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The Second.... Thingy
Welcome, outlanders, to the throne room of (presently unconscious) King Alxis of Glazingstoke. The lilac-colored eyes of the sorcerous Prince Joffrey fix with unnerving penetration upon the party of outlanders as he clasps his beloved father to his breast. Limned he is by the last of his flames; their low ebb purples the face of the slumbering king. The echoes of deep magic swirl in the room and color the sunlight that streams through the windows."Explain yourselves." He commands. It is the tone of someone who is used to being obeyed immediately.
Behind him, about him, a few guards are coming around from their poisonous nap. Groggy blinking; clumsy, sleep-swollen hands fumbling to check upturned helmets, or grasp weapons, or smooth ruffled feathers. A muffled "wut happnd" slurs from someone's numb lips. Two piles of black ash smoulder silently upon the dais.
(Free-for-all response)
SECOND STEP
"...Joffrey..." He smiles in a hitching halfassed way. "My boy...."
Joffrey smiles back as warmly, relief plain upon his features. "I'm here, father. You're safe now."
"Safe?... We're in the throne room..." The color drains from his face. "Danger? Assassins? Assassins?!" He begins to rouse himself, struggling free of Joffrey's embrace. "Thieves! Regicide!"
Joffrey starts to explain, but gets no further than "The Outlanders," before the king's dark glare falls - quite literally, as his chin flops down on his breast - upon those at the end of the room.
"Get them... Seize them! Don't let them get away! Guards!"
If there is a delay in the pursuit of this order it's because only three fourths of the guards have come around and all of them are still groggy and half-sedated. Joffrey attempts to protest but the king bellows for capture with ever-waxing wakefulness! Nor are the awakening members of the audience and court nobles still - they have seen the Outlanders, and the bolder among them will even start pressing in.
There are two guards at the door that leads to the king's quarters, both sleeping still. The antechamber door is closer. At the door to the antechamber, there are two guards awake on the throne-room side - and six in the antechamber beyond. If there's any fighting, it is likely that Joffrey will be forced to join the fray
(Free for all response, though the team may wish to plan amongst itself)
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He just about clocks the first one that reaches for him, but remembers at the last second that resisting arrest was a real good way to prove yourself guilty. The last thing he wants is to end up in some prison - though he doesn't doubt for a second that the Enterprise won't be able find him...s'long as he's still alive - but punching a guard in the face seems like it'd get him there faster than lowering his first and turning his shoulder against the rough handling.
McCoy does, however, raise his voice, shouting above the burgeoning brawl.
"Hey...HEY NOW, we've got more stuff to tell you! The actual culprits - " Damn hard time to emphasis a point when he's got a hand on his face. "- said a few things!"
SORT OF A STEP IN HURR
"Liars... culprits! Bring them forward at once!!! AT ONCE!!!" the king shouts, spittle flying from his mahogany lips. As the guards hasten to obey, Joffrey's clear, cool voice cuts the air. Even if he meant it as a murmur only for the ears of his father.
"Father, I urge caution... You're still affected by the sedative, you must not overextend yourself."
Alxis claws at his son's robes and argues, "Caution?! With murderers? Guilt," He goes on, looking positively fervid. "Written on their faces! Agents of Argentia, or Sprudce! Joffrey, do not..."
The guards bustle forward with their charges.
"Are these truly the faces of assassins, my king?" replies Joffrey, gesturing at them. "There were two others... I have dealt with them."
A guard pipes up. "An' this one says ee heard something!"
A fine time to interject.
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"YES...yes. We heard something. From the real assassins, who were damn shocked to see us standing around." He pitched his, well, pitch at the king, wondering if the monarch was going to drive himself to a faint like. His color was positively mottled. "Which I can tell you soon as we all calm down some."
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But Joffrey seizes his hand and the father and son exchange arguments which would be extremely time-consuming to reproduce here; the court annals, at least, do not contain them.
But one thing is made clear: Joffrey offers to take responsibility for the outlanders.
And the king offers to stay his incessant wishes for execution in deference to his son's wise words.
With that being said, the doctor and the noblewoman are slapped into intricate brass handcuffs. A team of guards begins to march them out of the room and into their new inquisitorial chamber: Joffrey's quarters.
