ＥＮＧＬＡＮＤ♛ Arthur Kirkland (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
keepscalm) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
towerofanimus2012-04-15 12:13 pm
keepscalm) wrote in towerofanimus2012-04-15 12:13 pm
05. those hours that with gentle work did frame
Characters: England and you!
Setting: Floors 5, 15, 28, 29, 33, and 35 specified -- wandering to all the other places!
Format: Starting action, will match.
Summary: England explores the new floors, stops by some old ones, and is reminded of a few things he may have been avoiding.
Warnings: Probably language; mentions of aquaphobia, genocide, and alcoholism; potentially England getting drunk and being an idiot; nation woes. Will edit for anything else.
Floor 15
[Sewing? England sure is. He needs a new dress shirt. The ones that came with him to this place are a little dingy and getting noticeably worn, and he prides himself on being presentable, thank you very much.
He's already got the barest minimum of an olive green shirt constructed. It has no pockets, sleeves, buttons, or collar yet. But it's coming along nicely! There are a couple things in a repair pile next to him, too. Maybe he'll fix something else too, if he's asked nicely.]
Floor 28
[Even before he sees any of the floors above this one, England is confident that this is the Tower's best new addition. He immediately feels at home when he finds himself among the instruments, though there is also a rush of awe at just how many of them seem otherworldly. Part of him wants to investigate them close-up, to hear their unique timbres of sound. He doesn't want to risk breaking any of the beautiful instruments out of ignorance, though.
However, most of them he finds very familiar. Particularly when he passes a section of classic string instruments -- and, not too far ahead of those, guitars.
Needless to say, anyone who stumbles upon England on the twenty-eighth floor will find him lounging against the wall, strumming away at the bass plugged into the amplifier next to him and having the gall to actually look content while he does so. Some of the bass lines he's playing are recognisable, to those who know British Invasion bands well.]
Floor 29
[At first, England thinks the twenty-ninth floor is merely a garden, from all the beautiful plants that greet him at the top of the staircase. It isn't until he starts down one of the paths created by the winding hedges that he realises it's a maze (which he discovers he's actually in the center of), and quickly backtracks so as not to get lost. It's a beautiful place, but-- well, he doesn't trust any maze created by this Tower. Perhaps he'll brave it at some point when he has a plan of action and a reliable companion.
For now, he'll just be surveying the exotic plants in the middle of the maze close to the staircase, wondering at how he can't seem to place any of them as being from home.]
Floor 33
[Is it? Is is. Dirt. Honest-to-god dirt that doesn't have murderous plants growing out of it or mutant animals roaming it. And there's a shed over there. A shed that England finds actually has tools.
Yes, he'll be hard at work here on a small area he makes for himself close to the shed, planting seeds for as many kinds of flowers as he could find in the tiny wooden shack's stock. Though he'll also be keeping an eye on the staircase. He doesn't want to get run off the edge of this bizarre floating level.]
Floor 35
[He needed water for his seeds. He didn't expect to find a whole lake full of it not three floors away.
It looks stagnant. Dead. Water shouldn't look dead. Water is supposed to sustain life. England carefully toes the shoreline of the lake for a few feet before he gingerly lowers himself to his knees and rolls up his sleeve. There's a moment of consideration before, with caution, he first submerges his fingers in the water. When nothing bites them, eventually his hand goes with it. And then he's in the water up to his elbow, and noticing that there is suspiciously no muddy silt beneath his fingers even though he should barely be in the shallows. There's far too much depth for being so close to the shore.
He pulls back his arm sharply, reminded of the last time he was anything close to submerged in water in this tower. He aches for the oceans of home. They're a monster he's at least familiar with. This is like staring into the uncanny valley of how he's most afraid of dying.]
Floor 5
[He's always sped past this floor because the Tower workers unnerved him to a degree that he couldn't ever hope to explain. The truth is, England has never noticed the viewfinders in the outer ring. It's curiosity that takes root and finally makes him step away from the staircase so that he can peer through one -- after he surveys the thing to make sure it won't take out his eyes.
What he sees is strangely desolate. He's seen areas look more lively even after thorough bombing. He doesn't understand at first. He just watches, some alien pain gradually creeping up on him as he sees more and more of the wasteland through the viewfinder.
