rubycity_ooc | April Test Drive

Entry tags:

April Test Drive

Thinking of apping a character but not sure they'll fit in the city walls?

Have no fear, a meme for you is here.

Directions:

Use an RNG to choose a location and prompt, or wait for someone else to tag.

Post with your character with their name and canon on top!

If you'd like, leave contact info for people to get in contact for plotting and other such shenans.

Tag around! Make friends. Don't be afraid to chat OOC while tagging.

Locations

1.TRAIN STATION - The place where everyone gets dumped off at. Your first view of Ruby City, complete with informational posters telling you all about where you've ended up.
2. THE BEACH - Lovely year-round, though in the winter months, you're probably not likely to dip your toes in.
3. THE BLACK STALLION - A rather quaint bar. Supposedly, the burgers are great, but you don't see anyone immediately who's willing to serve you. Maybe you're meant to get it yourself.
4. THE OBELISK - The tall monolith in the center of the city marks the gathering place of many events, though right now it seems to be cold and dark.
5. THE CLOCKTOWER - Offering an impressive view of the city, several residents come here to clear their heads, if they don't mind braving the narrow staircase.
6. THE COFFEE JOINT - the front windows are warm and welcoming, and it seems there's always someone friendly enough to fix you a cup when you wander through.
7. THE CATACOMBS - Intrepid, aren't you? Those weird holes may beg exploring, but go too deep and you're going to be in a lot of trouble, considering the viciousness of the creatures held within.
8. THE CITY STREETS - All told, Ruby City is a lovely place, once you get past the fact that several of the buildings look derelict and on the verge of falling down. There's no harm in doing a little sightseeing.
9. THE PARK - You thought it'd be a lovely stroll, but the park is anything but friendly, if those approaching wolf-like creatures are any indication.
10. CHOOSE YOUR OWN - Don't like what we've come up with? Feel like picking your own place? There's a whole host of lovely locations to choose from in the City.

Scenarios

1. NEW ARRIVAL - Step off that train, walk down the street. People usually latch on to newcomers to try and help them out. Even if you look shy, the other residents probably won't be!
2. WATCH TALK - Feeling lost? Disoriented? Don't worry, everyone feels that way on their first day. Fortunately - if the signs at the station are to believed - the watch in your pocket can be used to talk to whoever else might be here.
3. BAD WEATHER - Aw, man. Whether it's snow, or rain, or just plain cold, today was definitely the wrong day to get dumped off in a City in the middle of nowhere.
4. A RUN-IN - Maybe you weren't watching. Maybe they weren't. Either way, you just bumped into someone. Perhaps apologies are in order?
5. HELP, IT HURTS - Clumsy, aren't you? Perhaps wherever the train brought you from wasn't so friendly, or you just tripped and twisted your ankle. Either way, you're in a bit of pain. Hopefully someone will notice your booboos and help patch you up.
6. HUNGRY - It isn't very obvious sometimes that restaurants are what they are, especially in a place like Ruby City. Where can a person go to get a bite to eat around here?
7. MISTAKEN IDENTITY - Hey, there's someone you know! --Or maybe not.
8. BEING FOLLOWED - Maybe you're just being paranoid, or maybe you've got a reason to be afraid. Whatever it is, it feels like there's eyes on you...
9. CURRENT EVENTS - None at the moment, but feel free to look through our event tag!
10. CHOOSE YOUR OWN - Don't like any of these ideas? Feel free to come up with your own!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

This new arrival doesn't step onto the the platform as much as he faceplants on it. It's a stumble and staggering that ends with him falling at the last stair and falling, only marginally catching himself. For a moment, he just lies there, barely conscious.

That he just fell from a bit over ground and landed on a hard surface is only part of this. Him being heavily founded and bleeding might also be a reason. As is, probably, the multiple fresh burns, one of them mostly covered by the helmet that still sits on his head even though it has been split in the middle right at the top.

