TDM 1 ⬡ The Oval Portrait

[liburuzaina]

	Casting Call The Oval Portrait Edgar Allan Poe »» "Long — long I read — and devoutly, devotedly I gazed." Name: The Aristocrat Casting Call: Characters with a Birthday from September through December Physical Notes: Desperately wounded, to the point of being bedridden, but not losing consciousness. Personality Notes: Curious, and prone to becoming enraptured by the pursuit of learning about whatever has caught their curiosity. Mildly delirious due to injury. Compulsions: To learn about their surroundings, whether through study of the portraits in the chateau apartment, conversation with a companion, or ill-advised exploration. «« »» "We established ourselves in one of the smallest and least sumptuously furnished apartments." Name: The Valet Casting Call: Characters with an Unknown Birthday Physical Notes: Older than The Aristocrat by ≥ 5 years. Personality Notes: Willing and able (by force or by cleverness) to break in to a home for the well-being of their employer. A caretaker by nature. Compulsions: To see that The Aristocrat is comfortable for the night and their wounds are tended to, and to get some rest themselves once their duty is complete. In the absence of The Aristocrat, The Valet is free to act as they please. «« »» "She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee." Name: The Maiden Casting Call: Characters with a birthday from May through August Physical Notes: Young, aged from 15-20. Personality Notes: All smiles, loving and cherishing of all things, hating only The Painter's art, for they deprive them of their lover. Compulsions: To live life to the fullest, to love, to be happy... But also to make their husband, The Painter happy, by being a good and willing subject for his portraiture, should he ask. ⬡ Will slowly waste away and die, should they sit and allow themselves to be painted. «« »» "And evil was the hour when she saw, and loved, and wedded the painter." Name: The Painter Casting Call: Characters with a birthday from January through April Physical Notes: Older than the maiden by ≥ 10 years. Personality Notes: Passionate, studious, austere, wild, moody. More in love with his art than his wife. Compulsions: To paint. To paint, and paint, and paint some more. To ask their lovely wife to be the subject for their next piece, and to throw themselves into the completion of it. ⬡ Unaware they are doing harm with their painting, until it is complete. «« code @ efryndiel The Chateau ⬡ Common Cast Characters most likely to originate in The Chateau are The Aristocrat and The Valet ⬡ Literary Description "To all appearance it had been temporarily and very lately abandoned. We established ourselves in one of the smallest and least sumptuously furnished apartments. It lay in a remote turret of the building. Its decorations were rich, yet tattered and antique. Its walls were hung with tapestry and bedecked with manifold and multiform armorial trophies, together with an unusually great number of very spirited modern paintings in frames of rich golden arabesque." ⬡ For Your Exploration Characters may attempt to explore the Chateau, but it will be shrouded in darkness, and every room they enter will bring them back to the apartment chosen by The Valet. What decorations may be seen are dark and victorian in design, and the room and halls may be lit by candlelight. The Maiden's portrait is on the wall, and will initially be cloaked in shadow for The Aristocrat to find. It appears remarkably lifelike, almost as though it is a window instead of a portrait. The other paintings on the walls will contain figures that are almost familiar to The Aristocrat and The Valet - as though they could be someone they know, but only if they squint. There is no electricity. Characters will not have access to any powers. The Artist's Tower ⬡ Common Cast Characters most likely to originate in The Artist's Tower are The Maiden and The Painter ⬡ Literary Description "But she was humble and obedient, and sat meekly for many weeks in the dark, high turret-chamber where the light dripped upon the pale canvas only from overhead. But he, the painter, took glory in his work, which went on from hour to hour, and from day to day." ⬡ For Your Exploration Should characters leave the Painter's studio, they will immediately be transported outside, to a sprawling field of wildflowers. There won't seem to be anything else around, but there will be a light breeze and the sound of the sea in the distance. Inside the studio, the air is stale and musty, smelling of oil paints and turpentine. It's dim, lit only by a skylight. There is a stool for the subject and an easel with canvas sitting in the light, but everything else - art materials, more canvases, both empty and with the beginnings of paintings, and props - are all pushed to the sides of the room and cloaked in shadow. Like The Chateau, there is no electricity, and characters will not have access to their powers. The Library ⬡ Welcome! Free from their roles, through either death, completion of the Story, or from not being pulled into the tale in the first place, characters will find themselves in the gardens outside of the Library itself. As always, it will look and feel like a temperate, autumn afternoon. As this setting is part of the Library itself, characters will have full access to all their powers. ⬡ Grand Opening Coming Soon! The front door will, unfortunately, be locked, and a sign will be taped on the doors, detailing how the Library will be opening soon, but in the meantime to please enjoy the grounds and the pizza party in the courtyard. ⬡ Pizza party? Pizza party! In the courtyard, there will be tables set up that will be absolutely covered in stacks of paper plates, 2-liter bottles of any soda one could dream of, and stacks and stacks of pizza boxes, containing any flavor combination that could be desired. Opening a random box will provide a random, but popular, flavor. Opening a box with an Intent and a Desire for something specific will provide exactly that. Enjoy! It won't run out. navigation • premise • reserves • faq

