[Introduction] The apocalypse is canceled until I say so

[boysundering]

Inter-dimensional travel was never pretty.  Damian had read reports of being sucked into an alternate reality where everything that didn't matter was the same and the few things that did were altered in some key, disturbing fashion.  And considering his line of work, he had always figured it would only be a matter of time until he experienced the

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[gothamsgoodcop]

Gordon steps out the door for a bit of that fresh air, and pauses in confusion when he spots the bright red and yellow costume up in a tree. He blinks at it for a moment but yep, that is definitely a kid up there in some sort of ridiculous costume. He moves toward the tree, keeping his distance but not hiding the fact that he's noticed the kid.

"Hello," he calls up, hands at his side where they can be seen, rather than in his pockets. "What are you doing up there?"

He won't recognize the boy, and if Damian recognizes him, well, he's probably a lot younger than the Commissioner Gordon of Damian's time.

[boysundering]

Damian narrows his eyes, squinting down at the approaching figure. The face might be different but the voice is the same and he recognizes it before the face even registers. The Commissioner. Maybe he hasn't been taken as far as he had thought. Still, well, the face is different. And, Damian notes as his eyes get used to the lack of lighting, unlined.

Has Klarion been about with his de-aging scheme again?

Well, at least Gordon is relatively trustworthy, if woefully untrained. (He will never admit to his being ever an asset in the field.) Damian drops down from the tree, but does not allow his grip to ease up on the batarang. "Commissioner," he acknowledges formally. He won't admit to the weakness of disorientation. Not yet.

[gothamsgoodcop]

Gordon's eyebrows raise in surprise, he's seen some strange looks in his time but he'd like to think he'd remember a boy this young dressed like that This kid can't be much older than his own son. He pushes back the pang he feels at the thought of Jimmy and steps closer. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, son. Do I know you?"

He tries to see what the boy has in his hand, but can't get a good look. Still, there's something awfully familiar about the shape from what he can see.

[boysundering]

Damian goes over the possibilities quickly. Option a) he has been sucked into another dimension. B) he has been taken into the past. Gordon can't have been simply de-aged because that wouldn't explain the portal Damian refuses to believe his unpleasant journey meant nothing.

Obviously the first option is preferable. If this is in the past, Damian runs the risk of disrupting it. "Not yet, perhaps." He waves his hand imperiously. "Tell me where we are and the year."

[chevalier_boy]

Once Damien is settled (as much as anyone at the Mansion can be said to be settled in), and should he explore the garden, he might come upon a young boy of about thirteen, armed with a wooden practice sword and going through the moves of a fairly simple form.

[boysundering]

"Tt."

Damian folds his arm and his lips curve onto a sneer that any bratty child would be jealous of. He tilts his head slightly to the side as he watches the boy go through that form. Pathetic. He had learned those moves before he could speak properly.

[chevalier_boy]

The young fellow looks up and raises the sword to his brow in a salute, before lowering it down by his side. "Hi there, don't mind me, I was just practicing my form," he says, in a soft, high-pitched voice. "You new here?"

[boysundering]

Don't mind him? Why should he? Damian frowns and paces over, looking the boy up and down. "Yes. And I won't. Your form is weak."

There. He's being helpful. Pennyworth should be proud.

[needsmoarshiny]

This post is clearly lacking in 30-foot childish dragons. Or at least Iskierka thinks so.

Should Damian be exploring outside, looking for an exit, perhaps, curled on one of the side longs is a dragon, resplendent with scales of red and purple, covered in spines, steaming pleasantly and, at the moment, sleeping. She is quite comfortable, although she would insist that a pavilion would be much appreciated. Should she be approached, however, it would not take much to wake her.

[boysundering]

Damian did spend much of his time searching for exits, positive he would find a way back home. He had to. He'd learned how it worked here, how time had frozen around them, which meant no one was looking for him. (He did not admit to the ache that rose in his throat.) It was up to him and everyone else was complacent about it, he just wouldn't show them the way out when he finally found it.

And then finds something else. Something fantastic, impossible, beautiful, terrifying. For a moment, Damian is only an eleven year old, not Robin and not an assassin. An eleven year old approaching a dragon. Staring, mouth open wide, forgetting caution in his haste to get closer. Maybe touch a scale.

