Rosalind Lutece (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
originallutece) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
nysalogs2018-02-10 01:16 am
originallutece) wrote in nysalogs2018-02-10 01:16 am
so if you see my sister rosalind tell that girl to hurry home again
Who: Rosalind Lutece (originallutece) & YOU
What: Various open prompts! Most of them coming from the opening log.
When: First half of February
Where: Wyver and Olympia
Warning(s): Maybe some nsfw??
Wyver - Lagoon
[Perhaps not all that unusually for her, Rosalind is once again at the lagoons. What is unusual: she doesn't seem to be alone. She's most certainly chatting to someone, murmuring instructions and the occasional bit of praise, but to whom? There's no one around-- Or so it seems, anyway.
Come in close, and you'll spot a very small, very determined hippo kicking its way through the water. He keeps looking up at Rosalind, seeking approval and praise-- and oddly enough, she seems inclined to give it, in her own reserved fashion.]
I told you that you'd do well. You're built for this. No, don't come to shore, don't be lazy, you've got to build up your muscles and your stamina. I've a treat for you when you're done.
[But here's the truly oddest thing: the hippo seems keen on mirroring his master. He wiggles joyfully when she smiles; he grunts with effort when she prompts him into exercising more. But that's probably just a coincidence . . . right?]
Wyver - Victory Celebration - Festive Spirit - maybe nsfw
[There's some kind of celebration going on in Wyver, but honestly, when isn't there? She's only been in this universe six months and it seems as if they're having a celebration about the moon or the stars or some long-dead hero . . . it's headache inducing, but she supposes there's little harm in it, especially when she doesn't actually live here.
She doesn't mean to venture into the festivities, but it's hard to avoid them. Someone presses a cocktail into her hands and leers at her when they offer her paints, and she rolls her eyes at both, but it's easier to just pocket the latter instead of refusing them. She does not offer her body to be painted, but she might let those paints drop if she finds herself with someone she's already acquainted with.
But in the meantime, she sips her drink and stares with a neutral expression at someone wandering around with paint and little else. Whether they're a man or a woman is irrelevant; she stares, and though her expression is blank, her gaze lingers just a little too long. Is that a flush to her cheek? Perhaps.]
I suppose that's one thing about Wyver: they certainly are eager to offer entertainments.
Wyver - Victory Celebration - this time with Robert tho
[Of course, Rosalind isn't the only one enjoying herself. There's a man wandering around, tall and bright-eyed, smiling as he sips at a drink and socializes with others. He seems somewhat eager to talk to others, though his smile is a little odd . . . almost as if he's all but taking notes behind those blue eyes of his.
But hey, it's not a time for introspection. Right now, the man-- his name is Robert, has he told you?-- gestures for another drink, smiling as he turns to watch whatever entertainment is spilling out on the streets.]
What on earth are they trying to do? Good grief, they're bound to break a neck trying to jump around atop each other like that.
Olympia - Dark Turns
[But all good things have to come to an end, and soon Rosalind returns home. The far more somber festivities are still taking place, not that she much cares. She ignores the glares she gets for coming in from Wyver, rolling her eyes at the whispers . . . but it doesn't stop at that. People have warned her that she'd get in trouble for trying to play both sides, but she'd ignored them. Oh, she's noticed the whispers and rumors and whatnot, but so what? That hardly effects her.
But she's come back at night, and people are feeling particularly patriotic, and that . . . that means trouble.
There's three men following her down the street. She can hear them, because they're not bothering to be quiet, not at all. They're jeering at her, catcalling and calling out to her; she ignores them. There's no use in confronting them. But that isn't enough for them, it seems. One of them catches up to her, grabbing her elbow, and she jerks, yanking her arm away sharply.]
Get off.
Olympia - Flona Cove
[She's not foolish enough to swim in the cove again. She doesn't even stick her feet in, not when the last time she'd done that had resulted in her feeling up a boy a decade younger than her. But she does sit by it, her boots shed and resting at her side, watching the water with a surprisingly soft expression. Her little hippo is nearby, of course, huffing and puffing as he swims around in the water. His grunts of effort echo throughout the cove, and Rosalind smiles to see him work.
No one comes to bother her for a long while, though, and that's nice. It's nice to be alone, frankly, and she's lulled into a relaxed state because of it. The water is warm and she feels so very calm . . . and so, her voice very soft, vocalized under her breath, she sings.
(Perhaps the cove is effecting her more than she realizes).
She's a sweet voice, steady and surprisingly high-pitched, and the tune she sings has the tune of a waltz, her voice rising and falling. Only about half the lyrics are articulated; for the rest she hums softly, continuing the tune, enjoying the way the cove echoes her voice back to her. And if she isn't interrupted, she'll turn to something a little more jaunty. Though this tune, oddly enough, doesn't sound as though it comes from her time period. And it isn't the right name she articulates-- rather, she puts her own in place of it, laughing softly as she does.]