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Moira Kinross | Marvel 616 | Aristocrat

[uncannylife]

Chateau

No stranger to curiosity , nor to injury-induced delirium, Moira clutched her blankets tightly around her as she shambled around the room in a flurry of ill-advised activity. Her feet padded along the carpet, her slim frame made bulky by bandages and the tight-held wrappings, and still she shivered. Fever chills gripped her, keeping her from traveling too far, but fortunately the gallery of portraits on the walls of the room kept her from going too far.

She reached out towards the painting of the Maiden, fingers grazing the cherry-wood frame and scraping down it. Her nostrils flare in frustration as she puzzles over it, and over the portrait to the right, her gaze hazy and unfocused. She does this to the next painting, and the next...clearly growing more annoyed at each. A bald man in a wheelchair, an older gentleman with white hair in a white suit, a young woman with brilliant red hair, and others catch Moira's eye, each one getting a lingering glance.

"Why...can't I remember you?" she murmurs, clearly confused before turning to whoever else is in the room.

"Do you know these people?" she asks, voice suddenly firm, the faint lilt of a Scottish accent giving her words a singsong quality.


Artist's Tower (Outside)

Less active now, Moira can be found seated on a garden bench, hands folded in her lap. Her gaze flits from person to person, intensely scrutinizing each individual she spots, but she doesn't rise. Exhausted from merely the trip out here, she knows better than to give into her urge to get up and pester people, but that doesn't mean she's any less intrigued by those around her.

"Excuse me," she calls to someone that seems unattached that wanders too close. "Do you have a moment?"


The Library

"Pizza..." Moira murmurs, meandering by the table with a plate in hand. "And a library that I've never heard of. How unusual."

Her curiosity not sated by the completion of the story, she was left both worried and unsatisfied. How had she gotten here, and how had whoever brought her here even known how to find her? She was careful, beyond careful, and this experience was only serving to heighten her paranoia. Being exposed like this was the last thing she wanted, but she supposes she can come up with an excuse or two if anyone recognizes her. So, may as well make the best of it.

Eventually relenting to the rumbling in her stomach, she gathers a couple of slices of plain cheese pizza and slips off to find someone to talk to. It doesn't really matter who, any conversation is better than none.

"Hello there," she says in greeting. She's a slim woman with reddish hair, perhaps 5'7" and dressed in green tweed with a white tam perched on her head. Moira's attire doubtless betrays her Scottish heritage even before mouth opens, and the lilt to her words makes it all the more obvious.

"What do you make of all this?"


Wildcard

[ooc: Feel free to hit me up for something else! PM me if you want to plot!]

Valet? Bucky Barnes plays a good mother hen

[worthallthis]

"Miss." The large fellow who's been looking after Moira comes in at just the wrong time. His left arm, though hidden by a jacket and glove, whirrs mechanically when he lifts it to her shoulder, pulling the blanket around her higher against her neck. "You should be in bed. Not worrying about the paintings."

Sounds good to me.

[uncannylife]

The large fellow receives a narrow-eyed glower from beneath Moira's furrowed brows. She holds the blanket and doesn't fight him pulling it higher, but she doesn't budge from her spot on the floor.

"I'm perfectly capable of standing on my own," she says in a vaguely unhappy voice. "I've slippers on, and I've not left the room. I'm well enough to look at these paintings."

[worthallthis]

He huffs a sigh and, after a hesitation that feels right doesn't feel right only lasts a breath, puts a hand on her elbow, support. "You can look at them from bed, or the chair," he grouses. "But if you insist. What are you confused by?"

[uncannylife]

"Who are they?"

She leans a little closer, allowing him to support her. She isn't heavy, and she isn't big, so it's a light weight.