The pain gets worse the longer he looks through the port. Or maybe he just becomes more acutely aware of it. It comes to be so bad that his knuckles go white holding the sides of the device. He feels empty. On the verge of collapsing from the inside out. He feels such overwhelming loss that it eventually brings him to his knees like a blow to the stomach (or an attack on his people).
It stops hurting once he crumples away from the viewfinder, a hand clutching his chest like he's worried his heart will fall clean out of it. The ache is gone, but he feels short of breath regardless, as if the wind has been knocked out of him. He vaguely registers that his eyes are wet.
That was his world. His people-- his history.
Or what was left in its wake.]
Wandering
[Anywhere else that England might be found, he looks investigative -- curious, but cautious in the way he approaches things, especially in the newer floors. It's probably best not to sneak up on him. He's not bothering to hide the knife sheathed in leather at his belt, and surprising someone who's armed and used to danger is likely a pretty bad idea.
Setting: Floors 5, 15, 28, 29, 33, and 35 specified -- wandering to all the other places!
Format: Starting action, will match.
Summary: England explores the new floors, stops by some old ones, and is reminded of a few things he may have been avoiding.
Warnings: Probably language; mentions of aquaphobia, genocide, and alcoholism; potentially England getting drunk and being an idiot; nation woes. Will edit for anything else.
Floor 15
[Sewing? England sure is. He needs a new dress shirt. The ones that came with him to this place are a little dingy and getting noticeably worn, and he prides himself on being presentable, thank you very much.
He's already got the barest minimum of an olive green shirt constructed. It has no pockets, sleeves, buttons, or collar yet. But it's coming along nicely! There are a couple things in a repair pile next to him, too. Maybe he'll fix something else too, if he's asked nicely.]
Floor 28
[Even before he sees any of the floors above this one, England is confident that this is the Tower's best new addition. He immediately feels at home when he finds himself among the instruments, though there is also a rush of awe at just how many of them seem otherworldly. Part of him wants to investigate them close-up, to hear their unique timbres of sound. He doesn't want to risk breaking any of the beautiful instruments out of ignorance, though.
However, most of them he finds very familiar. Particularly when he passes a section of classic string instruments -- and, not too far ahead of those, guitars.
Needless to say, anyone who stumbles upon England on the twenty-eighth floor will find him lounging against the wall, strumming away at the bass plugged into the amplifier next to him and having the gall to actually look content while he does so. Some of the bass lines he's playing are recognisable, to those who know British Invasion bands well.]
Floor 29
[At first, England thinks the twenty-ninth floor is merely a garden, from all the beautiful plants that greet him at the top of the staircase. It isn't until he starts down one of the paths created by the winding hedges that he realises it's a maze (which he discovers he's actually in the center of), and quickly backtracks so as not to get lost. It's a beautiful place, but-- well, he doesn't trust any maze created by this Tower. Perhaps he'll brave it at some point when he has a plan of action and a reliable companion.
For now, he'll just be surveying the exotic plants in the middle of the maze close to the staircase, wondering at how he can't seem to place any of them as being from home.]
Floor 33
[Is it? Is is. Dirt. Honest-to-god dirt that doesn't have murderous plants growing out of it or mutant animals roaming it. And there's a shed over there. A shed that England finds actually has tools.
Yes, he'll be hard at work here on a small area he makes for himself close to the shed, planting seeds for as many kinds of flowers as he could find in the tiny wooden shack's stock. Though he'll also be keeping an eye on the staircase. He doesn't want to get run off the edge of this bizarre floating level.]
Floor 35
[He needed water for his seeds. He didn't expect to find a whole lake full of it not three floors away.
It looks stagnant. Dead. Water shouldn't look dead. Water is supposed to sustain life. England carefully toes the shoreline of the lake for a few feet before he gingerly lowers himself to his knees and rolls up his sleeve. There's a moment of consideration before, with caution, he first submerges his fingers in the water. When nothing bites them, eventually his hand goes with it. And then he's in the water up to his elbow, and noticing that there is suspiciously no muddy silt beneath his fingers even though he should barely be in the shallows. There's far too much depth for being so close to the shore.
