The room you find yourself in resembles nothing so much as a personal office or study. Maybe even a small personal library. It's windowless, although there is a fire in a fireplace off to the side. There are photos on the mantlepiece of the fireplace. One one end there's one with a regally dressed Asian couple, holding the hands of a small girl dressed in wisps of gauze. On the other end there's one with a black woman, a white man in a Hawaiian shirt, and a baby girl that looks like both of them. The frames between them are filled with headshots of various people you probably don't recognize. There's a blank frame near the center.
The floor of the office is dark, heavy wood with a red carpet laid on top of it, one that shows a series of mountain ridges. The walls are paneled in dark wood as well, at least up to waist-height. After that, there's bookshelves built into those walls, crammed with heavy and official-looking leather volumes.
The room is dominated by a immensely solid desk of the same black wood. In front of it is a wooden stool upholstered in black leather. Behind it is an almost throne-like office chair, facing away from you. There's a golden nameplate that reads Hakan Caesar. A pair of coffee mugs sit on coasters to the side of it, steaming away and smelling very high quality. One of the mugs has a cartoon ram on it. The other reads: Liminal Space's Best Emperor.
Anakin is...baffled. And on edge. Last he was aware, he had passed away, become fully one with the Force. Leaving the galaxy in the trustworthy hands of his children and their friends. To be alive again, and in this accursed body no less...
But at least he is still himself. He still has the Force...and he has his right hand again. Small comfort. So, he carefully glances at the photographs, curious at how flat they appear to be. Some ancient form of portraits dating back to pre-holo technology, perhaps? This place certainly seems to pre-date most of the technology that he is familiar with, complete with actual books.
It feels...homely, if a bit quaint. With a heavy step, he approaches the desk, catching the familiar wiff of caf with his nose. And very high quality caf at that. Clearly, this is some kind of official's place that he's found himself in. "...normally, I would expect an invitation ahead of time," He snarks to himself.
"Unfortunately, Synodiporia rarely allows us to issue invitations."
The office chair swivels around to reveal a richly dressed man of indeterminate age. "Greetings, Anakin Skywalker," he intones. "I am the Emperor, numbered fourth of the Arcana."
He neither looks nor sounds anything like Palpatine, for what it's worth.
"Come. Sit. Please enjoy the caf. We have been able to heal you enough upon your revival so that you may remove your mask to eat without necessitating a hypobaric chamber."
He isn't surprised to be recognized by this man. He does, after all, have a reputation across the galaxy. He is, however, surprised to be called by his real name by this stranger. Not many are aware of that little bit of truth, or so he thought.
Still, he is most certainly not Palpatine in any way. Anakin would know I'd this was a relative or modified clone of that particular Emperor. Which is why he is sitting down into the chair in front of the desk. But he is still wary enough to not take off the helmet...yet.
"Forgive me, Emperor, but I do not currently recall how I came to be revived. Perhaps you can help provide some details...maybe to help restore my memory?" Because they must have some kind of advanced technology to do so, if they're claiming that they've also fixed his lungs issue enough where he can eat normally again. Though losing the memory due to trauma wouldn't surprise him, to be honest.
Shiro freezes, eyes darting around to every part of the room, looking for Galra, looking for an escape. Where is this? Nowhere in the Castle of Lions, that’s for sure. Where are the others? Where is Zarkon? What happened? His hand is empty – the bayard is gone. Well, he hasn’t needed it before. Holding his hand out behind him, he activates its powers, sheathing it in a purple glow. He won’t be caught off guard.
Partly crouched, he shifts silently across the carpet to investigate the fireplace briefly and then across to the desk. The grandiose opulence does not escape him – he’s military, he’s seen this sort of display before – nor does the notation on the mug. Emperor. Another emperor. What is going on? If there is anything in the desk, he wants to find it. He makes his way quietly around the side.
The chair turns, so that an opulently dressed Asian man is facing him. "Welcome, Takashi Shirogane, to my conversation space. I am the Emperor, numbered fourth among the Arcana."
He gestures to the coffee. "I have provided you a beverage and a chair for your comfort. It is time we two talked."
(By chair he likely means the stool in front of the desk.)
Shiro steps back instead of forward, standing tall and keeping his weapon low and generally unthreatening... but not powering it down. "Excuse me, but where are we? Why am I here?" he asks, polite, but tense. The... chair... is remaining un-sat upon for now thank you very much. He wants his mobility. And he doesn't trust the drink.
