The Second.... Thingy

[quu]

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)

Comments

[mccrusty]

And interject he will, still shouting above the fracas and shaking his head to get some of his hair out of his eyes.

"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."

[quu]

"The real assassins?? Preposterous!" King Alxis sputters.

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.

[yowokomete]

Shonagon frowns down at her handcuffs. In order to keep her fan raised for propriety's sake (she is, after all, surrounded by strangers), she's required to let her empty hand wait in the air uselessly. The loss of dignity irritates her immensely, as do her sleeves falling down her arms.

"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."

[mccrusty]

"Well, considering the security around here, it might've been a pip dream from the beginning," he says, though not unapologetically. "McCoy's the name, by the way. Leonard McCoy."

[yowokomete]

"Please don't take it as a slight that I'm not entirely pleased to make your acquaintance, circumstances considered," she says. "I'm called Sei Shonagon."

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.

[mccrusty]

Well.

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."

[quu]

The guards impassively sneer. Well, one of them impassively sneers. The other one sneers less impassively and silently notes the advice. His stomach did feel like it was full of quibbling ferrets.

This hallway is surprisingly long.