[Open] Leaving the Barracks
Simon was trying to remember exactly how much he knew about Fairies. He knew they didn't like cold iron, he knew that they could be struck with the wood of the Rowan tree, he knew that they stole children and left changelings in their place (although he reasoned that he was too old to have suffered this particular fate). As he set off from the barracks and into the Wood, he wondered idly how much of this information he would actually need, if indeed, the creatures which surrounded them even were the Fair Folk which were supposed to haunt the recesses of the world, or if they were of some other aspect, still entirely mysterious to him.
He'd heard rumors, of course. Noticed certain events, throughout the camp. The shifting of forms, the eerie invitations, the coming of the carnival, like the changing of a strange set on which they - unknowing and unwilling thespians - were expected to perform some unknown act of melodrama for the interest of an unseen and omniscient audience.
Had he once heard that turning your coat inside out would keep the fair folk from laying hands upon you? Did leaving offerings of bread and cream on your doorstep at night placate them, or did it invite them in?
Simon would have liked to have been indignant. In his imagination his pride should be so wounded by the affront of it all! To have been torn from the importance of his own life and dragged against his will to serve as the petty entertainment for some unfathomable entity should appall and enrage him. The reality of it was less distinguished. Simon was fascinated by his situation, engrossed by the possibilities of such a place. His heart soared at the prospect of discovering and taming the new fount of knowledge represented by the strange and shadowed reality they now inhabited. Rather than feeling wronged, or abducted, at being brought here... Simon felt special. Chosen. Marked, for strangeness, if not greatness.
Still, that was no reason not to exercise a little caution, and as Simon pushed deeper into the Wood, ducking under a tangle of branches, he mentally recounted his objectives for this little outing. Find Rowan, find Wormwood, find St. John's Wort. If he could find none then so be it, but when he set about attempting to come to a point of serious communion with this place, Simon would very much like to have (at the very least) the illusion of being able to do so on his own terms.
[ooc: Simon's been around, but not really polite enough to learn many peoples names, so feel free to have characters peripherally recognize him, but that'd be about it.]
He'd heard rumors, of course. Noticed certain events, throughout the camp. The shifting of forms, the eerie invitations, the coming of the carnival, like the changing of a strange set on which they - unknowing and unwilling thespians - were expected to perform some unknown act of melodrama for the interest of an unseen and omniscient audience.
Had he once heard that turning your coat inside out would keep the fair folk from laying hands upon you? Did leaving offerings of bread and cream on your doorstep at night placate them, or did it invite them in?
Simon would have liked to have been indignant. In his imagination his pride should be so wounded by the affront of it all! To have been torn from the importance of his own life and dragged against his will to serve as the petty entertainment for some unfathomable entity should appall and enrage him. The reality of it was less distinguished. Simon was fascinated by his situation, engrossed by the possibilities of such a place. His heart soared at the prospect of discovering and taming the new fount of knowledge represented by the strange and shadowed reality they now inhabited. Rather than feeling wronged, or abducted, at being brought here... Simon felt special. Chosen. Marked, for strangeness, if not greatness.
Still, that was no reason not to exercise a little caution, and as Simon pushed deeper into the Wood, ducking under a tangle of branches, he mentally recounted his objectives for this little outing. Find Rowan, find Wormwood, find St. John's Wort. If he could find none then so be it, but when he set about attempting to come to a point of serious communion with this place, Simon would very much like to have (at the very least) the illusion of being able to do so on his own terms.
[ooc: Simon's been around, but not really polite enough to learn many peoples names, so feel free to have characters peripherally recognize him, but that'd be about it.]