[open]

[brittlest]

Who: Michael Ralston & Various
What: Catch-all for August
When: post-Horizon, but will probably use this space as I see fit throughout the month.
Where: Castle Thorne
Notes: Feel free to hit me up on discord or plurk if you want to plot something or want a ~*~bespoke~*~ starter. Prose or brackets are a-okay; I'll match your preference. See Ralston's optional opt-in info HERE.

THE CASTLE.

There is a man in Castle Thorne who walks with a cane and has made little effort to seek out anyone's company. By all accounts, he is easily missed and cuts a fairly unremarkable figure—he is neither particularly tall or short, nor especially good looking or plain. In fact if not for the tell-tale tunic and trousers and a penchant for haunting the guest quarters, he might be easily mistaken for some servant or native of the castle who is only as interested in these out-of-world travelers as he is employed to be.

And yet—

[A] Here he is, making use of the library available to Thorne's 'honored guests'; he has rooted his way to some back series of shelves, and is presently standing at the foot of a ladder clearly doing the mental math on scaling it to reach an upper series of books when movement at the end of the stack draws his attention. Ralston snaps his fingers at whoever has had the distinct misfortune to cross paths with him, saying,

"You. Step this way for just a moment."

[B] Or he is in some quiet courtyard available to Thorne's guests, sitting on some bench in the shadow of a high stone wall where the air of the day is most temperate. He has an orange in hand, and is peeling it slowly with every appearance of waiting for someone. Ralston's dark eyes search out any figure who happens to pass across the yard. If he happens to recognize them as either an ex-prisoner or someone who has demonstrated a particular talent for the little magic spells being taught by the Thornean mages, he will whistle to get their attention and motion for them to come closer. Worst comes to worst, he might flick a bit of orange peel in your direction to clarify the urgency of his demand for conversation.

[C] Or, rarest and strangest of all, Ralston might be found in some part of the castle where he shouldn't be. Perhaps it is a merely a rarely used back staircase, or a quiet corridor in some wing of the castle which guests have ostensibly been discouraged from visiting, or he is quietly letting himself into a room in which he has no business being.

WILDCARD.
[You know the drill. Feel free to hit me up on disco or plurk if you feel moved, but I can roll with pretty much anything.]

Comments

[brittlest]

"We had best hope so."

He shouldn't like to be part of a failed experiment; he has seen what happens to those rats. But he suspects that taking them through that portal to Horizon where they might gaze on the Singularity and feel its ravenous pull had been a compromise made by a man who had sensed his control slipping. That much High Mage Ambrose had made clear all on his own. Here is why you ought to do as I say for just reasons; here is why you ought to do what I say to preserve your own skin.

Only desperate men, he thinks, employ both carrot and stick at once.

With a dismissive noise, Ralston drops the orange peels into the stone planter beside him. He has a finite appetite for conspiracy when everyone knows the same talking points.

"You're welcome to practice your work here," is punctuated with a flippant gesture to mean to rest of the shadowed courtyard. How very magnanimous.

[rehandle]

A change of subject isn't unwelcome. Stephen's been running these same conversations around on loop both in- and outside of his own head for as long as they've been around to have. He pops the final couple of segments of his half a fruit into his mouth with a hummed note of acknowledgement - freedom to utilise a public space, how generous - and pushes himself to his feet.

An audience isn't really what he came for but his options are a right-now audience of one or a trek through the castle in search of another secluded corner. Dr. Stephen Strange, M.D Ph.D, is no stranger to watchers in the gallery.

Turning, an underarm toss passes something round and bright and waxy to the touch Ralston's way. "Thanks for sharing."

It's another orange, plucked from empty air. A snack if he's staying for a show. Payment with interest for an earlier offering if he's not.

[brittlest]

He catches it easily enough; say what one might about Ralston, but his reflexes—including the physical ones—aren't slow. Merely desperately off putting to most sensibilities.

Case in point: the thing which flares in his face runs distinctly along the lines of a flicker of surprise chased by a more obvious resentment, his keen expression slanting in some stormier direction even as he turns the orange in his hand and sets it on the bench beside him.

"Here I was growing concerned that I might starve to death."

Obviously he's staying.