TDM #1, arc 1.0: we drift like worried fire

[lamentus]

BUFF

Bonded of The Sorrowweld will find that the NPCs are especially friendly to them this month. Seriously, they just keep trying to give you things. It might get annoying.

DEBUFF

For those who are bonded to Tarnished Az-Mehet, you keep seeing shadows out of the corner of your eye on every screen in the ship, even your datapad. Something is lurking.

At first, you feel a pull. In which direction, you do not know. When a portal of shimmering black and glittering stars appears in front of you, it only seems natural to step into it. On the journey, it is as if you see everything: ancient galaxies wheeling through space, cultures born and growing and leaving their planets, lights creeping over landmasses and them winking out all at once. You see the hungry arm of a black hole, an enigmatic smile under a mirrored mask, a fist clenched tight around an endless sword. Fangs shining in starlight, bandaged feet that have traveled so many miles and still remain sturdy, and code shattering under titanium will.

And then your feet touch solid ground again, and what you have seen is suddenly hard to recall, the merest of glimpses springing to mind when you try to think back.

All you know is that you witnessed something enormous, something you probably shouldn't have seen.

As you struggle to refocus your gaze, all you see for a long moment is white. White walls, white floor. Narrow white cots lined up against a wall, screens blinking above them in tones of soothing aqua and mint. You are in a medbay — a highly advanced one, given the lack of bulky machinery — but perhaps the most eye-catching thing about the room is a long window showing endless black and twinkling stars outside.

Before you can give voice to any thoughts, a small robot flutters toward you, and perches on the back of a chair. "Hello, Wayfarer!" the birdform chirps cheerfully. "I imagine you must have many questions; allow me to enlighten you! You have fallen victim to a quantum accident and have been pulled to another universe, but the Ascendants, in their generosity, intercepted your signal and brought you here so that you did not wind up in empty space. You are aboard the Theorem of the Astral Rose; our mission is to explore uncharted space and search for the Song!"

They pause, thinking, their little blue eye aglow, and then brighten.

"Oh! Introductions are in order! I am Starling's Lament in Flight, but you may call me Starling's Lament. I am one of the Hosts of this exploration vessel; we will do everything we can to ensure a safe voyage for you. Unfortunately, at this moment, we cannot send you home. The Ascendants have indicated that their search for the Song may play some key role in doing so." They whistle a merry tune. "Please enjoy your stay!"

REFLECT

When you manage to get your wits about you -- it's a bumpy ride between universes! -- you start to leave the medbay. Starling's Lament has indicated that you are free to explore the ship, and nowhere is off limits to you. As you leave the cool white tones of the medbay behind, a hallway stretches out in front of you. Both sides are transparent, offering a view into the long dark of space beyond. However, unlike deep space, there is currently quite a lot to see.



On the left lays the broad curve of a planet, lush green landmass and white clouds skidding across its surface. Its star is just sinking behind it, lighting up the very edge of its atmosphere in tones of engine-burn orange and ozone blue, as long shadows cast by enormous space elevators creep across the landmasses. Its most eye-catching feature, however, are the hexagonal structures webbed across its surface, connected by fine corridors with all the geometric precision of woven spider's silk. You can just barely see the tiny dots of spaceships flowing around them, docking, embarking, shuttling between them.

"That is the Redline Trading Post." You hear a tiny whisper, and look up to see another robot — a beetleform, this time, with a shiny dotted shell — watching you curiously from its place on the ceiling. In fact, there are a number of other Hosts doing the exact same thing; a snakeform coiled around a barrier rail, a catform with bright yellow eyes peeking around the corner, a chirping droneform hovering some distance down the hallway. They're all fascinated by you. "But we will be departing soon. You will not get to taste the Galactic Snowball Nova-Cream, the shining culinary jewel of Redline. Sorry. I hear it is very tasty."