His clothes are also smouldering and even burning in a few places, and that is what finally makes him move. Not much, though. He rolls over onto his belly. And then again. Flop, flop, flop, Finwean baked roll slowly flopping down the platform in an attempt to put out the fires on himself before they can spread and grow.

"Fingon!" Said Finwean baked roll is very fortunate that Elfhouse is right next to the station, and Maglor drops everything and begs Nyelafinwe to Stay inside, please, stay inside, I'll explain later, but stay inside and is tearing across the platform, stopping only long enough to dunk whatever bit of cloth he had handy (its a teatowel) in water so he can help him douse the flames.

"Cousin, cousin, easy, what's the worse hurt?" Because the obvious death wound might be healed, or maybe not yet inflicted, but there were plenty of other injuries that will need to be seen to, he remembers.

It's disorienting, the sudden change of location and situation - and he knows that that happened, must have happened, because the air is clear and not filled with smoke and the scent of blood and doom, because he has covered at least a few feet of ground now and has yet to bump into a corpse, because there is no victorious Orcish chanting in the distance - and he can't make heads nor tails of it (he is still within his hroa, too, that he is absolutely certain of - that it hurts so is a good indicator).

Disorienting enough for Fingon to not immediately be able to tell who just addressed him, much less understand what he said. It takes another moment to turn his head so that he can see Maglor and focus, and then process whom he sees. An elf, Fëanorian star- "Ma...," wait, no. Not the one that he was thinking of last, if ever so briefly, "Makalaurë?" He's too far gone to think about politics, to form words in a language that isn't his native one, and even Maglor's Quenyan name leaves his lips hoarse and weak.

"Here, yes, it's me, Finno" He falls automatically into Quenya in answer, despite how rusty it sits on his tongue (easier, since Nyelafinwe spoke no Sindarin when he got here and they had had no choice).

"Easy, easy. You are safe, now. But not yet in the Halls, and I would prefer if I can prevent your leaving. Let me see how bad it is now the flames are out?"

"Where...," his voice fails, his lungs full of smoke still and more than one of his ribs cracked or broken, pain and dizziness warring with dehydration for the position of what makes it the hardest to speak.

But he manages to bring up an arm and indicate the area around and above his waist, where flames wrapped around him to trap him in place, crushing the lower parts of his ribcage and what lies underneath and searing through cloth and armour and skin on the way. His arms, which were caught by the same flames, don't look much better, but the area is smaller and they're a bit less crucial (and well, quite obviously in the same state).

"Not Beleriand" He says wryly, even as he scans the injuries and bites his lip, wishing not for the first time that Elrond was still here. Well. Between Galadriel and Aragorn... they should be able to manage, hopefully.

"A place called Ruby City, which seems to enjoy stealing folk for its own purposes." He shakes his head slowly. "Finno... I'm going to need to take the armor off. I'm sorry."

It will hurt. A lot. But he remembers full well how hot armor can burn even without active flames.

He wants to say something - if I pass out now and don't wake up again, tell Maitimo to not blame himself for my death, don't blame yourself either - but when he tries to speak all that comes out is coughing and gasping for air, and he almost passes out just from that.

All that he can manage is a brief nod. It will hurt, but it is necessary, he knows that. And if they truly are off the battlefield, and all signs point towards that, and if Maglor is truly there, that is the best path of action. He'll be cooked in his own armour before long if he stays in it.

"Sorry, sorry" Maglor breathes apologies as he winces and tries to get the armor off as swiftly as he can. The teatowel is already warm, but some protection is better than none, when he cannot really feel properly with his hands anyway.

It has been a long time, but his mind is already scrambling for all the memories of battlefields. He needs to get any bleeding stopped, first, and then he can worry about the burns. Running water would be best, but both sea and river are too far away. If he can get him inside, under the shower...

Fingon's breathing gets more laboured as Maglor works, but he manages to stay conscious, concentrating firmly on the garbled thread of thought that is why is Maglor here and where is here. He doesn't come to any conclusion, doesn't even manage to get his thoughts straight, but it keeps him awake, and that is the most important part.

