{ leif; tiger's eye. | Þorfinnur (thorfinn) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
karlsefni) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thoughtformed2013-07-12 01:34 pm
karlsefni) wrote in thoughtformed2013-07-12 01:34 pm
open log & video!
Who: Thorfinn and you!
Where: Outdoors, AT SOME PLACE??? Somewhere. Pick and choose.
When: morning~noon of june 12th, I am flexible.
I'm sure you're sick of the newer arrivals already, right? Sorry to say that this one won't really help you either. With his getup of thick, medieval winter garb, and how he's a little weird in how he moves—cautiously, with erratic changes between walking forward and then whirling around, as if having heard something, even when it seems like there wasn't any noise at all—he's a glaringly obvious anomaly. To make matters worse, or at least a little more complicated, his fists—which repeatedly move up, poising to protect himself or something like that, before returning to a somewhat-neutral position (as neutral as one can be when he seems like he's on a hair-trigger)—have two shortswords planted in them, and while he doesn't look nervous or panicked at all, the sour expression on his unappealing mug and his alertness might be an indication that he's not afraid to use these at any given time, especially to those who might want to approach him.
There is a point, though, when the faint sound of a cell phone ringing can be heard, and he jumps, startled—wildly swirling around to find the noise, only to realize that it's coming from his own pocket. It's then that he throws the cell phone on the ground, which, incidentally causes the following feed:
* * * video * * *
[ while the feed shows nothing but dirt, you can hear someone cursing. ]
What the hell—[ and then a few footsteps, slow and precise, before there's a pause.
and then the feed shifts, like something's poking the phone. ]
.. The hell is this? [ of course, thorfinn isn't one to listen to people's explanations, and as soon as they had told him he was fictional, he'd blocked off whatever other ~helpful~ explanations they'd tried to give him—so it's not surprising that he doesn't know what this is, nor does he have any hold on the situation right now.
another poke, before there's the sound of steel rubbing against dirt; a glint of metal can be seen when the phone flips over, naturally not of its own accord, but of thorfinn's accord. or his knife, rather, as he's handling the phone with nothing but.
something one can notice when they see the boy is, firstly, that he's dirty and bruised, especially in the face, as if still healing from a fight—but his dirtiness isn't merely just from the fight, but years and years of habit and lack of care. rather than a head of hair, he looks like he has a blonde bird's nest, and his brown eyes are barely visible and glaring at the camera, and it's clear that he has.. absolutely no idea what this device is. secondly, while his expression of apparent continual grumpiness and lack of light in his eyes shouldn't belong to any child, he looks to be physically small enough to be one.
with a squint, he crouches near the device, as if having determined that the strange object wasn't going to harm him, and.. pokes it. with the knife. repeatedly, until one of his pokes hits a button and the phone trills, and he moves back instantly, blinking in bewilderment. ]
What in—Odin's name—!?
[ ... another poke, another beep, and more bewilderment. rinse and repeat. ]
* * * end video * * *
... although while you could certainly take the chance to approach him while he's bemused by the smartphone, you could meet him somepoint else in his grumpy walk.
Where: Outdoors, AT SOME PLACE??? Somewhere. Pick and choose.
When: morning~noon of june 12th, I am flexible.
I'm sure you're sick of the newer arrivals already, right? Sorry to say that this one won't really help you either. With his getup of thick, medieval winter garb, and how he's a little weird in how he moves—cautiously, with erratic changes between walking forward and then whirling around, as if having heard something, even when it seems like there wasn't any noise at all—he's a glaringly obvious anomaly. To make matters worse, or at least a little more complicated, his fists—which repeatedly move up, poising to protect himself or something like that, before returning to a somewhat-neutral position (as neutral as one can be when he seems like he's on a hair-trigger)—have two shortswords planted in them, and while he doesn't look nervous or panicked at all, the sour expression on his unappealing mug and his alertness might be an indication that he's not afraid to use these at any given time, especially to those who might want to approach him.
There is a point, though, when the faint sound of a cell phone ringing can be heard, and he jumps, startled—wildly swirling around to find the noise, only to realize that it's coming from his own pocket. It's then that he throws the cell phone on the ground, which, incidentally causes the following feed:
* * * video * * *
[ while the feed shows nothing but dirt, you can hear someone cursing. ]
What the hell—[ and then a few footsteps, slow and precise, before there's a pause.
and then the feed shifts, like something's poking the phone. ]
.. The hell is this? [ of course, thorfinn isn't one to listen to people's explanations, and as soon as they had told him he was fictional, he'd blocked off whatever other ~helpful~ explanations they'd tried to give him—so it's not surprising that he doesn't know what this is, nor does he have any hold on the situation right now.
another poke, before there's the sound of steel rubbing against dirt; a glint of metal can be seen when the phone flips over, naturally not of its own accord, but of thorfinn's accord. or his knife, rather, as he's handling the phone with nothing but.
something one can notice when they see the boy is, firstly, that he's dirty and bruised, especially in the face, as if still healing from a fight—but his dirtiness isn't merely just from the fight, but years and years of habit and lack of care. rather than a head of hair, he looks like he has a blonde bird's nest, and his brown eyes are barely visible and glaring at the camera, and it's clear that he has.. absolutely no idea what this device is. secondly, while his expression of apparent continual grumpiness and lack of light in his eyes shouldn't belong to any child, he looks to be physically small enough to be one.
with a squint, he crouches near the device, as if having determined that the strange object wasn't going to harm him, and.. pokes it. with the knife. repeatedly, until one of his pokes hits a button and the phone trills, and he moves back instantly, blinking in bewilderment. ]
What in—Odin's name—!?
[ ... another poke, another beep, and more bewilderment. rinse and repeat. ]
* * * end video * * *
... although while you could certainly take the chance to approach him while he's bemused by the smartphone, you could meet him somepoint else in his grumpy walk.
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Who the hell are you?
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[Rufio is, in fact, flying parallel to the ground, about five feet up, and he parries energetically, a broad grin reploacing the curiosity on his face.]
Rufio. I don't usually have to announce it myself. You're pretty good.
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no really how is he able to fly is he a god or something am I up against a god but gods can't fly without animals can they???
... backs up, at least, settling into fighting stance, jaw shut and eyes steeled and glaring daggers. conversation really isn't his forte. ]
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You've got one out of three, at least. And I can take care of another, unless you're too thick. Do you crow?
[Not advancing after him, just leaning on one elbow in midair and drifting, sword-arm still extended just in case.]
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What the hell are you talking about?
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[He darts past, slashing playfully but staying out of reach -- even his own blow doesn't come within a foot or two -- and then rising into the air, standing on nothing about twenty feet up.]
You need to fly!
[Then dropping back down, rapidly, sheathing his sword and coming to the ground quite nearby.]
And you need to crow!
[He does so, loudly, grinning broadly at his own demonstration.]
Think you got what it takes?
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.. what? [ what the hell is a lost boy ] What are you—"Lost Boy"?
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Think you're up for it?
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he stands himself straight up, turning on his heel to move in the direction he came from. ]
Not interested.
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Your hair looks stupid, anyway!
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Come and get it, bastard.
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That's more like it!
[He swoops by, aiming a broad slash, about half-playing.]
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Slower than a slug's butt!
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Come up and fight me like a boy, unless you're afraid of dying!
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You're too short to be anything else!
[After a momentary hesitation.]
How old are you, anyway?
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[The last word is yelled. The distinction might not be clear, but it obviously makes a difference to him.]
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[And just like that, he's flying away.]
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[ he says, while chucking his knife at him. rufio might. find a knife in his back, or maybe it's whizzing past him. thorfinn's very good at hitting his target. ]