ataraxion | VOICE ♙ OO1

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VOICE ♙ OO1

[ ahem, using this thing like a phone because he's really not interested in wasting time trying to figure out just how deep the rabbit hole goes in terms of what it can do. that comes later. ]

Good— [ . . . ] whenever it is.

[ his voice might sound familiar to some of you, if slightly more nasal; there's a steady metallic clop-clop, clop-clop in the background that sounds not unlike horse hooves on steel. Anything is possible when your man's been abducted to live a doomed life in space and is riding his mare around the corridors! I'm on a horse. ]

Seems like as good a time as any for a proper hello. And since we've all got some time to kill, I thought it might be nice to play a quick game of Questions. Or—Facts, I suppose. Whichever works best. I tell you one thing about me, you tell me one thing about you... loads of fun.

[ okay so he's not exactly gagging to talk about himself, but if there's a fast track to gathering information, it's to come right out and ask for it. tit for tat. ]

I'm called—

[ he pauses.

this isn't Wonderland; nobody knows him here, except for Alice, and she doesn't exactly pose a huge threat to his well-being. Well, not any more, at least, because nobody knows about the Stone of Wonderland here; the likelihood of the both of them being tracked down and killed for it has been significantly diminished. he figures it's okay to be honest about his name, if nothing else. ]

—Hatter. Now, your turn.

Also. Directions to this oxygen garden thing would be— much appreciated. I've a horse here in need of some greens, and she's a bit twitchy from being kept in the dark.

[ ~~reluctantly~~ finally: ]

And if you see an old guy with a crazy goatee in a suit of white armor spouting nonsense about—I don't know, mystical vapours of destiny or something, you should probably let me know.

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Direwolves? [ well, that's... a new one. he mutters: ] Comforting thought.

[ a pause, and then: ] You never know. Sometimes stories come true.

What's this other creature, then?

They're good! Really! The direwolves are!
I play keeper to one while her mistress is gone.
They are terribly loyal and protective, and will harm no one without cause.

It was likened to a very large cat.
The face and feet of one, and the fur.
Only the fur was pale blue and it was striped.
With very tall ears.

Again, strange.

All right. That's better news. [ honestly, he's cool with anything so long as it doesn't try and kill him, and he's not planning on pissing off any large animals. ]

Can't say I've ever heard of one of those. We've got all manner of creatures back home—Bandersnatches, Jubjub birds, the lot—but none of them resemble big blue striped cats. [ he shrugs, though it's unseen. ] Strange indeed.

And as exciting as it is talking to words on a screen, might I be able to put a name to them?

Bandersnatches and jubjub birds, I've never heard of such things either.
Perhaps the beasts of Westeros leave much desired in comparison to the worlds of others.
Will you tell me of these creatures?
And others, perhaps, even more wild?

[ And then, because it is rude to go so long without introduction: enter one brown-haired medieval ~~princess~~ bastard. She dips with a bow, eyes bright and attentive. Alayne even offers a small smile. ] Hatter, was it? I am Alayne, Hatter. Alayne Stone.

[ Hatter can honestly say he wasn't expecting a young woman to be on the other side of the line, but it doesn't come as a huge surprise; expect the unexpected and such. also, Westeros—the same place the little kid—Bran—said he's from. that's two out of the same world. like him and Alice.

... he'll follow up on that later. ]

Nice to meet you, Alayne. Officially, as it were. [ she's young, but there's no escaping the fact that she's a bit of a stunner, and looking pretty old-fashioned, actually. not by Wonderland's standards, seeing as it's only been 140 years since the Queen wore a court dress that could kill just by twirling, but it's... interesting.

excuse him just fiddling with the buttons until there we go; video. have a scruffy man dressed as a 70s gambler, on the back of a bay mare. He inclines his head. ]

I know a poem or two what explains a bit about the creatures of our world. Would you like to hear one?

You are well-met, ser.

[ For some reason the horse is a welcome sight — surprisingly so, to the point that Alayne feels her face go a bit flush. Things aboard the ship were so strange and so foreign that even the smallest familiarity seemed to loom large, draping her with the shadow of comfort. Even those from Westeros were changed from Sansa Stark's memories, but a horse was a horse, and a bay mare beyond that. (Jeyne Poole had once had a bay mare; together she and Sansa would ride through along the even paths.)