You look to your right, away from the planet and the Redline post, to gaze out into the depths of space. In the distance, there is a nebula, its gasses lit up in shades of coral pink and deep purple. It is pockmarked with stars both young and old, newborn stellar entities cradled in the depths of its life-making dust. Set against the dark of space, it is a flower in bloom.



It's beautiful, except—

The longer you look at it, the more something nags at the corner of your mind. A memory glances across your thoughts, unbidden. Something you hoped for, maybe; or something you fear. Whatever the memory, as you gaze at the nebula, a small piece of it curls, shaping in response to your memory. It is your face, reflected perfectly. Smiling, or howling in anger, or weeping.

Eventually, the nebula will go back to normal. But for now, it reflects the fears and triumphs of the new Wayfarers, a mirror held up in the darkness of space.

IMBIBE

Once you make it into the bulk of the ship, the Hosts inform you that as they have just restocked all essential supplies, they will be throwing a party in your honor, and they hope you will sample the food.

Maybe you're incredibly dubious about this. Maybe you're starving after your long journey. Either way, you find yourself in the mess hall. It's less like a traditional mess hall and more like a park full of food trucks with seating in the middle. The food trucks are bright and eye-catching, Hosts serving huge heaps of food from their interiors, as their signs advertise everything from Earthen Ancient Egyptian food (As Close As We Can Reconstruct It!) to Raxalar Black Stew (New and Improved: Now Free Of Grit!).

Real grass is underfoot, and the picnic-style seating in the middle appears to be real wood. The lighting is a myriad; whimsical string lights strung between the trucks, floating globe lights playfully dancing like fireflies, and the luminescence of a dogform's patterns and a droneform's enormous eyes and a flyform's glittering trail. The Hosts are clearly excited.

And if the food happens to have... some kind of effect?

Well, the Hosts say, that's only to be expected! The attention of an Edict may, for a nano-second, turn toward the start of this voyage, and that's bound to make anything go a little wonky. Also, they've used some ingredients from the local system, and it's only customary there to share some thoughts and ideas and memories when you eat together. How else can you properly get to know each other?

RED BUFFALO SHANK WITH SPIKED LOTUS

This may or may not look appealing to you depending on your sensibilities, but it does smell incredible. Soft, savory red meat paired with the fragrant, earthy scent of the vegetable. The Red Buffalo is perfectly seared, and if you poke them cautiously, you'll find the spikes are entirely edible, as long as you chew well enough. If Wayfarers eat this, they will find themselves sharing a memory with the nearest person, a vision of the last time they were truly happy.

UPSIDE-DOWN PLUM SPARK-WINE

It seems the Hosts aren't quite sure of the appropriate alcohol content of substances, as this will burn all the way down, chased by a cool, sparkly feeling all the way down one's esophagus. It tastes of sweetly sour plums, and a potential hangover tomorrow morning. Wayfarers that imbibe this alcohol beverage will start overhearing the thoughts of those around them, as if they are perfectly in tune with everyone.

GOLDEN BUNS WITH SPICED HONEY DRIZZLE

Ah, a perfectly homey looking meal, sweet and savory, gently steaming. These are a must-try for any Wayfarer with a sweet tooth, proudly boasting of the agricultural and apiary skill of a nearby alien culture. The buns are perfectly fluffy, the spiced honey is warming. What's not to love? After eating this, Wayfarers will find themselves and the nearest person sharing a vision of themselves as they might have been had they gone down the worst possible path in their life.

CHERRY COLA!™

This isn't the Cherry Cola! you may or may not be familiar with, but it's interesting that whatever alien came up with this came up with the same Earth word. Or maybe the Hosts got it from Earth? Either way, it's fizzy, it's sparkly, it makes you feel like you're floating on rainbow bubbles. Upon drinking this, imbibers will telepathically project outward a vision of the most beautiful thing they've ever seen.

A CAKE. MAYBE.