Feel free to make small talk in the halls.
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"I'd hoped to see more of the palace," she murmurs to her fellow prisoner, "but this isn't at all how I intended to go about it."
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Remembering that she was speaking to another traveler, she added, "'Shonagon,' in this country's language, means something like 'junior councilor.' You may feel free to address me as such."
And, now that he's not entirely a stranger (and holding up those handcuffs is a bit tiring), she lowers her fan slightly and tips it to the side, letting McCoy see the corner of her smile.
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He isn't dead yet, so that's saying something. He can't say it's comfortable being clapped in irons while the general public gives him the stink eye, but he can't say it's the first time, either. So McCoy can only take a few deep, calming breaths, scratch an itch under one ear, and wonder how or when he might need to treat a sword wound.
"If anybody's still feelin' light-headed," he says, mainly to the general air. "I'd recommend something warm to drink, maybe some porridge if you're stomach's not doing too well. Fresh air helps some, too."
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This hallway is surprisingly long.
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Things that make one nervous: Waiting for a morning-after letter. Accusations of murder. Impending arrest.
"Are foreigners usually treated so rudely in your country?" she calls, raising her voice. "And I'd thought this seemed like such a lovely court, too."
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So far, nothing good has come out of staying.
The King's demand is scarcely voiced when he sets into motion. The King's quarters have a door; they must also have windows. If he can make it there, he might have a chance.
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For the moment, the path forward is clear. But this might not last.
From behind comes the rolling thunder of the king's shouts...
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"H-help! They are attacking in there!"
There is no time to judge whether the guards fall for it or not; he's already trying to move past them, farther. As long as there's a path, as long as he can find an opening, a window, a roof, something--
And if he can't, he still has the wire, coiled and ready at his waist.
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Eyes as wide as Hei's, incapable of disbelief in the potential event of drama, they both rush past him to enter the throne room and defend their king and honor and so forth.
Of course, there's only a minute or two before they are apprised of the facts. The hallway before Hei is clear. There are no doors in this section. There are windows to the left and a stairway visible far ahead.
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He braces himself -- takes a split second to work his tote around in front of his arms and head to protect them from the glass -- and then attempts to throw himself out the window.
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Hei lands in front of a door and the two guards stationed in front of that door. As a warm spring breeze blows through the peonies, four guards start running toward him from other entrances into the palace. The guys to the far north haven't seen him yet.
A single figure clad all in black is leaning against a wall somewhere to his right, amidst all the boxwood shrubs and burgeoning chrysanthemums.
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The thought of surrender flashes briefly in his mind -- but it seems pointless, at this point. Nevertheless, he gives a (quiet) shriek, looking appropriately panicked for the brief moment it takes him to scramble onto his feet.
And take off towards the right. If he can only get onto that roof, he can maybe, just maybe, make it out onto the other side, the one where the guards might have a harder time spotting him in the crowd.
His fingers grip the wire.
Re: SECOND STEP
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For the moment these actions are not noticed by the king or the prince.
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Now that the thuggish local and one of the guards is down, Zell has no competition for the attention of the guard still standing.
The one with the staff.
She is muttering a series of strange barbed words that cast a veil of silence upon whoever hears them.
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There was one way to solve this. Dashing as fast as he could, he feints around the guard to punch her in the mouth. The vague realization that Herpy was a girl is lost on him.
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The awakened guards have not missed that they are dealing with an agile, avid warrior. As this is not a movie, they do not come nicely, one at a time, but leap at him altogether and knock him to the ground. The guard - not Herpy, by the way, but Herpy's twin sister - clutches her bleeding mouth with a narrow-eyed look like someone farted. It is peculiarly familiar, this look.
The guards (three or four of them) attempt to wrestle Zell's hands into handcuffs and his ankles into some more handcuffs.
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Sorry Zell, but there are too many guards and not enough overdrive.
Zell is cuffed and dragged angrily off to the palace jail, a chilly, albeit relatively clean, stone cell with thick iron bars that have been magically enchanted to punish anyone who attempts to break them.
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The dungeon is vermin-free and meals are served three times a day. Zell's cell is 10'x10' with no windows and rough stone walls.
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