Another month, another jump; strange how routine can make anything seem normal. Though normal or not, coming out of the Tranquility's grav couches is still unpleasant, still leaves her feeling knock kneed and weak through her limbs, still has her gagging from the removal of the breathing tube.
She spends a few seconds orienting herself in space and then clambers to her feet in the slick puddle of fluids ejected from the stasis pod along with her. With a hand to the pod to steady herself, Shepard takes a moment to asses her own body (it's a habitual check list) and then shoves off. She heads down the long row of grav couches, past familiar and unfamiliar faces and toward the med bay and showers.
God, the promise of hot water sounds good right about now.
The first thing he noticed, besides the obvious status of being covered in something slimy and cold, and the gagging from something being removed from his throat, was the fact that he was most definitely not in the council chamber, and where the hell did his clothes go. The last thing he remembered was telling Rhia to wait outside his chambers while he changed into the appropriate garb for the council meeting after their morning sparring match. He remembered pulling the heavy brocade over his shoulders, remembered fastening the clasps to attach the vast and, in his opinion, overwrought setting for the Heart of the Realm around his neck, staring for a moment at his beleaguered reflection in the mirror before opening the door and then--
That was where it cut off, where things got fuzzy. In the first moments of disorientation, he'd assumed the heavy resistance to movement were his robes, but then he'd been unceremoniously dumped onto a very cold, very metallic floor. It reminded him somewhat of the airship, or when they'd traveled to Autochthon... Shivering, reaching up and wiping the goo from his face, pushing dark hair back from his face, golden yellow eyes go wide. There were others. Many others.
Shaking a hand covered in goo with a look of disgust, he grips the first protrusion on the wall that seems sturdy enough to support him, and tugs himself upright, wavering as feet slide in the goo. There, she seemed to know what she was about...
"Excuse me," he says, voice cracking from whatever it was that was in his throat, no doubt, and he coughs, trying again, taking a half-step forward, acutely aware that he is wearing nothing but smallclothes as he catches her attention. "I seem to have taken a very wrong turn in the Palace... Where is this?"
She's been the one to coach a new arrival or two at this point, so someone calling out to her isn't shocking. She could've hoped it would've happened after she'd gotten to a towel, but hey-- can't have it all. So Shepard turns, naked as the night is long (and in space that's saying something) to face the source of that tremulous, cracking voice. She doesn't so much as bother to cross her arms. Nudity. It's been known to sometimes happens in the service; and while it's a more common denominator here, it's not something that ruffles her feathers.
"You're on the Tranquility." She speaks in a curt, clipped tone. It's not entirely patient, but she's not ignoring him so that's almost like courtesy. "And I can almost guarantee that you're farther from home than you think you are."
"The Tranquility... An airship then." He scowled thoughtfully, brows creasing, then easing again. He caught his gaze sliding downward--ruling an entire empire didn't exactly leave much time for, well, anything remotely personal--and drew his gaze back upwards. "I suppose it would be too much to hope I've ended up in Yu Shan?" he quipped back, an amused lilt to his voice. "Erh... And where does one go about acquiring some clothes?" He was acutely, painfully aware of his state of undress.
His speculating earns him a blank look as Shepard patiently waits for it to end. These are the standard sort of questions and ones she doesn't find worth answering; he'll figure it out soon enough. The wandering of his eye gets similarly brushed off. "Through medbay. There's showers there, they'll give you a quick once over, and from there you can get your things from your locker."
Assuming the ship's given him anything. But she neglects to mention that; don't take all his hope away at once, right? Shepard motions abruptly toward his arm, tipping her chin. "The number on your arm is the same as your locker. --And your quarters."
She's really not cut out for this welcome wagon shit.
