The Buildings In Chelsea [ACTIVE, OPEN]
Characters: Marluxia and Locke (so far; feel free to join in)
Content: Marluxia, having just woken up, is wandering lost in Chelsea.
Location: Roughly Tenth Avenue and 20th Street; by the New Museum of Contemporary Art.
Time of day: Early afternoon, game-start day
Warnings: Now? Nothing.
Marluxia spent a lot of time planning. Every last detail of his old castle (including the fact that it was exactly 187.5% larger on the inside than the outside), and every way it could be used in his favor and against him; every last peccadillo and pique of his colleagues, every possible contingency in every interpersonal intrigue--but somehow, he hadn't decided what to do if he died and woke up on the roof of an abandoned skyscraper with an alarming diagonal list.
Swearing was only a stopgap measure.
Fortunately for him, the tilting skyscraper was propped against a smaller but upright building, with a little effort he should be able to get onto the roof of that one--and from there, from wonderful solid ground, he could easily teleport his way out of here. Very slowly, carefully, Marluxia walked around the stairwell--he'd woken up leaning against it a few minutes ago--and began his descent down the roof. He felt very woozy, and weaker than he had ever remembered feeling--even as a mere human. It was an uncomfortably long walk/slide, with Marluxia freezing every time he heard a creak or crumble below him--which was often, and often accompanied by particular scuttling sounds. Probably just Heartless, or--they could be Nobodies. Wonderful.
It was a bit of a fall to the level roof, but nothing Marluxia couldn't handle, rolling gracefully and dusting himself off. With a new spring in his step (no crumbling coming from this building), he walked over to the streetside edge, casually picking a spot for teleporting, and--teleporting.
...Ahem. And--teleporting.
Any day now.
Something very like dread and anger was welling up inside him. Experimentally, he held up one hand, thought the familiar wicked-curved thoughts--and nothing happened. No scythe, no burst of petals, not even a puff of dandelion fluff. And not that he had anything to test it with, but he had a feeling his Doom was rather less potent than usual.
Well, now what? Glaring at a pile of rubbish that had the indignity not to accede to his whims, Marluxia noted a large, industrial mop that--while useless as a mop--still had the large crosspiece at the bottom, And that the stairwell of this building had the door ripped off, writing and an arrow telling him that FLOOR 29 was directly below him.
Wonderful, Marluxia thought as he began (carefully) descending the steel staircase, new weapon resting against his shoulder. He was, however, careful not to believe it couldn't get worse.
Content: Marluxia, having just woken up, is wandering lost in Chelsea.
Location: Roughly Tenth Avenue and 20th Street; by the New Museum of Contemporary Art.
Time of day: Early afternoon, game-start day
Warnings: Now? Nothing.
Marluxia spent a lot of time planning. Every last detail of his old castle (including the fact that it was exactly 187.5% larger on the inside than the outside), and every way it could be used in his favor and against him; every last peccadillo and pique of his colleagues, every possible contingency in every interpersonal intrigue--but somehow, he hadn't decided what to do if he died and woke up on the roof of an abandoned skyscraper with an alarming diagonal list.
Swearing was only a stopgap measure.
Fortunately for him, the tilting skyscraper was propped against a smaller but upright building, with a little effort he should be able to get onto the roof of that one--and from there, from wonderful solid ground, he could easily teleport his way out of here. Very slowly, carefully, Marluxia walked around the stairwell--he'd woken up leaning against it a few minutes ago--and began his descent down the roof. He felt very woozy, and weaker than he had ever remembered feeling--even as a mere human. It was an uncomfortably long walk/slide, with Marluxia freezing every time he heard a creak or crumble below him--which was often, and often accompanied by particular scuttling sounds. Probably just Heartless, or--they could be Nobodies. Wonderful.
It was a bit of a fall to the level roof, but nothing Marluxia couldn't handle, rolling gracefully and dusting himself off. With a new spring in his step (no crumbling coming from this building), he walked over to the streetside edge, casually picking a spot for teleporting, and--teleporting.
...Ahem. And--teleporting.
Any day now.
Something very like dread and anger was welling up inside him. Experimentally, he held up one hand, thought the familiar wicked-curved thoughts--and nothing happened. No scythe, no burst of petals, not even a puff of dandelion fluff. And not that he had anything to test it with, but he had a feeling his Doom was rather less potent than usual.
Well, now what? Glaring at a pile of rubbish that had the indignity not to accede to his whims, Marluxia noted a large, industrial mop that--while useless as a mop--still had the large crosspiece at the bottom, And that the stairwell of this building had the door ripped off, writing and an arrow telling him that FLOOR 29 was directly below him.
Wonderful, Marluxia thought as he began (carefully) descending the steel staircase, new weapon resting against his shoulder. He was, however, careful not to believe it couldn't get worse.