Entrance post: Singer in a Strange Land

[morilthesinger]

Moril had gone off in a dream again, and lost track of the path. Not that this was unheard of, or even particularly irregular, and generally Ynen managed to get them wherever they were supposed to be going without any help whatsoever from his driver. This time, though, Moril isn't sure that even the horse knows where they are

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[faramir_hurin]

Having remained all day in my cave yesterday and part of today reading, I emerge now finished with The Stand. Dr. McKay was correct in thinking that I would enjoy it. I have a slightly better understanding of their modern world, if the book is anything like accurate in describing it.

Good and evil is something I understand despite the different places and names.

I will get another book. I have plenty of food and need only gather more firewood when my supply runs out.

I did not really wish to meet with anyone but I cannot ignore the colourful cart that is on the beach--a horse and cart advertising a traveling musician. He is playing now. Despite my mood and disheveled appearance, I do enjoy music. And this person almost has to be new here. I go round to the front of the cart.

"Hello. My name is Faramir. Are you Hestefan?"

I should apologise for how I look, but this man--boy?--is not likely to care. And I'm not even wearing my sword so I should not alarm him.

[morilthesinger]

Moril jumps a little; he'd been too into the song to notice anyone approaching, and Ynen hadn't even bothered to warn him. He stands up in the driver's seat of the cart, holding the small cwidder in one hand.

"No," he says, "I'm Moril. He'll be back soon, though." Moril is, actually, in no way sure of this, since the village Hestefan had gone into to buy supplies is now nowhere in sight.

[faramir_hurin]

His answer is quick and guileless. Perhaps the man will be back soon. Except there is nothing on the ground to indicate that anyone left--or indeed that anyone, much less a horse and cart--moved to this point.

"Please excuse me, Moril. I might be wrong but it seems to me that you have just arrived in this place. It is an island and yes, people have been known to show up just like you have done. One moment they are at their home or somewhere they know and the next they are here." I am quiet a moment to let this digest.

"I do not think that Hestefan will be showing up soon, unless here on the island also. As I said, my name is Faramir and I come from a place called Middle Earth, the land of Gondor. There are many people here from vastly different lands and so I would be surprised if you had heard of mine. We cannot leave, although there is ample food and water for all and the weather is very mild. I can think of worse places to be trapped in."

That is not terribly encouraging but is the best I can currently manage.

[morilthesinger]

"...Oh." This man is certainly informative. There is something about the way he stands that reminds Moril of the Southern Earls, but he's already said he isn't--Moril has never heard of Gondor, or Middle-Earth either for that matter. Perhaps it's somewhere to the west. Middle Earth. South Dales. Yes, maybe that's it.

Or else Gondor is his Dalemark, and Moril is much, much further off course than he realised.

He has no real idea of what to say to all this information, so he just says, politely, "Thank you."

[oh_muh_darlin]

This island was getting better and better every day. First, a freaking spaceship, now what, a horse and wagon...thingie?

Clementine had been doing her fair share of exploring the past few days, but she'd stopped in her tracks when the horse and wagon appeared on the beach. Of course she was drawn to it. What was she supposed to do, pretend like it hadn't just appeared out of thin air?

Clem strode up the beach, in the direction of the wagon.

"Welcome to Psycho Island!" She said cheerfully.

[morilthesinger]

Moril peers at the girl with blue stripes in her hair and tries not to look too very curious.

"Psycho Island?" he repeats. Geography is not the thing he is best at in the world, but he thinks he'd remember Psycho Island. He thinks he'd remember an island at all, considering how difficult it generally is to get a wagon onto one. It usually involves boats.

[oh_muh_darlin]

"Yep!" Clem replied, walking up to him. Ooo! A horse! He was a real cutie. She tried to quell her amazement at the horse long enough to try to explain things to the kid.

"It's the Isle of Mystery. You get sucked in, and there's no way off."

She offered her hand, once she was close enough.

"I'm Clementine."

[morilthesinger]

The horse looks up at Clementine, munching thoughtfully, and turns back to his feed bag. Moril's face goes rather vague, and he asks carelessly, "...No way off?"

[justdoyle]

A huge entire bloody island, and everywhere Doyle went, he was bound to get a sunburn, and meet some new weird person.

Like a kid with a horse and wagon, for example. He approached slowly, wondering if he'd just appeared like Doyle had. "Hey kid, you all right?"

[morilthesinger]

Moril thinks this is a slightly odd question, since he's just minding his own business and playing his cwidder, but it seems well-meant, so he stands up in the wagon and looks down at the man who said it. "Yes," he says, "We're fine. Thank you."

[justdoyle]

"You sure?" He couldn't help but feel just a bit envious; he'd arrived after dying, and this kid just blinked at him calmly after showing up. "I'm Doyle," he said, and gave him a wave. "You play that well," he said, and nodded at the instrument. Not that he even knew what it was.

[morilthesinger]

Moril isn't dying. He's seen people die, and it usually involves either a good deal of blood, or some twitching and gasping. He's a bit lost, that's all. "I'm Moril," he says, and glances down at the cwidder. "I've done it my whole life."

[wormholed]

John stood on the beach, hands on his hips. Face slack with astonishment, he blinked at the horse and wagon that sat in the sand just like they had any business doing so. He shook his head and walked over, knocking on the sides of the wagon before he reached the front. "Um...hello?"

[morilthesinger]

Moril, sitting atop the front driving seat with the small cwidder in his lap, peers at him. He's used to people looking at the cart, even coming up to him, but this place, so far, is unlike any village he's ever been to.

"Hello," he answers, and wonders if the man's wondering about a show, which leads to further wondering about whether Moril's to give an entire performance all by himself.

[wormholed]

John looked up in surprise at the voice, his eyes narrowing as he noted the youth to which it belonged. "Hiya, kiddo. Name's John Crichton. Lemme guess, you were riding along, blinked, and now you're here?"

[morilthesinger]

That is, in fact, almost an exact description of what happened. "Yes," Moril admits. "Nearly exactly, in fact." He hops down, not wanting to be considered rude again. "I'm Moril."

[__badseed]

Samara was sitting with a book in her lap, her legs pulled up under her. The grass was nice and tall here, and she was working diligently on her reading. This book was by a man who was apparently a doctor, but a very strange one. "Do you like green eggs and ham," she read.

She was distracted by a sound she had NEVER thought she would hear again, and the girl went into a cold sweat. How could there... how could there be horses here?

Standing, Samara clutched the book, and edged out towards the beach, her knees trembling. "I'm not scared," she tried to tell herself.

[morilthesinger]

As horses go, Ynen is not an intimidating one. His hide is dappled grey, his mane is too long, and, because they'd been nearly to the Marshes when they appeared on the island, there's a good bit of mud on his legs. He's interested mostly in trying to get the last bit of grain from his feed bag, and a redheaded boy with a stringed instrument is perched on top of the green-and-gold wagon talking quietly to him.

[__badseed]

A horse was a horse to Samara, though it helped that her mother's had always been huge dark creatures that hated Samara, nothing like this one.

It was a strange enough sight, really, that Samara approached anyway, looking up at the boy. "Hi."

[morilthesinger]

Moril looks down at her from the top of the cart. "Hi."