The no-nonsense attitude prompts a raised brow, and Lysander follows the general path of traffic towards a doorway of some sort, then shifts his gaze back to her face. "I see..." he says quietly, and follows her indication to his arm, lifting it up to find small numbers seemingly tattooed into his skin. "And I'm guessing from your patient demeanor and charming turns of phrase that this is a song and dance you've been through before." It wasn't quite a question, the Dragon Blooded letting out a long sigh, nearly reaching up to run fingers through his hair in a habitual motion, then remembering they are currently covered in sludge, not that adding more would be that much of a change in his current state, and letting the hand fall back to his side.
A prisoner on a ship of some kind, flying (he is assuming flying, as the thing doesn't feel like it's on any kind of ocean he's familiar with) to an unknown destination. "The last time I started a trip like this, I ended up Emperor. Wonder what fun is in store for me this time," he says wryly, not necessarily to Shepard. His attention returns to her, and he nods towards the doorway. "You're on your way to said showers and..." he pauses at the word, unfamiliar on his tongue, "medbay... as well, I presume." He indicates that she should continue, and trails after her, managing not to stare, barely. "I'm Lysander by the way."
"Got it in one, buddy." It may not be a question, but she answers anyway - never pass up an opportunity to make someone feel a little foolish. It's a cheap shot on her part, but there's something about that pomp and circumstance in the set of his shoulders that puts her off. She's never been much for politicians and Emperors seem like they could be the worst subspecies of that.
"Shepard." She sets off, leading with her shoulders and the lifted angle of her chin. The deck is cold on her bare feet, the air stale from what she can only imagine is a side effect from the jump itself. The procession to the showers is mostly orderly, punctuated by the occasional wayward looking fresh meat. By the looks of it, most of them have glommed onto a 'veteran' in much the same way as Lysander. Any port in a storm, right?
"So. Emperor, huh?" It's an abrupt sort of question, less small talk and more simple nosiness. Still: suddenly finding yourself anywhere, nevermind suddenly finding yourself on a strange ship in the middle of unknown space, can be unsettling. Might as well stick to something familiar if only because babysitting someone through an existential crisis isn't really her thing.
The silence that falls between them is bordered by the hum of conversation from other groups as the orderly line formed. Shepard, now that there's a name to the face, he finds himself analyzing, picking it apart, the way he's so used to dealing with the sleazy politicians that fill every nook of the Imperial City like a plague. She says it very clipped, very military. He knows the type. The scars tell a plain enough story of a life spent fighting.
Shepard's question prompts a twitch of lips into a smirk, a huff of air that might be a laugh. "Emperor of the Realm, Lord of the Inland Sea and Shogun of the Dragonblooded Host, to be precise. A whole lot of bureaucrats decided I was the best guy for the job, so..." A single shoulder jerked up, then dropped again. "Here I am. Or... There I was. I figured if I was going to be stuck with the mantle of responsibility, I might as well run with it, do as much good as I could." Golden eyes ran across the set of her shoulders, letting the train of thought end, hanging in the air for a few heartbeats before, "And you're a soldier, unless I'm way off base."
In some things, she's infinitely self aware. This isn't one of them. Shepard knows a thing or two about responsibility, about things being foisted onto shoulders that aren't necessarily unwilling but certainly not entirely prepared for what that duty might bring. Under better circumstances, she might chance giving him the benefit of the doubt.
Unfortunately, they're naked in a ship with a track record for killing people so the string of titles gets a raised eyebrow and a marginally derisive sidelong glance as they file their through to the communal showers. "That's right." And since they're sharing personal information: "I enlisted when I was eighteen."
It seems, the longer this conversation continued, the less patience she has for his attempts at small talk. Lysander is effectively distracted at the sight of the showers, a vast room with devices sprinkling water, nothing like the novelty of the things he was familiar with. "Right," he says, and finds an empty stream of water, hot against skin chilled by stale air, soon pink and free of the bluish goop, the plush towel wrapped around his waist as he glances once more at his arm. There are others moving purposefully towards lockers that lay beyond the shower area, and others more like himself, looking a little lost and bewildered at this whole ordeal. Gathering himself up, Lysander strides into the hallway, eyes skipping along the numbers of lockers. 123. The door opens without difficulty, and within he finds the uniform that others seem to be donning, and beneath it, some of his own possessions.