Dear god. What is it? Who came up with this? Who is even brave enough to try this? It certainly… has a taste. It… has an appearance. Whether either of these things are good is in the eye of the beholder. Wayfarers adventurous enough to put this in their mouths (or other eating appendages) will find themselves uncontrollably speaking aloud of the thing they long for the most.

INITIATE

Eventually, it comes time to launch.

The Hosts are a blur of activity, some of them packing up more delicate equipment in case of errant gravity waves during initial propulsion, some of them herding the Wayfarers into a seating area reserved specifically for the safety of its occupants during launch, deceleration, and rare turbulence. You are informed that engine flare will be so bright it will rival a star for the next twenty-five hours of engine start-up burn, but you will only need to stay strapped in for half an hour or so.

As the Theorem's enormous engines start cycling, the entire ship seems to hum in melodic song. And after everybody is strapped in, that's when the intensity starts. Gravity seems to want to push everything toward the stern, and Wayfarers are pressed hard against their seats with the inertia. After half an hour, the Hosts cheerily announce that everybody is free to get up and move around — but you might want to stay near a window, as they will be doing a low dive through the nearby planet's second moon's atmosphere, and it will be quite the sight.

Soon enough, the moon becomes visible. It is of unbroken crimson red, though subtle shifting in its surface lets you guess that it's water rather than earth. And then, as the Theorem rolls gently to the side, the view in the windows nearly perfectly split between moon and space, that's when you see them, swimming through the atmosphere.



To call them fish would be inaccurate — they are not in an ocean, or any body of water — and yet, that will be the word that springs to mind for most Wayfarers. Some of them are sleek and small, schooling in packs of shimmering white and ochre. Others are long and pointed, appendages pointed backward to exude a bright pink gas that propels them forward and which trails after them like oil slicks in the air. The locals call them x'enuda, the Hosts tell you, a combination of words that mean to fly and cunning prey.

They swim closer, swarming outside of the window. Some of them swim through, phasing through the shielding and windows alike, to dance gently in the interior of the Theorem, darting to and fro. If any Wayfarers find themselves curious enough to reach out and touch these creatures, they will find themselves similarly phased, capable of passing through matter for the next few minutes before the shared electrical field wears off and returns them to normal corporality. The external shield will catch you if you phase right through the ship's floor, but you may need to swim back up. Others may find themselves suddenly craving company, as if the x'enuda's instinct to remain safe in a school is catching.

FOREWORD

"All Wayfarers, please report to the docking bay!"

As you filter into the enormous cavern that makes up the docking bay of the Theorem, you see rows of smaller spacecraft. Some of them are sleek and light, like they'd be as free as a feather during aerial combat, while others are bulky and spacious. Many of them have designs in alien languages on them, or bizarre looking mascots, seemingly for good luck. As the occasional screen informs you, you are free to claim any one of the ships as your own, but first, Starling's Lament would very much like to give a presentation.

Past the rows of ships lays an expansive opening in the side of the Theorem, many stories high and wide, a shimmering forcefield the only thing between you and space. Beyond it, you can see the quickly fading shape of the planet and moons you left behind as the Theorem continues acceleration. It is in front of this that Starling's Lament has set up a large hologram of a star map.

As they start to explain once everyone is gathered, the map currently shows the region of space you are in. It is an enormous quadrant of multiple galaxies, some pinwheeled in shape, some circuler or tube-like. A line arcs across it, heading into what is clearly less-explored space, beyond the area colorfully marked as Alliance territory. Eventually, that line stops at a star, which then magnifies to reveal a six planet system, the second planet from the star circled.

This is your first objective: designation Epsilon-355.

There are many stories of which planets the Last Pilgrim has set foot upon, and yet, nobody has ever verified any of them. This, the Ascendants claim, is the closest match they have found for one of those planets in a scrap of story: a land of golden sand and shimmering glass, where pilgrimages track their way across the Golden Barrens desert. The planet is small and unassuming in the hologram, and the details next to it are scarce: relatively normal gravity, breathable atmosphere. More details will become available as the Theorem gets close enough for in-depth scans.