The smile, small as it is, beats brighter though it continues to hold a touch of distance. The indication of friendliness only warily given. ]

Yes, please. [ Alayne nods eagerly. ] I have a great fondness for poems. And stories and songs, perhaps songs best of all. If it please you, I will offer one in exchange for one of your poems.

[ oh, he likes her. her cautious smile, and the subtle enthusiasm clinging to her words; some of his clients had once spoken to him like this, but only for the next fix. The next drug. Whatever he could give them to make them feel on top of the world. Or, on the opposite end—what he could give them in order to survive the next day of the Resistance; food, weapons. Never has anyone expressed interest in hearing him tell a story just for the hell of it. Even Alice had regarded him warily, like he might be lying through his teeth—which he has done plenty of times, so no begrudging her that—but this? This is refreshing. ]

I don't see why not.

Just a warning, though, before I start—it's a bit long.

[ and with that, he dredges up his lessons.

this one was a classic, meant to warn young children of what lay in the Forest of Wonderland—as well as give them a hero to cling to, because they'd needed one back then (and still do.) His voice takes on lilting rhythm, his tone even; he doesn't bother to add much drama or spectacle to the thing, but there's just enough liveliness in his voice to make the words interesting. ]

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

[ he finishes the poem jauntily, and tips his hat as a flourish. clears his throat. ]

What'd you think?

[ Her expression remains cautious at first, the features of her face schooled to careful attentiveness while bright-burning enthusiasm shines clearly in her blue eyes. But the longer Alayne listens, the more that tentativeness (that politeness), burns away, revealing only the pure eagerness underneath. Her gaze dances back and forth across the feed of his face as he recites, looking as if somehow doing so will help her better memorize the words. (Sansa had been a girl raised on a diet of stories and song and Alayne is a girl that's learned that such things are not wholly wise. But the words, the words—) ]

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch, [ she echoes once he is done, the words seeming almost like an exultation on her lips. It is a terrible tale, truth be told, full of night terrors and horrible things. But in this tale, the monster dies and Alayne cannot help but smile. (Perhaps, in other worlds, the monsters cannot win.) ] I wish to learn all of it. Every word, if you'd teach it me.

Every word? [ Well. He could have quite a bit of fun with this. And Alayne's earnest manner—somewhat catching, if he he's honest; he can't help the small smirk, pleased and somewhat prideful; she precious, honestly. Attention of any sort has always made Hatter puff up and preen—not the wrong sort of attention, no, he'd crawl on all fours away from that—but it's always nice to be recognized for one's talents. Not that this is a general talent of his. His gramps was always much better at it.

What's the harm in teaching, anyway? There's greater harm in smuggling, and he'd done that like clockwork back home, always managing to scrape by unnoticed. ]

All right. I think you'll find I'm not the best teacher material, but I can teach this one and a few more. [ pause. ] When I'm not riding a horse, if that's all right with you.

Now. [ he looks at her, eyebrows raised in lighthearted humor. ] I thought I heard something about a story, song or poem in exchange?

Story first, I think. Then a song, then a poem. I have heard my fair share and so have many in stock. If one pleases you, I will offer another. So long as you tell me more of these vorpal swords and slithy toves. [ Alayne lifts her eyebrows in search of silent agreement and then looks away, her thoughts temporarily distracted by what sort of story she could tell.

She hadn't been lying when she'd told Hatter that she has heard her fair share of stories. When Sansa Stark was younger (perhaps not as long ago as it ultimately felt in Alayne's bones), she'd been ravenous for them and learned many by heart. Tales of knights and chivalry, of maidens in towers that needed rescue. The heroes always vanquished the monster in those stories, the princess was always safe and the king always merciful. But Sansa Stark had been foolish for stories were stories for a reason; they were words, strung together to form lie after lie, to give birth to hope in places where it had no right to bloom.

In the end, she decides her story will not be false. It will have kings and queens, princes and princesses; it will have dragons. And, in the end, everyone dies. (No, her story will not be false.)