He scowls at the sight of the elaborate jewelry that encompassed the hearthstone he is so used to wearing for ceremonial purposes, and tosses it back in with disgust, opting instead to merely pull on the uniform, towel draped over his head to rub at damp hair once he's fastened the pants. What good is the Heart of the Realm when he has been, by all accounts, and if Shepard is to be believed, far removed from anywhere that would make the thing even usable? He is, however, glad to see his shortbow, finely crafted and as well cared for as he had last left it, along with a quiver of arrows, fletched with golden eagle feathers. These he leaves, picking up the small, squarish device propped up against the side of the locker, quite out of place among the relics of Creation, and squints at the thing with a scowl, twisting it around.
She's unfortunately not much for small talk and doesn't make any attempt to keep track of him as she makes her way through the showers, through med bay and the trip to her own locker. They're in entirely different rows anyway and he's an adult on top of everything else. There's only so much babysitting she feels obligated to do, especially when she might find herself with nothing in her locker again.
Luckily that's not the case. The usual mix of clothes is there, her communicator. Still no weapons, no personal affects beyond what she's accumulated here on the ship, but at this point she doesn't expect it. She doesn't know if it's something wrong with her, something wrong with the locker or just the ship being a bastard, but it is what it is. So Shepard dons her underwear, a plain grey shirt and the ship's jump suit. She doesn't bother with pulling the sleeves on, instead tying them off at her middle before she shuts the locker and moves toward the lifts.
It's on her way that she runs back into him as he's fussing with the comm device. She knocks him on the back of the shoulder as she nearly, moving past him without slowing much. "This way, Emperor."
The clap on his shoulder shocks him out of his contemplation of the strange device, but he is hesitant to commit Essence to anything he doesn't know how it works first. Or something that is useless to him here, wherever 'here' happens to be. He casts one last glance to the Heart of the Realm, and closes the locker, trailing after Shepard, still scowling down at the thing in his hands.
"How does this thing work?" He holds up the comm device, a brow raised, his hair regaining its normal spring, naturally falling in that way around his face that is artfully unkempt, the silver streaks near his temples more evident against the nearly black of damp hair. "Do I need to commit Essence to it?" And for the first time, his confidence falters. He has no idea what he's doing here, or why, or who anyone is. Lysander generally prides himself on his ability to roll with the punches, but it's one thing to go in fully armed and on the defensive, and quite another to wake up nude and covered in goo in a strange place surrounded by strange people.
If he'd heard the phrase from Shepard's mouth a few minutes prior, he'd certainly use 'existential crisis' to describe the floundering sensation that suddenly overcomes him.
Well. That's a new one. Shepard slows her pace considerably, actually turning the angle of her shoulders to actually look at him as she continues drifting in her previously established trajectory toward the lift.
"What? No, you just press the buttons." There's a pause as the question she wants to ask fights its way up. She frowns very briefly, then-- "What's 'Essence?'"
The slowed pace makes him glance up, a brow raising as she looked in confusion at his face. "Essence is..." His lips thin, brows creasing again as he glances down at the thing in his hands. "Well. It's a form of energy... It powers machinery, but it also allows the use of sorcery and charms. It's a life force, what allows Creation to exist... I could demonstrate but I think it would be best if I didn't, since I'm not sure I would be able to regain mine out of Creation, if that's where we are."
A hand runs through shaggy dark strands, golden eyes shifting down to the comm unit again. "I'm not as eloquent as Eryon about all this shit. He's a sorcerer, studies the stuff for a living. I tend to tune him out most of the time, too much technical babble..." It's strange to think of someone not knowing what Essence is, and trying to describe the very thing that powers and gives life to the world you live in, as well as all its applications is a lot harder than it seems.
Most of that explanation - sorcerers and the like - she dumps by the proverbial wayside. But energy she understands. It almost sounds like a concentrated brand of eezo and that much is familiar that once she has something to compare it to, it becomes a non-issue. Shepard's not really one to get too into the logistics of science beyond what's required of her on the field, so the explanation satisfies.
"Here--" She reaches out, abruptly taking the comm from him. She powers it up with a touch, tipping the screen to him so he can follow along as she navigates through the minimal menu systems. "This is your connection to the ship's comm net. You'll get alerts, messages to sort through - that kind of thing. There's also some local files you should probably read like Ianto's guide to the ship."
Bright eyes narrow, memorizing the motions, watching the swift, easy movements of Shepard's fingers across the screen. "I see..." Well, he didn't really understand, but he would figure it out. "And Ianto... Another passenger?" He gestures vaguely at the ship, and reaches out, indicating he's ready for the comm unit again. "Or prisoner." The wry lightness disappears from his voice, and a flash of something new is visible momentarily in his eyes. "I assume, given the lack of information you've offered about this place, you don't know much more than I do?" Which was almost nothing, really.
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4 Kristin c:
She spends a few seconds orienting herself in space and then clambers to her feet in the slick puddle of fluids ejected from the stasis pod along with her. With a hand to the pod to steady herself, Shepard takes a moment to asses her own body (it's a habitual check list) and then shoves off. She heads down the long row of grav couches, past familiar and unfamiliar faces and toward the med bay and showers.
God, the promise of hot water sounds good right about now.
Re: 4 Kristin c:
That was where it cut off, where things got fuzzy. In the first moments of disorientation, he'd assumed the heavy resistance to movement were his robes, but then he'd been unceremoniously dumped onto a very cold, very metallic floor. It reminded him somewhat of the airship, or when they'd traveled to Autochthon... Shivering, reaching up and wiping the goo from his face, pushing dark hair back from his face, golden yellow eyes go wide. There were others. Many others.
Shaking a hand covered in goo with a look of disgust, he grips the first protrusion on the wall that seems sturdy enough to support him, and tugs himself upright, wavering as feet slide in the goo. There, she seemed to know what she was about...
"Excuse me," he says, voice cracking from whatever it was that was in his throat, no doubt, and he coughs, trying again, taking a half-step forward, acutely aware that he is wearing nothing but smallclothes as he catches her attention. "I seem to have taken a very wrong turn in the Palace... Where is this?"
Re: 4 Kristin c:
"You're on the Tranquility." She speaks in a curt, clipped tone. It's not entirely patient, but she's not ignoring him so that's almost like courtesy. "And I can almost guarantee that you're farther from home than you think you are."
Re: 4 Kristin c:
no subject
Assuming the ship's given him anything. But she neglects to mention that; don't take all his hope away at once, right? Shepard motions abruptly toward his arm, tipping her chin. "The number on your arm is the same as your locker. --And your quarters."
She's really not cut out for this welcome wagon shit.
no subject
A prisoner on a ship of some kind, flying (he is assuming flying, as the thing doesn't feel like it's on any kind of ocean he's familiar with) to an unknown destination. "The last time I started a trip like this, I ended up Emperor. Wonder what fun is in store for me this time," he says wryly, not necessarily to Shepard. His attention returns to her, and he nods towards the doorway. "You're on your way to said showers and..." he pauses at the word, unfamiliar on his tongue, "medbay... as well, I presume." He indicates that she should continue, and trails after her, managing not to stare, barely. "I'm Lysander by the way."
no subject
"Shepard." She sets off, leading with her shoulders and the lifted angle of her chin. The deck is cold on her bare feet, the air stale from what she can only imagine is a side effect from the jump itself. The procession to the showers is mostly orderly, punctuated by the occasional wayward looking fresh meat. By the looks of it, most of them have glommed onto a 'veteran' in much the same way as Lysander. Any port in a storm, right?
"So. Emperor, huh?" It's an abrupt sort of question, less small talk and more simple nosiness. Still: suddenly finding yourself anywhere, nevermind suddenly finding yourself on a strange ship in the middle of unknown space, can be unsettling. Might as well stick to something familiar if only because babysitting someone through an existential crisis isn't really her thing.
no subject
Shepard's question prompts a twitch of lips into a smirk, a huff of air that might be a laugh. "Emperor of the Realm, Lord of the Inland Sea and Shogun of the Dragonblooded Host, to be precise. A whole lot of bureaucrats decided I was the best guy for the job, so..." A single shoulder jerked up, then dropped again. "Here I am. Or... There I was. I figured if I was going to be stuck with the mantle of responsibility, I might as well run with it, do as much good as I could." Golden eyes ran across the set of her shoulders, letting the train of thought end, hanging in the air for a few heartbeats before, "And you're a soldier, unless I'm way off base."
no subject
Unfortunately, they're naked in a ship with a track record for killing people so the string of titles gets a raised eyebrow and a marginally derisive sidelong glance as they file their through to the communal showers. "That's right." And since they're sharing personal information: "I enlisted when I was eighteen."
no subject
He scowls at the sight of the elaborate jewelry that encompassed the hearthstone he is so used to wearing for ceremonial purposes, and tosses it back in with disgust, opting instead to merely pull on the uniform, towel draped over his head to rub at damp hair once he's fastened the pants. What good is the Heart of the Realm when he has been, by all accounts, and if Shepard is to be believed, far removed from anywhere that would make the thing even usable? He is, however, glad to see his shortbow, finely crafted and as well cared for as he had last left it, along with a quiver of arrows, fletched with golden eagle feathers. These he leaves, picking up the small, squarish device propped up against the side of the locker, quite out of place among the relics of Creation, and squints at the thing with a scowl, twisting it around.
no subject
Luckily that's not the case. The usual mix of clothes is there, her communicator. Still no weapons, no personal affects beyond what she's accumulated here on the ship, but at this point she doesn't expect it. She doesn't know if it's something wrong with her, something wrong with the locker or just the ship being a bastard, but it is what it is. So Shepard dons her underwear, a plain grey shirt and the ship's jump suit. She doesn't bother with pulling the sleeves on, instead tying them off at her middle before she shuts the locker and moves toward the lifts.
It's on her way that she runs back into him as he's fussing with the comm device. She knocks him on the back of the shoulder as she nearly, moving past him without slowing much. "This way, Emperor."
no subject
"How does this thing work?" He holds up the comm device, a brow raised, his hair regaining its normal spring, naturally falling in that way around his face that is artfully unkempt, the silver streaks near his temples more evident against the nearly black of damp hair. "Do I need to commit Essence to it?" And for the first time, his confidence falters. He has no idea what he's doing here, or why, or who anyone is. Lysander generally prides himself on his ability to roll with the punches, but it's one thing to go in fully armed and on the defensive, and quite another to wake up nude and covered in goo in a strange place surrounded by strange people.
If he'd heard the phrase from Shepard's mouth a few minutes prior, he'd certainly use 'existential crisis' to describe the floundering sensation that suddenly overcomes him.
no subject
"What? No, you just press the buttons." There's a pause as the question she wants to ask fights its way up. She frowns very briefly, then-- "What's 'Essence?'"
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A hand runs through shaggy dark strands, golden eyes shifting down to the comm unit again. "I'm not as eloquent as Eryon about all this shit. He's a sorcerer, studies the stuff for a living. I tend to tune him out most of the time, too much technical babble..." It's strange to think of someone not knowing what Essence is, and trying to describe the very thing that powers and gives life to the world you live in, as well as all its applications is a lot harder than it seems.
no subject
"Here--" She reaches out, abruptly taking the comm from him. She powers it up with a touch, tipping the screen to him so he can follow along as she navigates through the minimal menu systems. "This is your connection to the ship's comm net. You'll get alerts, messages to sort through - that kind of thing. There's also some local files you should probably read like Ianto's guide to the ship."
no subject