RP: Down the rabbit hole
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tutistempus_rpgDate: 31 December 2001
Characters: Godric Gryffindor, NPC security team, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Alicia Spinnet
Setting: Portal clearing, Command center
Content: PG
Status: Private : Open
He crouched, bow in hand, arrow notched and ready, the snow falling silently around him, but Godric was focused on the small deer grazing on grass that stuck up through the ankle-deep snow covering the land. His breath curled in white, gossamer wisps around him, Godric's gaze remained riveted to the creature who moved slowly forward, its body slowly coming clear of the cluster of trees that blocked his shot. His arm drew back, the slightest of movements in the most economical of manners born over years of practice, drawing taunt under his fingertips, and Godric held his breath, the tips of his fingers relaxing to loose the arrow. The whisper of air by his ear was the only indication that the arrow was flying, flying true, finding purchase deep in the chest of the deer, and it slumped into the white snow.
Rising from where he'd left an impression in the snow, Godric carefully padded through the snow to the deer, not wanting to disturb other deer in the area. If he could bring down another, they could be bleed out overnight and be sectioned for salt storage in the ground wells. Godric knelt beside the deer, checking for signs of life, but it had been a quick kill, and he sent a silent prayer of thanks to the gods for their gift as he scanned the treeline for another. He spotted a large buck, not more than a hundred feet away, and he was moving just a short distance from his first kill, slipping another arrow against the bow without a sound, already lining up the shot in his minds' eye. In two days time, he would be meeting with the others in the central village for the continuing Yule feasts, and it was there that he would press his concerns with Helga and Rowena but now, his thoughts were on stocking the wells.
Godric rose slowly, turning the bow just the smallest bit to make a more accurate shot when he felt a disturbing tinge in the pit of his stomach, the feeling was a perversion of apparation, and the deer was forgotten in the dark whisper of awareness but he didn't have time to lower his bow when it happened. Everything around him went black, and Godric felt as if he'd taken a stun hex to the head. A feeling of dread cloaking him, the hint of random voices floated by in the abyss, and then there was a rush of air. He blinked and his eyes tried to focus in the new shadowed darkness, the weight of heated air pressing on him suddenly in the midst of shouting voices. Strange words assaulted his ears. When his vision focused, Godric tensed at the sight of five oddly dressed men pointing sticks or tubes at him - he could not make out what they were in the fell dark of the clearing, and his fingers tightening on the bow that was now pointed at one of them.
"Sweet Merlin, it can't be," Tory Biggles stated, shining his flashlight onto the strangers features before dropping it slightly. "Hold your fire. I... I know this sounds mental but I think this is Godric Gryffindor. I saw parchments with his likeness in school, and this bloke is a dead-ringer. Hey, Dorian, you're good with ancient runes. Try, um, a greeting."
Some of the words were familiar to him, but they were coarse and rough, as was the other man's manner of speaking. One of the darkly clothed men stepped forward, lifting his wand to which Godric immediately shifted his aim to that man but the wizard continued, sweeping his wand in a fluid motion that left golden symbols hanging in the air between them. Godric's head startled back and he automatically lowered his bow, unsheathing the arrow, as he read the golden message. "Who art thou?" he demanded in a his thickly accented version of old English, looking from one to the other. "I would parlay with your Elder!" Godric stated firmly, eying each man with distinct caution and distrust.
Each of the security team members looked from one to the other until the one called Dorian stepped forward and made an awkward bow-like motion before pointing to one of the Jeeps parked on the edge of the clearing. "We're the, um, security team for the portal, and um, we have a metal, um, horse, sir," he offered in a faltering, hesitant tone before lifting his wand again and more golden runes painted in the hanging air between them. Godric read them quickly, his eyebrow arching in clear question, his expression leaving no confusion as to his estimation that the man was crazy. Dorian shrugged at his comrades and walked over to the door of the Jeep, holding it open, and Godric could see a raised throne in the bizarre compartment. He approached it cautiously, raising his right hand and gesturing minutely, a flash of white engulfing the Jeep then receding. Satisfied, Godric hoisted himself into the seat, tucking his bow between his legs.