"I feel like I should know these men..." she waves at the two older men, and then at the girl. "And this girl, too."

[worthallthis]

He peers at them, himself, making himself as stable as possible for her, and so he doesn't... panic? Why would he panic at being leaned against? Jesus. It's not like she can hurt him.

Focus, Asset. There's a question to answer. "I don't know. I don't recognize them at all. Can you remember anything about them?"

[uncannylife]

"Just that I should know them."

Which is distressing. She hates forgetting. It rubs her the wrong way. Like it shouldn't be happening, ever.

"...Which isn't helpful, I know. I feel like friends, but, my bloody head hurts when I think too hard on it."

[worthallthis]

"Are you feverish?" Maybe it's some kind of fever-dream. She's leaning on his right arm, so he uses the left hand to feel her forehead, through the glove. Exact temperature, 99.3F. Not a fever, then, probably just from being wrapped in the blanket. (It doesn't occur to him to wonder why he can read her exact temperature.) "Maybe they just have familiar faces."

[uncannylife]

"Not to my knowledge?" she says with a murmur, confused by the feel of his hand, but not willing to draw away.

"And maybe that's it. I swear, I'm not delusional. I just..." she closes her eyes, wobbling a little. "I feel faint."

[worthallthis]

He told her, didn't he tell her? Jesus. He shifts the hand at her elbow to her far shoulder, tucking his fingers under it for support, and guides her to the nearest place to sit, whether it be chair or bed. "I believe you. About not being delusional. But you need to sit."

[uncannylife]

"Fine..." She doesn't resist him as she's led to a chair, and once she is in it, she is quick to curl the blanket around her. Drawing it close, her dark eyes focus on him, unclouded and gleaming with intelligence.

"Have the doctors said how long I'll be confined to a bed?"

[worthallthis]

"Until you're healed, Miss Moira. Shouldn't be more than another couple of weeks, unless you don't rest." Or unless she takes a fever, He helps tuck that blanket in place, then settles on the floor in front of her chair, knees up and arms clasped around them. "I can bring you more books. If that will help."

[uncannylife]

"Books..."

She repeats the word, sighs, and nods. She's tired of reading. It's tough to focus in her current state. But, books.

"Yes, I suppose that would be fore the best."

[worthallthis]

Aw, Moira. He feels bad, but it won't make him relent on keeping her safe. So he looks at her little stockinged feet peeking out from under the blanket and says, "I could tell you a story, instead. If that would be better."

[uncannylife]

"A book would have been fine, but now you've caught my curiosity, James. Tell me your tale."

She may be a grown ass woman, but she's always willing to hear a story freely given. That it was his go-to only heightens her intrigue.

[worthallthis]

Sometimes listening is more entertaining than reading. Sometimes you just need to feel connected to someone else, hear another voice outside your own head. Right?

He tilts his head, thinking, before the words come, almost of their own accord, without thought. "Okay. Once. There was a boy passing by an alleyway. Minding his own business. When he hears voices coming from inside. Now, he could walk on by. Not his business, right? But it sounds like there's three kids against one. And the one says. He says. 'I'll not give you nuthin'.'" And for a beat, he sounds like he's from... New York? Mimicking the accent perfectly.

[uncannylife]

Sometimes that's absolutely the case.

Moira leans in, intently listening, taking in the tone and the accent, as much as anything else. It's curious, strange...and she doesn't really think she's ever heard him speak like that before.

"Sounds like a bold boy."

[worthallthis]

"Very much so," he says, though he doesn't necessarily know. Except he does know, down deep, that he is nothing if not bold. "And he's small and skinny, too, so it looks ridiculous, him putting up his fists to these three big bullies. So this first boy, he stays and he sees what's happening. And he thinks, 'Well, this ain't right,' and so when the three on one starts throwing punches again, he decides, 'Better do something about this mess, huh.' So he goes charging into the fray. And he isn't a small and skinny boy."

[uncannylife]

"Bold of both of them."

Moira isn't a fighter, obviously. Even if she weren't bedridden, she is small and slender and soft.

"Do they make it out alright?"

[worthallthis]

"One has a split lip and a bloody nose, the other has a black eye and a cut on his fist, but they make it out," he assures her. "The element of surprise. Helps a lot. Also, practice at hitting bullies." He smiles just a little. He's not sure where this story is coming from, but he likes it. "And both boys become friends. Good friends, for as long as they know each other."