If there any notes of the Song to be found, they may yet be found in the Last Pilgrim's footprints.

Presentation nearly over, Starling's Lament directs you a series of tables that have neatly assembled packages of gear. Once you have picked your Division, you are welcome to claim the technological tools of its trade. You can also look at the spaceships available to claim, or even just watch out the docking bay door as you leave the planet behind and head deeper into space.

Welcome to the mission, Wayfarer.

(CODE)

Comments

Ladon Ceto >> Original Character -- click headings for full text.

[justamobster]

>> R E F L E C T

It’s happened again. And this time, he’s alone.

The numb buzzing in Ladon’s head is taking its time to wear off, and he feels for some time like he’s moving through molasses. Time has slowed, and every detail, every glisten and shine of the polished surfaces around him reaches his eye– and bounces off without any impact.

It’s happened again. But last time, he had something to hold on to. A small, warm, squirming bundle of scales and claws and frantic cries. He had something to focus on, something to push his own needs aside for. A reason to function. Conrit.

But he’s not here. No one is. It’s just him again. Alone.

And he’s not sure he can do this on his own.

But then something, out the corner of his eye, something moves and instead of shock, instead of overwhelm, he feels an old impulse kick in. Preservation. Protection. Instinct.

Fuck it. If he has nothing here to protect, he’ll at least protect his own Goddamn dignity and stop shuffling about like some shell-shocked idiot.

It takes him a moment to get his shit together, to remember who he is and what he’s done before. He’s survived this bullshit in the past, and danger flickering just outside his vision is laughably familiar. He cut his teeth on the pitch black alleys of Nieve, clawed his way to the top and burnt shit down with his own blood as fuel. He’ll do it again.

The shadows are old accomplices. He’ll just have to reintroduce himself again.

Whatever brought him here can’t hide its workings from him too long. He’ll find the right strings to pull. And he'll pull until something breaks.

And so Ladon can be found with his hands tucked in his pockets, leaning against a wall. In lieu of his usual cigarette– something he is going to get his mitts on again, fuck you very much– he’s found a toothpick to wedge between his teeth. He’s lost in thought, but now and then he gives the brim of his hat a tug, especially to women or anyone who noticeably pays the very out-of-place mobster any attention.

>> I M B I B E

Ladon Ceto is not the guest of honor here. That statement is almost insulting, in retrospect. If he were, there’d be a hell of a lot more booze. And some damn cigarettes. Oral fixation be damned, a bunch of food is not going to replace his smokes.

Especially food he can’t fucking eat.

He sniffs the wine and the strangely fizzy drink. Neither are appetizing. Nothing here is worth his furnace kicking in big time and leaving him burping smoke for hours on end, even the bowl of meat that smells amazing. He’s lived in a city surrounded by various cuisines for years. He’s used to food he has to just admire from afar.

That’s sort of how he feels when an attractive woman gives him any kind of attention, too.

All other options rejected, he’s instead attempting to haggle with one of the food truck proprietors for access to their griddle. “Tellin’ ya, I’m happy to let you sell any the ones I make that ain’t burnt. Was a fry cook for a year, yeah? I ain’t gonna burn your stand down. Just flour, sugar, butter, eggs. You got any of that?”

He doesn’t seem to be having much luck. 'In your honor' seems to be a load of bunk.

>> I N I T I A T E

He doesn’t need to touch the weird space fish to feel loneliness descend like heavy snowfall. Just watching them, and watching others interact with them and the way they impart their magic on anyone who makes contact… That’s enough.

He’s used to missing his clutch, what little of them he could remember. His father, a rumbling storm, his mother, a warmth he hasn’t felt since he was a hatchling. His brothers and sisters.

But now, he misses his hoard: his people. The Golden Apple. His little brother.