So Shinji's... not necessarily angry, as such, but he wouldn't say he's exactly pleased either. In any case, he's been stewing on some pretty serious what the hell WAS that since the dungeon.
Since before that, if you want to include a certain robot mouse pog's escapades.
Either way, he wasn't necessarily expecting it to amount to anything, and so finding himself in what has to be another of those conversation space things actually does throw him for a loop long enough to have a good look at the place. (Of course the picture of him's one of him cooking. Of course it is. At least it's not the disaster he ran into when he tried cooking for Lupa.)
...Emperor Emperor's got good taste in coffee, from the smell of it. Shinji'll give him that much.
The chair swivels around. "Ah, Shinjiro!" the Emperor says, hale and hearty. He picks up the 'BEST EMPEROR' mug and takes a sip, then indicates the mug with the cartoon ram. "Come. Sit. Enjoy your beverage. You do drink coffee, I hope."
"Sometimes." See, now he's not gonna sit down just because you told him to. Not yet, anyway. He'll get there eventually (no more graceful than the first time they talked, alas).
The library sets Hiroshi on edge for a moment, though on hindsight he's not sure whether it's because it reminds him of his first encounter with the horrors of the Jailhouse, or whether it's the suddenness of his arrival - or whether it's that nagging sense of familiarity he's been prone towards getting since that horrible night. Either way, it takes a moment for him to calm down and assess his setting properly. It's... curious, to say the least. It feels lived in, which is a relief. Still very strange, though. A dream, maybe? He doesn't remember falling asleep, though.
He approaches the desk. Immediately, a few things stand out to him: the nameplate, with a very peculiar name which seems to be a mixture of cultures. A mug, with a ram and a series of words which make sense individually, but less so put all together. And a stool, which he wonders if he's supposed to be sitting at. Most importantly, however, is that chair - which he suddenly has the feeling is occupied.
"...Excuse me? Is anybody there?" he asks, with only a slight bit of hesitation. This feels entirely too surreal. Perhaps it is just a dream.
The chair turns around and it seems there is someone there: an opulently dressed seemingly Chinese man in the prime of life. He folds his hands in front of him.
"Greetings, Hiroshi Yamane. I am the Emperor, numbered fourth among the Arcana, and this is my Conversation Space."
(Well. That at least explains the 'Emperor' part of Liminal Space's Best Emperor.)
That sure was a lot of words that make sense individually and not so much together.
He furrows his brow. "I have no small number of questions, but I suppose I should start with the most obvious: how do you know my name?" He's certainly never met YOU before.
It doesn't take long for Geralt to come to his senses, even as much as he hates the feeling of being teleported somewhere else. Last he remembered, he was alone in a strange desert land, and had been for some time, though it was impossible to tell how long. And now here he suddenly is, in a cozy little firelit room standing in front of a desk.
It also doesn't take long for Geralt to draw his sword in paranoia.
Some sort of elven magic, it must be - one of the Aen Elle? No, this does not look as airy and elegant as Tir ná Lia. A powerful sorcerer could pull such a working, and fashion such a place for himself. The plate on the desk says Hakan Caesar. "Name doesn't ring a bell," Geralt mutters to himself, almost as a confirmation of the fact in his portal-weary mind. Given that this being has Ciri's level of talent with the art, it's a little disturbing even if he doesn't recognize either name.
... the only other things he can think of that has Ciri's knack for teleportation are the Travelers' mysterious hosts. That can't be good, if they're suddenly taking an interest in him again.
"Show yourself," Geralt states to the room at large, turning slowly in a circle in front of the fire, both his catlike eyes and superhuman ears searching for a phantom attacker or an ambush.
Eliot glances around, head cocked to one side as he examines his surroundings. He's heard a few things, now, from other Travelers, and been warned what to expect. This must be the space of his Arcana - The Emperor, apparently. He's fairly familiar with tarot cards, though they're more hedge witch magic than anything else. Familiar enough that he's both amused by this choice and slightly puzzled by it. Eliot, after all, has never been much of a traditonalist.
"So am I here for the interview? I'm afraid I left my CV behind," he comments casually to the back of the chair.
"It is no matter," a voice replies as the leather chair turns. "I have already reviewed it."
The man who had been in the chair looks Asian and is opulently dressed. "Greetings, Eliot Waugh, High King of Fillory. I am the Emperor, numbered fourth among the Arcana, and this is my Conversation Space."
Kozmotis takes the shift in scenery in stride, and almost has to laugh at how almost familiar the office seems. Paler wood and greens instead of the red with a window overlooking the gardens and it could have been his back in Orion.
