(third stake) video ✧ unseelie only

[herotypical]

[ bless her, she comes from a time before the selfie was adequately popularized. and yet buffy summers seems to have an instinctive knack for propped her locket up on her palm and holding it just so -- capturing her own ennui-stamped face in one corner and (over her shoulder) introducing the world to pretty little winter-blanketed river scene. one might assume she's in the vicinity of land carved out for his baronliness archer's spire and forts. hah. spire and forts. hello, innuendo.

anyway. she exhales with a puff of her cheeks and stares down the locket. you'd almost think there was no war at all by how little attention she pays it. purposefully, buffy seems to be ignoring the court drama as best she can. running away -- sour, perhaps, for a number of reasons. ] Some of you might've met-chatted-made-buddies with a girl named Dawn. She's gone. Sorry about that. [ and presumably that's why buffy looks like she's been mainlining angst straight into her veins.

otherwise: ] I need hammers. And...probably nails. Power drills will also be appreciated but I hear that might be a bit of a pipe-dream. We could also probably use pipes. I think.

See. This is why you gotta hate a war economy.

Oh! Those really really really big iron bar things. You know, the ones with the thin middles and the wide edges. The ones that co-star in all the wacky old school cool photoshoots hanging over city skylines...

[ but at least she's still bothering to help build unseelie fortifications. she's not ready to sally forth and kill, yet.

buffy's rambling. she tries to stop. except-- ] Wait! A few more things. Which one of you mooks is Professor Spaniard? The rest of you...I dunno -- be careful out there.
[ she went there. ]

Comments

[impathy]

Another woman once told me something not so different. [ A whore learns to see the man, not his garb, or she turns up dead in an alley.]

I do hope it's not true, however. I would hate for my eyes to speak of all my sinful pleasures.

[herotypical]

[ she pauses -- fistful of nails in play -- and stares at the locket like she's staring through it. ]

Crap. You too? Jeeze.

[ is she wearing some kind of giant sign that says chronic oversharers about your sins and your pleasures, come talk to me! or something like that? ]

[impathy]

All men, to be true. Perhaps we would be all better off to let the ravens have our eyes and our secrets with them.

[He is being equally flippant, however.]

[herotypical]

As long as Daniel Craig gets to keep his.

[ whatever. she goes back to plunking nails in a pail. to be honest, she hasn't had a proper look a the locket yet. not really. not enough to comment at least.

but she makes a bare introduction at long last: ] Buffy. Buffy Summers. And you are?

[impathy]

[Summers, he considers the name. It sounded like a bastard name if he ever heard one and so deepened his suspicions.]

Tyrion of House Lannister. Not that I expect it means as much here as it does at home.

[herotypical]

Does it? Mean much...back home? Back in your home?

[ because he's right -- it means nothing to her. ]

[impathy]

Oh, quite a lot, as it happens. "As rich as a Lannister" is a common enough phrase. My own nephew was a king, before I killed him.

[There is something wicked in his grin, but it does not reflect in his eyes.]

[herotypical]

Where I come from, that's not really something we like to brag about.

[ there is a mild note of alarm in her voice. ]

[impathy]

Falsely accused. You'll forgive me for neglecting to mention that. Most people do.

[herotypical]

Slow down, OJ. [ huff. wow. someone could use a side of sweet with all that bitter. ] It's still kind of a third-conversation topic. You know what I'm saying?

[ and yet curiousity gets the better of her: ] Who really did it?

[impathy]

A spider's bite, perhaps. Or a prick of a thorny rose. Or perhaps a bird shat in his pie. It could have been a wolf that savaged him, though I have also heard that lions are known to kill their own. Who could say? Not I.

What sort of land does your Lord Archer possess? [He suddenly felt no more need to talk of Joffrey anymore.]

[herotypical]

[ riddles. wow. how edgy. buffy isn't about to behave lightly in the face of suggested murder, but she can't help but roll her eyes just a little. could this guy be any more pretentious?

sharply: ] He's not a lord. He's -- whatever, the imps call him Baron now.

[ she just calls him archer. ]

[impathy]

Are there... many imps with your Baron?

[His contempt for the imps are evident. He does not want them around as reminders.]

[herotypical]

Oodles.

[impathy]

... perhaps Treun will be more to my liking. It's a long trip, but it seems to be as far as I can get from those creatures without swimming.

[herotypical]

What -- not a fan?

[ she isn't much of a fan either. but that's mostly because all these ones around archer's spire seem really...focussed on him. a little creepily loyal, she thinks.

and one of them keeps trying to trip her. ]

[impathy]

Not that I last noticed, no.

[Not that he understood the question at all.]

[herotypical]

[ well! ]

Treun's probably your better bet, anyway. As previously mentioned: the Baron's an ass. Stay far away. Far far away. Do yourself a favour.

[ and yet here she stayed. glutton for punishment. ]

[impathy]

But is he a clever ass?

[herotypical]

More idiot-savant than clever.

[impathy]

Even an idiot can have his uses. [But only if they are malleable. To have to deal with another Joffrey... no, he won't even entertain the idea.]

[herotypical]

Speaking from experience, are we?

[ she's probably trying to insinuate that he's an idiot. but frankly? she doesn't have the gumption to give it the full snark it requires. ]

[impathy]

I have known a fair few, yes. I will keep him in mind. Caer Scima is a comfortable castle, but I do not love the decor and Treun is a terribly long distance away.

[herotypical]

The decor does royally suck, doesn't it?

[ her fort is gonna have a skylight. get in on this action while you still can, bro. ]

[impathy]

I do not place much trust in a place that is so shrouded in darkness that you cannot be certain if the place is filthy or merely shadowed. A bit of bloody sunlight would not be unwelcome.