He can almost hear their reactions in his head– in awe of the school of creatures passing through the ship, admiring the scarlet moon and the endless stars. Senecia discussing what kind of flora could grow on the nearby planet with Aza, Draig singing or whistling any jazzy tune that comes to mind and snapping his fingers in rhythm, Guivres doing his best to impress the girls. Conrit would probably be enthralled by this, and in ways Ladon is both heartbroken that he isn’t here and thankful that he isn’t. The kid needs some stability. They’ve already lost one home, even if he remembers even less of it than Ladon does.

He also misses Frid and Lorne. The twins would likely make some sense of the weird device in his pocket, or at least the words on its screen.

He doesn’t mingle, not intentionally. He keeps to the outer edges of the spectacle. This is an ache he’s used to feeling, and the familiarity is grounding, even if it’s unpleasant.

He does, however, wave one of the creatures off as it tries to “swim” in his direction with a surly “buzz off, pal.”

>> F O R E W O R D

The first thing Ladon does when he enters the hangar is emit a low whistle. This is far beyond anything he’s ever encountered– Nieve’s most recent feat of transportation is the automobile, and those are lucky to get above 30 miles per hour, black boxes on wheels that flip when you take the corners too tight (he knows from first-hand experience). They’re nothing like the slick pieces of machinery in front of him, and he feels that ancient urge to claim as many as he can get his claws on.

He quickly suppresses it. One. He can have one. And it better not be too fancy, too top-of-the-line. He may as well paint a target on himself if he nabs something like that. So instead he picks a middling ship, one he’s a little more likely to be able to handle. Maybe. He was never the best getaway driver. But this will do. And as far as he can tell, he’ll be on his own inside it. Good. He doesn’t need to embarrass himself in front of others by stalling the damn thing out.

It’s when he’s standing in front of the star map, listening to the robotic voices telling him about this supposed mission that it really hits him. The writing on the sides of the map may as well not be there– he’s still illiterate. But he can somewhat understand what’s being asked of him, and that’s how realization comes home to roost in his swirling mind.

He’s going to be flying to this planet.

Flying.

“God damn,” he mutters, losing himself in the moment. “How long’s it been…?”

They won’t be his own wings– he’s already tried to bring them out, there’s something keeping him from changing– but the idea of flight after a decade of being grounded gives him a tiny spark of hope.

>> O O C

Howdy. So here’s a dumb lizard pretending to be a mobster. I don’t know why I like throwing him at space games, but there’s just something that works despite his luddite ways. Sorry for all the TL;DR– I’m verbose, and trying to get a handle on writing this doofus outside of his canon again.

Feel free to message me on this journal or at belvedia or belvedia on Discord/Tumblr for any OOC planning or questions or what-have-you. And I apologize for my surly, cranky dragon’s filthy mouth and terrible attitude, because he sure won’t.

Reflect

[rebelsamurai]

While the old boy was mean-mugging everyone who was wandering past, he was getting stared at by this rocker boy in a tank top, some tight leather pants, and a bad attitude. Johnny made up his mind to pester this choom the second he laid eyes on him.

Why? Well, because why the fuck not? Silverhand doesn’t require a specific motive to act like a jerk, even on a decent day; however, what he truly desires is that fashionable damn hat. How dare this motherfucker here show up on this stupid spaceship looking like he marched his ass right out of the 1900s with that fit. It's utterly ridiculous but so damn cool.

"What the hell's your deal?" Johnny asks as he wanders past, his eyes on that nice-looking hat. "Why are you posted up here like you're doing fucking guard duty?" He already hates the security division on this ship. Johnny hates anything that deals with authority. It's his natural state of being.

[justamobster]

Ladon lifts his brows, as if to say "me?" When he's accused of guard duty, his eyeroll and snort can't get much more derisive. There is no love lost between him and the good boys and girls of the Nieve R&O.

