Intro Log: Ugh, Talk to the Hand

[hadrielmods]

Who: New arrivals and everyone else!
What: The intro log for February
Where: The colosseum and all around the city.
When: February 10th-14th
Warnings: None

Welcome to Hadriel. Your first glimpse of your new home is maybe not the most welcome - you awaken on the floor of the colosseum, surrounded by sand and walls and... trees? Yes, trees. Along with you and the other newcomers, a number of Territorial Oaks have arrived in Hadriel. They look just like normal trees, except for those welcoming smiles - oh, and they don't like you at all. They move fast, hit hard, and if you manage to bring one down it'll go out in a large, dangerous explosion. This may have you rethinking your stance on clear-cutting.

While you're trying to avoid the trees, you might come across a few of the other things the Door has deposited in the colosseum for your (its?) entertainment. Namely, a bunch of toys that no one has played with in years. But maybe one of them will tickle your fancy?

Once you've finished indulging your 90's nostalgia, feel free to look around. You can explore the rest of the city! Find a house, a new monster, a project to help with, or simply scavenge for supplies. Good luck, and enjoy your stay in Hadriel!

► This log covers February 10th-14th.
► Feel free to make your own logs as well!
► All characters arrive with phones that have network communication and the newbie guide installed.
► Please put your character's name and open/closed in the subject line of your starters!

Comments

SPIRESCARD

[northerndragon]

Hadriel needs trees. It's been a problem for a while. And ordinarily, a tree with a smiling face on it, however enigmatic, would make Jon feel a little more at home... but it's become clear that the trees in the Coliseum are best avoided, the other new arrivals best kept clear of them. Once that seems to be well in hand, something occurs to him: sometimes the creatures that turn up in the Coliseum also turn up outside of it, or escape, and have to be slain elsewhere in the city.

That means that any living trees are suspect, and they ought to make a point of looking for them, for oaks with eyes to see with.

So he's making a survey of the city on foot. It would have been easier with the horse, but while the horse has a steady temperament -- that's why it's a king's horse for travel through the Northern countryside -- he doesn't trust it not to spook and throw him and doom them both if a tree comes at him.

He checks around the houses first, with an intent of looking in on any gardens next. The spires are the priority. They have a great number of people in them, and his own house is dug deep into the soil, less threatened by an explosion than a tower as tall as the Great Keep at Winterfell would be.

Around the side of a building, he hears the twang of harp-strings, and it makes him frown. The day when the Door opens isn't the sort of day for that, or any other sort of foolishness; there's no way of knowing what will come through it. He means to make his way around and say so, but he stops when he sees who made the sound.

Oh, gods.

He stands there looking stricken and apologetic. Eventually, he remembers to close his mouth.

[shatteredrubies]

Oblivious at first to his company, Rhaegar's fingers began plucking more certainly at his harpstrings, soon humming along as he began to settle on a dour, melancholy melody. There was a soft frown on his face, brows furrowing.

"When the maiden fair does sing, in such grace with reverie, can she feel my heart beating, longing for a.."

Rhaegar trailed off, lips pursing in thought as he spoke aloud to himself, ".. a... hm. No, perhaps this is no good." He went back to playing the melody, some dark movement out of the corner of his eye finally catching his attention. Turning toward this stranger, he canted his head slightly, lips curling in a small smile as his expression softened.

"Hello. I hope I didn't disturb you. It's been some time since I've had the pleasure of song, I thought I'd take a moment to myself."

[northerndragon]

If it were anyone else, Jon’s exasperation at the twanging of the harp and the experimental phrasing of the song would stand, but as it is, he only feels a shock at seeing Rhaegar again, and the twisting guilt of the way he'd spoken to him a few months earlier. He thought he’d been confronting a man who'd hurt his father's little sister; he thought he had been doing it for the sake of the Starks, for the North. It had been nearly impossible to maintain a hard demeanor, when he’d found Rhaegar easy to like and easy to believe, but still, still, he’d been ignorant of the full truth. Not just his aunt’s well-beloved husband rather than her abductor, but his father.

Now, he searches Rhaegar's face for signs of his own, knowing full well that he strongly favors his mother. She not only looks like she could be his younger sister, she also looks like a younger “sister” he actually has.

“You don’t recognize me? We've never spoken before?”

He is as wary as he seems.

[shatteredrubies]

Rhaegar's gaze is steady and friendly, so focused on Jon.

"I'm afraid I don't recall meeting before." Yet, he knew his Aegon was here. Lyanna had told him as much. This man had the look of a Stark to him and she had told this as well. This man knew who he was - or, at least seemed to think they should have spoken once before.

Could it be?

Slowly, Rhaegar lowered his harp and turned to fully face Jon, taking a small step closer. His voice softened, expression melting into one of apprehension and awe.

"Aegon...?" If it wasn't, then it was merely mistaken identity and this stranger would surely understand, but... but if this were indeed his son... he had to know. Even if he hadn't any idea what he would do, he had to know. He'd planned to meet him together with Lyanna, but if the gods chose for them to meet on their own terms, so be it.

