Edgar looks down at his tea as he waits, and with his opposite hand parts the bandages around his mouth and lifts the cup to his lips. He's gotten adept enough at eating in public that, as long as there is something (see: a cup or hand) blocking the view of where he has parted his bandages, he can do it without much worry. Nobody has ever been nosy enough yet for it to be a problem.
The tea is splendid and it has a deeply nostalgic blend to it that helps to clear his mental fog, and put him into a more sharpened focus.
The great smiling creature before him is a king, he thinks. Or at least someone very important. So when Edgar approaches, he sweeps a bow most practiced and elegant, something evidently taught to him quite young. The departing pawn is not lost upon him, and the purpose of this line becomes immediately apparent, the great bubbling and foggy cauldron in front of him seeming to be some spawn-point for strange creatures and other seasonal tidbits and treats of a more, erm, odd nature. He's not sure he wants to put his hands in there.
"Your Highness," Edgar greets, then tips his head owlishly at the invitation. "Hm!" Edgar, who was quite a bit shorter than the Czar, came to stand a bit closer but not too close. "Might I ask you something, sir, before we commence? I won't take up too much time, as I see others are waiting." The doctor would clear his throat and straighten his tie. Goodness, this fellow had such a commanding presence and loud voice, it put his own baritone to shame.
"Would you mind if I asked you, with no disrespectful intention, what are you? From a medical and scientific standpoint, I have been moved into great curiosity..." His tones are wistful, and he cranes his neck upward to maintain, um. Eye contact. With the monocle.
The tea is splendid and it has a deeply nostalgic blend to it that helps to clear his mental fog, and put him into a more sharpened focus.
The great smiling creature before him is a king, he thinks. Or at least someone very important. So when Edgar approaches, he sweeps a bow most practiced and elegant, something evidently taught to him quite young. The departing pawn is not lost upon him, and the purpose of this line becomes immediately apparent, the great bubbling and foggy cauldron in front of him seeming to be some spawn-point for strange creatures and other seasonal tidbits and treats of a more, erm, odd nature. He's not sure he wants to put his hands in there.
"Your Highness," Edgar greets, then tips his head owlishly at the invitation. "Hm!" Edgar, who was quite a bit shorter than the Czar, came to stand a bit closer but not too close. "Might I ask you something, sir, before we commence? I won't take up too much time, as I see others are waiting." The doctor would clear his throat and straighten his tie. Goodness, this fellow had such a commanding presence and loud voice, it put his own baritone to shame.
"Would you mind if I asked you, with no disrespectful intention, what are you? From a medical and scientific standpoint, I have been moved into great curiosity..." His tones are wistful, and he cranes his neck upward to maintain, um. Eye contact. With the monocle.
His smile having grown just a bit wider in the wake of the well-mannered gesture of reverence, the Czar's grinning head follows Edgar as the bandaged man steps rather outside the usual circle of ceremonies and into a distance that is more personal. The dark guards in attendance turn their attention upon him instantly and almost tangibly, as if he were caught in a spotlight.
"Why, yes, I suppose you might," the giant King piece answers that first inquiry, his voice warm despite his coy choice of words. Awaiting the inevitable follow up, he takes a sip of his tiny little latte with his pinky finger delicately extended.
What are you?
This question moves the Czar to lower his drink and slowly reduce his smile until his teeth disappear and the golden lines distinguishing his mouth do as well, leaving only the inscrutable gleam of the monocle as the sole feature on his strange dark head.
This uncanny expression stares down at Edgar for an indeterminate, short, but long-feeling period of time.
"Human, of course." The Czar is no longer smiling, but it is the thoughtful sort of not-smiling. "Post-human, if one must be technical; chessmen, more specifically. We are what comes after the end of the world. An end I suspect you have yet to see."
Now he smiles again, genuinely. There is something very mortal about the wrinkles that form when he does. But... what are they wrinkles of? The iron? Surely not.
"No one knows why we've come back as we have, or why we've come back at all. But here we are. And here you are, Professor. Are you dreaming? Or are you peering into the future?"
The Czar grins again, and his monocle glitters as he slowly raises his head and poise out of their attentive, Edgar-watching incline. "It is not so bad, the world which follows the end. I foresee that we will be excellent friends, you and I."
"Why, yes, I suppose you might," the giant King piece answers that first inquiry, his voice warm despite his coy choice of words. Awaiting the inevitable follow up, he takes a sip of his tiny little latte with his pinky finger delicately extended.
What are you?
This question moves the Czar to lower his drink and slowly reduce his smile until his teeth disappear and the golden lines distinguishing his mouth do as well, leaving only the inscrutable gleam of the monocle as the sole feature on his strange dark head.
This uncanny expression stares down at Edgar for an indeterminate, short, but long-feeling period of time.
