Re: Intense Struggle! (Round 4 - Old Salem)
07-25-2010, 03:20 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.
As the Monitor explained the terms and conditions and situations from this round, Clara examined her new self in the mirror. Piercing dark eyes stared out at her from under unruly eyebrows, a mass of red hair and a singed beard to match surrounding her new grizzled face. Really, the best word for it was "ruddy"; there was a bulbous red nose topped the tangled red moustache and reddened cheeks surrounded by red hair and traversed by a livid red scar. It was disconcerting watching this unfamiliar man's face move with her eyes, his expressions mimicking hers perfectly.
As soon as she was free to move again, she looked down at herself. Aside from the missive clenched tightly in the hand that didn't hold her cane, everything was familiar and normal; her aged frame was the same as it always was, and her habit, though dusty, was unchanged. A glance at the pewter water jug on one table that graced this spartan room told her that the rest of the world saw her as a large, burly man dressed in a leather apron with a craftsman's toolbelt at her waist. Sighing at the disparity and the duplicity inherent in the situation, the nun unfolded her note. A mechanically-precise hand had written out a brief summary of who she was supposed to be:
As far as anyone else in this town is aware, you are George Brown, the most accomplished blacksmith in Salem Village. You are unmarried and considered somewhat strange and antisocial, but your skill as a smith lends you some amount of lenience from the scrutiny of other villagers. In these suspicious times, though, nearly anything is enough to arouse suspicion of witchcraft.
Your closest friend is an apothecary names James Struthers; he is your next-door neighbor and a childhood friend. You typically had little extended non-professional contact with anyone else save your aged mother, and following her death three months ago you became even more withdrawn, venturing out only rarely, being more brusque than usual with your customers, and entertaining the company only of James. There have been hints of rumor regarding your relationship with James, but this has largely been forgotten in the monomania of the witch-hunts.
You have an appointment in several hours to discuss business with a farrier named Eric Lauhorn; he will likely be attempting to purchase horseshoes from you. You and Eric have a cordial business relationship, but personally loathe one another.
Most or all members of this community are members of a puritanical sect of one of this world's largest religions: Christianity. Ignorance of their traditions, customs, and beliefs will be treated as extremely suspicious and exhibition of "pagan" beliefs is dangerous.
Clara pursed her lips, and George pursed them with her. Lovely of him to let her know all of this without telling her what her acquaintances looked or acted like. Lovelier still to make dire warnings about this Christianity thing without mentioning what Christians believed or what a pagan meant in this context.
Experimentally, she looked at herself in the reflection of the jug and attempted to grab one of the tools at her belt. Her hand passed straight through it, of course. Schleier help her if she had to actually do any smithing. It was honestly infuriating being dumped into a situation where she would have to continue to deceive and lie but without even knowing what the lie was supposed to be; it was doubly so because she felt she had been deliberately placed in a position that would be the hardest to maintain. Between B's treachery and Aph's growing psychosis, Clara half-suspected that she and Larus might be the only ones here who weren't in cahoots with the Monitor. Frankly...
The thought occurred to Clara that she had no idea who was dead. Given that they were in a new scenario and their sadistic Grandmaster had mentioned five people, someone had to have died. It couldn't be her, obviously, and Aph hadn't managed to do anything to Aegis... It had to be B or Larus. Clara doubted very much that the Monitor would let his little spy die so soon, so...
Stiffening her resolve, Clara decided she'd seek out the other contestants and out the traitorous B before her appointment came this afternoon. Since the beginning of this contest, if it was truly the contest the demonic Monitor made it out to be, she'd had the niggling feeling that the divine purpose she'd been born for was to take down the cruel Grandmaster; those suspicions were rapidly congealing, and the ordinarily-pacifistic nun was harboring some decidedly uncharitable thoughts.
She strode across the rough floor towards the exit to this little hovel; she opened the door, not sure what to expect from a place called Massachusetts. As her eyes adjusted to the sunlight she saw a small stone room with a number of passages leading off it; there were two other people in the room with her, as well as a pile of boxes and a quivering column of night. There was a sunlit road lined with houses. The nun blinked and shook her head; she wasn't sure what she'd just been seeing, but it had been incredibly disconcerting. And oddly familiar.
She tried to put it out of her mind and take in the scene; around her was an old village composed of small wooden houses, the sun beating down and the scent of agriculture drifting on the breeze. Actually, Clara reasoned, it probably wasn't an old village yet; she was just in the wrong time. For as many houses as there were and for the time of day it was, there were surprisingly few people obviously out and about. The few she could see were moving quickly without running, and tended to look at their feet until they got to their destination. The oppressive silence and defeated-looking citizens gave the place an air of desolation despite the bright spring sun and cheery foliage in evidence everywhere. Clara steeled herself, and with no real plan in mind, strode out to find her opponents.
