OPENING MINGLE LOG: THE LOUNGE

[yourkeepers]

	THE LOUNGE

Once used for the Keeper's extravagant, personal parties, the Lounge seems just slightly larger than average in scale, making the many cushions and couches more than enough to rest on. The lighting shifts between shades of purple and blue. Living trees grow from the floor in decorative intervals, and flickering candles light the various tables. The roof appears to be a vibrant night sky, displaying alien constellations and nebulas that shift over the day.

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Fire Parade: an epilogue

[ironspirit]

After the chaos from before had died down and most of the involved changelings scattered, the firebrand was left in a bit of an unfortunate state. With his hilt melted into a useless blot of steel, his legs were equally useless. It wasn't painful (not now that he'd cooled down), but everything from the waist-down felt too jumbled and numb for him to coordinate. And he was stuck like this until the forge was back in working order.

Maybe he could've convinced someone to move him back to the hearth room or whatever, but by now, he was getting kind of sick of running around. To hell with exploring for once, he'd done plenty of that already. The blade leaned back into his cushion, staring up at the shifting sky. His physical form lay beside him, still in pieces, and thankfully not on fire.

[nosentimentalist]

Well, this is a sorry sight, for sure. Don't mind the typewriter over here nudging one of those pieces of...well, you with one of his boots. Really, people needed to take better care of themselves- even though he himself had an adventurous streak doesn't mean he would do things that would lead him to getting broken and impossible to use for a while.

"And what sad state of affairs led to this, I wonder? Ran into one of the dragons and called him names?

[manelesscatking]

A purple light joins the slowly shifting mood lighting of this part of the lounge. Anyone listening closely can hear a clack-squelch-clack-squelch coming from one of the doors to the great hall.

[ironspirit]

He shoots the typewriter a glare, definitely minding the whole nudging thing. He picks his pieces up and moves them to his other side. The melted piece of hilt is handled with extra care.

"No, the furnace stole me and then—" He starts to explain, but cuts himself off suddenly to turn to the other. "There are dragons here? How many?" He can't quite remember if that's a good or a bad thing, but dragons are something to be surprised about. It's something he wants to know about, either way.

He doesn't take much notice of the new arrival just yet, his attention still on the typewriter.

[nosentimentalist]

"Yes, there are dragons here, though I'm afraid to say I haven't had the chance to meet them face to face. They're definitely here though, but I don't know how many." Plus, if what the house said was any inclination, at least one of them was running around and causing havoc it shouldn't.

"And what would the furnace want to do with you...?" He pauses. That noise- he turns his head towards the open door, eyebrows furrowing. That didn't sound good.

"Hello? Who's there?"

*PURPLING INTENSIFIES*

[manelesscatking]

A short boy with flaming red hair and glowing purple eyes enters through the main door of the lounge. He wields a parasol in one hand, and a dispassionate look on his face.

Drawing up to the sword and the typewriter at a near dash, he drops to one knee in front of Sword Arms. The bright purple light in his eyes dims, and his hair settles down to as unwavering a state as could be considered normal around here. He looks up and blinks in confusion.

[ironspirit]

He's about to answer the man's question when he notices the approaching noise. The sword leans forward, trying to get a look at the door as well from a slightly awkward angle. Fortunately, the source of the noise comes charging straight towards him, so he doesn't have to struggle to see it for long.

He's not really used to people practically kneeling in front of him, and he has no idea who the hell this person is yet. Something rings vaguely familiar about him, like the forge did, but no strong feelings come to mind like last time. Considering how things ended with the forge that might be a good thing. He stares awkwardly.

"... Uh, can I help you?"

no actually I'm really sorry I was gonna wait but Crystal said hi adkdbsdg

[manelesscatking]

"...probably. Where am I and who are you guys? This sort of thing just keeps happening, sorry."

The page draws himself up to full height (which isn't that impressive), and inspects the Damascus-steel hilt of the parasol in his hands.

"Also, sorry if I interrupted anything," he inclines his head at the typewriter, "this is the first time I've seen more than one person at a time."

[nosentimentalist]

Hmmm. Well, okay, he can live with the extra company. He puts his hands in his pockets, shrugging at the page's question.

