test drive memeeeeee

[veryroundbird]

Throne of Shadows
TEST DRIVE MEME!!!

Here is a place where you can test out characters for the setting and accrue samples for your applications! Roll on the scenarios provided below, or come up with your own!

Scenario Builder

You are...

1. In the Purple Room (aka the pub)
2. In the Blue Room (aka the library)
3. At the rooftop garden
4. In the bathroom
5. Your bedroom
6. Someone else’s bedroom

You’re feeling...

1. Happy
2. Tired
3. Angry
4. Nostalgic
5. Like someone stabbed you—oh, hey, they did, fancy that
6. Horny

Somewhat unusually...

1. The room has been destroyed.
2. There are carnival games set up.
3. You suddenly cannot verbally communicate.
4. There’s a lot of alcohol here!
5. There is a box of adorable kittens here.
6. There is a dead body on the floor.

Comments

[myblogwonabafta]

[He doesn't get it, no, but he can see the man's not hurt. Not cut, anyway. The smile is strange to him, unfamiliar on a face he knows as well as his own. Maybe better. And he can't back away. This isn't Sherlock--he knows this. But he's obviously in need. And John can't read him like he can Sherlock, especially since self-deprecation was never in Sherlock's repertoire, but he can't look away.

Still, he's nervous, probably painfully obviously so, and he grimaces.]

Forgive me, but... did something happen to your throat?

[oregoniandionysus]

[He snaps his fingers - Give the man a prize - lifts his chin and strokes his throat, makes a babble-y gesture with his hand. I can't, he mouths.]

[myblogwonabafta]

That sounds serious.

[He doesn't notice the potential insensitivity of his phrasing, but he moves forward, gesturing towards Eliot's throat.]

May I? I am a doctor.

[oregoniandionysus]

[A nod, a shrug, and he lifts his chin again. Watches John as he starts to work.

He wonders why the fellow always seems so nervous. Everybody's a little on edge here, but there's something different about him. Quieter. Maybe that's just the way he is.]

[myblogwonabafta]

[Around him, maybe. And now, John knows why. He tries to ignore it, though his eyes keep flicking back to Eliot's, trying not to study the lines and contours of his face, trying not to compare.]

Open.

[At least he can go about his work calmly, professionally. He could always do that. Well. Nearly. He doesn't think about that day.

That's a lie.

But he can't find anything wrong. No sign of illness or injury. And that puts him in his element, just a bit. He's calmer now, obviously competent.]

Did you eat or drink anything strange lately?

[oregoniandionysus]

[That gets John a look. What is there to eat or drink around here, apart from--?

Oh.

He holds up a 'hang on a sec' finger, gets up and goes to his bedside table. Rattles open the drawer. Inside is a glass bottle stopped up with a cork. Some of his and Cho's magic nutrient paste moonshine.

He sits back down in front of John, pops off the cork, and holds the bottle under John's nose.]

[myblogwonabafta]

[John knows about the paste, of course, but he has to ask, doesn't he? He's almost grateful when Eliot goes to get the bottle.

He isn't when he sniffs it. His nose wrinkles and he peers inside.]

Did you try to make alcohol? Out of the nutrient paste?

[Unbidden, that earns Eliot a small smile. It's not actually funny. It's more that John finds himself admiring that sort of audacity.]

Well I can't see how it would result in losing your voice, but I suppose I could ask Casey or Adriana about it.

[oregoniandionysus]

[Shrug. What does he know about medicine? Zilch, that's what.

Anyway, it's probably magic. He mouths that as precisely as he can: probably magic.

Then he tips the bottle back to take a swig.]

[myblogwonabafta]

[John does not think that is particularly medically advisable. But then again, Waugh isn't his patient. Even if he's still reminding him forcibly of another strong-willed individual.

Well. Except for the magic part. Those words coming from that face make John think he's taking the piss, until he remembers this isn't Sherlock (and the hair's all wrong anyway) and he could very well mean it.]

Yes. Well. I'm afraid my training didn't ever include that.

[oregoniandionysus]

[Another shrug as he winces, just slightly, against the burn (he can handle harsh, but this stuff is like rocket fuel), then he reaches out to give John's hand a pat, and a little squeeze. You tried your best.

When it comes down to it, Adriana and/or Casey are going to be better equipped to solve this. So for the moment, it looks like he's stuck.

He offers John the bottle.]

[myblogwonabafta]

[There's something surreal about that level of reassurance from someone who looks like him, and John knows he should go. Should find someone who can help, one of the young women who seems to be overseeing things, someone who knows "magic"--he blanches inside at the concept, but how can he explain even being here? He decidedly shouldn't take a swig from the mysterious bottle offered by the suddenly-mute.

He looks down at Eliot, takes it, takes a swig, and grimaces fiercely as he sits next to him on the bed.]

Oh god, that's foul.

[Well, he can still talk. He takes another.]

[oregoniandionysus]

[Eliot nods. No shit.

It's weird, not being able to speak. Unsettling. Eliot relies so much on words, on witty turns of phrase and well-rehearsed aphorisms. He feels dull without them, and somehow both stifled and exposed.

But having already gotten his mirror-smashing frustration out of the way, he's determined not to let John or anyone see him sweat. Anymore.

He pulls himself up to sit on the bed next to John, gives him a pat on the back as he swallows his second drink, then plucks the bottle back from him. Watch a professional at work.]

[myblogwonabafta]

[John glances over at him. He can't read Eliot's mind, of course, but the sense is fairly clear. He still thinks he should get out of here. But the same things that are overwhelming his senses and making him want to run are gluing him to the spot. He's staring. He knows that. He looks away. If Eliot could speak, maybe the spell would be broken.

The silence lengthens.]

Maybe I should go get one of them. [He glances at the broken glass.] Or a dustpan.

[oregoniandionysus]

[See now, this is the sort of thing that makes it difficult for Eliot to get a read on him. The staring without actually doing anything. Maybe he's closeted, poor guy. Or a repressed bisexual. Actual bisexual men are about as rare as unicorns, but hey, those exist...

'Or a dustpan.'

Eliot holds up another 'hang on' finger, sets the bottle down on the floor, sits back up with a roll of his shoulders and sudden focused look at the glass on the floor. He doesn't attempt anything this complex very often, and it'll be harder without the words, even if they're not really needed. What matters is the intention.

He holds out his hands, takes a breath. His fingers and wrists break into a complicated, precise series of bends and twists. The air seems to shimmer around them, and then --

-- the shards of glass fly back up toward the wall, melding together until the mirror is whole again.

Eliot takes another hard breath and shakes out his hands. Yowza.]

[myblogwonabafta]

[John stares at him, then at the wall, then back at Eliot. His head tilts, his mouth slightly open, and he goes over it in his mind again. Floor. Wall. Mirror. Eliot.]

Fantastic.

[oregoniandionysus]

[Eliot is swallowing his third pull from the bottle when John speaks up, and -- ah, there's the sweet spot. He'll be perfectly relaxed and buzzy-warm in a moment.

He gives John a smile as he offers the bottle again.

Magic, he mouths.]