"If look like a cop, you need your eyes checked, pal." The hat and glad rags come with one hell of an accent, and an attitude to boot. "Last I checked, lawmen ain't got the monopoly on standin' around bein' fuckin' useless. Though they do take the top prize every year."

initiate;

[asternal]

The teenage boy who so strongly resembles a wraith made of flames approaches, giving off no sound of footsteps, smelling of no odor, and emitting as much warmth as a space heater. He's not usually one to simply approach people, but he's particularly talkative and sociable today, the opportunity to see and be heard by so many such a relative rarity in the first place that he isn't going to let it slip by his ghost-like fingers if he could help it.

Shion's gaze flicks to the hat. The suit. The something between the teeth that isn't a cigar but seems like its owner would probably appreciate it more if it was. Briefly, he mentally overlaps a red bowtie on the man and wonders if this is what Sirei could also look like if he were a human.

He watches the fish swim off to join its kin after being so bluntly rejected by Ladon, and it's only afterwards that he speaks, his voice calm and soft, as if not wanting to disturb any more of the creatures swimming by.

"Do you...dislike them?", he asks, gaze now focusing on the man himself.

[justamobster]

That's... different. Immediately Ladon clocks the kid as something supernatural, and of course, that's got his attention. And his concern. Were this Nieve, he'd be hurrying him somewhere safe, helping hide the wisps of magic fire and getting him settled into a disguise that would keep him safe. It's a familiar scramble, one he can remember doing for Guivres that day he found him hiding under the boardwalk and subsisting on scraps from the fried dough stand.

But, as evidenced by the weird alien fish he'd just given the rebuff, he's not in the city anymore. Not that this place holds any guarantee of safety for oddities.

"Er, not them. Just generally ain't keen on gettin'... swam at."

[asternal]

There's no guarantee of safety for any oddities that might walk among them, and there's no guarantee of safety against any, either. The latter is what he's more concerned about, deep down. His flames are weak now, but what if that changes? What if he can't touch flowers or trees or people without burning them to a crisp?

He might as well enjoy the powerlessness while he can.

"I suppose that's fair enough."

Generally, not many people appreciated having a fish swim right at them, much less a fish-like alien lifeform. Shion nods slowly, and he glances around for a moment, checking for any sudden phasing incidents in the vicinity, before he focuses his gaze right back at Ladon.

"People who are touched by those creatures seem to...phase through things. They're not used to it."

Not like himself, is implied.

[justamobster]

"Imagine they ain't. Folks who ain't used to magic, well. It don't jive with their reality."

Thankfully most people understand Talents now, enough that Ladon doesn't have to hide his own capabilities entirely. But Talents that actually make an impact on the world beyond little party tricks, those can get a little dicey in mixed company.

He eyes the alien fish as they coast through parts of the ship. It would almost be tempting to try it on purpose, see if he could reach through into space, if he could find a ley line or two, some kind of guidance or evidence of the world he knows. But he's too cautious to try.

It's hard to risk his own neck when he has no one to do it for.

"Guessin' it ain't nothin' new for you."

[asternal]

The boy nods in response, and it's really to both statements. There's no point in hiding it; anyone with a working pair of eyes can tell by the way his fiery form wavers to and fro in some spots that he's not an entirely solid person, no matter how much effort he puts into mimicking things like walking.

"I'm refraining for the time being, though. I'd like to get a better feel for this place's layout first... Or else I might end up somewhere I shouldn't be."

An HVAC vent, maybe, or an energy net he can't get out of. He might even end up halfway through some R&D experiment in progress, or, god forbid, an occupied bathroom.

[justamobster]

"Yeah? That's smart." Most the younger members of the magical community he's encountered are more likely to rush head-on into things. That's part of the reason he worries when he's not around to reel them in and give them some sage advice on survival.

This kid seems to have that handled, though. And in ways that's also sad.

"Anyone here givin' you guff over it? Bein' different, that is."

Because he will discourage that kind of attitude. Physically, if necessary.

[asternal]

The chuckle he lets out is light and soft, airy as the flames that make him up.

"Ahaha...Not at all. Everybody I've met here so far has been kind, if perhaps a bit confused at first."

