Pre-AV: How Simon Did Some Bird-Watching, And Roger Got Carried Away
Location: An island off the coast of Scotland
Characters: Simon Templar and Roger Parslow
Status: In progress
Summary: This is a pre-Aternaville thread to explain what these two characters are doing here and in each other's company, since they're from different source canons (cana?)
A week ago, Simon Templar was in Prague, making off with somebody-or-other's crown jewels; five days ago, he was in London, narrowly avoiding getting pinched by the police (he owed his best friend, Roger Conway, a drink for his part in that, but he supposed he'd be paying for it one way or another anyway); three days ago, he was on a beach in Scotland attempting to compose a poem. That's when things had started.
Roger Parslow (the old lad would be named Roger, just to make things confusing) and his daemon, Salcilia, had been brushed abruptly under Simon's wing from the moment he met them, because they were something new and interesting. A couple of thugs to take down, a suitcase to recover, and the Saint had a new Halo (or two, depending on how you counted 'Cil).
Unfortunately, life on the island had proven less interesting after that - perhaps they'd had the only fun there was to be had - and Simon's own halfway-facetious prediction that he'd be bored to tears in three days had been proven utterly true.
Until he heard an aeroplane overhead.
This was supposed to be a no-fly zone - a protective area for some sort of little bird or something. Besides that, there was nothing out here to fly in for - unless it were to look at the little birds or something. Whoever the pilot was, he was operating illegally and mysteriously. The Saint gathered his knife and his gun and his Halo(s) and went to investigate.
Characters: Simon Templar and Roger Parslow
Status: In progress
Summary: This is a pre-Aternaville thread to explain what these two characters are doing here and in each other's company, since they're from different source canons (cana?)
A week ago, Simon Templar was in Prague, making off with somebody-or-other's crown jewels; five days ago, he was in London, narrowly avoiding getting pinched by the police (he owed his best friend, Roger Conway, a drink for his part in that, but he supposed he'd be paying for it one way or another anyway); three days ago, he was on a beach in Scotland attempting to compose a poem. That's when things had started.
Roger Parslow (the old lad would be named Roger, just to make things confusing) and his daemon, Salcilia, had been brushed abruptly under Simon's wing from the moment he met them, because they were something new and interesting. A couple of thugs to take down, a suitcase to recover, and the Saint had a new Halo (or two, depending on how you counted 'Cil).
Unfortunately, life on the island had proven less interesting after that - perhaps they'd had the only fun there was to be had - and Simon's own halfway-facetious prediction that he'd be bored to tears in three days had been proven utterly true.
Until he heard an aeroplane overhead.
This was supposed to be a no-fly zone - a protective area for some sort of little bird or something. Besides that, there was nothing out here to fly in for - unless it were to look at the little birds or something. Whoever the pilot was, he was operating illegally and mysteriously. The Saint gathered his knife and his gun and his Halo(s) and went to investigate.