He shifts his stance a little, feet shoulder width apart and arms linked behind his back to wait. He's not the one in command here, the owner of the room is.
He's also clueless as to what the proper form of address to an Arcana is, so he stays silent and waits. While he does, he tries to make heads or tails of whatever his ability to read fear will tell him.
The leather chair turns, revealing an opulently dressed Earthling man (or a man who appears to be an Earthling, which is more likely.)
"Greetings Kozmotis Pitchiner. I am the Emperor, numbered fourth among the Arcana, and this is my Conversation Space."
(This man is not without his fears. Can Kozmotis read them closely enough to have a hint of what they are or just that they exist and are present in a muted fashion, like worries in the back of the mind?)
This time, at least, Susan is...a little prepared.
Only a little.
But she has, at least, heard about this. And when the shock and the alarm of suddenly appearing somewhere else, she crosses her arm and glares at the room around her. It's not really as impressive or as intimidating as her older self's glares, but well, she makes a good effort.
"Where are you?" she demands. "Don't you know that it's rude, sticking people in different places like this without any warning?"
The office chair swivels around. "That is why you have been given a chair and a beverage, Susan Sto Helit," an opulently dressed man who looks to be from the Agatean Empire says. "We understand mortals like such things--although you are not altogether mortal, are you?" he adds, peering at her.
"In any case, welcome. I am the Emperor, numbered fourth among the Arcana, and this is my Conversation Space."
Sansa is no longer startled and frightened by being whisked away to strange places, courtesy of her long time spent as a Traveler. However- something feels different this time. It only takes a glance at the mantle to piece together exactly why, and she finds herself standing nearby it, staring at the photographs with a frown spread across her face- particularly the one with the couple upon it. She knows them.
"Ah!" a voice says, as the office chair swivels around to reveal the male half of the regal looking couple. "Sansa Stark! It is good to see you. I always thought it was a pity that you went out of ambit so soon after I Chose you. As you may have guessed, I am the Emperor, numbered fourth among the Arcana, and this is my Conversation Space."
A portal opens in the Emperor's space, and two intruders step through. Matthew comes through first, immediately looking around curiously at their surroundings.
They move towards the coffee mugs, picking up one and raising an eyebrow at the inscription. (Isn't he Liminal space's only Emperor?)
Riddick takes the room in, eyes the coffee mug Matthew's nabbed, then dismisses it. If it isn't the Trump, he doesn't care. He just looks up at the ceiling and said, "Hey. Emperor. Gotta have a chat with you."
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IV. The Emperor
The floor of the office is dark, heavy wood with a red carpet laid on top of it, one that shows a series of mountain ridges. The walls are paneled in dark wood as well, at least up to waist-height. After that, there's bookshelves built into those walls, crammed with heavy and official-looking leather volumes.
The room is dominated by a immensely solid desk of the same black wood. In front of it is a wooden stool upholstered in black leather. Behind it is an almost throne-like office chair, facing away from you. There's a golden nameplate that reads Hakan Caesar. A pair of coffee mugs sit on coasters to the side of it, steaming away and smelling very high quality. One of the mugs has a cartoon ram on it. The other reads: Liminal Space's Best Emperor.
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But at least he is still himself. He still has the Force...and he has his right hand again. Small comfort. So, he carefully glances at the photographs, curious at how flat they appear to be. Some ancient form of portraits dating back to pre-holo technology, perhaps? This place certainly seems to pre-date most of the technology that he is familiar with, complete with actual books.
It feels...homely, if a bit quaint. With a heavy step, he approaches the desk, catching the familiar wiff of caf with his nose. And very high quality caf at that. Clearly, this is some kind of official's place that he's found himself in. "...normally, I would expect an invitation ahead of time," He snarks to himself.
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The office chair swivels around to reveal a richly dressed man of indeterminate age. "Greetings, Anakin Skywalker," he intones. "I am the Emperor, numbered fourth of the Arcana."
He neither looks nor sounds anything like Palpatine, for what it's worth.
"Come. Sit. Please enjoy the caf. We have been able to heal you enough upon your revival so that you may remove your mask to eat without necessitating a hypobaric chamber."
He takes the mug with writing on it for himself.
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Still, he is most certainly not Palpatine in any way. Anakin would know I'd this was a relative or modified clone of that particular Emperor. Which is why he is sitting down into the chair in front of the desk. But he is still wary enough to not take off the helmet...yet.
