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tramitem_log2020-04-01 01:34 am
temptationaccomplished) wrote in tramitem_log2020-04-01 01:34 am
ᴹʀ. ₐ.ᶻ. Fₑˡₗ's Aᴍᴀ𝓏ɪɴ𝓰 Aₚʀᶦʟ ᴇᴠᵉₙᴛ Cₐₜ𝒸ₕ₋ₐₗₗ ₗₒ𝓰
(Well. Not really amazing. I tried.)
Who: Aziraphale/Mr. Fell and OPEN
What: Oot & Aboot. Random encounters of the Aziraphalean kind.
When: April 1st-5th, the Truth or Lie event. Aziraphale is forced to tell the TRUTH.
Where: Various Locations, mostly Manhattan-adjacent since that's where he lives.
Rating/Warnings: Uhhh. ?? Warnings for witchcraft and witchery?
Mr. Fell goes to the NYC Public Library
Armed with his reading glasses, his book-bag, folders for organizing, a legal pad, and change enough for many, many xerox copies, he stationed himself nearest he could to the philosophy and religion sections... And set to work.
In short order, he had amassed a stack of books on various topics surrounding the art, history, mythology, and practices surrounding alchemy and witchcraft in Europe and North America. Several photocopies, post-its, and highlighings later, he had tangented into reading about Matthew Hopkins, about a James Stewart film, and about the definition of a warlock according to current iterations of a fascinating tabletop roleplaying game.
Research was going terrifically. By which I mean it was utterly frustrating.
Memories had led him to believe this was magical in nature, but nothing in any of the books were exactly what he had been doing. He had recreated some of the content[1] onto notes which were cluttering the table. A significant portion of the text wasn't in English, nor Latin, but the word Sundering appeared multiple times. The sigils varied, but there were two repeated independent of anything else in his notes: a simple glyph and a more winding shape doubling back onto itself.
He wasn't sure what Sundering ultimately was, but that appeared to be what he had been trying rather desperately, passionately to do. And he had been trying not to get caught doing it. Which was worrying, because... to sunder, by definition, seemed rather alarming.
(Later he would treat himself to a cupcake at the attached bakery and try not to think too hard about the fact that he was going to try it anyway.)
For now, though, he had his nose turned down to his bag in an urgent search and hadn't even bothered to look up to greet the newest occupant of the table: "Terribly sorry, but I seem to find myself without a pen. May I borrow one of yours?"
Mr. Fell takes a walk (after a truth-telling)
In a moment of undesirable candor, he had admitted that he was NOT sleeping well, had been accosted by men in suits, and was pretty sure he was some kind of wizard in another life.
Bridget laughed. "You've cracked. The paint fumes have finally gone to your head." He would have said more, insisted he wasn't kidding (and why? Why did he feel so suddenly free with this information? To Bridget of all people), but she had waved him off, blowing a stream of smoke from her upturned lower lip before fanning it away. "Get some fresh air, smoke a joint, get laid. Go see a show. Do whatever it is the kids do these days. You'll be fine."
She pushed a cigarette on him despite his protest of: "I haven't in ages," and then snuffed out her own with the toe of her boot.
"Then you're due. Look, I better get back in there, do the rounds, thank them all for attending, et cetera. Like I said, you'll be fine. It's a ...late midlife crisis or something."
Which left Aziraphale alone on the curbside at dusk among the dwindling crowd of gallery attendees, fidgeting with the cigarette and wholly without a lighter or match.
A walk would do him some good.
Mr. Fell goes to the pub
It was late evening and friends had cancelled, so he was alone under the reddish amber glow of the low-ceiling pub, enjoying the atmosphere. It was one of those places that looked like it had history, and did. The building and original establishment pre-dated Aziraphale's own grandfather and had once been a working-man's pub until sometime after Prohibition.
He liked it. The place felt like a pub should: kind of dark, with the smell of old tobacco and aged alcohol and wood. There was a hint of sawdust on the floor. It had billiards. It had ambiance. If it had stopped there, one might have called it charming and quaint...a bit old-fashioned, not unlike Aziraphale himself.
