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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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
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?