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cape_kore2013-12-12 09:05 pm
unionjackass) wrote in cape_kore2013-12-12 09:05 pm
Entry tags:
♠ two | action | day 142
[Dawn of the First Day day 142.
England does not actually know it's day 142, but for the sake of narrative, that's how it's going to be written.
Dawn of day 142 begins with whatever usual goings on there are. It is, in fact, dawn; the first light is shed and England is already treading softly into the kitchens intent on potion making and perhaps cooking himself a bit of breakfast.
Nothing like a good fry up with whatever available ingredients to start the day in Arthur's mind; followed by mixing potions and enchanting things to keep himself busy. The thing is, being a nation without standing on his own landmass and looking after his people, examining loads of paperwork and bandying words with fork-tongued politicians just... doesn't feel right.
All is well for a short time until, by means which will remain unclear, a small explosion occurs and sends a mighty clamour reverberating through the previously quiet air.
England is left slumped against a wall, hair and eyebrows terribly singed, face and clothes blackened with soot.
Should anyone come to investigate, they will surely notice the black and blue butterflies spilling and flocking from the oven, the scorched remains of a circle on the floor, ornamented with Old English and Elder Futhark inscriptions--the remains of which, should anyone be able to read either, are asking for the protection of the dead. Or was that bread? Head? At any rate, nothing malicious, as evidenced by the innocent cloud of butterflies, bottles of 'VICTORY GIN' scattered about, and the poor idiot who's rubbing his head and muttering forlorn things at the pile of solid ash in the discarded saucepan.
Apologies sent to those who don't like the smell of burnt popcorn. They will no doubt notice that right away as well.]
England does not actually know it's day 142, but for the sake of narrative, that's how it's going to be written.
Dawn of day 142 begins with whatever usual goings on there are. It is, in fact, dawn; the first light is shed and England is already treading softly into the kitchens intent on potion making and perhaps cooking himself a bit of breakfast.
Nothing like a good fry up with whatever available ingredients to start the day in Arthur's mind; followed by mixing potions and enchanting things to keep himself busy. The thing is, being a nation without standing on his own landmass and looking after his people, examining loads of paperwork and bandying words with fork-tongued politicians just... doesn't feel right.
All is well for a short time until, by means which will remain unclear, a small explosion occurs and sends a mighty clamour reverberating through the previously quiet air.
England is left slumped against a wall, hair and eyebrows terribly singed, face and clothes blackened with soot.
Should anyone come to investigate, they will surely notice the black and blue butterflies spilling and flocking from the oven, the scorched remains of a circle on the floor, ornamented with Old English and Elder Futhark inscriptions--the remains of which, should anyone be able to read either, are asking for the protection of the dead. Or was that bread? Head? At any rate, nothing malicious, as evidenced by the innocent cloud of butterflies, bottles of 'VICTORY GIN' scattered about, and the poor idiot who's rubbing his head and muttering forlorn things at the pile of solid ash in the discarded saucepan.
Apologies sent to those who don't like the smell of burnt popcorn. They will no doubt notice that right away as well.]
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Are you injured? [He raises an eyebrow at the scene, approaching the stranger slowly.]
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Oh, sorry, ah... [He glances up and springs to his feet, dusting himself off. A light cloud of soot falls to the floor.]
Me? No no, heavens no--This? Tiny scratches, and...
Hello! [At last he regards the stranger and smiles, waving a few butterflies out of his own face.] Oh there's no need for that, just an innocent cooking incident. I'll have all this cleaned up in no time.
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That is, of course, until there's an explosion in the kitchen.
He's been in Kore long enough to know that explosions of any kind are not good. After all, the last time the ground shook, a hole had opened up in the middle of town and they'd ended up wandering around aimlessly for an entire day without any powers.
But, as Chuck enters the kitchen now, he sees it's fairly obvious this is not the work of Kore itself, but of poor cooking abilities. He takes in the butterflies, the circle, the gin -- does that say, 'Oh Lord protect this bread'?
He finds himself entirely amused with the situation. However, as he turns his gaze to the disgruntled man, there is no amusement in his face and none in his tone as he says, ]
Oh, uh, wow. Are -- are you okay?
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I've had drunken brawls worse than this--may as well have stubbed my toe or something. I'd be swearing more, for certain.
Don't worry, nothing toxic! I think.
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Do you, uh, need any help?
[ He's not entirely sure what he could do to help out. He doesn't have anything on hand to catch the butterflies with, but the option is out there, and if there's anything he can do to help, he will. ]
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Ugh... [He sniffs. It's more comical than Chuck knows yet.] Me? No. Couldn't be better! Don't mind the butterflies, they're harmless too, unless you've got a phobia.