With a roar, the vehicle started and Godric's grip on the seat tightened sharply, his spell had found no danger in the iron box but that didn't mean he was any more trusting of the strange device. He did, however, believe the wizard next to him had no ill will directed at him. Godric's head was spinning. Where was he? Was this all a dream? That had to be it. He'd been hit with a hex, clearly, and was dreaming. The iron box jostled as it moved down a dirt path and, after a few minutes, blazing lights from above illuminated castle gates opening before them. Godric's eyes widened when he regarded the tall structure that the box halted before. This was a castle befitting an Elder, he reasoned, growling when the entryway on his right side opened again and the Dorian wizard was standing there. He hopped to the dirt, slinging his bow over one shoulder in a clear motion - he would not tolerate being disarmed in this strange place, even if it was a dream.
Entering the dwelling, he found himself in a brightly-light gathering place with soft lounging couches covered in a strange, pale animal skin of some kind he had never seen before. Was this Elder so wealthy that he could covet all the albino creatures for their skins? Amazingly, it appeared so. Curious and curiouser.
"Welcome, I am Kingsley Shacklebolt, the leader of this expedition, and I'm told you..." Kingsley came into the room, having pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans quickly after being woken by the message from the Portal clearing security team. He hadn't truly believed them that Godric Gryffindor had come through the portal - it was clearly a New Years Eve joke of some kind. That is, until he laid eyes on the stranger standing in the Command Center. "Great Merlin's Ghost!" he exclaimed, looking to Dorian and back to Godric before breaking out in a loud laugh, shaking his head as he addressed them both. "All right, I give. You got me. That's a damned fine piece of glamor, Dor."
The other wizard raked a hand over his hair, glancing to Godric with a skeptical, resigned expression. "Err, no sir, honestly, this isn't a joke, sir. This fellow came out of the portal and Tory, he says its Godric Gryffindor but I don't know nothing about it, sir. I went to school in the States - Salem Academy, sir."
"What manner of trickery is this, good man, that you spake my name?" Godric demanded hotly in his native Gaelic. Was the other man invoking some manner of enchantment against him using his name? He raised his hand, preparing a protective spell in his thoughts, when he remembered that this was a dream. Could he be injured by this hex whilst in a dream? Godric had never heard of such a thing but, as Salazar was fond of pointing out, there were those who would think nothing of using magic for the purpose of harming others.
Kingsley frowned and glanced over to where Thomas was approaching him with a datapad, holding it out to him. He took it and looked down quickly, then up again just as quickly, unwilling to let this man out of his sight. The datapad was showing a rough translation using the biometric parameters of the modern-day Scottish language. “You said he spoke English,” he said, directing himself to Dorian who nodded hesitantly, then shrugged, holding his hands up to say ‘sort of’. Kingsley sighed. “Call over to the medical center, please. We’ll need a Healer to check him over and access the database. I want every image of Godric Gryffindor we have sent to this pad.”
“I spake English, Elder,” Godric informed him with a low growling tone. He was aware that the Elder was talking about him to the others in the room but he could not understand all the words being spoken. What was a ‘medical’? A ‘healer’? ‘a database’? It was gibberish to him. One of the other men broke away from the semi-circle and moved into a room in the back of the building but the Elder remained, steadfastly focused upon him and Godric’s posture lifted, his chin raised in defiance.
Setting the datapad on his hip, Kingsley seemed lost in thought for a moment, then he spoke. “What is your name? What are you called?” he asked.
“Godric. What address do you command, Elder?” he replied, his gaze narrowing slightly. What if this wasn’t the Elder? Had he inadvertently given prominent title to an underling?
“I command, as you say, all that you see,” Kingsley answered with a warm chuckle. “but you can address me as Kingsley, good sir.” His datapad beeped which made Godric startle back a step but Kingsley lifted it again and tapped it once, his own eyebrow arching sharply. “Can you describe – speak a picture – of what you were doing before arriving here, Godric?”
Shifting his stance, Godric folded his arms over his chest, feeling a thin line of sweat running down his back. This place was as warm as a cauldron and his leather-padded vest would have been warm enough without the fur-lined cloak he wore over it, yet to take off the cloak, uninvited, would be unseemly. “I felled a buck. I took aim upon another. A strange majick came over me. I felt a blackness, a fearsome dark. Such that it filled me head with… with… unspeakable… I will not spake the things I hear in the abyss. I have no sight then I am challenged by such as these,” he gestured to Dorian but fell silent.
“No, no, I don’t think we need to know what you, err, heard, not yet, at least. We do, however, need to make sure you are uninjured, Godric. That you cannot, err, injure us unintentionally,” Kingsley pointed out, waving his hand toward the sofas and then leading the way.
Following the dark skinned Elder, Godric eyed the sofa sceptically, watching the other man descend upon it but he pressed his palm flat against the strange surface first, jerking his hand back, then again, pressing his palm onto the cushion. Kingsley chuckled and gestured that he should sit, saying. “It won’t harm you. Please, sit. I’ve sent for a Healer – a,” Kingsley paused, tapping quickly on his pad, before continuing. “Chiurgeon – to, err, attend you.”
Godric nodded slowly, reaching up to unfasten his cloak, than draping it over the end of the surface. He unslung his bow and quiver, setting them against the base of the bench. It took one more wave of Kingsley’s hand, however, before he allowed himself to be seated. The bench was soft, without a full firmness against his bottom though it upheld him without an unsteady wavering which he expected. He ran his hand over the surface beside him, wondering what kind of animal it could have been fashioned from. He had no need of a Chiurgeon but the Elder had insisted upon an examination, so he would allow it.
Characters: Godric Gryffindor, NPC security team, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Alicia Spinnet
Setting: Portal clearing, Command center
Content: PG
Status: Private : Open
He crouched, bow in hand, arrow notched and ready, the snow falling silently around him, but Godric was focused on the small deer grazing on grass that stuck up through the ankle-deep snow covering the land. His breath curled in white, gossamer wisps around him, Godric's gaze remained riveted to the creature who moved slowly forward, its body slowly coming clear of the cluster of trees that blocked his shot. His arm drew back, the slightest of movements in the most economical of manners born over years of practice, drawing taunt under his fingertips, and Godric held his breath, the tips of his fingers relaxing to loose the arrow. The whisper of air by his ear was the only indication that the arrow was flying, flying true, finding purchase deep in the chest of the deer, and it slumped into the white snow.
Rising from where he'd left an impression in the snow, Godric carefully padded through the snow to the deer, not wanting to disturb other deer in the area. If he could bring down another, they could be bleed out overnight and be sectioned for salt storage in the ground wells. Godric knelt beside the deer, checking for signs of life, but it had been a quick kill, and he sent a silent prayer of thanks to the gods for their gift as he scanned the treeline for another. He spotted a large buck, not more than a hundred feet away, and he was moving just a short distance from his first kill, slipping another arrow against the bow without a sound, already lining up the shot in his minds' eye. In two days time, he would be meeting with the others in the central village for the continuing Yule feasts, and it was there that he would press his concerns with Helga and Rowena but now, his thoughts were on stocking the wells.
Godric rose slowly, turning the bow just the smallest bit to make a more accurate shot when he felt a disturbing tinge in the pit of his stomach, the feeling was a perversion of apparation, and the deer was forgotten in the dark whisper of awareness but he didn't have time to lower his bow when it happened. Everything around him went black, and Godric felt as if he'd taken a stun hex to the head. A feeling of dread cloaking him, the hint of random voices floated by in the abyss, and then there was a rush of air. He blinked and his eyes tried to focus in the new shadowed darkness, the weight of heated air pressing on him suddenly in the midst of shouting voices. Strange words assaulted his ears. When his vision focused, Godric tensed at the sight of five oddly dressed men pointing sticks or tubes at him - he could not make out what they were in the fell dark of the clearing, and his fingers tightening on the bow that was now pointed at one of them.
"Sweet Merlin, it can't be," Tory Biggles stated, shining his flashlight onto the strangers features before dropping it slightly. "Hold your fire. I... I know this sounds mental but I think this is Godric Gryffindor. I saw parchments with his likeness in school, and this bloke is a dead-ringer. Hey, Dorian, you're good with ancient runes. Try, um, a greeting."
Some of the words were familiar to him, but they were coarse and rough, as was the other man's manner of speaking. One of the darkly clothed men stepped forward, lifting his wand to which Godric immediately shifted his aim to that man but the wizard continued, sweeping his wand in a fluid motion that left golden symbols hanging in the air between them. Godric's head startled back and he automatically lowered his bow, unsheathing the arrow, as he read the golden message. "Who art thou?" he demanded in a his thickly accented version of old English, looking from one to the other. "I would parlay with your Elder!" Godric stated firmly, eying each man with distinct caution and distrust.
Each of the security team members looked from one to the other until the one called Dorian stepped forward and made an awkward bow-like motion before pointing to one of the Jeeps parked on the edge of the clearing. "We're the, um, security team for the portal, and um, we have a metal, um, horse, sir," he offered in a faltering, hesitant tone before lifting his wand again and more golden runes painted in the hanging air between them. Godric read them quickly, his eyebrow arching in clear question, his expression leaving no confusion as to his estimation that the man was crazy. Dorian shrugged at his comrades and walked over to the door of the Jeep, holding it open, and Godric could see a raised throne in the bizarre compartment. He approached it cautiously, raising his right hand and gesturing minutely, a flash of white engulfing the Jeep then receding. Satisfied, Godric hoisted himself into the seat, tucking his bow between his legs.
With a roar, the vehicle started and Godric's grip on the seat tightened sharply, his spell had found no danger in the iron box but that didn't mean he was any more trusting of the strange device. He did, however, believe the wizard next to him had no ill will directed at him. Godric's head was spinning. Where was he? Was this all a dream? That had to be it. He'd been hit with a hex, clearly, and was dreaming. The iron box jostled as it moved down a dirt path and, after a few minutes, blazing lights from above illuminated castle gates opening before them. Godric's eyes widened when he regarded the tall structure that the box halted before. This was a castle befitting an Elder, he reasoned, growling when the entryway on his right side opened again and the Dorian wizard was standing there. He hopped to the dirt, slinging his bow over one shoulder in a clear motion - he would not tolerate being disarmed in this strange place, even if it was a dream.
Entering the dwelling, he found himself in a brightly-light gathering place with soft lounging couches covered in a strange, pale animal skin of some kind he had never seen before. Was this Elder so wealthy that he could covet all the albino creatures for their skins? Amazingly, it appeared so. Curious and curiouser.
"Welcome, I am Kingsley Shacklebolt, the leader of this expedition, and I'm told you..." Kingsley came into the room, having pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans quickly after being woken by the message from the Portal clearing security team. He hadn't truly believed them that Godric Gryffindor had come through the portal - it was clearly a New Years Eve joke of some kind. That is, until he laid eyes on the stranger standing in the Command Center. "Great Merlin's Ghost!" he exclaimed, looking to Dorian and back to Godric before breaking out in a loud laugh, shaking his head as he addressed them both. "All right, I give. You got me. That's a damned fine piece of glamor, Dor."