[needsmoarshiny]

Iskierka opens one golden eye when Damian is within five or so feet of her, and regards him with very little concern or surprise. "Hello," she says, after a moment's pause. "I am glad you are admiring me, as I am very good to admire, but it is often considered polite to wake someone rather than staring at them as they rest, I think."

She sounds almost...prim. Her voice slightly accented, flavored British but a touch of something else underneath. A trace, probably, of her Turkish heritage.

[boysundering]

Damian's face heats although neither his coloring nor expression change. I wasn't admiring you, he opens his mouth to say, but he shuts it a moment later, because this is a dragon. He knows power when he sees it. For all his arrogance, Damian knows how to treat power.

He inclines his head, just barely, before standing straight again and folding his arms over his chest. "Next time I'll wake you," he mutters. Although he's sure he's heard an expression about never waking sleeping dragons.

[thenotsofair]

As usual, Celegorm is preceded by his dog. Not the Dog, no - this one is a substitute, a great deal smarter and a great deal less clever, a mixed breed of hound that obeys easily enough and is loved well but will never be the Dog. There is no replacing that one, and truthfully, he wouldn't have it any other way. Said dog comes bounding up to Damian, full of energy, and runs in a circle around him, almost prancing, only to dart away at the sound of a sharp whistle and a call in another language entirely unfamiliar to usual ears.

Following the whistle by just a few paces, and now holding the dog by the scruff of the neck, is a very tall, dark-haired elf, talking in a low rapid voice in Quenya to the hound at his side - and thus taking a moment to observe what distracted his dog's attention. He stops, releases the hound, who lies down with his head on his paws.

"...have I seen you before?"

[boysundering]

Damian kept still, nose wrinkling in distaste as the large mutt circled him. This beast had nothing on his own beauty of a dog. Titus could have ripped it apart. Only on his command, of course, Titus was very well behaved. Unlike this thing.

Although it obeyed the strangers command promptly enough, Damian admits as he approaches. Tall and regal looking and with the bearing of a warrior. Not that Damian's impressed. "Obviously not." No one forgot him.

[thenotsofair]

Celegorm's eyebrows jumped up at that response and he settled back on his heels, expression shifting to something between dubious and amused. "You look a bit young to be wandering about on your own." His hound's tail thumped on the floor, and Celegorm glanced toward him and gave his dog a bit of a smile, almost reassuring.

Something about the tone...he was forcefully reminded of Kurvo. (That thought stung, a little.)

[boysundering]

"I'm not wandering, I live here." Damian snaps, because one, he doesn't particularly want to be living here and two, he just turned eleven, doesn't that count for anything? He's gained an inch in past few months and everything! "Don't you?"

Damian sends another glance back at idiotic looking mutt. "Does that?"

[eyrienprince]

Lucivar is engaged in his usual activity. Which is to say, practicing with his Eyrien stick on the front lawn, like a stave but bladed at one end. He moves through the motions with the smooth, graceful ease of long practice, but the most notable thing about him is not the weapon or even his obvious comfort with it, but rather the large, dark bat wings fanned out behind him, moving with him, folding in and spreading to compensate for his balance as he goes through his routines.

[boysundering]

Damian steps out the front door with an apple in one hand and a knife in the other as he carves himself slices to eat. Fascinating. Unlike some of the others he's observed "training," this . . . creature seems to know what he's doing. He does not interrupt but continues to observe the forms.

[eyrienprince]

Nobody better, Lucivar would say, with perfect arrogance. But that's part of how he's lived this long. That, and the arrogance is mostly justified. He was forged hard.

He completes his routine before turning to acknowledge his watcher, wings folding in tight to his body again, and simply regards Damian with a cool stare that does not quite insist that he explain himself, but suggests it might be a good idea.

[boysundering]

Damian stares right back, holding the eye contact easily and meeting the unspoken demand with silence. He will not introduce himself. Others should provide him with their names first. He holds himself above all of these stranded unfortunates, none of whom seem to be doing enough to try and get free.