Other; [Rosalind will also be wandering around as her counterpart, Robert Lutece. She'll be disguised completely, an illusion covering her. Her interactions will be far more energetic, and "he'll" be eager to socalize, so feel free to meet him in Wyver or Olympia, deep in the festivites.]
originallutece) & YOU What: Various open prompts! Most of them coming from the opening log.
When: First half of February
Where: Wyver and Olympia
Warning(s): Maybe some nsfw??
Wyver - Lagoon
[Perhaps not all that unusually for her, Rosalind is once again at the lagoons. What is unusual: she doesn't seem to be alone. She's most certainly chatting to someone, murmuring instructions and the occasional bit of praise, but to whom? There's no one around-- Or so it seems, anyway.
Come in close, and you'll spot a very small, very determined hippo kicking its way through the water. He keeps looking up at Rosalind, seeking approval and praise-- and oddly enough, she seems inclined to give it, in her own reserved fashion.]
I told you that you'd do well. You're built for this. No, don't come to shore, don't be lazy, you've got to build up your muscles and your stamina. I've a treat for you when you're done.
[But here's the truly oddest thing: the hippo seems keen on mirroring his master. He wiggles joyfully when she smiles; he grunts with effort when she prompts him into exercising more. But that's probably just a coincidence . . . right?]
Wyver - Victory Celebration - Festive Spirit - maybe nsfw
[There's some kind of celebration going on in Wyver, but honestly, when isn't there? She's only been in this universe six months and it seems as if they're having a celebration about the moon or the stars or some long-dead hero . . . it's headache inducing, but she supposes there's little harm in it, especially when she doesn't actually live here.
She doesn't mean to venture into the festivities, but it's hard to avoid them. Someone presses a cocktail into her hands and leers at her when they offer her paints, and she rolls her eyes at both, but it's easier to just pocket the latter instead of refusing them. She does not offer her body to be painted, but she might let those paints drop if she finds herself with someone she's already acquainted with.
But in the meantime, she sips her drink and stares with a neutral expression at someone wandering around with paint and little else. Whether they're a man or a woman is irrelevant; she stares, and though her expression is blank, her gaze lingers just a little too long. Is that a flush to her cheek? Perhaps.]
I suppose that's one thing about Wyver: they certainly are eager to offer entertainments.
Wyver - Victory Celebration - this time with Robert tho
[Of course, Rosalind isn't the only one enjoying herself. There's a man wandering around, tall and bright-eyed, smiling as he sips at a drink and socializes with others. He seems somewhat eager to talk to others, though his smile is a little odd . . . almost as if he's all but taking notes behind those blue eyes of his.
But hey, it's not a time for introspection. Right now, the man-- his name is Robert, has he told you?-- gestures for another drink, smiling as he turns to watch whatever entertainment is spilling out on the streets.]
What on earth are they trying to do? Good grief, they're bound to break a neck trying to jump around atop each other like that.
Olympia - Dark Turns
[But all good things have to come to an end, and soon Rosalind returns home. The far more somber festivities are still taking place, not that she much cares. She ignores the glares she gets for coming in from Wyver, rolling her eyes at the whispers . . . but it doesn't stop at that. People have warned her that she'd get in trouble for trying to play both sides, but she'd ignored them. Oh, she's noticed the whispers and rumors and whatnot, but so what? That hardly effects her.
But she's come back at night, and people are feeling particularly patriotic, and that . . . that means trouble.
There's three men following her down the street. She can hear them, because they're not bothering to be quiet, not at all. They're jeering at her, catcalling and calling out to her; she ignores them. There's no use in confronting them. But that isn't enough for them, it seems. One of them catches up to her, grabbing her elbow, and she jerks, yanking her arm away sharply.]
Get off.
Olympia - Flona Cove
[She's not foolish enough to swim in the cove again. She doesn't even stick her feet in, not when the last time she'd done that had resulted in her feeling up a boy a decade younger than her. But she does sit by it, her boots shed and resting at her side, watching the water with a surprisingly soft expression. Her little hippo is nearby, of course, huffing and puffing as he swims around in the water. His grunts of effort echo throughout the cove, and Rosalind smiles to see him work.
No one comes to bother her for a long while, though, and that's nice. It's nice to be alone, frankly, and she's lulled into a relaxed state because of it. The water is warm and she feels so very calm . . . and so, her voice very soft, vocalized under her breath, she sings.
(Perhaps the cove is effecting her more than she realizes).
