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sixthiterationlogs2017-01-16 11:19 pm
mund) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2017-01-16 11:19 pm
uncover our heads and reveal our souls
WHO: Percival Graves
WHERE: The fountain, the inn, town hall, by the houses. Graves is curious and is out and about exploring, feel free to bump into him anywhere.
WHEN: 16 January morning, afternoon, evening
OPEN TO: Open to everyone!
WARNINGS: Nah, none. Will warn if it comes up.
STATUS: Open to new threads!
Fountain;
There is an incredible indignity in drowning, especially when one has been nowhere near any particular body of water prior to this episode. It's the disorientation that wrongfoots a person, skews survival instincts just enough for that damned mouthful of water before it really kicks in. Water down the throat means air is not where one needs it to be, and Graves' nose lungs are burning as he swims towards the surface, desperation powering every stroke before he breaks through it and breathes deep, coughing out the water he'd wrongly swallowed.
He grips the edge of the fountain and hoists himself out of it, soaking wet in a pair of red scrubs that is very distinctly not what he's been wearing before he ends up here, under wholly mysterious circumstances. The surroundings are jarring, rustic and wholly unlike the bustling rush of city that is New York; and he's certain no fountain in the city has inexplicably deceptive depths. Confused, disgruntled, and entirely annoyed by the unfavorable shift in circumstances, Graves runs a hand through his hair to slick it back (he'll look like a drowned rat otherwise), his mind runs through predictable questions. Where is he, how did he get here, who had enough magic to haul him right through without him knowing? He damn well hadn't touched a Portkey, he'd know if it turns out to be something like that, and it cannot have come at a more inconvenient time.
He perches on the edge of the fountain as he shrugs off the pack that's somehow been attached to him. Another unsolvable mystery, but as it turns out -- offensively cheap clothing, a blatant absence of his wand and the rest of his usual clothes, and of course, this day is the day that keeps on giving.
The lack of a wand is bothersome but not incapacitating, and he has half a mind to dry himself off with magic (it'll only take a fraction of a second), but Graves hasn't made it to where he is now by being careless. There are No-Majs here, and more importantly, there are others, the ones who feel different, the likes of which he hadn't experienced before. His senses feel blunted, but he senses them nonetheless, as if through a foggy veil -- which definitely doesn't help. Snagging his pack and getting to his feet, the chilly air more an inconvenience than danger, he poses the ever-important question to the person nearby.
"What is this place?"
inn;
They say clothes make the man, and Graves contemplates mistruth in it -- after all, he might still be in ridiculous scrubs, but it hasn't made him any less imposing, not after he's decided to make the most of it, and bear with the undesirable clothing items he'd been left with. No, things had been worse; Graves is used to worse, he plans to make the best of it, despite the fact that things are far more inconvenient when you can't use magic.
Like drying clothes, for one. Instead of an instantaneous drying spell that could have taken care of his wet clothes in an instant, but no. Of course he has to dry out in front of the fire like every other No-Maj; there are too many pairs of eyes on him, and Graves can never violate their most sacred, highest law, not when he's the one charged with enforcing and upholding them.
The fire is comforting at least, and he asks. "Does everyone come through the fountain?"
closed to credence
Speaking of too many pairs of eyes, however. Graves doesn't look away from the fire, aware of the shadow on his periphery. Graves been here nearly two hours, drying himself off and getting information, and he'd picked up on presence's the abrupt disappearance the first half of the visit -- as if that presence is looking to hightail it somewhere far away, the spike of distress acutely felt not so much through thought but a flicker of power that is both familiar and alien at once.
Interesting.
He straightens up, a hand on the warm brick above the fireplace as he watches the flames surge and dance. When he next speaks, his words are neutral, even, and clearly directed to the observer a distance behind him. "Are you planning to talk, or just watch me all night?"
town hall;
Graves finds himself exploring the area, mapping out the village in his head as much and accurately as he can. You never know when you're going to need it, and it never hurts to be prepared. The town hall is always a place to be when you want to take a measure of the village, of what it's like, and so far it's not very comforting.
Graves is ever-watchful and on the alert for more potential signs his dislike for current circumstances set aside in favor of more pressing concerns. There are no answers to be gleaned or extrapolated, the loss of his wand and the inexplicable diminishing of his magic leaving him unpleasantly vulnerable in a place he doesn't recognise. This is nothing like New York City nor its neighboring outskirts -- if the city had a heartbeat and pulsed with life, then surely this village is barely a shadow of it, bereft of everything Graves had grown accustomed to. Worse, he's dressed to a degree of drabness that he's ultimately unused to; even battlefields did not subject their soldiers to the indignity of unpractical outfits, but he supposes that, too, is a relatively minor concern in the face of bigger problems.