Really, really I'm fine, Mister uh...
...
[Finally, at last, looks Chuck up and down.]
Do you need any help?
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No, uh, I don't have any phobias.
[ Okay, that's a lie, and an obvious one at that. He has a lot of phobias. Starting with ghosts, ending with the Devil and everything in between, from werewolves to vampires to wendigos.
But butterflies? Well, he has no reason to be scared of butterflies. yet.
Chuck looks down at himself. He doesn't look any more disgruntled than he normally does and, as such, he's confused as to why the man who just blew up the kitchen thinks he is the one in need of help. ]
Uh... no?
[ It's most definitely a question. ]
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Pay no attention to the black cat trying to catch butterflies.]
Arthur? Are you all right?
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His head snaps up immediately and his dirtied face and ears turn red.]
M--Miss Fortescue. I'm fine, I... [... He squints. Dusts himself off. Continues squinting.]
Go ahead, get it out of your system!
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Get what out of my system? I was only concerned.
[Fortescue can have manners when she wants to.]
I'm glad you're all right.
[Though, she hopes someone else will cook soon, to get the burnt smell tempered.]
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Did you use that gin for fuel?
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...
What if I did?
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And raise half an eyebrow of her own. People can heal, back home, but not quite like that.]
I would... congratulate your... enthusiasm.
[He's definitely getting teased, now.]
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He was still searching for a way out, but had found to his own distress that the expeditions and attempts to map the place had become more of an excuse to give himself and Bucky a cause to work for than a real search for answers. The fact that his dead best friend was here, hindered his enthusiasm about finding a way out.
That and he had come to feel more like himself over the last couple of days. The haze of anger and frustration that had nearly driven him to killing said best friend had evaporated, leaving confusion and mixed feelings in his wake. He had stayed off the network in the interim, not sure how to explain his behavior in his first couple of days. Though, he had been quick to greet any members from the Avenger team as they'd arrived. He knew he would be able to count on them if he did find a solution, or needed their support in keeping an eye on Loki.
This morning found Steve on the way to the kitchen for a quick grab of daily rations when he heard the explosion. He moved quickly, his eyes surveying the room when he came to a stop just outside the doors. The butterflies were the first thing he noticed, followed by the ornamental circle on the floor and a man slumped against the wall and covered in soot.
He moves forward quickly, not recognizing the darkened face in front of him immediately. He reaches out to touch the man's shoulder lightly. He seems to be breathing at least.]
What happened? Are you okay?
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Oh, you know, just a little accident. Nothing to worry about. [Only two voices he's heard in the kitchen are familiar and this one, unlike Fortescue's, is met with irritation.]
You. Now's when you want to be polite? That's bloody rich.
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The shock actually throws him off for a moment. But his brain catches up with him a moment later and he can feel his stomach sinking as he places the British accent a split second before he apparently is placed as well.
Steve let's go of him and takes a step back.]
England?
[He's still not sure that's the right name, but if it's what he wants to be called, so be it. He's not entirely sure he's actually the country of England, but he's definitely a little more than human.
He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.]
Listen, I think we might have gotten off to the wrong start.
[It's an understatement. He knows this. He may not be afraid of apologizing when he's in the wrong, but that doesn't make it any easier. He glances around the kitchen, his brow furrowing.]
What were you doing?
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England scrubs at his nose and sniffs, trying so hard not to sneeze. Out comes a handkerchief that he uses to try and wipe the loose soot from his face and hair. He gives the American a wary glance or three and makes it a point not to present a better answer until he's good and bloody ready.]
I'm England, yes. [He's dusting off his clothes now; haughty behaviour for a skinny punk in his twenties.] The country. Island. Wrong start though? Really? I hadn't noticed. Typical chat with a hot-headed Yank, that was.
[Oh come on England... Be fair.]
Well. I'm willing to start over if you are.
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He actually has the curt, down-to-business air of some of the Brits that Steve worked with during the war. One in particular, who only a few days ago had given way to an instant jealous dislike of this stranger and now rekindled a strange form of nostalgia.
Hot-headed. But actually... that was exactly what Steve had been. He had been fairly manic in his frustration and anger. He knows that now. He still isn't sure what caused it, but he recognizes that it was poor behavior.]
You're right. [He lets out a slow sigh and nods.] I'm sorry. I wasn't acting like myself. Not that it's a good enough reason for how rude I was.
[He holds out a hand in order to help England up.]
Truce?