And so she tells him the story of Maegar Targaryen and the story of Maegar's father, Aegon I. She tells him of how The First King rode aback a dragon, flanked by his two sister-wives, and all three bathed Westeros with the breath of their winged mounts. Vhagar, Meraxes, and Balerion the Black Dread — Balerion who later helped the victorious Aegon forge the bloody Iron Throne from the swords of his fallen enemies. Oh how the greatest castles and keeps had melted beneath Aegon's conquest, how the even the proudest families fell to bend a knee. (All but Dorne, the sandy seat of the south; they alone were granted autonomy, even though they were called the Seven Kingdoms.)

She tells him how Aegon looked to build the Red Keep but died before seeing it to completion, the task left to his son and rightful heir, the one named Maegar, who would one day be the Cruel. Now much like his father before him, Maegar did not flinch away from violence. No, if anything, he more readily embraced it — building secret passages that ran behind and through and beneath the castle's walls, offering golden dragons and silver stags for the scalps of men he believed would betray his crown. Even the women he had made his wives were not spared — locked away and then punished and then executed for failing to give him the sons that he demanded. ]

They say he died upon the Iron Throne, wearing the crown his father had forged before him with the breath of the dragon. How they died, the stories do not agree. Though many say it was the throne that killed him, the blades of his father's enemies finally finding their mark.

[ A pause and then Alayne blinks, almost if confused to find herself already at the end of the story. ] But the throne kills all kings, doesn't it. One way or another.

[ He had expected a fairytale, a story, maybe, about a locked away princess and a brave prince; or perhaps little animals, a cautionary, allegorical tale. What she'd given him was nothing short of—he doesn't want to say horrible, since her telling was extraordinary—but it was... it was unexpected.

He had sat in silence, Guinevere a steady rhythm beneath him as he rode on, listening to Alayne's words rise and fall steadily with the telling. It didn't seem as though she had made any effort to keep it—peaceful, or happy, so he's inclined to believe the story is a true one; happy endings were usually lies in the great scheme of things, since he'd certainly never had one. Things never do end, either. And this—dragons, incest, slaughter, power, madness. What kind of place does this girl live in?

He wonders what sort of world could be so singularly terrible, but realizes that it's not so different from the one he'd come from; power corrupts, and complete power corrupts completely. He had seen a Queen on his throne as mad as the King and his son in Alayne's story, though she had armies of obedient Suits to follow her command instead of dragons, sent to wipe out the last good things left in Wonderland; she beheaded too many to count in the name of fun, paranoia, and anger. Though Alayne's world of Westeros sounded more awful than he'd previously imagined, it was—relatable. Familiar. ]

That was... [ he's silent a moment. ] Interesting. You've a way with words, Alayne.

One way or another. I've never known someone on a throne who wasn't as mad as a wet hen, and mad people in power usually attract the wrong sort of attention. Royalty and death tend to go hand in hand, I've found. Nasty business.

[ another pause, and then: ] Good story, though. I liked it.

[ It is a terrible story, she knows. Interesting is too kind of an assessment, for the world was full of interesting things and not all of them were so cruel. When she smiles at Hatter in the moments that follows, her expression is modest and apologetic — sheepish, even, as if she's been caught telling an off-color joke. It is not right to burden strangers with the weight of the Iron Throne, but even here its shadow touches Alayne's life (every time she looks towards a brother once thought dead, every time looks for Petyr but finds Littlefinger instead). ]

There is such a thing as a good king, [ she says, her smile not wavering, though her eyes knowing and older than they have any right to be. ] But the good kings die first, and never well. [ Robb had been a good king. Though she had never been given the opportunity to see him with a crown atop his head, Alayne knows this to be true. (But the good kings die first.) After a moment, the sullenness in her gaze dissolves and is replaced again but something warmer, the proof of a promise being remade. ]

A song, next time. A happy one. I'll sing to you of Jenny Oldstones and her prince of dragonflies.

[ Hello, surprisingly familiar little girl. Jaime hasn't seen your face in quite a long time, despite much looking. ]

That seems like an unnecessarily cynical view of our fair homeland, Lady Stone.

[ Little girl? Come now, Kingslayer.

Not nearly as little as she once was when last you'd seen one another. Now fully flowered and wedded, of course. Or perhaps you are mistaken. Perhaps that was a different little girl you mistake her for. A little girl you failed to find...despite much looking.