Instead it was cozy, cultural, with posters and flyers from now and ages past; it blurred a line between antique and avante garde. A little seedy, a bit questionable, but not boorish. Intimate but a bit loud. Nothing glitzy or fashionable or cold. Nothing too pretentious or corporate or sleek.
And the bartender wasn't half bad to look at either.
Mr. Fell ____ (Ok, so I didn't want this to get tooooo long and scare people off)
- Goes to lunch! He loves to eat.
- Buys wine! He needs to replenish after that "Mr. Fell Gone Wild" network post last month (T_T)
- Visits the cafe! And searches for a new place to find masterful scones because Anthony made the last place awkward.
- Rides the subway!/Catches a cab! Maybe even rides his bicycle!
- Make your own or suggest a personal starter!
[1] The circles resembled, for lack of easier comparison, something out of a Japanese anime that Aziraphale does not know about, but was widely popular among certain social groups in the mid-to-late 2000s, so we will assume the audience has familiarity with them and won't go into further detail. (Unrelated, but interesting, a purely meta find.)
* (Aziraphale had himself a handful of friends, colleagues, and acquaintances who classified themselves as forms of modern pagans, but aside from what he could get away with asking under the guise of "purely academic inquiry" and small-talk, he was hesitant to divulge to any of his social groups anything about the Bureau or this whole bloody mess he'd found himself wrapped up in. If nothing else, he thought it rather rude to equate whatever ridiculous fiction he had been doing in the memories with the actual practices they performed. Also, respect and prudence aside, he was simply embarrassed. So asking them was rather out of the question, not that any of them would have any idea what a Diatu was.)
Who: Aziraphale/Mr. Fell and OPEN
What: Oot & Aboot. Random encounters of the Aziraphalean kind.
When: April 1st-5th, the Truth or Lie event. Aziraphale is forced to tell the TRUTH.
Where: Various Locations, mostly Manhattan-adjacent since that's where he lives.
Rating/Warnings: Uhhh. ?? Warnings for witchcraft and witchery?
Mr. Fell goes to the NYC Public Library
Armed with his reading glasses, his book-bag, folders for organizing, a legal pad, and change enough for many, many xerox copies, he stationed himself nearest he could to the philosophy and religion sections... And set to work.
In short order, he had amassed a stack of books on various topics surrounding the art, history, mythology, and practices surrounding alchemy and witchcraft in Europe and North America. Several photocopies, post-its, and highlighings later, he had tangented into reading about Matthew Hopkins, about a James Stewart film, and about the definition of a warlock according to current iterations of a fascinating tabletop roleplaying game.
Research was going terrifically. By which I mean it was utterly frustrating.
Memories had led him to believe this was magical in nature, but nothing in any of the books were exactly what he had been doing. He had recreated some of the content[1] onto notes which were cluttering the table. A significant portion of the text wasn't in English, nor Latin, but the word Sundering appeared multiple times. The sigils varied, but there were two repeated independent of anything else in his notes: a simple glyph and a more winding shape doubling back onto itself.
He wasn't sure what Sundering ultimately was, but that appeared to be what he had been trying rather desperately, passionately to do. And he had been trying not to get caught doing it. Which was worrying, because... to sunder, by definition, seemed rather alarming.
(Later he would treat himself to a cupcake at the attached bakery and try not to think too hard about the fact that he was going to try it anyway.)
For now, though, he had his nose turned down to his bag in an urgent search and hadn't even bothered to look up to greet the newest occupant of the table: "Terribly sorry, but I seem to find myself without a pen. May I borrow one of yours?"
Mr. Fell takes a walk (after a truth-telling)
In a moment of undesirable candor, he had admitted that he was NOT sleeping well, had been accosted by men in suits, and was pretty sure he was some kind of wizard in another life.
Bridget laughed. "You've cracked. The paint fumes have finally gone to your head." He would have said more, insisted he wasn't kidding (and why? Why did he feel so suddenly free with this information? To Bridget of all people), but she had waved him off, blowing a stream of smoke from her upturned lower lip before fanning it away. "Get some fresh air, smoke a joint, get laid. Go see a show. Do whatever it is the kids do these days. You'll be fine."