As the Monitor explained the terms and conditions and situations from this round, Clara examined her new self in the mirror. Piercing dark eyes stared out at her from under unruly eyebrows, a mass of red hair and a singed beard to match surrounding her new grizzled face. Really, the best word for it was "ruddy"; there was a bulbous red nose topped the tangled red moustache and reddened cheeks surrounded by red hair and traversed by a livid red scar. It was disconcerting watching this unfamiliar man's face move with her eyes, his expressions mimicking hers perfectly.
As soon as she was free to move again, she looked down at herself. Aside from the missive clenched tightly in the hand that didn't hold her cane, everything was familiar and normal; her aged frame was the same as it always was, and her habit, though dusty, was unchanged. A glance at the pewter water jug on one table that graced this spartan room told her that the rest of the world saw her as a large, burly man dressed in a leather apron with a craftsman's toolbelt at her waist. Sighing at the disparity and the duplicity inherent in the situation, the nun unfolded her note. A mechanically-precise hand had written out a brief summary of who she was supposed to be:
As far as anyone else in this town is aware, you are George Brown, the most accomplished blacksmith in Salem Village. You are unmarried and considered somewhat strange and antisocial, but your skill as a smith lends you some amount of lenience from the scrutiny of other villagers. In these suspicious times, though, nearly anything is enough to arouse suspicion of witchcraft.
Your closest friend is an apothecary names James Struthers; he is your next-door neighbor and a childhood friend. You typically had little extended non-professional contact with anyone else save your aged mother, and following her death three months ago you became even more withdrawn, venturing out only rarely, being more brusque than usual with your customers, and entertaining the company only of James. There have been hints of rumor regarding your relationship with James, but this has largely been forgotten in the monomania of the witch-hunts.
You have an appointment in several hours to discuss business with a farrier named Eric Lauhorn; he will likely be attempting to purchase horseshoes from you. You and Eric have a cordial business relationship, but personally loathe one another.
Most or all members of this community are members of a puritanical sect of one of this world's largest religions: Christianity. Ignorance of their traditions, customs, and beliefs will be treated as extremely suspicious and exhibition of "pagan" beliefs is dangerous.
Clara pursed her lips, and George pursed them with her. Lovely of him to let her know all of this without telling her what her acquaintances looked or acted like. Lovelier still to make dire warnings about this Christianity thing without mentioning what Christians believed or what a pagan meant in this context.
Experimentally, she looked at herself in the reflection of the jug and attempted to grab one of the tools at her belt. Her hand passed straight through it, of course. Schleier help her if she had to actually do any smithing. It was honestly infuriating being dumped into a situation where she would have to continue to deceive and lie but without even knowing what the lie was supposed to be; it was doubly so because she felt she had been deliberately placed in a position that would be the hardest to maintain. Between B's treachery and Aph's growing psychosis, Clara half-suspected that she and Larus might be the only ones here who weren't in cahoots with the Monitor. Frankly...
The thought occurred to Clara that she had no idea who was dead. Given that they were in a new scenario and their sadistic Grandmaster had mentioned five people, someone had to have died. It couldn't be her, obviously, and Aph hadn't managed to do anything to Aegis... It had to be B or Larus. Clara doubted very much that the Monitor would let his little spy die so soon, so...
Stiffening her resolve, Clara decided she'd seek out the other contestants and out the traitorous B before her appointment came this afternoon. Since the beginning of this contest, if it was truly the contest the demonic Monitor made it out to be, she'd had the niggling feeling that the divine purpose she'd been born for was to take down the cruel Grandmaster; those suspicions were rapidly congealing, and the ordinarily-pacifistic nun was harboring some decidedly uncharitable thoughts.
She strode across the rough floor towards the exit to this little hovel; she opened the door, not sure what to expect from a place called Massachusetts. As her eyes adjusted to the sunlight she saw a small stone room with a number of passages leading off it; there were two other people in the room with her, as well as a pile of boxes and a quivering column of night. There was a sunlit road lined with houses. The nun blinked and shook her head; she wasn't sure what she'd just been seeing, but it had been incredibly disconcerting. And oddly familiar.
She tried to put it out of her mind and take in the scene; around her was an old village composed of small wooden houses, the sun beating down and the scent of agriculture drifting on the breeze. Actually, Clara reasoned, it probably wasn't an old village yet; she was just in the wrong time. For as many houses as there were and for the time of day it was, there were surprisingly few people obviously out and about. The few she could see were moving quickly without running, and tended to look at their feet until they got to their destination. The oppressive silence and defeated-looking citizens gave the place an air of desolation despite the bright spring sun and cheery foliage in evidence everywhere. Clara steeled herself, and with no real plan in mind, strode out to find her opponents.