Your Vampire Count is in Another Castle [Active/Open]
Character(s): Soma, open
Content: Ye olde standarde arrival poste
Setting: Muspelheim gate
Time: Late morning, date indeterminate (so far)
Warnings: Here, there be bad puns.
Being transplanted from one place to another by forces outside of his control was nothing new to Soma. His prior experience with the phenomena had taught him that it almost never heralded anything good, and usually led to a mad dash through abject terror and the forces of Hell to save not only his own life but the lives of everyone he held dear.
This time appeared to be different, if only for the fact that he wasn't immediately attacked by a horde of skeletal warriors wielding spears and swords with the sole intent of adding to their undead numbers. In fact, the sun was shining brightly overhead, peeking through lazy clouds. That all on its own told him this was -not- Dracula's castle; he knew now that the power of the count kept that particular abode shrouded in eternal night. Or it would if the count were currently in residence.
On top of that, he was alone. No Mina, no Julius, no Yoko, no Hammer, no Arikado popping out of nowhere to inform him that he was, once again, screwed unless he could overcome impossible odds and beat back the forces of Hell with a pocketknife. Again.
...Okay, so this place was pretty peaceful compared to last time. Almost a vacation resort. So far, anyway; there was no telling what would happen once night fell.
Over to his right, near the stylized gate of fire - no symbolism there, nope, none at all - was a line of Aryan automatons filing through a guarded checkpoint. Immigration control, maybe? Despite the lack of a port (or anything else that might pass for an arrival point), it somehow made sense. Maybe this place sucked in people all the time? Regardless, it seemed to be the Thing To Do, going through that gate. So, he did.
Ten minutes of standing in line while not being talked to and not hearing a lot in the way of conversation later, he was through the gate with an electronic journal in hand and the name of the city - Paixao - fresh in his memory.
The artificiality of the terrain was not lost on him. Fake trees made of precious metals and crystals would have been eye-catching in any event, but these were somehow tasteful amongst the ancient stonework buildings. An artist's dream of a city come to life, with perfect little people wandering here and there on their inscrutable business. He felt rather like a sore thumb.
Content: Ye olde standarde arrival poste
Setting: Muspelheim gate
Time: Late morning, date indeterminate (so far)
Warnings: Here, there be bad puns.
Being transplanted from one place to another by forces outside of his control was nothing new to Soma. His prior experience with the phenomena had taught him that it almost never heralded anything good, and usually led to a mad dash through abject terror and the forces of Hell to save not only his own life but the lives of everyone he held dear.
This time appeared to be different, if only for the fact that he wasn't immediately attacked by a horde of skeletal warriors wielding spears and swords with the sole intent of adding to their undead numbers. In fact, the sun was shining brightly overhead, peeking through lazy clouds. That all on its own told him this was -not- Dracula's castle; he knew now that the power of the count kept that particular abode shrouded in eternal night. Or it would if the count were currently in residence.
On top of that, he was alone. No Mina, no Julius, no Yoko, no Hammer, no Arikado popping out of nowhere to inform him that he was, once again, screwed unless he could overcome impossible odds and beat back the forces of Hell with a pocketknife. Again.
...Okay, so this place was pretty peaceful compared to last time. Almost a vacation resort. So far, anyway; there was no telling what would happen once night fell.
Over to his right, near the stylized gate of fire - no symbolism there, nope, none at all - was a line of Aryan automatons filing through a guarded checkpoint. Immigration control, maybe? Despite the lack of a port (or anything else that might pass for an arrival point), it somehow made sense. Maybe this place sucked in people all the time? Regardless, it seemed to be the Thing To Do, going through that gate. So, he did.
Ten minutes of standing in line while not being talked to and not hearing a lot in the way of conversation later, he was through the gate with an electronic journal in hand and the name of the city - Paixao - fresh in his memory.
The artificiality of the terrain was not lost on him. Fake trees made of precious metals and crystals would have been eye-catching in any event, but these were somehow tasteful amongst the ancient stonework buildings. An artist's dream of a city come to life, with perfect little people wandering here and there on their inscrutable business. He felt rather like a sore thumb.