(Her back straightens, the corners of her mouth turn downward but she does not frown. Sansa Stark has something to fear from the Kingslayer, but Alayne Stone—

She reminds herself she must not be frightened, but is boldness bravery or is it folly?) ]

Yes, because the last three kings you served died so very well.

[ She has grown, there's no question of that, but Jaime has seen many strange sights since he woke aboard this... vessel, and an older Sansa Stark with a darker colour of hair barely ranks amongst the strangest.

It's obvious enough, though, that despite her age and the name she's given herself (Stone, as though attempting to pass as some bastard from the Vale, and perhaps that's why no one had ever found her; that and the hair) she knows him. It's plain as day in the tone of her voice and the words she says. ]

Yes. It's unfortunate. But I've heard an interesting rumour about the second one.

[ It would be a lie to say she did not glean some small morsel of satisfaction to see him — to know that Jaime Lannister, the Golden Lion, has been (or one day will be) as touched by time as the rest of them. They have — each of them, in their own way — been changed. Changed and never, it seems, for the better. (Each of them, all of them, in their own way. All but Robb, younger than the rest. All but Robb and she intends to keep it that way.)

But whatever embittered satisfaction she can glean from his unruly beard and his shorn head is drowned out by the tightening that Alayne can feel in her chest (is it fear, or paranoia; is it the game and the razor's edge which suddenly finds its way beneath her feet once again). ]

While I heard an interesting rumor about the third.

[ Robb Stark knows nothing beyond what happened at his death. Even a brief conversation with the boy proved that much and perhaps no one should place the blame on that. Who would ever expect the dead to care much about the affairs of the living, as they continue on without them? This girl -- Sansa or Alayne or whatever she's calling herself now -- is obviously not labouring under the same circumstances, and it's interesting to Jaime that she's clearly not seen fit to enlighten her brother as to what has transpired in his absence. Or not all of it, at least.

So have I, he's tempted to say. Terrible the things that can happen to a king on the night when he should be celebrating his wedding. It's on the very tip of his tongue. But for reasons Jaime prefers not to examine too closely, he does not say it. ]

Of course, it's foolish to put too much weight in rumours, isn't it, Lady Stone?

[ She wonders, exactly, how much he knows. (A dead king, a husband and wife accused; a girl who fled and became a bird and flew away. No, this last part he must now know regardless. For now he is faced with the proof of it in Alayne Stone.) Again, she feels her heart constrict, can feel the unhappy twist of her stomach. Were her father here, he would know what to do, but he isn't here, it's just her.

(If I flee, he'll give chase. That is what lions do, is it not?) ]

Words are as vicious as the people who speak them. In my experience, ser. [ Which is to say: I am harmless. And nothing but honey shall alight from lips. (Alayne's lie.) Which is to say: You and yours called Ned Stark a traitor, and he lost his head for it. What does that make you, ser? (Sansa's truth.) ]

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[ Jaime smiles. An unpleasant smile, he suspects, but then this is all unpleasant, isn't it? To be snatched from Westeros and the duties he had there (forsworn but not by choice) and to be brought here only to be confronted by others. Though, with the Stark boy alive and well, somehow, aboard this vessel, perhaps his oath to Lady Catelyn was fulfilled after all, if the girl had been returned to her family, if not, perhaps, to the North.

Her words were sharper than when he last saw her. But King's Landing was a whetstone in that way: it either wore you down or made you sharp. There was nothing in between. ]

Mostly, though not always. The wrong thing said at the wrong time might well have the same impact, whether said intentionally or carelessly.

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Oh, I don't doubt it. [ He says it playfully, like she might be the one joking, but it rings true—just as her own words had: but the good kings die first, and never well. He knows it. The Red King, for example; a good king, a fair king, until the Queen of Hearts had his head served on a dinner platter in front of the whole house of cards. Not a particularly nice time for anyone, though he hadn't been alive to witness it. ]

Y'know, Alayne, I think that can be arranged. [ he pauses—god, what a ridiculous conversation—and shakes his head, amused. ] And I'll tell you a story, for the one you just told me. Maybe just as exciting as Jenny—Oldstream's prince.

[ Yeah. He's not—good, really, with names. Unless they begin with A. ]

Sometime soon, yeah?

