MCA #1, Saturday Morning
General Mark Antony, Consul of Rome, had woken up in what might be considered more than his fair share of unfamiliar places before. His first reaction this morning was to be grateful the sheets were so nice and roll back over.
But then things started clicking in his brain. The bed was empty, for one; Antony's bed was never free of a second occupant except on the battlefield, and not always then. He didn't feel like he had a hangover. And, when he sleepily called for a slave, no one arrived.
Antony cursed lazy servants and pushed himself out of bed, then went to explore the chambers. He found little beyond some oddly styled furnishings, several hundred books in an unfamiliar language and a barely recognizable alphabet, and a great number of flat shiny things in paper sleeves. When he jiggled a handle on a curious basin and water swirled away, he actually yelped before being grateful no one was there to see him.
There were no clothes that made any sense to him, and (most disturbingly) whoever had brought him here had stolen his sword.
Had he been kidnapped? If he had, Antony reasoned, they'd done a dreadful job of it. He'd owe them his thanks.
He put himself together as best he could -- someone might want to have a word with the Roman at some point this weekend about how bathrobes were not fit attire for the wider world of the 21st century -- and, armed only with a kitchen knife, left as quickly and silently as he could.
[OOC: Establishy. Henry is Mark Antony of Rome.]
But then things started clicking in his brain. The bed was empty, for one; Antony's bed was never free of a second occupant except on the battlefield, and not always then. He didn't feel like he had a hangover. And, when he sleepily called for a slave, no one arrived.
Antony cursed lazy servants and pushed himself out of bed, then went to explore the chambers. He found little beyond some oddly styled furnishings, several hundred books in an unfamiliar language and a barely recognizable alphabet, and a great number of flat shiny things in paper sleeves. When he jiggled a handle on a curious basin and water swirled away, he actually yelped before being grateful no one was there to see him.
There were no clothes that made any sense to him, and (most disturbingly) whoever had brought him here had stolen his sword.
Had he been kidnapped? If he had, Antony reasoned, they'd done a dreadful job of it. He'd owe them his thanks.
He put himself together as best he could -- someone might want to have a word with the Roman at some point this weekend about how bathrobes were not fit attire for the wider world of the 21st century -- and, armed only with a kitchen knife, left as quickly and silently as he could.
[OOC: Establishy. Henry is Mark Antony of Rome.]