CONTACT | on the tranquility
![]() — » 003 » 005 QUARTERS | THIRD LEVEL SEAMSTRESS | FIFTH LEVEL PETYR'S LIBARY | FIFTH LEVEL DEVICE, IN-PERSON, BY RAVEN |
![]() — » 003 » 005 QUARTERS | THIRD LEVEL SEAMSTRESS | FIFTH LEVEL PETYR'S LIBARY | FIFTH LEVEL DEVICE, IN-PERSON, BY RAVEN |
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If he got stopped and asked, he'd say he wasn't looking for Alayne when he ends up in the kitchen, but the reality is he'd checked a few places before he found her, just to make sure her and her friend are doing okay. When he sees that he's found her, he stops in the entrance to the kitchen, thinking about that first time they met and how easily startled she was, and clears his throat. ]
Hey.
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When Tommy finds Alayne, she is bent at the waist and peering into one of the ice boxes used for the storage and keeping of food. Never before had she seen such a thing, a box of metal as big as a man which kept meat from spoiling without salt. According to the others it did not require great slabs of ice or frozen snow to function; in fact, it made ice in turn. A curious and strange device, to be sure, though wonderfully convenient in making fruit last for weeks on end.
At his greeting, she turns, her grip on the door slipping, causing it to swing open slow but wide. She looks startled and is startled, no doubt, but far less so than their first meeting. Carefully, she dips when she realizes that it is simply Tommy, her hands gathering her skirt on either side as she bows modestly. ] Greetings. Have you come to break your morning's fast?
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So he seeks out the blue of the eyes of his daughter, his gaze inevitably finding her again no matter how fascinating his surroundings might prove. (Admittedly, it isn't necessarily so much a need to find some grounding anchor as it is to make sure that she is by his side, that she is still his. It's something that paints itself as simple concern, the concern of a father looking after his daughter, making sure that she stays safe in an environment that has yet to prove itself strictly friendly. They make quite the picture. They always do.) ]
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There are no animals here save the various insects that buzz and chatter and alight on the fabric of Alayne's dress, but Alayne does not know that and so remains weary of every soft rustle of leaves and every pitch and sway of boughs in the distance. Here, the air is rich with moisture and is heady with the smell of exotic blossoms and heavy-hung fruit. To Alayne it is an amazement, unlike anything she has seen before or heard of songs or stories. Even though the dampness of the air makes her dress cumbersome, she does not complain, her spirits bouyed on by her enthusiasm and the opportunity to walk a while by her father's side.
(There is a rift in her heart, a hair-line crack so finely wrought that is impossible to discern by sight alone. One one side of the divide stands Petyr and his mockingbird, on the other sits Bran and the promise of wolves.)
A hand touches Petyr on the elbow as Alayne pauses beside him, distracted by the clusters of red-faced flowers which seem to bloom from the knots of a nearby tree. It makes Alayne smile brightly to herself, bending at the waist to look upon them closer. ] Sometimes I think myself dreaming, father, [ she says to one of the flowers. ] Have you ever before seen such a place?
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She spends the first few hours crying then the hours that follow that sleeping. She does not say a word, she does not let anyone touch her, but if she is left alone for even an instant she rouses from whatever sleep or daze holds her and shrieks as if she were ravaged anew. Her dress, having been torn and stained by the attack, is stripped of her but is kept nearby because, for some reason, she will not let it be put away. Given that the only other clothes are the uniforms provided by the lockers, she spends the day in her small clothes, bundled in blankets and draped loosely with her winter's cloak. The fabric and fur gathered to her, the collar of bruises she wears around her throat are barely visible though those that watch her will catch glimpses of it here and there (angry and ugly, a telling reminder of Magneto's wrath). On her stomach, hidden beneath the covers, there is a terrible grinning scar. Absently, she touches at it through the layers of cloth as she stares at nothing at all. Her red hair, loose and unkept, spills over her shoulders in need of a brushing. Slowly she blinks and slowly she breathes. (No, she is not herself.)
Death changes everyone — those that grieve, those that survive, those that remember and those that forget.
Death changes everyone. But it changes the dead most of all. ]
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(There is much to be done, much to be processed, but he does his best to concentrate on what is immediately at hand. At some point he will either have to tell Ned the truth of his relation to Sansa or try to explain away the comment that Robb had made as to being her brother. He'll have to deflect the questions that will inevitably come with Alayne's reappearance, as well. And then there is the matter of caring for the girl herself. He will stay until she has recovered, he thinks. And then he will take his leave. The climate doesn't suit him anymore.