"Human, of course." The Czar is no longer smiling, but it is the thoughtful sort of not-smiling. "Post-human, if one must be technical; chessmen, more specifically. We are what comes after the end of the world. An end I suspect you have yet to see."
Now he smiles again, genuinely. There is something very mortal about the wrinkles that form when he does. But... what are they wrinkles of? The iron? Surely not.
"No one knows why we've come back as we have, or why we've come back at all. But here we are. And here you are, Professor. Are you dreaming? Or are you peering into the future?"
The Czar grins again, and his monocle glitters as he slowly raises his head and poise out of their attentive, Edgar-watching incline. "It is not so bad, the world which follows the end. I foresee that we will be excellent friends, you and I."
Edgar felt, at the time the Czar began to speak and throughout his exposition, the surreal feeling of unreality begin to grow from a softly bubbling simmer to a boiling driven by tinnitus. A bloodless feeling began to fill and empty him the moment that great-toothed mouth disappeared, and it only became worse as the Czar began to speak after that eons-long pause.
Post-human.
We are what comes after the end of the world.
Edgar couldn't tell the Czar if he was dreaming or seeing a vision, but he absolutely couldn't feel his extremities anymore. They seemed to be full of a million electric bees.
Edgar feels relief like a much-needed bite of chocolate when the Czar smiles again, as though this human gesture restores some more of his own sanity, or perhaps both of theirs, he isn't sure. The chessman is sipping a tiny latte with a gigantic hand that Edgar suspected could engulf his head, and speaking in fact so casual Edgar wondered idly if he'd perhaps been told this at some point in his life, and merely forgotten it all somehow.
The doctor's face is invisible behind his bandages, his expression unknown and unreadable, but the movement of his throat swaddled so tightly in the linen gauze and the way the jaw seemed to slide down and remain there implied that he was open-mouthed in shock.
"Excellent friends." Edgar echoes, hollowly. His hand withdraws from his cane (it props nicely against his leg and coat in what appears to be a practiced way), palm of leather extending to the Czar in perhaps a concerning way to his guardsmen. There is nothing in the comparatively little hand, though, save for an extension of friendship from one unsure what else to do, in this moment.
"I will see you there?" From a numb mouth. He isn't sure where he is.
Post-human.
We are what comes after the end of the world.
Edgar couldn't tell the Czar if he was dreaming or seeing a vision, but he absolutely couldn't feel his extremities anymore. They seemed to be full of a million electric bees.
Edgar feels relief like a much-needed bite of chocolate when the Czar smiles again, as though this human gesture restores some more of his own sanity, or perhaps both of theirs, he isn't sure. The chessman is sipping a tiny latte with a gigantic hand that Edgar suspected could engulf his head, and speaking in fact so casual Edgar wondered idly if he'd perhaps been told this at some point in his life, and merely forgotten it all somehow.
The doctor's face is invisible behind his bandages, his expression unknown and unreadable, but the movement of his throat swaddled so tightly in the linen gauze and the way the jaw seemed to slide down and remain there implied that he was open-mouthed in shock.
"Excellent friends." Edgar echoes, hollowly. His hand withdraws from his cane (it props nicely against his leg and coat in what appears to be a practiced way), palm of leather extending to the Czar in perhaps a concerning way to his guardsmen. There is nothing in the comparatively little hand, though, save for an extension of friendship from one unsure what else to do, in this moment.
"I will see you there?" From a numb mouth. He isn't sure where he is.
The Czar grins. At Edgar, at his proffered hand, at the feeling of surreality that’s built inside him. He grins like Death, good natured and cavalier about life’s inevitable end, from the other side of the apocalypse.
”Indeed,” he answers, bringing his own free hand forward. He tilts his head so that the monocle winks at Edgar mischievously. “Sooner than you think.”
The Czar’s huge hand swallows Edgar’s own up like a chasm. It is warm and firm and human in a way that’s even more real than the hot tea in his other hand, more real than the crisp autumn air and the solemn peace of the cemetery, more real than the dissociation that’s bloomed in his mind and body.
It’s so real that he can still feel it, even when it is gone.
”Indeed,” he answers, bringing his own free hand forward. He tilts his head so that the monocle winks at Edgar mischievously. “Sooner than you think.”
The Czar’s huge hand swallows Edgar’s own up like a chasm. It is warm and firm and human in a way that’s even more real than the hot tea in his other hand, more real than the crisp autumn air and the solemn peace of the cemetery, more real than the dissociation that’s bloomed in his mind and body.
It’s so real that he can still feel it, even when it is gone.
The firm shock of the touch sends a jolt through the bandaged man and all at once, he finds himself awakening on a familiar couch, to a familiar blanket pooling around his waist. Early morning light filters nostalgically through the windows of his flat, illuminating his antique time capsule. His cat sleeps just adjacent to him on an old armchair, oblivious to the experience he had just had. The dream.