"You're in the..." The typewriter glances around. "The lounge, I believe?" Don't know if there is a name for it. I'm a typewriter, and he's a sword in pieces for some unknown and possibly stupid reason involving a furnace. What are you?"

[ironspirit]

He cocks his head to the side. "What sort of thing is that?" he asks. "You just run up to people randomly sometimes? That's weird. Are you some kind of magic compass?" That seems like the kind of thing that would randomly seek people out, if anything would.

He scowls in the typewriter's direction again, folding his arms in a huff. "It's not a stupid reason! I was stolen, that wasn't even my fault!"

[manelesscatking]

"Oh! The lounge! Okay then. I'm..." The page pokes his arms and runs his hands through his hair.

"I'm me, I guess. I am - was? - am a page for the Master. The kind that fetches weapons and waits on knights while they eat, not the kind you write on.

"Speaking of which, a typewriter? Is that the key-smashing thing I would hear guests writing on sometimes?"

He turns his attention from Key Smasher to Sword Arms, leaving an ear pointed at the typewriter. "The thing where I wake up and someone's looking at me funny. This is the first time I've done it without them touching me, though! Also I'm holding an umbrella made of nice metal. Uh. Do you want it?"

[nosentimentalist]

Ah, so this is a page. He hadn't seen one before, but now it makes sense. He shrugs at the question.

"Yes, that would be me. Though I would hate it if they smashed my keys, I don't think that would feel nice at all."

He turns to the sword. "Got stolen...? For what reason? Did someone have the urge to go murder someone else with you, or what?"

And now the page is offering him and the other possession an umbrella made of...metal? He holds up a hand as he shakes his head. "Don't think I have any need for it, no. Maybe you could give it to our friend here for a crutch to walk around with instead of lying here in pieces?"

NIGHTFALL: after any other lounge threads go down

[brassandblood]

The forge was nice and toasty after a nap in her coal bed, and generally feeling much recovered. She still needed to find something to eat, but right now she had more pressing matters to attend to. She didn't want to make that poor sword wait any longer than he had to.

A bit shamefaced, she made her way into the lounge and over to him. "How are you feeling?" she murmured, not quite able to look him in the eye. "I'm sorry for...earlier."

[ironspirit]

He was half-dozing when she arrived, and had she not spoken he might not have noticed her at all. Running around the whole damn house, getting melted and nearly drowning had all left him pretty tired out, needless to say.

But he heard her, and he looked up. And when he saw who it was his eyes went wide.

He could tell she felt guilty. It wasn't hard to reason that she'd been trying to help, not hurt him, but all he could think of was that flash of searing pain and his body melting through her hand. How easy it would be for her to destroy him with barely a touch.

The sword sat himself upright, very much awake now. He smiled uneasily. It took him a moment to find his voice again. "I-it's no big deal," he stammered, though he subtly moved his hand to hang onto his other body. "It doesn't hurt anymore. Actually, I can't really feel it at all..."

[brassandblood]

She could tell he was scared. It was a reasonable reaction, now that both of them knew she could hurt him badly, maybe even kill him. Even if she had no intent of doing so, she could hardly blame him.

She knelt down next to him, careful to keep her hands away. No need to make him more nervous. "Do you still need me to...fix it for you? Though I will warn you, if reshaping hurts, there will probably be a lot of pain again."

She felt a prize fool. She'd been trying to help and instead she'd hurt him far more than a temporary theft.

"If there's anything else you'd like me to do - to make up for it, I mean - please tell me. I owe you that much, for what I did to you."

[ironspirit]

He pulled himself a little closer as she sat down, shifting his gaze to the side so he didn't have to look at her. He didn't want her to think he was scared, even if he definitely was, because fear was a weakness and he didn't want anyone thinking he was weak. He was tough, and strong, and he didn't need to be scared of anything. He could handle a bit of pain. His sister would be able to handle it, so he could definitely handle it, too.

But his fingers were starting to rattle together. He paused to smooth them out on his legs, pressing them against the thin fabric to muffle the noise.

"... I can't move my legs," he said nervously, not quite answering her question.