He doesn't like Robb's raised hackles. He doesn't like the way that she had spoken before she'd died. He's seen the scar that she bears, now, one that he supposes is fitting for the mockingbird and his daughter. He doesn't like the weight that she seems to settle in his very blood.)
Still, he sits by the foot of the bed, back against the wall, his fingers threaded through each other like a short patch of latticework.
(He is not himself, either.) ]
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Attached is a note written in Erik's script, formal cursive though he hopes it's legible enough for Alayne to read, even if the language isn't English in the first place. ( On ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux ) A simple enough statement, but it's the ending that signifies its source; the word Magneto written in ink, and subsequently crossed out with a single line and an addendum in the form of Erik Lehnsherr right next to it.
He doesn't stick around to wait and see her find the object, the note indication enough of its source. She knows how to reach Erik, where he's likely to be in these times, often found in the gym or in the libraries, keeping to himself, not out of loneliness, but a solitude he finds comforting. Whether or not Alayne comes isn't something Erik expects; she's entitled to her own privacy, surrounded by men who trust her, willing to guard her after his deeds, though part of him still yearns for the chance at conversation. ]
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The metal is cool and the handwriting unfamiliar and the message left to her is writ in a language she does no recognize nor understand. Still, the sender is clear, her attention catching and then pausing on the single line drawn through the name Magneto. (A man with two names, Alayne thinks, her breath catching. We are more alike than perhaps you know, Erik.) She traces that strike with the tip of her finger, imagining it to be a wound dealt by the edge of a blade, and then sounds out the name given in its place. ]
Erik Lehnsherr, [ Alayne whispers and smiles to herself. (She cannot tell which gift is more precious to her.) ] Erik Lehnsherr.
[ When she looks him in the hour that follows, it is not until she searches the library that she finds him. Direwolf padding obediently behind her, the suggestion of a growl in her through quickly hushed and chastised to silence; the token is still cradled in her hands when she happens across him, the card tucked away into the folds of her dress, scurried to a secret place where she knows the gift of his name remains safe. Alayne bows — deep and low and sincere — when she greets him, that secret smile still playing across her features. ]
Erik Lehnsherr, [ she says softly, her chin dipped low but her large blue eyes lifted to look at him always. ] Humbly, I greet you.
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[Sometimes, Murphy forgets that he can simply walk out whenever he pleased. Or pick up that communicator and just listen to the sound of someone else's voice instead of his own...
[It's with that in mind that Murphy breaks the habit that he's become so accustomed to. Jaw clenched, mouth dry, he reaches out to the familiar line in hopes of an eventual answer, tearing the loudness of his mind's chatter:]
Alayne...? [He pauses. Swallows.] You, uh. Got a minute?
[Of course, he can wait, if she doesn't. Murphy has all the time in the world.
[But if recent events have told him anything, it was that most people did not have the same kind of time to kill. It would only kill them instead. In some ways, Murphy was okay with that -- but for Alayne, he wasn't. Stories like these never ended well, no matter how much he hoped for the best...]
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Alayne knows that, for Murphy, she is — or can be, if she moves correctly, if she says the right things — that light. Something hopeful and shimmering and still not wholly ruined; something to protect. (Redemption or hope.) If she feels some glimmer of guilt at knowing that she could be such a thing for such a sad, desperate man, she covers it with the knowledge that she is not unkind, that she can be good or some estimation of it. (And that is absolution, isn't it? Can't it be?) ]
Murphy, [ comes her reply, her voice slightly harrowed if only for effect. (He will more readily grasp for her if he thinks she is in peril, won't he?) ] Murphy, are you well?
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May I ask you a question?
(don't tell me that I already have, I know I asked a question when I was asking if I could ask a question)
(actually you can say it if you like I wouldnt mind it from you)
Yours always
& deepest thanks in advance for any answer,
S. BLACK
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Dear Sirius Black,
I take this to mean you did not fall victim to the maze,
nor do its terrifying denizens,
nor to the sickness that plagued us all.
Truly,
A. Stone.
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( V I D E O | encrypted 100% )
You should be more careful.
( V I D E O | encrypted 100% )
She does not ask immediately, instead dipping to a small bow. ] Anthony, you are looking much recovered.
