scorched, posts by tag: !arthur pendragon - LiveJournal

( Collapse )

I've been thinking.

[ Arthur's got his Forge on the table, hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling of his rooms in Patrol Headquarters. But he lifts his head to look at the Forge, lifting an eyebrow as if to antipate the commentary some people might have regarding that statement alone. ]

I've been thinking about starting a little organization. Nothing political — we've quite enough of that lately — just an idea I had, to supplement our food over winter.

I'd like to get together a group of those who can hunt game, or are extremely good at foraging for food in Anatole. Roots or fruit or seaweed... anything that doesn't need the Greenhouses. Because I know not everyone arrives here with the ability to take care of themselves.

[ He certainly didn't. ]

So, much like there is with the Patrol, there would be allocated shifts. And someone with ability would partner someone without to teach them how to gather their own food. The day's takings would be distributed amongst members, sold in the market to support the costs of equipment, food preparation, and storage, and any leftovers given to the Dragon's Hearth to support those who would otherwise starve.

[ He drums his fingers on the arm of the chair, looking off-screen, though his gaze is distant. Unnoticed, a small white dragon is stalking, low, across the covers of the well-made double bed behind him. ]

We have had it easy so far, but winter can be a demanding season, and with the Greenhouses ravaged as they were and the baskets run dry a sure source of regular food would be a comfort to many. Would anybody else be interested in—?

[ Abruptly, the dragon propels itself, with a mad flutter of leathery wings, across the gap to the back of Arthur's chair, leaping again from him to pounce energetically on the Forge like a cat with a ball of string. ]

[ There is only time to hear Arthur's shout of surprise before the feed abruptly terminates. ]

[ Arthur's sitting with his basket on the table beside him. ]

It keeps refilling itself. If I never see ham and cheese and ale again in my life it shall be too soon.

Does anyone want to do a swap? We could gather together and sample dishes from each other's homeworlds. Not that mine are particularly interesting.

And if you've got a little extra food, which I believe right now we all do, consider sharing it with our neighbors who didn't receive baskets. We're on the precipice of winter right now, after all.

[ Arthur makes as if to turn the device off, and then pauses. As an afterthought:]

—Oh, right, and welcome to Anatole if you're a part of the... is there a nicer word than influx? I'm Arthur Pendragon. It's a pleasure, I'm sure.

( Collapse )

[ Arthur is getting his rousing speeches in early for once. He's sitting at his desk, in full armor, spine straight and gaze solemn. ]

I have good reason to believe something large and dangerous is coming from the sky. Whether it will attack, I can't say, but this time we will be prepared.

This may be a good time to take a brief holiday to Dismas. But I will also remind you that in times of conflict and peril, the Alliance mansions throw open their doors to those in need of shelter. Scorched and Native alike.

We stand as one, Anatole. We've weathered all sorts of devestation, we shall not be defeated by a shadow in the sky. Even those who cannot fight may bring people to safety, distribute food and blankets, or assist the physicians at the Clinic. And those who can fight? We've among us some of the best warriors in any universe. People with years of training. Talents and gifts long-held or Mist-granted.

Let that lighthouse shine: not as a warning, but as a beacon of hope in the darkness.

[ A pause, and he blinks, looks a little sheepish. ]

Just — be careful, is all.

Burnished metal and electricity, oh, there's a stormcloud coming in from the east, dark belly low as a pregnant cow. The wind whips up the golden strands of your hair and smells of rain and smoke. You're a little drunk, woozy with vertigo and the wineskin you had shared earlier with a terrified stable-boy, mouth-crinkling sour and red, setting in stone a taste that will last a lifetime.

You keep your back to the door behind you. It's a tricky thing, and through the curling haze that never quite seems to drift through it you see the view from the roof of a different building, a clockwork city at dusk, heavy snowflakes already beginning to turn everything white. It frames you, as you look out over a castle already built from pale stone, that knows nothing of snow and Mist. From this height you can see the fires on the outskirts of the city.

Behind you, a young woman's voice calls your name, clear as a bell, chiming across the distance between worlds. Your fingers dig into the rough hewn stone of the parapet.

---

It's cold. Your cloak and jacket are some of the finest-quality garments you've ever owned, and still the chill nips playfully at your fingertips and the end of your nose. There are others worse off, carving shelters out of rags and snowdrifts and huddling there until they die. Some of the more enterprising have attempted to rebuild their homes, while others knock desperately at the doors of any still standing.

But there are tireless men and women here, who can do impossible things, and together you push back winter's baleful hold on the city. Silver eyes and room enough for those who need it. Green hair and a bowl of broth. Strong hands with a purse for a widow. Sunlight streaming warm from the tip of a stick of wood.

At night, two bodies coccooned together, and it's a fire in the hearth, a warmth in your chest spreading outwards, a conflagration.

( And when you're in the ruins with snow squeaking under your heavy boots, a man's voice says urgently, Sire, Sire. Come at once. )

---

The blaze springs up, a rush of heat over soot-blackened cheeks, and you could be anybody as you pass a bucket from the man behind you to the one in front. No title, no responsibilities, just sweat streaking patterns down your face and the roar of the flames.

Later gentle hands press ice to your burns and you hiss. The metal of your armor has warped with the heat, and you're not sure, if you take it off, that you'll be able to put it back on again. But it's taken from you anyway, slowly, barely noticable, piece by painful piece.

Through the window, the shape of a dragon, silhouetted against the moon.

[ Arthur has, in fact, regained his voice. But he's choosing to type today as he has some important pictures he's taken that he wants to share with you all. ]

Face facts, Anatole.

( Collapse )


It just goes to show, that even the incredibly aesthetically pleasing can make for a good meal.

[ It's Arthur. Apparently rumors of his death have been greatly exaggerated. In fact, though he isn't exactly chipper, he doesn't look too unhealthy, either. Simultaneously to the feed starting, his text appears on the screen. ]

I want to thank everyone who fought for our city recently. Without each and every one of you working together, our casualty rate could have been far worse.

Belated, I know, but I hope you'll find it in your hearts to forgive me.

We know now that there's more out there than trees and monsters. We must not be taken unawares again. The time for disunity and lowered defenses is over.

[ He swallows heavily, pressing his lips together. Then leans in to type some more. It's possibly painful to watch: he never uses the text function, so this is hunt-and-peck at it's finest. ]

Yes, I've lost my voice. No idea if it's temporary.

If you ask if I'm all right we may later come to blows.

[ Fair warning, he means it. ]


( Collapse )

( Collapse )

( Collapse )

[ There is no video because he is horribly embarrassed. But Arthur's voice, at least, is deep and familiar and adult. ]

I believe I may owe some apologies.

[ the Forge turns on accidentally, as Forges sometimes do. it's Arthur's chambers. there's a young man on the screen, a boy, just on the cusp of adolescence. he's holding up a boot that's far too big for him and frowning in puzzlement. he comes closer to the camera and you can hear him rustling through papers on the desk. ]

[ he comes upon the device quite quickly, the feed blurring as he turns it over in his hands, flickering on and off as he presses a few buttons. ]

[ oh, that was a filtered section, maybe to you? and some keymash. and then the young boy's bare feet. something playing back, off the network. ]

What...

[ the voice is piping, high as a choirboy. ]

Hullo?

( Collapse )