The boy's expression falters for a few moments when his thoughts inevitably turn toward some of those kind people he's left behind, too. Without him, there's nothing to protect anymore. Nothing to attack anymore either, but he's not so naive as to believe they'll simply stop; they'll just keep coming for the school—for his friends—most likely with even greater force than before now that they've been served a prime opportunity on a silver platter. Without the Wall of Fire to protect them, what can his friends do? What will they do?

—The escape pod, back, back, back, all the way back to the Artificial Satellite. It's their only hope. The mission is a failure without him but it's better than being dead. They should still have some reserve power left. Will they figure it out in time? Will they make it in time? He has no choice but to believe. Yugamu is intelligent. Tsubasa is a mechanical whiz beyond belief. Takumi is resourceful and determined. Hiruko is commanding and pragmatic. And Eito is...

Is...

......

Well.

Shion turns his attention back to Ladon, as if swallowing down the worry in his non-corporeal throat by turning his focus somewhere else. He has no choice but to believe.

"And you're very kind yourself, to ask me such a thing." Another for the tally, in his mind.

[justamobster]

"Been told I got a protective streak a mile wide. Don't really got an argument to the contrary."

Especially with the young ones. Especially with his little brother. Even Guivres, when he's getting under Ladon's scales with all his youthful pride and smugness. He's messed up enough, he can at least protect them from making the same mistakes he has.

"Anyone does give you a hard time, you lemme know, yeah? I'll help change their tune." He then realizes he hasn't even introduced himself, and gives his hat a polite little tug. "Name's Ladon, by the way. Ladon Ceto."

[asternal]

Ladon Ceto. La-don Ce-to. The boy mulls the name, the syllables, over in his mind, and nods in acknowledgement. Being protective and being kind aren't always the same thing; he still thinks Ladon is the latter to extend his offer of protection to a complete stranger like him.

"Shion. That's the name I was given recently." He smiles when he says it, one of the fondest memories he's ever had.

(By "recently", he means he's literally only had it for like, a week.)

"...Do you have a child? A family?" Even he in all his social ignorance can tell that this isn't the man's first rodeo in making such offers. Is that where the protective streak comes from?, is the implied question.

[justamobster]

He files the “recently” detail away, but decides not to pry. Who knows why that name is new, but if it’s what he wants to be called, Ladon has no issue with that.

“Nice to meetcha, Shion.” He smiles a little sadly at the question about family, eyes tracking back to the school of alien fish. “No kids, ain’t been so lucky. But I got a li’l brother. Conrit. He’s twelve. … Hope he’s doin’ all right, not causin’ no trouble.”

[asternal]

The sad smile doesn't escape his notice, but he decides not to comment on it, the way that the man looks at the school of alien fish, huddled together and swimming in sync, almost happy and belonging, saying more than anything he could verbalize. The way he calls the notion of having a kid something "lucky".

A twelve-year-old is younger than even some of the younger members among his friends, so his interest is naturally piqued, especially with his interest in other people's lives and stories.

"Does he cause trouble often?"

[justamobster]

He shakes his head, bringing one hand up to rub at the stubble on his chin in thought. "Nah. Conrit's a good kid. Usually. The trouble makin' is new. Was hopin' it didn't run in the family."

Because, well. Ladon is trouble incarnate. He tried to drill in the advice of "do as I say, not as I do," but that doesn't seem to have taken. Partially because his kid brother has been expelled from school, and partially because he gave Frid and Lorne the slip at the ferry dock. "Sure he's got a good reason, but I ain't gonna be there to hear it now."

imbibe

[fessus]

Eavesdropping isn't in Noctis's usual purview, more the type to neatly sidestep any conversation that doesn't involve him so he can more actively weasel his way out of the ones that do. However... introversion is clashing hard with hunger, and given that he didn't manage to sneak in a dinner before being whisked away by a goddamn celestial phenomenon the latter is starting to win out.