His wounds are grave, enough to kill a Man all on their own, but not quite enough to kill an Elf that was born in the Blessed Realm. He is bleeding in a number of places, scrapes and cuts and a stab wound in his thigh, split skin under his eye and burns on torso, arms and the top of his head. No bones are broken, but the skin above his right calf is almost entirely gone along with all of his boot in that spot and caked with dirt and scab. He's littered with bruises on top of that, but at the very least there are no arrows or similar things still located inside him that would have to be removed.

Most of the scrapes and cuts he ignores, minor (relatively) injuries that he can set aside. The stab wound will need to be bandanged, and he rips his shirt (Sorry Celebrian) into strips to do so, making sure to start at the top and work down.

The lack of sharp bits stuck into him is reassuring, but the burns... Maglor bites his lip.

"Finno, if I help you, can you stand? We... I am staying with others in the house just over there. I need to get you washed off, and there's a contraption in the house that will allow for that. And then I can fetch Galadriel."

It takes a moment for him to gather his wits and strength about him to answer, but then he nods carefully. "With your assistance." He doubts that he'll be able to walk far without it - the adrenaline in his veins is receding, he can feel it, and with it the irrational amounts of strengths and endurance that it brought.

"...Artanis?" What is she doing here? He thought that she would be safe and far away, kept from the battlefield by who-knows-what (if he understood Beleg and Mablung correctly, there is a dashing Sindarin prince who has a lot to do with it, Fingon just wonders how he should have achieved restraining his cousin so). But then Maglor should be at the other end of it and he is here, and he doesn't look like one who just came out of battle. And this place... No, later. First he tries to concentrate on getting up, rolling onto his side to make it a bit easier, gritting his teeth against the blinding pain that shoots through him at the movement and just gasping for a few moments while he lies on his side.

"Yes. Like me, she has been brought here - we are not even in Middle-earth, Finno." Distract him, distract him, keep him occupied so he does not have to think too hard about the pain.

He is careful not to touch the injuries, but he offers his hand and shoulder when Fingon is ready.

"Alright, here we go - it isn't far... and... Finno, Nyelo is here, alright? But... he's Nyelo still. He doesn't remember anything of after."

Big shock, give it early, get him so distracted he does not notice the distance to the door.

Well, Maglor is certainly giving him a lot to think about here, and he needs a while to puzzle through it (and he does cling to trying to figure it out, because it does distract him, because it does help against the pain as they start to move towards the house). Not Middle-Earth but not the halls either, is one. Maitimo, another, and Maitimo and not Maedhros, Maglor says, but he cannot quite figure out what it means.

The other is just something that he doesn't understand yet, but this, he isn't sure he even has the correct lead on. "Nyelo... But how-?"

"Time." He eases them both through the door, to be met by a frantic Nyelafinwe, still so young, with light in his eyes still clear of madness, and Maglor overrides him, sending him away to fetch Galadriel.

"Time is odd here" He helps him into the bathroom, and into the shower. "I... Finno, I have lived through two ages of the world since the last I saw you."

He doesn't bother to get out before he turns the taps, aiming to get the water lukewarm.

It takes a while before Fingong comments again, breathless from strain and pain and stunned into silence by seeing Maedhros - Maitimo, Nyelo, Russandol - like this (he is one of the few who never ceased to use Quenya in private, complete with names and everything, and Maedhros one of the few whom he would use it with), and then by the odd room that Maglor leads him into.

When he finally speaks up, it is in parts to keep himself awake now that he is sitting down again and the fog of pain clears up by a fraction. "He is you.... ger and you are older." He'll hold on to that thought while proceeding. "And this is not Arda." Neither Middle-Earth nor the Halls, Maglor said, but it feels nothing like Aman in general, so he'll go out on a limp (he almost snorts at his own terrible pun) and assume that they are somewhere else, as strange as that sounds. Somewhere where Maglor can be much older than he should be and Maedhros much younger. "A dream?"