"Mierde." He whispers, already in a half-sitting position. He looks down at his gloved hands, heart hammering in his chest like the thundering of racehorses.
"No more sweets before bed, I think." For on the coffee table next to where he lie, a table that also held a chessboard with neat little pieces arranged tidily in their rows, was a cup of autumnally mulled tea, and the remnants of a little golden biscuit that had quite resembled a monocle before it had been consumed.
[OOC: absolutely splendid time, my friend. thank you SO MUCH for the seasonal fun
you killed it]
"Mierde." He whispers, already in a half-sitting position. He looks down at his gloved hands, heart hammering in his chest like the thundering of racehorses.
"No more sweets before bed, I think." For on the coffee table next to where he lie, a table that also held a chessboard with neat little pieces arranged tidily in their rows, was a cup of autumnally mulled tea, and the remnants of a little golden biscuit that had quite resembled a monocle before it had been consumed.
[OOC: absolutely splendid time, my friend. thank you SO MUCH for the seasonal fun
you killed it]
The Czar awakens somewhere rather lower and harder than he is used to.
“Urgh,” he utters deliriously.
“Oh, thank God!” exclaims a voice, shrill with concern.
The Czar gropes around until his hand lands on a round head. He gives it an experimental squeeze, eliciting a squawk of protest.
“Igor,” he identifies it, “is that you?”
“Y-yes, your Majesty. I-I-I—you took a tumble—“
“Step aside,” a cold voice commands, and the circle of concerned chessmen obey immediately as a towering white Queen piece drifts into their midst.
The Czar brightens immediately at the sound of her voice, outstretching his hands towards her with a delighted smile. “Golnaz! I just had the most remarkable Vision, of an erudite little man all wrapped in bandages…”
“You should tell me all about it,” the Vizier replies, bending to grasp his hand and lift him at the shoulders, “when you aren’t on the floor at your own event, Fyodor.”
“Am I? Is that where I am? Oh! I remember now,” the Czar exclaims, sitting upright with her assistance. “It must have been the latte.”
The Vizier’s eyelid lowers a fraction, and her eyebrow arches.
“It is time to go inside,” she murmurs, patting him firmly on the shoulder, and the Czar knows that she’s correct.
“I suppose I’ve had my fun,” he concedes, rising woozily.
“Plenty of it.” The Vizier rubs his back companionably, finds the fallen monocle in the furs of his coat, and fixes it on his face.
“Thank you, my love,” says the Czar, and leans to tap his head against hers in a chessman kiss.
Smiling with her single piercing eye, the Vizier begins to lead him back towards the palace.
“Happy birthday, Czarov. I hope the atrociously syrupy beverage was worth it.”
“Of course it was. It’s Halloween!”
———-
OOC: Thank YOU, and everyone else who joined me! You all made my October. 👌
“Urgh,” he utters deliriously.
“Oh, thank God!” exclaims a voice, shrill with concern.
The Czar gropes around until his hand lands on a round head. He gives it an experimental squeeze, eliciting a squawk of protest.
“Igor,” he identifies it, “is that you?”
“Y-yes, your Majesty. I-I-I—you took a tumble—“
“Step aside,” a cold voice commands, and the circle of concerned chessmen obey immediately as a towering white Queen piece drifts into their midst.
The Czar brightens immediately at the sound of her voice, outstretching his hands towards her with a delighted smile. “Golnaz! I just had the most remarkable Vision, of an erudite little man all wrapped in bandages…”
“You should tell me all about it,” the Vizier replies, bending to grasp his hand and lift him at the shoulders, “when you aren’t on the floor at your own event, Fyodor.”
“Am I? Is that where I am? Oh! I remember now,” the Czar exclaims, sitting upright with her assistance. “It must have been the latte.”
The Vizier’s eyelid lowers a fraction, and her eyebrow arches.
“It is time to go inside,” she murmurs, patting him firmly on the shoulder, and the Czar knows that she’s correct.
“I suppose I’ve had my fun,” he concedes, rising woozily.
“Plenty of it.” The Vizier rubs his back companionably, finds the fallen monocle in the furs of his coat, and fixes it on his face.
“Thank you, my love,” says the Czar, and leans to tap his head against hers in a chessman kiss.
Smiling with her single piercing eye, the Vizier begins to lead him back towards the palace.
“Happy birthday, Czarov. I hope the atrociously syrupy beverage was worth it.”
“Of course it was. It’s Halloween!”
———-
OOC: Thank YOU, and everyone else who joined me! You all made my October. 👌
You are on: Forums » General Roleplay » [COMPLETE]Trick or Treat: Palace Cemetery/The Czar