undergrounds | [OPEN POST] The game is on

This event runs from 20th-25th July 2015.

Hello, Londoners! Bit hot, isn't it? Blimey, you might even get a tan at this rate, assuming you're not a vampire.

But there's no time to relax and enjoy the sunshine. No. This is the third and final week of the hunting season in the Other Realm and the magic of the hunt is about to bleed into all of London...

Basically, if you're a predatory type, your hunting instincts may be sharper than usual this week. By how much? Not a lot, we're not talking rabid wolves or losing self-control here, but conditions are perfect for hunting. You can feel it in the air. Hunters of all kinds can expect good fortune – yes, that includes humans who track down other supernatural species too.

As for everyone else... try not to be lunch. Welcome to London.

Prompts

1) HUNGRY LIKE THE WOLF. Bare those fangs and sharpen those claws. You're feeling a little... peckish.

2) THE WHITE HART. The hunt for the legendary White Hart has begun. Fae hunting parties compete to pursue the beast, and upon its capture much merry-making ensues. Should a party pass through into the mortal realm during this hunt, they will appear as drunken louts searching for a pub.

3) HUNTING PARTY. No reason to let the fae have all the fun! Choose your quarry, gather your team and pursue your prey. This could be a serious hunt-to-kill party or something more light-hearted.

4) CAPTURE/KILL. The moment you've been waiting for. Your prey, cornered. Do you allow your instincts to take over and let rip?

5) I DIDN'T SIGN UP FOR THIS. I just got to London and now I'm being chased by a vicious pack of supernatural beings. FML.

6) CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE. What's the first thing you see when you set foot in London? Make up your own scenario here.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Deferential. Mab approves. She looks satisfied with the answer and steps into his personal space, lifting her hand to his cheek, fingers soft against his beard. The touch is like a lover, cupping his cheek and looking into his eyes. But her expression is not precisely human. The emotions are remote as she studies his face, the healing not yet begun.

"You are not quite human, mortal Knight." Let's face it, the closest fae come to law are knights. "How interesting." Well he's got the 'be interesting' part down. And then her hand shifts a little and cold ices through his wounds searing the wounds shut and knitting together skin, capillary and muscle. It definitely isn't pleasant which might be an odd contrast to the gentle hold she has on his face. As he took care of her problem it is enough for her magic to do the small healing. She might not have been able to heal anything more grievous as he was not loyal to her. But it has not come to that which is useful. If worst had come to worst she knew a doctor.

He inhales sharply at the rush of cold that hits his face, the freezing burn of it through his veins even as it knits flesh closed and seals away his cuts. In a moment hs is struck both by her beauty and her lack of humanity, the way she studies him, and he finds it hard not to meet her gaze -- as if hypnotised.

"I was raised in the other realm," he admits, unsure even as he does why. "Five years."

Something about her touch is kind despite the cold, reassuring. It would be easy to forget the pain, he thinks, in the wake of such a touch.

"Five years in our Realm. A difficult upbringing for a mortal." He seems lost in her eyes, almost dreamy even with the wound searing itself shut, the prickle of ice along veins. It makes her smile a little. "Which court raised you?"

The prickles of ice start to fade and her hand warms slowly. When it is completely warm she runs her thumb across pristine cheek.

The question snaps his attention back a little, makes him realise that he'd lost focus. Her hand is warmer now, soothing after the burn of the cold, but as he focuses and his heart-rate begins slow he becomes dimly aware he should stay alert. Should not forget that this conversation could be dangerous.

He's unsure if he should answer, at first. Unsure if she might not like it -- yet equally he does not doubt that she could find out if she so wished.

"The Seelie court," he admits, "although my memories are... weak. They were locked away when I was returned."

He seems to wake a little from his stupor, such a shame. Her fingers slip slowly along his jaw as she watches him and then finally, almost reluctantly, she pulls her hand back from his face.

"They were not locked away well if you remember as much." She replied. Shoddy work. If he was raised in the Seelie court, perhaps a parent was the one that chose to raise him. Which made him even more interesting. "You fight well, child." And clearly she thought this was a high compliment.

He dips his head in acknowledgment of the compliment and the remark both.

"I did not recall any of it until recently. I saw a woman closing a fae door with a spell. It... I suppose it stirred a memory even a block could not hold. If I fight well now, I suppose it is only because I was taught to -- and I only survived because you allowed it."

If Mab's expression was anything to go by, she thought it shoddy spell work regardless of how much familiarity an action might draw. "You should take credit for your own skills." She replied, "If you learned them in my Realm or the mortal one, you put in the effort." It was true he survived because she allowed it and she was well pleased he'd noticed. Perhaps it was why he was being so polite. Too few were these days.

"Your lost memories upset you?"

Do they upset him? Lancelot considers that a moment, tilts his head a little in thought as he does.

"I am not sure what I have lost, so I find it difficult to mourn it."

Which is the truth, but also a careful truth. Lancelot suspects Mab could offer to restore them, yet he does not know if he could afford the price of such a thing. It is true he does not know what he lacks, but equally it does confuse and unnerve him to have such gaps. At the same time, not knowing what fills them makes him unsure if it would be better not to know. Which, he wonders, is better? Ignorance can be bliss.

He considers the question. It is a good sign.

"But knowledge is power, even if only over yourself." She points out. It would make her quite angry to have something taken from her such as that. But it was a lot easier to anger the other fae. Perhaps it was different for mortals.

She can almost hear him realizing she might be able to help. She doesn't even have to make the offer, he knows it exists on some level which makes her smile.

"What shall I call you, Constable?"

Her answer is equally true. Knowledge is power, and Lancelot may well have talents yet locked away that could help him if his life is to continue to be more dangerous. Would knowing be worth it? He cannot say, he supposes, unless he risks it.

"Lancelot, my lady," he offers, and drops his eyes a little in deference. "Who should I say showed me such kindness in turn?"

She allows his consideration to settle, he'll ask for help if he needs it, Mab is confident she projects capability to others. "Lancelot." She repeats his name, letting the sound of it roll off her tongue in perfect mimic of his own pronunciation. Someone raised with the Seelie will know not to give her name out even if only on an instinctual level. And he seems like the type to appreciate honesty.

"I am Mab. Lady of Air and Darkness." She does not correct his decision that her intervention was kindness. In a way it was. And he is being so polite it seems a shame to do anything to ruin it.

[OPEN POST] The game is on

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