(no subject)

[pixietea.livejournal.com]

Characters: England and all you positively insufferable wonderful people!
Setting: Floor Three
Format: Starting with prose/paragraph/whatever you want to call it, but I'll match.
Summary: Apparently the Shakespeare collections he brought with him aren't enough -- actually finding the library in this godawful place was a small blessing.
Warnings: Language, most likely, gosh England that's so improper (also mild suggestive themes, courtesy of him and fem!France)


The kingdom breathed a minor sigh as he turned the page, away from the inquiries of comedians and further into the tale of one 'Cesario'. A stack of books flanked each side of the open copy of Twelfth Night on the table; one stack for the books he had finished (currently, about three), and a stack for the ones that had not yet been opened.

Getting down to this floor had been a nightmare. England didn't mind stairs -- he was no lazy American, after all -- but this was just ludicrous. The place was a scientific disaster and a magical marvel. He was less disturbed by the physical impossibility than he was by the chance of hostile supernatural figures lingering about. It didn't take a mage adept to realize that a place like this could easily have them, just by looking at the way the tower defied physics and logic.

But at least he'd suffered no loss of limb nor any encounters with anyone he'd rather not meet with on the way down here. And, thus far, he'd had no significant disturbances.

Now all he needed to do was just stop thinking about the damn building and relax enough to enjoy what he was reading.

Comments

[pixietea.livejournal.com]

The larger country's question was met with slight bemusement on the Englishman's part. "With some of them gone? They were all present at the time I fell asleep before I came here, I believe." ...at least he was pretty sure that they were. Granted, he didn't know how long he had been unconscious before he actually got here, and who knew what odd timestream antics could be mucking up the sense of things?

He put his confusion aside to listen politely to what Ivan was telling him, and he couldn't stop the corner of his mouth from quirking a little in recognition of Sir Arthur. He was familiar with the other authors, of course, but Doyle was considerably closer to home.

"I concur," he said. England enjoyed a wide range of genres -- he would read almost anything -- but as some of his favourites weren't exactly the best to uphold his image of dignity, he decided instead to ask another question. "So, you enjoy the adventures of Sherlock Holmes, then?"

[vanavanushka.livejournal.com]

Ivan's brows furrowed, and he watched the other, looking a little puzzled. "That is very... ah, very strange," he replied, looking a little thoughtful, quiet for a moment. He had definitely been here longer than a few days, or even a few weeks. A few months sounded right--it was right in his mind. "So strange. Ah, it has definitely been months since I was getting here. But I am supposing it is not the only thing that is being strange here...."

He paused and smiled a little, certainly agreeing. He also read most things that he came across. Some of the nations had other hobbies--Ivan's hobbies were primarily drinking and reading. And he nodded once the other mentioned Sherlock, smiling slightly. It was one of the things that he liked about the Englishman. "I do. They are very silly and amusing. He is very witty."