He pulls back his arm sharply, reminded of the last time he was anything close to submerged in water in this tower. He aches for the oceans of home. They're a monster he's at least familiar with. This is like staring into the uncanny valley of how he's most afraid of dying.]
Floor 5
[He's always sped past this floor because the Tower workers unnerved him to a degree that he couldn't ever hope to explain. The truth is, England has never noticed the viewfinders in the outer ring. It's curiosity that takes root and finally makes him step away from the staircase so that he can peer through one -- after he surveys the thing to make sure it won't take out his eyes.
What he sees is strangely desolate. He's seen areas look more lively even after thorough bombing. He doesn't understand at first. He just watches, some alien pain gradually creeping up on him as he sees more and more of the wasteland through the viewfinder.
The pain gets worse the longer he looks through the port. Or maybe he just becomes more acutely aware of it. It comes to be so bad that his knuckles go white holding the sides of the device. He feels empty. On the verge of collapsing from the inside out. He feels such overwhelming loss that it eventually brings him to his knees like a blow to the stomach (or an attack on his people).
It stops hurting once he crumples away from the viewfinder, a hand clutching his chest like he's worried his heart will fall clean out of it. The ache is gone, but he feels short of breath regardless, as if the wind has been knocked out of him. He vaguely registers that his eyes are wet.
That was his world. His people-- his history.
Or what was left in its wake.]
Wandering
[Anywhere else that England might be found, he looks investigative -- curious, but cautious in the way he approaches things, especially in the newer floors. It's probably best not to sneak up on him. He's not bothering to hide the knife sheathed in leather at his belt, and surprising someone who's armed and used to danger is likely a pretty bad idea.
no subject
He recognises her voice, though, and there's a touch of regret in his expression that he's not really in the mental state to hide right now. At least it's Francisca. He's embarrassed that anyone is seeing him like this, but she is one of the few that will understand his plight.
Despite shaking a little, his voice is remarkably composed, to make up for the cracking of his carefully-crafted mask.] It hurt. I didn't expect it to-- [He pulls his hand away from his chest, surveying it like he was expecting it to be covered in blood.] I wasn't expecting that. That's all.
[No, that's not really all, but he's not willing to admit that he's been here so long he sometimes forgets the weight of what he really is.]
no subject
Think of it as another affirmation that it's not real.
[Her own England would have clawed her eyes out for intruding the private nation's personal space, but Francisca still found herself moving around until she was standing before Arthur, gracefully dropping down to her knees and taking his shaking hand in her own.]
Best not to dwell on it.
[He smaller hands curled around his, giving it a gentle squeeze.]
Come, I have some rum left somewhere - that should put the colour back in your cheeks.
no subject
He does end up averting his eyes, blinking them a few times to try and clear the unshed tears still lingering.] Bloody well felt real. [It was like the Blitz at least ten times over. He wonders faintly if that's what genocide feels like.
England clears his throat and pulls a frown at the mention of rum. He probably shouldn't, but...] ...can't even remember the last time I had a drink. [It's mumbled almost bitterly. No wonder his supply of tea has been thin; without his favourite vice, it seems he's been compensating a little.]
no subject
It's a good thing I didn't use the lot on Ivan then. At this rate I'm going to have to put in a request for more at the suggestion box one of these days.
[She stood back to give him more space, patiently waiting for him to gather himself. A teasing note entered her voice though when she added:]
Then again, perhaps not - I've noticed the English can't hold their liquor anyway~
no subject
[He can too hold his liquor and so can his people!
Though holding it in and having a tolerance for it are two different things entirely...
Following his retort, he stands; he's still pale(r than usual) and his knees shake a little with his own weight, but it's progress. Especially considering the grumpy look on his face.]
no subject
She tossed her head archly and began to walk towards the door.]
Come on then, the rum's in my room but we can take it to the kitchen and find something to eat with it.
no subject
He follows her dutifully once he properly gets his footing. Sniping with (a) France and the prospect of a hard drink make him feel a little better already. Enough that he can at least stand up straight and hold his head high as he walks. He is a man of the utmost dignity.]
no subject
That should be enough.
[She stood and dusted off her knees before heading out the door and for the kitchen. Yes she's arrogant enough not to bother waiting for him to follow, assuming that he will for the rum.]