[northerndragon]

There’s no point in asking if Rhaegar has seen Lyanna yet: the fact that he knows that name, knows to apply it to Jon, and with such a look on his face, says much and more of what has already happened.

For his part, Jon stands, watching, grave, then gives a slow, shaky nod.

“I’m told that’s what my mother named me. But I’ve always been called Jon.”

He is dressed like a lord — a lord of the North, with a dark brown leather brigandine, and a gorget with two facing direwolves on it, and a sheathed sword at his belt, with a white stone wolf's head for a pommel. A Stark bastard’s sigil would be a white wolf, and he’s had no wish to have Longclaw's pommel reworked in the months since he’s learned about all the falsity that had protected him as he grew. It had been a gift, and it reminds him of where he came from.

[shatteredrubies]

"Jon."

He let that name roll over his tongue, not finding it particularly tasteful, but it was perhaps genius in that way. A plain, boring name, common, nothing special about it. Perfect for someone who needed to remain anonymous and unnoticed.

"I can't imagine your mother likes that name very much." Smiling faintly, he approached Jon, looking down at him. That height was another Stark trait. He was barely much taller than Lyanna, meaning Rhaegar well-near towered over him as he did her. Violet eyes roamed his figure from toe to head. Yes, he was a Northman. Through and through. But surely there was a hint of the dragon in him somewhere?

His eyes ventured again and settled upon Longclaw's pommel.

"Valyrian steel?" He would expect nothing less of a Lord. A King. That was what Lyanna had said - King in the North.

[northerndragon]

Jon had never much worried about wanting to be any taller: he was strong, agile, and graceful, and good with most weapons. But now, seeing Rhaegar again, the difference in their statures, it makes him realize that Ned Stark must have been grateful every day that Jon himself hadn’t grown so tall.

“She doesn’t. She won’t call me by it. But I’m not used to being called anything else.”

Then Rhaegar takes note of Longclaw, and Jon brightens a little.

“It is. It was given to me by Lord Commander Mormont up at the Wall when I was still half a boy. His son was an outlaw, in exile — he had no one else to pass it on to.”

And famously, Jon knows, there is no Valyrian steel sword in the Targaryen family any longer. Dark Sister was lost somewhere, and Blackfyre... well, Blackfyre was lost, too, taken to Essos a century past.

Rhaegar had been crown prince, and even though there was no such sword for him, he’d surely seen them before. Still... Jon reaches down and begins to unbuckle his sword belt.

“Here — if you’d like to have a look at it.”

[shatteredrubies]

"I wouldn't expect her to cede to calling you Jon. I hope you'll grow used to your birth name in time."

There was something surreal in standing in the middle of a foreign land, speaking to his adult son. And he was so accomplished! The way he spoke of the world, he could only imagine all the ways things had changed after his death.

"Mormont? Why would a Mormont take the black...?" Rhaegar asked, mostly to himself, touching his chin in thought. Those thoughts were erased, however, in his excitement at being offered the chance to look over Longclaw.

"He must have been quite fond of you to give you such a gift. I'm proud." He didn't need the details to know there must have been some great deed involved. Setting his harp down at his feet, he would accept Longclaw, pulling it from its sheath with a soft, serene smile.

"... there it is. They say there's a song in Valyrian steel when it soars through the air that tells of battle and kings of old. So much history in this blade, I can only imagine what it's seen."

[northerndragon]

It's killed a White Walker, he nearly says, before thinking better of it. Lyanna still doesn’t seem to fully believe him, something that might wound him a little if he weren’t entirely used to it. No one seems to believe the Others really exist until a wight has its blackened hands about their throat, or one of their kin has died in the night and risen again before dawn.

“Mostly Bear Island,” he says, with a hint of ironic dismay. “Jeor Mormont joined the Watch so that his son could have his lands, but the son committed a crime, went into exile to avoid the King’s justice. But aye — he made me his steward, gave me the sword after I saved his life.”

This is better already than the cool courtesy he had shown Rhaegar the first time around, but it isn’t touching on the essential matter.

“A different name is a hard thing to grow used to. A different — my lord,” (no, that isn’t right—) “I’ve been told that everything is other than I always thought it to be.”

[shatteredrubies]

A soft chuckle at that. "Well. It has seen only the smallest, but one of the fiercest corners of the world and I would say that's still a notable accomplishment."

Stepping a fair distance away to be safe, Rhaegar gave the sword a few twirls, slashes, testing its weight and balance effortlessly, his eyes closing. He imagined its song, about cool hallways and the Old Bear, himself, the waves crashing ashore. How he longed to see it himself.

It took Jon's addressing him to give Rhaegar pause, looking to him and sheathing Longclaw to offer it back to him. "And 'my lord' is not something I wish to grow used to, myself. Though I suppose 'Father' is... difficult. For many reasons." Had he his way, he would absolutely be Father and Rhaegar would take his beloved son into an embrace, but this man didn't seem the type to welcome such affection.

"You proved yourself worthy of command. Keep that sword close - it will serve you well when the Long Night comes."