"Aye, you have the right of it" Okay, water is lukewarm, good enough, ad he nudges Fingon under the stream carefully.

"I could wish it so, but no, I fear not cousin. We have been brought here by the rulers of this place, but for what reason none of us know. There are many of our family here - Galadriel, as you heard. Finrod. Glorfindel, Turgon's liegeman. And... Arafinwe is here."

His eyes brighten up for a moment when Maglor begin's to speak Turgon's name, but the light dies a bit when he continues. Not Turgon himself, and he prides himself with not being a bitter man (he isn't), but the though of 'of course' is on his mind for a good, long moment before he manages to move on.

There are other things to do, anyway, getting under that strange waterfall for one, and not fainting when the water hits his abused skin for a second. "They couldn't ...have made a wider pick." It's meant in jest, but his voice can't carry tone right now and his body no specific stance, so that isn't the easiest thing to pick up on. But it is true - from where he stands, one from Doriath and one from the Halls, three from the Northern battlefield and two from Valinor, just looking at their family. Well, Maglor and Glorfindel probably won't be from the battlefield, but... not from Doriath, certainly.

And now that he thinks about it, there is a silver lining in Maglor's words, if he truly is from a far future like that. "You survived." He can only think of the battle that is still on the forefront of his mind, right now, and the question of what happened on your side is buried in the words, but it is buried in hope.

He saw that, cousin.

"Sorry, Finno. I wish more of your family were here, but they seem to prefer everyone else." He helps him stand under the shower, uses the washcloth to tab at the various cuts and bruises and look for anything else he may have missed.

"I think your clothes are a lost cause - I am going to have to remove the lot, alright?"

He bites his lip, and nods, knowing what Fingon is actually asking. "Yes. We all did. I... I am so sorry we did not get to you in time... It... was my error. One... one of the lords of the men sworn to me was a traitor."

He shakes his head minutely when Maglor mentions his family, using his arms to brace himself against the wall on the one and Maglor on the other side in an attempt to free his cousin's hands for their task. "I've done without them for years," and that should be no time, a mere two decades since his father's death, four centuries since he has seen Aredhel or had a conversation with Turgon outside of the battle briefing when he arrived with his host, four and a half centuries since Argon's death and under five centuries since he last saw his mother. ...It was long, and Turgon showing up for this battle meant so much more to him than just the military support. And now... Now he is dead back there, there is no way in which he could not be.

"And your lines fell as well." It isn't even a question. With Morgoth's forces undivided, and a traitor in their midst, there is no way that the eastern host would have held. "I could not hold mine-" Here he is done shifting and feels that he stands safely enough that Maglor can attempt to remove what clothes and armour are still on him, hoping against hope that not too much will stick against raw flesh or be glued to his skin or flesh by blood, and so interrupts his words for a brief, almost sharp: "Now." before continuing, "- Orodreth's men rose to the Enemy's provocation and I could only abandon coherence and morale, or abandon patience in waiting."

"But it does not mean you should have to." Maglor rebukes quietly, even as he cuts away the shredded remains of Fingon's clothing, using the water to soften the parts scabbed to his skin, being as gentle as he can.

"It is alright to miss them, you know."

He nods, eyes clouding at the memory. "Yes. I killed Ulfang and his traitor sons myself but it was already too late. Maedhros and I pushed to your side as fast as we could but... the rest of our brothers were scattered, and Turgon... blamed us. He... sounded the retreat. Rightly! I do not blame him. There was no way we could have won. But when he withdrew... it was a rout. We could not even rescue your body, not until Maedhros went out on his own to bring you back, and none of us realised he had done so until he was gone."

And then they had a high king who refused to leave his fortress, who refused to even speak to Maedhros, who sent no message and called no council. Was it any wonder, Maglor wonders bleakly, that things fell apart so swiftly afterwards? (Was it any wonder, that for many of the Noldor, Maedhros was still seen as High King right until the end)

"We all... missed you. I am sorry, Fingon."