"Hey," he interjects, a quiet and decidedly unenthused voice cutting through the negotiation.

"Are you looking for chicken eggs?"

He's learning all kinds of new things.

[justamobster]

"Er," Ladon turns, surprised by the interruption, and the Host he's been bullying takes the opportunity to duck away from this weird Wayfarer and his dietary demands.

"Don't know if other kindsa eggs'd work real well for pancakes, yeah?" He looks back at the empty counter and sighs. "Dunno how these thingamajigs think we're gonna help 'em find nothin' out in space if they can't even trust one of us with a fuckin' spatula."

[fessus]

"I'm not a chef. I just know where you can get some."

Ah yes, only the finest of culinary experts know how to make a pancake. What Noctis lacks in basic knowledge, however, he makes up for in motivation.

"There's kitchens. Not here, but through the north hallway and up to the right. Guess they figured we should have options... So if you want to make something specific, you can.

I just expect a pancake for the tip."

[justamobster]

And there's a genuine smile, probably the first since he showed up here.

"Well I'll be." That's the best news he's gotten today. No need to chance the strange food or the possibility of setting his furnace off? He'll take it.

"Deal. Hell, I'll make you a stack for your time."

[fessus]

"No one said it had to be a whole stack..."

He will absolutely eat a whole stack. Don't listen to him. In fact, despite his size, he may very well manage to put away two.

"You want to me to walk you over there? Ah, I actually moved some of the eggs so other people wouldn't see them and eat them."

[justamobster]

"Yeah? You watchin' your figure? I'll go easy on the syrup." He teases.

He knocks on the counter, then gives the Host that swivels its head towards him the finger before turning around and heading towards the way out, waving for his new acquaintance to follow him. "C'mon, kid, let's ankle. Show me where the burgled eggs are, yeah?"

[fessus]

At the question, Noctis unfortunately looks down at his own waist as a hand lifts to touch his shirt. Oh... how does he play this off...

"Ah-ah, wait, hold on– Aren't I the one leading?" His new comrade's eagerness has him picking up speed to pass him, only then slowing to a walk with a click of his tongue.

"'Let's ankle'? Tell me that's slang and I'm not agreeing to something weird. Either way... do you have a name?"

[justamobster]

Ladon pauses and allows him to catch up, then gestures for the younger man to take the lead. He's in a good mood now, thus the playful attitude. It really doesn't take much-- just the reassurance he won't have to partake of any weird space food when whipping up some pancakes is on the table.

"Yeah, s'a sayin'. 'Let's ankle, let's mosey, take it on the heel and toe.'" He finds himself habitually reaching for the cigarette tin in his pocket only to remember it's gone. Instead he plucks a toothpick he's already swiped from another stand and wedges it between his teeth. It's nowhere near a suitable replacement for a smoke, but it'll do until he can get his hands on some tobacco.

"Lots of 'em. But I mostly go by Ladon. You?"

[fessus]

"Don't know it, don't know it, don't know it. Explaining a phrase with a weirder phrase... that's your choice, I guess."

If anyone is positioned to understand the struggle of having different cultural and syntactical references then it's Noctis. Unfortunately he suffers from an occasionally startling lack of environmental awareness.

"Ah... Noct. N-o-c-t. You can call me that." He takes a corner, leading Ladon into the large abnormally clean kitchen as promised.

"... how many names is 'lots of them'?"

[justamobster]

"All right, how 'bout 'let's get outta here?'"

He resists the urge to make a knock-knock joke. But it's tempting. So, so tempting. Noct-noct, who's there? You, apparently!

He's not going to be doing a stand-up set any time soon. Thank goodness.

"Collected a lotta aliases and nicknames through the years, yeah? But that's mostly business back home, not here. Not yet, anyhow."

And here's the kitchen. It's impeccably clean, and Ladon's certainly going to leave it that way. But for now he's rifling around in the cabinets, looking for a pan, a spatula, mixing bowls and a whisk. "All right, let's get crackin'.