The other wizard raked a hand over his hair, glancing to Godric with a skeptical, resigned expression. "Err, no sir, honestly, this isn't a joke, sir. This fellow came out of the portal and Tory, he says its Godric Gryffindor but I don't know nothing about it, sir. I went to school in the States - Salem Academy, sir."
"What manner of trickery is this, good man, that you spake my name?" Godric demanded hotly in his native Gaelic. Was the other man invoking some manner of enchantment against him using his name? He raised his hand, preparing a protective spell in his thoughts, when he remembered that this was a dream. Could he be injured by this hex whilst in a dream? Godric had never heard of such a thing but, as Salazar was fond of pointing out, there were those who would think nothing of using magic for the purpose of harming others.
Kingsley frowned and glanced over to where Thomas was approaching him with a datapad, holding it out to him. He took it and looked down quickly, then up again just as quickly, unwilling to let this man out of his sight. The datapad was showing a rough translation using the biometric parameters of the modern-day Scottish language. “You said he spoke English,” he said, directing himself to Dorian who nodded hesitantly, then shrugged, holding his hands up to say ‘sort of’. Kingsley sighed. “Call over to the medical center, please. We’ll need a Healer to check him over and access the database. I want every image of Godric Gryffindor we have sent to this pad.”
“I spake English, Elder,” Godric informed him with a low growling tone. He was aware that the Elder was talking about him to the others in the room but he could not understand all the words being spoken. What was a ‘medical’? A ‘healer’? ‘a database’? It was gibberish to him. One of the other men broke away from the semi-circle and moved into a room in the back of the building but the Elder remained, steadfastly focused upon him and Godric’s posture lifted, his chin raised in defiance.
Setting the datapad on his hip, Kingsley seemed lost in thought for a moment, then he spoke. “What is your name? What are you called?” he asked.
“Godric. What address do you command, Elder?” he replied, his gaze narrowing slightly. What if this wasn’t the Elder? Had he inadvertently given prominent title to an underling?
“I command, as you say, all that you see,” Kingsley answered with a warm chuckle. “but you can address me as Kingsley, good sir.” His datapad beeped which made Godric startle back a step but Kingsley lifted it again and tapped it once, his own eyebrow arching sharply. “Can you describe – speak a picture – of what you were doing before arriving here, Godric?”
Shifting his stance, Godric folded his arms over his chest, feeling a thin line of sweat running down his back. This place was as warm as a cauldron and his leather-padded vest would have been warm enough without the fur-lined cloak he wore over it, yet to take off the cloak, uninvited, would be unseemly. “I felled a buck. I took aim upon another. A strange majick came over me. I felt a blackness, a fearsome dark. Such that it filled me head with… with… unspeakable… I will not spake the things I hear in the abyss. I have no sight then I am challenged by such as these,” he gestured to Dorian but fell silent.
“No, no, I don’t think we need to know what you, err, heard, not yet, at least. We do, however, need to make sure you are uninjured, Godric. That you cannot, err, injure us unintentionally,” Kingsley pointed out, waving his hand toward the sofas and then leading the way.
Following the dark skinned Elder, Godric eyed the sofa sceptically, watching the other man descend upon it but he pressed his palm flat against the strange surface first, jerking his hand back, then again, pressing his palm onto the cushion. Kingsley chuckled and gestured that he should sit, saying. “It won’t harm you. Please, sit. I’ve sent for a Healer – a,” Kingsley paused, tapping quickly on his pad, before continuing. “Chiurgeon – to, err, attend you.”
Godric nodded slowly, reaching up to unfasten his cloak, than draping it over the end of the surface. He unslung his bow and quiver, setting them against the base of the bench. It took one more wave of Kingsley’s hand, however, before he allowed himself to be seated. The bench was soft, without a full firmness against his bottom though it upheld him without an unsteady wavering which he expected. He ran his hand over the surface beside him, wondering what kind of animal it could have been fashioned from. He had no need of a Chiurgeon but the Elder had insisted upon an examination, so he would allow it.
