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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
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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?
no subject
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. ]