerve him, but not in the way she had expected. George seemed to studiously ignore her flirtation but not her questions. His eyes seemed more interested in her notebook than they did with her. Curious. “I have a terrible memory,” she said, feigning nonchalance and pointing to her notes. I’ve been writing down the names of the people I’ve met here.” She picked up her notes held them out, not within arm’s reach but in a less private manner to engender trust and confidence. “I was always told it was polite to remember people’s names. Maybe the fact that I don’t keeps me from those many admirers you seem to think I have.” It was another feint, another ruse, a plasticine façade at straightforwardness.

She tossed the book back on the seat, not bothering to conceal the cursive this time. “It’s been my experience that people who say they’re not interesting are usually the most interesting. “ She gave him a second glance, less assessing than the first she gave. “Also, anyone I’ve met here is a complete stranger so I’m trying to make connections where I can. The best way to do that usually is remembering the things they tell you.” That statement concluded with a fleeting, genuine smile and true sentiment. Though content to stay in the hotel and content to psychoanalyze anyone who came within ear or eye shot, it wasn’t lost on her that the whole situation was strange to say the least. She’d gone to bed in London, a nude cliché in silk sheets and woken up in a threadbare hospital gown with no connection to her prior life and no way to reach out to it. The oddity was not lost on her; she simply chose not to be irked by it. “And you don’t get to decide if you’re interesting or not to anyone else. In the same vein you don’t get to decide whether or not your attractive or not to someone else. You either are or you aren’t. “


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