Merlyn (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
knittingbackwards) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2015-05-28 01:57 am
knittingbackwards) wrote in thearena2015-05-28 01:57 am
Entry tags:
cogi qui potest [OPEN]
Who| Merlyn and OPEN
What| Merlyn accustoms himself to the Arena and sets things on fire
Where| The castle, main hall
When| The first night
Warnings/Notes| TBD
Merlyn had to say that, so far, he was not taken with this place. The village stank quite hideously of rot and decay, and the whole place was bitterly draughty. At least his outfit wasn't too bad. It was heavy, of course, but to a man used to weighty robes, it wasn't too bad at all. He did resent that they had taken his hat away again, though. Was it so much to ask that he be left with a skullcap, at least?
But all that was purely cosmetic. The real problem, of course, was that he was here at all. He had no intention of participating in their barbaric Games, no matter how they might browbeat him. At the Cornucopia, the moment he had felt his powers kick back into gear, he had abandoned his plans of running; squatting down and making himself small, as he'd once taught the Wart, he had turned himself into a blackbird and flown for the rooftops. He'd been mobbed by crows on the way, but he was a deft flier, and they had lost interest around the time he darted in through one of the castle's arrowslits.
When the sun started setting, he was settled in the rafters above the Great Hall, an old man again. He had taken off his heavy gloves, tucking them into the pocket of his leather apron, and was sitting with his skinny legs dangling over twenty feet of nothingness, considering the fire flickering over his head.
"A queer kind of trick," he announced at last, to whoever might happen to be watching. "You might have put less thought into firelight and more into better architecture. Why, even the Castle Sauvage is less draughty! I should give a great deal for less fire over my head, and more in the grate!"
He got his wish a few moments later, when he grew bored with contemplating his surroundings and attempted to conjure up some knitting to keep him occupied. No sooner had he stuck out his hand and said "Knitting!" than the rafter he was sitting on burst, rather unexpectedly, into flames. Yelping in a very unwizardly manner, Merlyn dropped the yarn and needles that had just appeared in his hand. They clattered to the floor far below as he scrambled back and beat at the flames with his apron. Echoing around the chamber, along with the flapping of leather, the occasional ..."by-our-lady..." sounded out.
When he finally managed to smother the fire, he looked down at the hall below. More specifically, at the bright blue yarn in the middle of the floor. "Drat it!" he snapped, and started to shuffle along the rafter. It was going to be a long climb down, for an old man.
What| Merlyn accustoms himself to the Arena and sets things on fire
Where| The castle, main hall
When| The first night
Warnings/Notes| TBD
Merlyn had to say that, so far, he was not taken with this place. The village stank quite hideously of rot and decay, and the whole place was bitterly draughty. At least his outfit wasn't too bad. It was heavy, of course, but to a man used to weighty robes, it wasn't too bad at all. He did resent that they had taken his hat away again, though. Was it so much to ask that he be left with a skullcap, at least?
But all that was purely cosmetic. The real problem, of course, was that he was here at all. He had no intention of participating in their barbaric Games, no matter how they might browbeat him. At the Cornucopia, the moment he had felt his powers kick back into gear, he had abandoned his plans of running; squatting down and making himself small, as he'd once taught the Wart, he had turned himself into a blackbird and flown for the rooftops. He'd been mobbed by crows on the way, but he was a deft flier, and they had lost interest around the time he darted in through one of the castle's arrowslits.
When the sun started setting, he was settled in the rafters above the Great Hall, an old man again. He had taken off his heavy gloves, tucking them into the pocket of his leather apron, and was sitting with his skinny legs dangling over twenty feet of nothingness, considering the fire flickering over his head.
"A queer kind of trick," he announced at last, to whoever might happen to be watching. "You might have put less thought into firelight and more into better architecture. Why, even the Castle Sauvage is less draughty! I should give a great deal for less fire over my head, and more in the grate!"
He got his wish a few moments later, when he grew bored with contemplating his surroundings and attempted to conjure up some knitting to keep him occupied. No sooner had he stuck out his hand and said "Knitting!" than the rafter he was sitting on burst, rather unexpectedly, into flames. Yelping in a very unwizardly manner, Merlyn dropped the yarn and needles that had just appeared in his hand. They clattered to the floor far below as he scrambled back and beat at the flames with his apron. Echoing around the chamber, along with the flapping of leather, the occasional ..."by-our-lady..." sounded out.
When he finally managed to smother the fire, he looked down at the hall below. More specifically, at the bright blue yarn in the middle of the floor. "Drat it!" he snapped, and started to shuffle along the rafter. It was going to be a long climb down, for an old man.
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Taking out his glasses, he settles them on his nose and squints down at the young man below. "You look rather burnt," he comments, not without some irony. "I must have missed quite some excitement out there." He'd been more concerned with the crows attacking him when the Cornucopia had caught light, and frankly hadn't noticed.
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And, because Merlyn's got a lot of magic going there, he glances down at his stomach as he stoops down to pick up the yarn. There's a hissed whisper at it, too. "Dude, shut up!" For the Chimera in there is loud and hungry and has realized that the old man is just full of magic.
Nitou makes a face as he tries tossing the yarn back up to Merlyn. It's half confusion at knitting at a time like this, and half pain because his injuries still hurt.
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He sighs. Well, in for a penny...
"Hold on," he orders, looking down at the other wizard. "I'll be down there in a moment." And with that, turns his eyes up to the ceiling, wondering what this little foray into magic is going to cost him (because he isn't stupid, after all, and has noticed the pattern).
What it costs him, it turns out, is the rafter he's sitting on, which gives way with a solid crack. With a rather unwizardly yelp, Merlyn falls, along with the heavy oak beam, and barely manages to finish the change before hitting the floor. He becomes a moth at about the level of Nitou's head, but at that size, the impact of the beam hitting the floor is enough to send him flying.
He lands up against the wall, an old man again, and rubs his head, which is bleeding. "Well," he says to the room at large, "that could have gone better."
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But the enthusiasm is short-lived, because the old guy's smacked his head pretty good. "You okay?" He holds up a tattered corner of his robe. "I've been making bandages out of this thing."
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He holds out a burned, badly bandaged hand for the old man to take. "Sure, I'll get you up!"
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