[ Now that he knows the truth, perhaps he sees it now. The way Alayne looks at him with slight hesitation, as if constantly asking herself is this truly my blood and what would I give to protect you. ]
( V I D E O | encrypted 100% )
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The night's been odd, different, bringing on them all conversations that they would normally not have, and Jon wants to follow the course of that, to see where it leads them. To mend the relationships that never were, like two pieces of steel joining together for the first time to close a link to a chain that was otherwise left open.]
Alayne, it's Jon Snow.
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She wears her hair up, for that is what Sansa would do, and leaves her mockingbird pin on the nightstand rather than wear it round her neck. The ribbon she chooses for her throat is silver grey, the color of Lady's fur; her dress is the one given to her upon first arriving, the dress she'd died in and bled upon; the dress she'd dyed black to hide the stains and whose torso is affixed with little rosettes, stitched on to hide where the blade had tore her open.
Alayne smiles when she finds Jon standing out in the hallway and steps back and to one side to let him in, dipping once lowly in a modest bow. ]
Jon, [ she says. No Snow. ] Welcome.
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books and jewelry and clothes and hair stuff
should i come there or do you want to come to my room?
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Are you well?
Did they hurt you?
Is everything alright?
I read the accounts of others and it all seems terribly dreadful.
I would not have wished it upon you in all the world.
Yours always,
Alayne Stone.
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text » A C T I O N
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Under her door a piece of paper is slipped. It's a sketch in charcoal - a face of a girl on one half and the face of a wolf on the other.
There's no signature or any words on the paper.]
T E X T
I... apologize for him. He's not used to dealing with human... anything, and he's probably gonna either say something really offensive or refuse to shut up and see reason. I'll try to reign him in.
[Well, that's a fool's errand, but the point is he said TRY.]
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And you claim to make a poor champion.
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T E X T | E N C R Y P T E D
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should be careful about your birds
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What manner of threat is there to the birds?
Worriedly,
Alayne.
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t e x t | backdated to the 10th, because i haven't tagged alayne in too long
t e x t | asjklf JENNA GET INTO MY ARMSSSSs
What a lovely surprise to see your number winking from my little speaking machine!
It has been too long since last we spoke, it pleases me greatly to receive word.
I do not think your question dumb, simply curious and implying cake.
We've all sorts in Westeros, yes.
Though few are familiar with them there.
Truly,
Alayne.
t e x t | /throws her at you forever I HAVEN'T WANTED TO BUG YOU
t e x t | adkjf YOU ARE ALWAYS WELCOME TO BUG ME if you don't mind me being slow o-orz
t e x t | OKAY I WILL THEN i am the slowest too it's a + with me
[A letter!]
Lady Alayne,
I write you this not because I wish you to regret your words; I write you this because I beg you to reconsider your prior position. Please do not share this letter or what I have said herein with anyone, because it's not something I want anyone to know.
What you hoped would not come to pass already did so long ago. My father was murdered before me, and the guilty party walked free because there was insufficient evidence. I was a child and therefore an incompetent witness, and the murderer's defense attorney was immoral and scheming, so he was free to continue his life when everyone else's life came to a stop. To this day I detest him, and I detest all criminals who would harm the innocent, like those who hurt my father, and like those who hurt you.
I therefore also detest this woman, without ever having known her or spoken with her. But here more than anywhere else, we cannot act from hatred. If Robb Stark takes his justice out on her without due process, then perhaps Jaime Lannister will take his justice out on Robb, or on you. If we don't bow to one authority, then we will begin to feud at best, war at worst. Our authority must be separate from any individual on board; it must be the rule of the law.
I cannot stress to you how much I would like to see punishment meted out. Indeed, at times my hands ache with the desire to take the lives of those who would do people like you harm. I eagerly anticipate the day when she suffers for what she has done. But that day cannot be today, lest blood be spilled.
We spoke both in the heat of emotion. I beg you to consider all of this with cold rationality. It is all right if you come to detest me for saying such things; I am accustomed to that, and I am unbothered by sentiments of hatred, as I know well that sometimes feeling such sentiments is deeply satisfying, even comforting. If I might provide that release to you, I'll not feel regret.
I am deeply sorry for any pain I might have caused, because it is not ever my wish to cause pain. My hopes for your happiness and continuing health. My regards also to Sansa Stark; I hope that she will feel safe enough soon to show herself. I hope someday that we can build some sort of society upon this ship that will allow people like her to stand without fear, without defenses, where she can live with joy.
With deepest respect,
M. Edgeworth
( l e t t e r | b a c k d a t e d )
Eventually, he receives a reply. ]
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left outside her door.