"It is selfish." Because Turgon has good reason to stay away, and his daughter and Aredhel with him (even though he cannot really imagine that Aredhel is happy as locked in as she must be, and even though he doesn't agree with Turgon's choice). Because Fingolfin surely didn't mean to die (he has to believe that somehow, his father thought that he could win, because he doesn't know how he would deal with the alternative). Because Argon definitely didn't mean to die, and his mother was absolutely in the right to stay behind.

His cousin's words are a lot of information to process, and while Maglor does his work well, his fingers deft and gentle, it still is a painful process, exhaustion settling in more and more strongly as time passes, so Fingon doesn't say more for a while.

It is no surprise to hear those things, none of it, really - not about Turgon, not about Maedhros, not about Maglor's part in it. But there is one thing that he wonders. Where Turgon retreated to, and what happened after, considering that he never had a heir of his own so High Kingship must have fallen to him. How well he did, the younger brother who carried all the hatred that Fingon didn't and had so little experience with the politics of Beleriand.

"I am sorry for leaving you." General you, and general sorry - it is not an apology, because he did his best to not die, in every way that he could think of. Not regret either, for there was no better path that he could have taken. But pity and a heartfelt misery at having left them behind. "How did Turgon - how did my brother do then? Is he a good king?"

"It is normal" Maglor corrects. "High King or no, you are still a living, feeling being, Finno."

"I know. It was not your fault - and I have had a long time to forgive any minor grievance." Although to this day Maglor still wonders if Maedhros ever did, but Nyelafinwe is too young to be able to tell him.

"... He... Turgon... I heard, ruled his people well." His people, not our people. "But it was not enough, and his hidden city could not remain hidden forever. I am sorry, Fingon. Everything you worked so hard for came to nought, in the end."

They need to get out of the shower, he thinks, but here, under the spray, both of them can weep without anyone the wiser.

"It makes no difference."

He doesn't quite smile, can't make himself, but there is a hint of warmth in his eyes, past the exhaustion and pain and sorrow. "And there are others whom I can depend on." And how strange it is that he can depend more on Elves who have betrayed him before and might be forced to do so again and on Men who will be dead in less time than one of their kind needs to reach full maturity than he can depend on his own blood and family? But he will concentrate on that all those Elves and Men who will support him are there, as troublesome as the alliance can be, and that there are some among them - Húrin and Maedhros and Maglor, and others more - who will give him as much support as they can, without wavering. It is not absolute, but it is as much as he can hope for in a place like Middle-earth, he has learned.

More than he could hope for of Turgon, apparently. He closes his eyes, quelling the disappointment (he should have known, should have seen to a solution, but the Eldar do not have children in times of war nor do they marry for politics, and the one whom he desired would have been most unpolitic and not have brought forth a heir, anyway). Maglor doesn't say it, but it is clear from his words and what Maglor has told him, and for a moment he feels all strength seeping out of him with the water that runs down his body (he would cry, for their people and all the hopes that brought them to Middle-earth, for the love that he still feels for his siblings, that he knows that they still feel for him and yet their goals and ideals had been too different to stay together... but he is too dehydrated, too entirely dried up on the inside) and he stumbles, slipping on the wet ground and without strength or proper hold to catch himself.

"It matters to you." Maglor rebukes quietly. "So it matters."

Family stick together, the Feanorionnath were taught. They look to each other first, but their cousins are family too. If their cousins refuse them, they will turn away - but Findekano opened his arms to them. Maglor and Maedhros do not forget.

"Findekano!" When he crumples Maglor lunges for him, catching him before he can fall.

His hand comes up to grab Maglor's arm, but the movement and stretching of already heavily aggravated areas makes stars dance before his eyes and it is all that he can do to try and lean against his cousin and not really fall to the ground.

Fingon | Silmarillion

I should be tagging other things BUT YOU KNOW. Cousin, and all that

=D

<3

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

juuuuuuuust godmodding Maedhros sob

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject