Your Time is Sand, Your Ways are Leaves upon the Sea

[nostradamnit]

Who: Nostradamus and Company
Where: Cabin 139, the buffet, noisy places
What: Quick pre-event thingum
When: June, before the camping excursion.
Warnings: None yet


1. And the hand just re-arranges the players in the game [Closed to Hythlodaeus]
Down at the very end of the hall (or beginning, if one is wise enough to take the nearer elevator bank) is Room 139, where one can find Michel de Nostradame sitting on the bed, this fine afternoon. A tall man, he occupies the bed rather fully, his leather boots sitting on the floor beside it. He's holding a Serena Eterna notebook and one of these fascinating 'pens' from the souvenir shop, organizing some of his thoughts on paper.

This is the state of things, when Hythlodaeus arrives. The room itself is tidy, no extra 'stuff' in it yet. It seems Nostradamus has yet to really figure out how he wishes to occupy it.


2. Oh, I had a dream, it seemed I stood alone [Open, Windjammer Buffet]
Nostradamus isn't the first person to whom the buffet has seemed a little foreign, but he's clearly taking a methodical approach to figuring out what he likes and what he doesn't, five or six plates on the table in front of him, a little sample of several dishes on each. He's actually arranged the plates so that they're roughly mapping out the buffet itself, to make it easier to find what he enjoys again.

"It would be nice if I knew what any of these delicacies were called." He has an egg roll in hand as he says that, half-eaten.


3. And the veil of all the years [Open, Casino or Rischie]
Perhaps you're passing through the casino or lingering in Rischie for a late night drink. Either way, it's clear that the man in the leather jerkin is not having a good time. The lights and sounds, the smoke in the casino or the bass in the club--it's overwhelming for a man who comes from the days when a hearty joust or a feast was the greatest festivity in the castle. Disoriented and suffering from sensory overload, Nostradamus is in a corner with his hands over his ears.

He may need a little assistance.


4. Goes sinking from my eyes like a stone [Wildcard]
darkersolstice or darkersolstice#9463, as always

Comments

2

[lightconductor]

"Well, that one, I'm not entirely sure. Egg roll, I think it is? Though I'm not certain why."

Watson looks over the many assorted plates with an air of faint amusement. He can appreciate a methodical approach, at least. For his own part, he's opted for a curry dish and a cup of coffee, precariously balanced with his cane looped over his wrist.

"Might I join you, ah," and he pauses, attempting to work out how exactly he ought to address him, "Mr. de Nostradame?"

[nostradamnit]

"If you wish, I answer to Nostradamus." It's a bit simpler for some people. "Egg roll, hm? It is a good taste--and I enjoy the texture of the outer wrapping. But I feel too many of these would be heavy on the palate."

He moves some of the plates to make room for Watson.

[lightconductor]

"No, certainly something best enjoyed in small portions, perhaps as part of a larger meal, I agree."

Watson sits down opposite him, and takes a sip of coffee before he picks up his fork. "If nothing else is true, the food here is very good, as well as... varied. There is a restaurant here that serves a type of cuisine from Japan which seems to consist mostly of rice, seaweed, and fish, often raw. I... admit that it's much better than it sounds."

[nostradamnit]

"Raw fish? That seems...risky at best." He's well before refrigeration, of course. "I believe you if you say it's good, but I would never have thought to eat raw fish back in France."

[lightconductor]

"I've had a raw oyster or two before," actually more than that, but who's counting, "so it wasn't such a leap as all that, but I would believe the fish would have to be very fresh indeed. Or stored on ice."

Watson shakes his head. "The only person I know to have become ill from the food here is someone who had a particular reaction to one of the herbs in a carelessly-selected omelette."

[nostradamnit]

"Herbed omelettes...There must be a battalion of chefs working to prepare this volume and variety of foods each day." He's clearly awed by the abundance and the implied availability of ice even in this summery weather.

[lightconductor]

"You would think so," Watson says. "And yet, no one's even been able to find the kitchens."

He takes a mouthful of curry. No sense in letting it get cold. "Never mind the fact that some resupplying ought to be necessary, and we have never done that. At the very least, we ought to be down into less appetizing ship's rations by now, and we still have food as fresh as the first day I was here."

[nostradamnit]

"It sounds impossible. I don't doubt your honesty, but I don't understand how this all can be."

And he doesn't like it! Magic isn't real. Really.

[lightconductor]

Well, until a few months ago, Watson would have agreed. The truth is... complicated.

"As stated, it is impossible." Watson sighs, because that sounds like Holmes to him, just a little. And that's complicated. "And as loathe as I am to say the answer is 'magic,' I've also seen a fair bit of evidence that at least in the realities of some of our fellow passengers, magic is more real than in the world I know."

[nostradamnit]

"Magic isn't real." It's a truth he's gripped to in the face of every-fucking-one around him believing otherwise. It's the Renaissance, people believe in ghosts and curses and demons and he's had to be the voice of reason.

Losing that anchor to cling to, it'd wreck his entire worldview a little.

[lightconductor]

So sorry, Michel. So sorry.

Watson's expression is strained. "Yes. Well. That's the sort of thing I have always held fast to. In my life I have seen many things that men claim to be supernatural, and it never is. And perhaps that's true of the world you and I know. But..." He sighs. "There are a number of people here from worlds other than ours, where that is not true. And I would not believe that, except that I was, well, murdered by someone using magic."

An awkward pause.

"Obviously, I recovered from my death. That is also something I have a difficult time explaining. But no, I was quite undeniably dead."

[nostradamnit]

He lets that sit in the air for a moment, frowning, and even eats some new foods as he tries to wrap his head around that at all.

"Are there rules? Does this magic follow a system of rules?"

[lightconductor]

"My God, but I hope so." Watson shakes his head. "Though I'm not the one to ask about it. You'd have to find one of them. As far as the magic here goes, if that is what resurrects people when they die, no one seems to be able to answer that."

He spears a bit of chicken on his fork as he talks. "You can try asking Friday directly, though I don't know if she'll be forthcoming."

[nostradamnit]

"I have very little desire to talk to a woman without the sensibility to have a face." That is the world's driest joke, perhaps, the corner of his lips only quirking the slightest bit. "I'm afraid I don't know how to face this situation. How do you cope?"

[lightconductor]

Watson gives a little huff of amusement. He understand that feeling.

"I'm not always sure," he says. "I try to keep an open mind when people tell me outlandish stories. The company can be rather good, if I exclude the fellow who killed me." His expression briefly goes rather strained. "Occasionally someone becomes ill or injured enough to seek me out and I can be useful. The library is enjoyable, if you haven't seen it yet."

He sighs, then admits, "there is a lot of waiting around in luxury while we wait for things to happen."

[nostradamnit]

"Is it truly luxury if we're waiting with a sense of dread? And...is the one who killed you still a danger to you?"

Nostradamus arrived unarmed--though he isn't entirely helpless.

[lightconductor]

"Now, that's a philosophical question I'm not prepared to answer," Watson says wryly, "but you very much have a point. Material luxury, at least, if not psychological."

Ebalon, though, is a thorny issues, and Watson frowns a little. "I don't trust him, but I also don't believe he's actively out for a second attempt at my neck. So far, I have had no further problems with him."

[nostradamnit]

"That's good. I think. Unless he's plotting something and hasn't acted yet."

Nostradamus has a concern, clearly. Like. Once people start murdering people, he doesn't trust them to stop.

[lightconductor]

"If he is, I'll be prepared for it."

There is quiet determination in Watson's tone. Maybe Ebalon totally has him outclassed, but at the very least he'll make him hurt before he dies. And probably Ebalon knows that too, considering how things went between them last time.

He's almost never unarmed. That's been true for a long time.

"I'm actually rather good at not dying, under normal circumstances."

[nostradamnit]

"Under normal circumstances, you only need to fail to be good at it once." Not so, here. Will that encourage recklessness?

Actually...

"I realize this may be...prying. But how did dying feel, to you? Was there any epiphany, any holy light?"

[lightconductor]

He's quiet, swallows hard.

"No," Watson says. "Not that I can remember. If there was anything of the sort... the memory of it didn't stay with me. I can answer no such questions, I'm sorry.."

It probably doesn't help that there had been a good deal of confusion in the moments immediately before he died.

[nostradamnit]

"I probably shouldn't have asked. I'm sorry. Ah, perhaps we should talk about something...nicer?"

He glances away from Watson, a little ashamed for letting his curiosity so loose.

[lightconductor]

"No, it's fine. It's a natural question."

Watson shakes himself. "I'm not sure I wouldn't ask myself. Any number of theological mysteries to be answered. Here, if you're a physician, I could answer any number of professional questions you might have?"

[nostradamnit]

"I hardly know where to begin with those questions. Is there anything in what you experienced that can help discern the mechanism of your resurrection, from the medical angle? I have to assume your heart stopped. But it beats still, in your chest?"

Look, neither CPR nor AEDs were around in his day. A stopped heart was an end to it all.

[lightconductor]

"It beats. See for yourself."

Watson extends his arm, rolling up his sleeve a little to expose his wrist for his pulse to be taken.

"What killed me precisely would seem to be cerebral trauma. It was... I suppose the nearest explanation I can come up with is that there was a magical explosion within my skull, destroying my brain without any visible external wound. Other people met their demise more gruesomely, though, and were healed upon their resurrection, so it cannot merely be the matter of the severity of the wound."