She's a sweet voice, steady and surprisingly high-pitched, and the tune she sings has the tune of a waltz, her voice rising and falling. Only about half the lyrics are articulated; for the rest she hums softly, continuing the tune, enjoying the way the cove echoes her voice back to her. And if she isn't interrupted, she'll turn to something a little more jaunty. Though this tune, oddly enough, doesn't sound as though it comes from her time period. And it isn't the right name she articulates-- rather, she puts her own in place of it, laughing softly as she does.]
Other; [Rosalind will also be wandering around as her counterpart, Robert Lutece. She'll be disguised completely, an illusion covering her. Her interactions will be far more energetic, and "he'll" be eager to socalize, so feel free to meet him in Wyver or Olympia, deep in the festivites.]
no subject
[That... is unworthy of him. He blinks, like he's surprised by his own tone, then shakes his head and leans forward to properly regard the page.]
I can try to revert them to another order, again. Something that will make more sense than... stable volatility negotiability. Unless whoever wrote this wrote it for the sole purpose of giving us both a headache.
no subject
They might have. But yes, try that, if you please-- frankly, I've never tried translation of such a thing before, so any attempt will be worth trying.
no subject
[He really needs to calm down, honestly. Dorian shuts his eyes for a moment and heaves a sigh, then his fingers glow a dim blue yet again. The runes on the pages shift into another order where the words they translate into would make sense, if it weren't for some words being out of order. It's more like golden in tandem with one used another, noticeably volatility their increases, etc.
It's something to work with, at least.]
If you could bring all that technology from home here, would you? Do you think they natives could handle it?
no subject
[She glances over at him, one eyebrow raising-- though she quickly returns to the task at hand, scrawling out what words Dorian has managed to write down.]
no subject
I'm sorry. This all just seems... rather pointless, but it's the only thing we have to do on this forsaken planet until oh, I don't know, we get sucked back up into stasis for another nap.
no subject
. . . I know.
[She says it softly, glancing back down at her notebook.]
Believe me, I know. There's times when I want nothing more than to simply sit in front of Robert's pod and not move.
no subject
[It's the thought that counts. Dorian does have people he would look on, but most of them wouldn't be with fondness.]
But here we are, talking about magic that even I don't understand. For a city that might just go to war again because that's how it's always been.
no subject
She finally glances over at him.]
Do you ever want to leave? There's those who ran from both cities. Have you ever wanted to go?
no subject
Yes, well, one can't help but wonder what it'd be like. Leaving civilization isn't the worst thing in the world, after all. [He sighs, setting the book down.] But what's the point, if you aren't going out to do something better? Besides, I have a nice home here, even if my roommate is an insufferable know-it-all.
no subject
At least I don't preen in front of the mirror for hours on end.
[But that's teasing, more sibling rivalry than anything vicious or nasty. As he sets the book down, she turns in her seat, facing him properly. If they were home, she might fall forward, lying atop him, tucking her head beneath his chin and wrapping an arm around him, a little petulant in her desire to be given affection-- but as it is, she simply smiles, faint but affectionate.
Her smile soon fades, though, and there's a visible hesitance.]
. . . if I tell you something . . . don't be insufferable, please. Don't be triumphant. All right?
no subject
I don't know if I know how to be anything but. [He says, lightly, but he drops it shortly after.] All right. Let's hear it, then.
no subject
[She hesitates, and that's notable. When does Rosalind hesitate, except when she's just a little uncertain of how the next few moments will go? She'd hesitated when she'd told him she slept with Aranea-- and just like then, there's no possibility of him rejecting her.
He might be insufferable, though. Most definitely fascinated.]
You remember when there was that ceremony in Wyver a few months ago, don't you? To marry one another . . . and while you did it, you got to exchange powers as well. It was all very symbolic, really, a silly ceremony complete with a kiss. But a man I know, a man I'm fascinated by, agreed to participate in the ceremony together. He gained the ability to teleport, and I . . .
[She offers her hand, palm up, holding it between them. There's just a breath as she makes the concentrated effort to draw this up, but-- ah. There it is.
There's a surge of energy, nauseating and fierce, something that simply screams a dark kind of power. It's sickening to anyone within radius, never mind someone sensitive to magic. The power surges to life in her hands, a black, writhing mass, glinting purple here and there as it curls and shivers in her hand, weaving through her fingers and slipping in and out of her skin.
She glance up. Her eyes have changed as well: her sclera a pitch black, matching the mass in her hands. Her iris, normally a soft blue, has become something blazing: electric blue, bright and keen, standing out visibly from the black that surrounds it.]
You would call it magic. So would he.
I feel it, you see. Always. Moving beneath my skin, in my blood . . . it's alive, just as you describe your magic sometimes.
no subject
Dorian sits in stunned silence, because really, what else can he do in the moment something so sickening, so sinister envelopes her? His mind is swimming from information he should have known—No, he wasn't entitled to know her personal life, but it would have helped if there were some sort of warning beyond "not hear it." Yes, he might have been insufferable and fascinated about the marriage alone, but this. This is something that terrifies him.
