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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
no subject
Did you use that gin for fuel?
no subject
...
What if I did?
no subject
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.]