She pushed a cigarette on him despite his protest of: "I haven't in ages," and then snuffed out her own with the toe of her boot.
"Then you're due. Look, I better get back in there, do the rounds, thank them all for attending, et cetera. Like I said, you'll be fine. It's a ...late midlife crisis or something."
Which left Aziraphale alone on the curbside at dusk among the dwindling crowd of gallery attendees, fidgeting with the cigarette and wholly without a lighter or match.
A walk would do him some good.
Mr. Fell goes to the pub
It was late evening and friends had cancelled, so he was alone under the reddish amber glow of the low-ceiling pub, enjoying the atmosphere. It was one of those places that looked like it had history, and did. The building and original establishment pre-dated Aziraphale's own grandfather and had once been a working-man's pub until sometime after Prohibition.
He liked it. The place felt like a pub should: kind of dark, with the smell of old tobacco and aged alcohol and wood. There was a hint of sawdust on the floor. It had billiards. It had ambiance. If it had stopped there, one might have called it charming and quaint...a bit old-fashioned, not unlike Aziraphale himself.
Instead it was cozy, cultural, with posters and flyers from now and ages past; it blurred a line between antique and avante garde. A little seedy, a bit questionable, but not boorish. Intimate but a bit loud. Nothing glitzy or fashionable or cold. Nothing too pretentious or corporate or sleek.
And the bartender wasn't half bad to look at either.
Mr. Fell ____ (Ok, so I didn't want this to get tooooo long and scare people off)
- Goes to lunch! He loves to eat.
- Buys wine! He needs to replenish after that "Mr. Fell Gone Wild" network post last month (T_T)
- Visits the cafe! And searches for a new place to find masterful scones because Anthony made the last place awkward.
- Rides the subway!/Catches a cab! Maybe even rides his bicycle!
- Make your own or suggest a personal starter!
[1] The circles resembled, for lack of easier comparison, something out of a Japanese anime that Aziraphale does not know about, but was widely popular among certain social groups in the mid-to-late 2000s, so we will assume the audience has familiarity with them and won't go into further detail. (Unrelated, but interesting, a purely meta find.)
* (Aziraphale had himself a handful of friends, colleagues, and acquaintances who classified themselves as forms of modern pagans, but aside from what he could get away with asking under the guise of "purely academic inquiry" and small-talk, he was hesitant to divulge to any of his social groups anything about the Bureau or this whole bloody mess he'd found himself wrapped up in. If nothing else, he thought it rather rude to equate whatever ridiculous fiction he had been doing in the memories with the actual practices they performed. Also, respect and prudence aside, he was simply embarrassed. So asking them was rather out of the question, not that any of them would have any idea what a Diatu was.)
Chess in the park
"I'm terrible at a slow pace, so if you want to win, then you should go that route." That was a bit more honesty than he we used to sharing from the get go, but he supposed it wasn't a terrible thing.
no subject
"I do prefer slower paced games," he admitted, fussing with his sweater, straightening out the cuffs and waistband as he settled in his seat. "But I'm afraid if we go slow, we may never finish. All the time in the world to make a decision tends to make me dilly-dally."
no subject
He placed his hand patently on the stone table.
"So, we're going to talk about my memories."
no subject
"Yes, we were. How are you doing?" He winced slightly at the awkwardness of the question. It would probably be best to let Anakin decide how this conversation went, given that it was his memories. "Ah, I mean--where shall we start?"
LOL, I almost forgot that this takes place during the Truth/Lying plot.
Anakin sighed, picking up his own piece and moving it forward a few seconds after Mr. Fell's was placed.
And then Anakin started his answer.
"Okay, bad, fine, awful, all of it. My arm hurts- the one that's gone- almost constantly because of the cold weather. It almost makes me think I should move, but my career is here and so are all my doctors and it is really hard to find therapists, psychiatrists, physical therapists, orthotists and prosthetists, and a regular primary care physicians. But there's also the memories which are terrible- I'm a slave- I saw someone die in a really bad way for trying to escape slavery- I think my memories are about space. Which is impossible, right? We've only been to the moon. And these memories did not take place on the moon."
He didn't even notice how much he was saying, he'd was just answering truthfully.