He bumps into someone when he turns to go, and reaches out to steady them if they need it. "Apologies. I wasn't paying attention."
wildcard, hit him up with anything you like!
WHERE: The fountain, the inn, town hall, by the houses. Graves is curious and is out and about exploring, feel free to bump into him anywhere.
WHEN: 16 January morning, afternoon, evening
OPEN TO: Open to everyone!
WARNINGS: Nah, none. Will warn if it comes up.
STATUS: Open to new threads!
Fountain;
There is an incredible indignity in drowning, especially when one has been nowhere near any particular body of water prior to this episode. It's the disorientation that wrongfoots a person, skews survival instincts just enough for that damned mouthful of water before it really kicks in. Water down the throat means air is not where one needs it to be, and Graves' nose lungs are burning as he swims towards the surface, desperation powering every stroke before he breaks through it and breathes deep, coughing out the water he'd wrongly swallowed.
He grips the edge of the fountain and hoists himself out of it, soaking wet in a pair of red scrubs that is very distinctly not what he's been wearing before he ends up here, under wholly mysterious circumstances. The surroundings are jarring, rustic and wholly unlike the bustling rush of city that is New York; and he's certain no fountain in the city has inexplicably deceptive depths. Confused, disgruntled, and entirely annoyed by the unfavorable shift in circumstances, Graves runs a hand through his hair to slick it back (he'll look like a drowned rat otherwise), his mind runs through predictable questions. Where is he, how did he get here, who had enough magic to haul him right through without him knowing? He damn well hadn't touched a Portkey, he'd know if it turns out to be something like that, and it cannot have come at a more inconvenient time.
He perches on the edge of the fountain as he shrugs off the pack that's somehow been attached to him. Another unsolvable mystery, but as it turns out -- offensively cheap clothing, a blatant absence of his wand and the rest of his usual clothes, and of course, this day is the day that keeps on giving.
The lack of a wand is bothersome but not incapacitating, and he has half a mind to dry himself off with magic (it'll only take a fraction of a second), but Graves hasn't made it to where he is now by being careless. There are No-Majs here, and more importantly, there are others, the ones who feel different, the likes of which he hadn't experienced before. His senses feel blunted, but he senses them nonetheless, as if through a foggy veil -- which definitely doesn't help. Snagging his pack and getting to his feet, the chilly air more an inconvenience than danger, he poses the ever-important question to the person nearby.
"What is this place?"
inn;
They say clothes make the man, and Graves contemplates mistruth in it -- after all, he might still be in ridiculous scrubs, but it hasn't made him any less imposing, not after he's decided to make the most of it, and bear with the undesirable clothing items he'd been left with. No, things had been worse; Graves is used to worse, he plans to make the best of it, despite the fact that things are far more inconvenient when you can't use magic.
Like drying clothes, for one. Instead of an instantaneous drying spell that could have taken care of his wet clothes in an instant, but no. Of course he has to dry out in front of the fire like every other No-Maj; there are too many pairs of eyes on him, and Graves can never violate their most sacred, highest law, not when he's the one charged with enforcing and upholding them.
The fire is comforting at least, and he asks. "Does everyone come through the fountain?"
closed to credence
Speaking of too many pairs of eyes, however. Graves doesn't look away from the fire, aware of the shadow on his periphery. Graves been here nearly two hours, drying himself off and getting information, and he'd picked up on presence's the abrupt disappearance the first half of the visit -- as if that presence is looking to hightail it somewhere far away, the spike of distress acutely felt not so much through thought but a flicker of power that is both familiar and alien at once.
Interesting.
He straightens up, a hand on the warm brick above the fireplace as he watches the flames surge and dance. When he next speaks, his words are neutral, even, and clearly directed to the observer a distance behind him. "Are you planning to talk, or just watch me all night?"
town hall;
Graves finds himself exploring the area, mapping out the village in his head as much and accurately as he can. You never know when you're going to need it, and it never hurts to be prepared. The town hall is always a place to be when you want to take a measure of the village, of what it's like, and so far it's not very comforting.
Graves is ever-watchful and on the alert for more potential signs his dislike for current circumstances set aside in favor of more pressing concerns. There are no answers to be gleaned or extrapolated, the loss of his wand and the inexplicable diminishing of his magic leaving him unpleasantly vulnerable in a place he doesn't recognise. This is nothing like New York City nor its neighboring outskirts -- if the city had a heartbeat and pulsed with life, then surely this village is barely a shadow of it, bereft of everything Graves had grown accustomed to. Worse, he's dressed to a degree of drabness that he's ultimately unused to; even battlefields did not subject their soldiers to the indignity of unpractical outfits, but he supposes that, too, is a relatively minor concern in the face of bigger problems.
He bumps into someone when he turns to go, and reaches out to steady them if they need it. "Apologies. I wasn't paying attention."
wildcard, hit him up with anything you like!
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