[brassandblood]

The forge could see it written all over his face, how scared he was. That was even without how the blades of his fingers rattled together, putting the lie to him trying to hide it. She'd done this to him. She had to set things right. She just wished it didn't have to cause him even more pain.

With a sigh she held out her hands, palm up. "Whenever you're ready," she said softly. "I'll make it as fast as I can."

[ironspirit]

He didn't answer right away, but he glanced in her direction, looking down at her open hands. They didn't even look that warm, compared to the last person who'd handled him. Maybe it was because her heat was just different, not hotter, and that was why she was the only fire that could burn him. Staring at those hands, he briefly contemplated turning her offer down. Things heal, the valravn had said before, and maybe he'd be able to recover on his own, given time. But that could be a long wait. He had things he had to do. Speeding up the search was worth a little pain, right?

After a moment of unsure staring, he slowly started to collect his pieces. His hands felt a little clumsy, his blade heavier than before, but he managed not to drop anything. He drew a sharp breath to steady his arms as he held them out to her.

"Don't mess me up, okay?" he mumbled, looking away again. "I really won't forgive you if you make me look stupid."

[brassandblood]

That gets a little smile out of her. "No, we can't have that," she replies. "I know what I'm doing, don't worry."

And she does - she's shaped pleny of swords in the service of their Master, and more than that she just...knows whatit's like, how it feels. Maybe she was a metalworker of some kind before.

She gently takes the blade and ruined hilt from him, takes a deep breath, and focuses on the metal in her hands. It warms to her touch, glowing a dull cherry red as it obediently shapes itself to what she wants. The grip re-forms and squeezes in on itself until it's firm and sturdy, then molds itself to the blade, fitting itself into its old place perfectly.

The forge is breathing hard and sweating from the effort, but the work has taken not nearly as long as it would to re-forge the sword the normal way. She hands him back to himself gently. "There, how is that?"

[ironspirit]

He braces himself, putting his trust in her despite the growing anxiety pulling at his chest. At least he knows to anticipate it this time. He clenches his teeth and grips the sides of the cushion. It'd be quick. He can handle it, for sure. He just has to keep reminding himself of that.

But the sharp burning sensation still takes him by surprise, despite all his attempts to prepare, and he chokes back a cry. Don't scream, damnit, don't you dare scream this time. As his hilt melts and twists into shape, he briefly has the sense to wonder if this is what burning felt like to everything else. Maybe this was a lesson in why he shouldn't burn stuff so much.

It's not just the pain but... something else. Something more painful and terrifying than he can even comprehend, like the vague outline of a nightmare after waking. It lingers even after the moulding is complete. The pain in his body quickly fades with the cooling steel, but in his mind it only seems to get worse, like his body is melting away until all that's left is that terrifying and overwhelming fear.

He doesn't respond to her voice. He's frozen, breathing shallow and panicked, gasping for air to scream with and finding none.

[brassandblood]

He hadn't cried out, so it's only now that she takes a good look at him and realizes that he's hyperventilating in terror. She did hurt him.

She curls his hands around his hilt, careful not to cut herself, and pats his shoulder, trying to get him to wake up from his stupor. "Sword?" she says softly. If only they had something to call each other, so she could get his attention.

[ironspirit]

He grips himself tightly with her lead, and it helps, just a little, to have all of him accounted for. It's something he can ground himself with—evidence that he's in one piece. He starts to draw long, shaky breaths, willing his nerves to calm.

Eventually, his breathing starts to slow to something more normal. He lets out a weary sigh and allows himself to sink back into the soft cushion. He lifts his other body up to rest it across his chest, gripping the edge of the blade lightly with the hand not on the hilt in a sort of half-hug. He's safe. He's still confused, and frightened, but he doesn't want to dwell on it. He doesn't want to think about it at all. The unpleasant thoughts and feelings are pushed back into the dark corners of his mind.

And then he finally remembers that the forge is still there. The hand on his shoulder is a bit unnerving, considering the circumstances, but he doesn't try to shake her off besides glancing at it nervously (what does he know, maybe trying to push her hand off would activate her creepy metal-melting powers again).

"Um." He swallows, his throat uncomfortably dry. Between his pauses he relights his crown of flames and bends his knees a little, testing out his recovery. "I'm fine. Sorry."