His mind screams "abomination," the twisting of a person too weak to the charms of demons, so much so that they don't resemble who they once were. Something that was always a product of someone not looking at the bigger picture. Something he wouldn't be so foolish to do himself. Something that made him so adverse to all temptations, because no matter how pretty the picture, it comes at a cost.
But Rosalind, as he knows, is a smart woman. She's a smart woman he's incredibly fond of, that he would protect, and fills a familial role he otherwise would be mourning. He isn't about to follow his instincts that he very much would like to and set fire to her like he would if someone he hardly knew burst with evil.
Instead he reels back, his chair scraping against the floor as he rises to his feet.]
Stop— Stop talking, right now! [There's no disguising the hint of fear beneath his anger, making his voice shaky and his hand trembling, but he wouldn't want to. Not with this.] That is not the magic I possess, Rosalind! The magic I possess is natural, is a tool to protect one another, not seeping from a person like— like that! What in the bloody fuck were you thinking?!
no subject
Stop shouting.
[Her voice is a low hiss, and she glances around. They're attracting a few glares from a distant librarian, but no one else seems to have noticed. She glances away for a moment, her mouth tight, trying to keep her words in order. Finally:]
. . . he's like me, Dorian. Like I once was. He's immortal. He's invulnerable. And he understands things that-- that most people don't. He's two thousand, he's-- he's insufferable and strange and-- and in some ways, he's my future.
Do you understand? I-- someday, I'll be that old. He's what I'm to become. Can you truly blame me for wanting to understand him more?
[A breath, and then:]
. . . and that I needed a way to defend myself. Not a weapon. I'm no fighter. But something that couldn't be taken from me, something that I could always use to hurt others before they hurt me.
[She shakes her head, focusing back on him.]
I won't deny it's something twisted. But you look at me as though I've cut off a limb.
no subject
I've looked at you— [He starts in a raised voice, but takes a breath and lowers his voice to a whisper as he faces her again.] I've looked at you... as if you've completely lost your mind, because you have!
[No, he can't grasp the nature of which the two of them live. Remaining in the world after death, not aging, seeing things no one with a human lifespan would with no end in sight. He considers ripping into in his arrogance, to be as scathing as he would a stranger, but he ultimately regains his composure enough to bypass it.
His hand is still trembling, but it's because he cares deeply for her welfare. He'll bite his tongue.]
That... thing you have inside you is not the answer to all of your problems. It is a shortcut. I don't doubt it has protected you in the now, kept you from getting hurt, made you none-the-wiser about the cost. But in the end it will hurt you more than help you. It will eat and eat at you until you aren't who you once were, whether it has a subconscious or the fact you will lose yourself in its power, I don't care!
You are smarter than this. You aren't modelling your future off a man who is more than likely manipulating your curiosity of what you don't already understand—I cannot even begin to explain how unbelievably stupid it is to take a hand out! Think! Men that are old know how to make the burden they carry seem like a favor, and that is a burden!
last tag b/c it's 5:30, u better hit this up tomorrow, also 1/2
It isn't a gift. It has its uses, and they are magnificent, but there is a price, and it's one she's been paying for months now.
It frightens her a fair bit, too, to hear him use words like that. It will eat at you, he says, and he can't possibly know, but that is precisely what it feels like. Eating, gnawing, burning, freezing, thrashing through her blood, filling every inch of her body.
It isn't that she's wedded to this power (although god, she does love the benefits it brings her). But perhaps what it comes down to is this: that she is simply too stubborn, too prideful, too desperate to keep what dignity she has left intact to go back to her husband and ask him for help.
But she's prideful, just as Dorian is. And she has a temper, just as he does. And so her cheeks flush darkly, her eyes flashing in a fury he's not yet seen directed his way.]
Don't you dare lecture me in such a way. Warn me if you like, advise me, but do not talk to me as if I'm some stupid girl being charmed and fooled. You haven't the faintest idea how many times-- my god, Dorian, I've spent my entire bloody life--
[She bites off that sentence, shaking her head, because there's no point in going there. And perhaps that's a good thing, because it gives her a moment to get a grip on her temper. Quieter, then, though just as intently:]
I know damn well what it is I took on, and I know the cost. Do you imagine I entered into that bargain blindly? I knew how badly it would hurt, I knew that it would have a price. And I know--
no subject
Pride. Pride and a desperate, raw determination to prove herself, one that she hasn't felt since she was a girl.]
I know.
[It's more ragged. Not quite defeated, but there's something less tense in her as she says that.]