[ Alayne laughs behind her hand and the sound is tuneful and sweet, like the ringing of a bell. It's a strange juxtaposition — such a pretty little bird, with a voice so lovely, and yet capable of dredging up songs so dark and dour. When she sings Jenny Oldstones for him, there will be not a shimmer nor a shadow of the Iron Thone's looming, only the tale of something beautiful and triumphant (and it will be a lie). ]

I would like that, yes. Very much, Hatter. Were there lemons aboard the ship, I would make lemoncakes and it would be a proper story circle. [ Alayne nods, in earnest. ] For all the best stories and songs sound sweeter with lemoncakes 'round.

Lemoncakes? [ He snorts, but not unkindly. ] Well, I won't begrudge a girl her customs. I'm sure there's... similar fruit around, if you're set on it. I could make some tea, you could make your little cakes of lemon, and we'd have a grand old time sharing them around a campfire in the wilderness.

Doesn't sound bad, actually. If we had a campfire. Or a wilderness. [ He pauses, seeming to stare off-feed for a moment, before turning his eyes back to Alayne. ] I suppose the Oxygen Garden would do. After I get all settled in, I'll give you a ring. [ Or whatever... constitutes as one on this device. ]

[ Alayne seems to take offense at the implication that lemoncakes are anything short of a necessity. But that offense is delivered with a smile — something sweet and nearing unapologetic in how brightly it beats. ] A lemoncake without lemons is simply a cake, Hatter. And while one is satisfactory, the other is exemplary, I promise you. [ A pause, considering, then she nods. ] I shall ask my father for lemons. If only exists upon this ship, I've no doubt he'll find it for me.

Then we shall have our outing in the wilderness, even though the wilderness aboard this ship has been tamed. [ Her smile grows sheepish. ] Does that please you?

[ And a lemoncake without the cake is simply a lemon, he thinks, and decides he much prefers the alternative. ]

Oh, yes, of course. How silly of me. [ Another cheeky grin. ] I trust your judgement.

[ He decides, perhaps wisely, not to question about her father being onboard—though the information makes him fight to keep his expression neutral. A grown man, planning on swapping stories, lemony cakes and tea with another man's young daughter? No, not suspicious at all. Though now, at least, he knows to prepare for an inevitable confrontation; no, sir. No designs, sir. That'll be fun. ]

A tamed wilderness is better than none at all, [ he says lightheartedly, in an effort to counter her sheepish expression. ] Yes, it "pleases me", Alayne. Don't worry.

[ It never really occurs to Alayne that she should be mindful when it comes to mentioning her father to the people she meets. She knows that Littlefinger is unpleasant man to meet but Littlefinger — the mask her father wears — has been silent of late and she has been blessed since her revival with only Petyr's company. And there was nothing here in Hatter that would garner Petyr's disapproval, was there? (No. Not at all.)

His cheeky grin makes her eyes crinkle at the edges, the faintest dusting of color rising in her cheeks. ]

Can a tamed wilderness be called a wilderness at all? It sounds much better than a 'tameness', I will admit. For who would ever leave the comfort of their bed to explore such a thing?

SOB YES PLEASE i feel like they could be thick as thieves

OH GOOD because I NEED HIM AND YOU IN MY LIFE. also look, hatter. EXCLAMATION POINTS OF EARNEST!!!

!!! YES TO ALL OF THIS runs to across a field of flowers

permavideo!

VOICE ➡ PERMAVIDEO

sob all the cr i didn't know i wanted

god I KNOW RIGHT oh my gosh i love it so much

cries storytime with hatter DAILY okay :c

me must make it so this is everything i have ever needed ;_;

wow alayne WAY TO BRING THE CREEPY TO STORYTIME orz

sob oh my god hatter's like o_________o WHO IS THIS GIRL

CLEARLY SOMEBODY THAT HE SHOULD BE FRIENDS WITH .__.

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SOB YES CLEARLY ;_;

LET'S PRETEND SHE DIDN'T HAVE THAT SUPER MOODY CONVERSATION JUST YET

DONE AND DONE

CRIES I LOVE THIS CR

GOD I JUST WANT TO ROLL IN IT FOREVER

CHALLENGE: ACCEPTED