"Forgive me, Emperor, but I do not currently recall how I came to be revived. Perhaps you can help provide some details...maybe to help restore my memory?" Because they must have some kind of advanced technology to do so, if they're claiming that they've also fixed his lungs issue enough where he can eat normally again. Though losing the memory due to trauma wouldn't surprise him, to be honest.
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Partly crouched, he shifts silently across the carpet to investigate the fireplace briefly and then across to the desk. The grandiose opulence does not escape him – he’s military, he’s seen this sort of display before – nor does the notation on the mug. Emperor. Another emperor. What is going on? If there is anything in the desk, he wants to find it. He makes his way quietly around the side.
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He gestures to the coffee. "I have provided you a beverage and a chair for your comfort. It is time we two talked."
(By chair he likely means the stool in front of the desk.)
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Since before that, if you want to include a certain robot mouse pog's escapades.
Either way, he wasn't necessarily expecting it to amount to anything, and so finding himself in what has to be another of those conversation space things actually does throw him for a loop long enough to have a good look at the place. (Of course the picture of him's one of him cooking. Of course it is. At least it's not the disaster he ran into when he tried cooking for Lupa.)
...Emperor Emperor's got good taste in coffee, from the smell of it. Shinji'll give him that much.
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"What the hell was that?"
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He approaches the desk. Immediately, a few things stand out to him: the nameplate, with a very peculiar name which seems to be a mixture of cultures. A mug, with a ram and a series of words which make sense individually, but less so put all together. And a stool, which he wonders if he's supposed to be sitting at. Most importantly, however, is that chair - which he suddenly has the feeling is occupied.
"...Excuse me? Is anybody there?" he asks, with only a slight bit of hesitation. This feels entirely too surreal. Perhaps it is just a dream.
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"Greetings, Hiroshi Yamane. I am the Emperor, numbered fourth among the Arcana, and this is my Conversation Space."
(Well. That at least explains the 'Emperor' part of Liminal Space's Best Emperor.)
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He furrows his brow. "I have no small number of questions, but I suppose I should start with the most obvious: how do you know my name?" He's certainly never met YOU before.
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It also doesn't take long for Geralt to draw his sword in paranoia.
Some sort of elven magic, it must be - one of the Aen Elle? No, this does not look as airy and elegant as Tir ná Lia. A powerful sorcerer could pull such a working, and fashion such a place for himself. The plate on the desk says Hakan Caesar. "Name doesn't ring a bell," Geralt mutters to himself, almost as a confirmation of the fact in his portal-weary mind. Given that this being has Ciri's level of talent with the art, it's a little disturbing even if he doesn't recognize either name.
... the only other things he can think of that has Ciri's knack for teleportation are the Travelers' mysterious hosts. That can't be good, if they're suddenly taking an interest in him again.
"Show yourself," Geralt states to the room at large, turning slowly in a circle in front of the fire, both his catlike eyes and superhuman ears searching for a phantom attacker or an ambush.
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"Greetings, Geralt of Rivia. I am the Emperor, numbered fourth among the Arcana, and this is my Conversation Space."
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"So am I here for the interview? I'm afraid I left my CV behind," he comments casually to the back of the chair.
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The man who had been in the chair looks Asian and is opulently dressed. "Greetings, Eliot Waugh, High King of Fillory. I am the Emperor, numbered fourth among the Arcana, and this is my Conversation Space."
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Re: IV. The Emperor
He shifts his stance a little, feet shoulder width apart and arms linked behind his back to wait. He's not the one in command here, the owner of the room is.
He's also clueless as to what the proper form of address to an Arcana is, so he stays silent and waits. While he does, he tries to make heads or tails of whatever his ability to read fear will tell him.
Re: IV. The Emperor
"Greetings Kozmotis Pitchiner. I am the Emperor, numbered fourth among the Arcana, and this is my Conversation Space."
(This man is not without his fears. Can Kozmotis read them closely enough to have a hint of what they are or just that they exist and are present in a muted fashion, like worries in the back of the mind?)
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Only a little.
But she has, at least, heard about this. And when the shock and the alarm of suddenly appearing somewhere else, she crosses her arm and glares at the room around her. It's not really as impressive or as intimidating as her older self's glares, but well, she makes a good effort.
"Where are you?" she demands. "Don't you know that it's rude, sticking people in different places like this without any warning?"
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"In any case, welcome. I am the Emperor, numbered fourth among the Arcana, and this is my Conversation Space."
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They move towards the coffee mugs, picking up one and raising an eyebrow at the inscription. (Isn't he Liminal space's only Emperor?)
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