To my kindred spirit, my graceful lady, the one with the sweet smile; to my beloved Alayne,
I write this to you in great haste. I had planned for my first letter to you to be sweeter; but the ship wished it otherwise and so I shall attempt to deliver my message and also my love.
I, like many others, have read the message of your King in the North, of the arrival of she who had caused harm to his family. I know it has caused you much distress, for how can it not when such a woman appears who has delivered harm to those you love.
I write this to you now to assure you that I shall stand by you in these troubling time, as loyal as your Lady. I may not be of your Westeros and yet you must know I love you dearly and have vowed to love you for the rest of our time here. As such, I shall remind you, Alayne la Dolce, that you are graced with a strength that others are not. It is not a strength man have with their weapons and anger, it is your sweet heart, the grace with which you carry yourself and your charm.
Such shall always attract people to you, it is the nature of your very being. As I was captured by you in our first meeting, so charmed that I would drop to my knees and place a kiss upon your hand as a knight does his lady.
For those traits you shall never face a harsh day by yourself. I send you my love and my support, my utmost loyalty and whatever comfort I can offer you. My thoughts have escaped me and fled to you since the moment I have read your King's message and even now as I write this, I think of your smile and frown at the thought that it has left your lips. Promise me that you shall let me try and restore it; it shall break my heart not to.
Your adoring friend, your tender shield, your humble devotee,
Lucrezia Borgia.
( a c t i o n | b a c k d a t e d )
Alayne thinks to write Lucrezia back but no, she wishes her first letter to her beloved friend to be light and effervescent, not made heavy with toil and Cersei Lannister's shadow. Though the queen's presence would touch many a thing, it would not touch this. No, this would remain unsullied.
Instead, she sends a raven in reply — coral-beaked and white feathered, with black eyes (proof that it is not an albino, but a rare creature bred for such pristine snowy-ness). To his ankle there is affixed the briefest of correspondence. ]
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eventually, he slides down a wall near to Alayne's room number. he doesn't know that she's actually staying there, only that these numbers coordinate with her device and her tattoo, same as his. ]
can i talk to you?
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For a long moment she does not open the message that makes her device chime upon the bedside table. When she finally does, it is trepidation. Alayne is quick to respond: ]
Dear friend Percy,
You are always welcome, both in company and conversation.
Though we have a great obstacle set before us,
I never have and never shall turn you away.
You have my ear and my thoughts, as always.
Yours truly,
Lady Sansa Stark.
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But it is not them that you should fear.
You move on, through a seemingly never-ending labyrinth of corridors and dragons (or perhaps you haven't moved at all), until you come to a set of stairs. For a moment, you stop, contemplating your next move. It is then that you may begin to hear the bells. Cling. Clang. Cling. They warn of the approach of a fool with a checkered face and a crown of antlers.
"The shadows come to dance my Lord..."
He sings his song, just out of full view, and as you catch a glimpse of your shadow moving as it should not out of the corner of your eye, you know full well that it will not do to linger. Yet, should you choose to, a sad little girl might be there to urge you on. "I told him to stop, but he won't. It makes me scared."
"Dance, my Lord..."
"Make him stop." But you know full well that you can't. You try to urge the girl on one of the paths, but she seems to flee, half-terrified of the fool, and half terrified of you. (Or perhaps it is your shadow). Regardless of the reason, you know that you must run. For he is not alone.
"Dance, my Lord..."
The air smells of death and the room seems to grow cooler, as if at its own accord. They will all soon be upon you, and your options are running out. Should you choose the staircase, you will find you pursuit seems to almost vanish. Bit it is hardly over yet as you come to the chamber at the top.
"The shadows come to stay my Lord..."
A knight warns you to not advance any further, out of fear of your own safety. For when you see her, she will judge. You are to be her messiah, the one to save them all from this, but first, she must find you worthy.
By any means necessary.
For the Night is dark and full of terrors. ]
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She calls to the child, asks after her name and what she might fear, though she suspects the clang of bells in the encroaching distance. Sansa Stark knew a fool once, a man she saved from beneath the king's boot, and though she did not fear him, she loathe the way he breathed upon her face as he promised her the hope of home.
It is in flight of the child that she crosses paths with Lord Stannis, her dress still ruined and bloody from her passage through the ruins of Winterfell. Without hesitation, despite her fear and confusion, she dips in a bow, her knees weak and wobbly so she almost stumbles. ] Your Grace— [ she says, her look wary. Was it truly Lord Stannis or just an apparition? ] —it is you, isn't it?
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