There is light, suddenly, flickering warmth, and the teeth-gnawing sensation of crackling fire, and Malin's first reaction is to curl up more tightly and hide her face against the sudden intrusion of brightness. Her ears move, catching sound and sonar waves, and when she finally looks up and blinks, she doesn't bother to try and keep her tongue from darting out and adding its own sensations of taste, scent and vibrations to that.
As her eyes get used to the light and she looks around properly, she shrinks back and then scrambles to her feet quickly. She doesn't know this room, she's definitely never been here, and she has no idea how they even brought her here. They must have flooded the room with some kind of strong anaesthetic. Also who the hell puts a fire as big as that into their wall. ...And what is that kind of style. Someone here is really obsessed with the number thirteen, though to be fair there are many spleens among Kindred that are much worse than that.
For the moment though, she will move away from the fireplace and towards the other end of the room as she waits for whomever she was brought here to meet and likely be humiliated or otherwise tortured by.
"I do not know if it will help, but the fire is merely an illusion. It does not burn. It merely provides light and warmth. But I understand biological functions might outweigh logic."
The room suddenly has a man dressed in a nice suit with a white tie - the type of suit one might find at a Swedish funeral. He sits on one of the thirteen chairs, furthest from Malin.
"Please, have a seat. I mean you no harm. Might I get you anything? I admit my usual offer of a drink might not apply to you. But if you require vitae, I might be able to scrounge something up."
Malin flinches when there's suddenly a person and has to force herself to not take another step back and just stand still, and then - she pauses, her tongue moving forth and back hectically as she stares at him. It's not the part where he seemed to appear out of nowhere that surprises her, or even his style; both are common enough eccentricities among the Kindred she knows. No. It's the part where he doesn't seem to be Kindred at all.
Not mortal, either, no, but not a vampire, and that's unexpected. Not impossible, though, and she eyes him warily as she shakes her head in silence. Nothing good comes out of offers this early into... anything, really, and offers in general are to be distrusted, she has found.
She does pull out a chair and sit down though, because sitting on chairs makes her feel a bit more like a person again and why should she not get what niceties she can out of those encounters? It'll soon enough deteriorate, she knows that much from experience, and keeps tabs on him and their surroundings as much as she can. At least she has a wide variety of finely tuned senses these days.
The man raises an eyebrow, but says nothing for a moment, letting Malin settle into her chair. "I am no Fae," he answers finally, "nor demon, nor mage, nor am I any creature you might understand from your world. You may call me Mortimer, if you like, or Death." He shrugs. "Or any of the many other names I've used throughout the cycles."
"Charming name," she comments in place of something more intelligent to say. It's kind of suspicious that he is so quick to deny to be those things specifically - not that she necessarily understands them, she has a vague idea of wild ones and mages existing and feels like demons might just be a name for something, if that. But it's an odd place to start with. "So what are you, if claim to be nothing I might know?"
"An Arcanum," he answers simply, folding his hands together in a thoughtful gesture. "We are... certain ideas. Certain meanings. We take on humanoid forms, mostly, for the benefit of mortal senses."
"We are engaged in a tournament. The winner of this tournament will be able to decide the rules for the next tournament, including what to do with all the people who have been brought here - including you."
He rests his head on his hand, massaging his temple a little as if fighting off a headache. "We, being me and sixteen others, did not personally bring you to Liminal Space. You were chosen at random from a pool of candidate sentiences. That was a rule the previous winner, Fortune, imposed... but Fortune is dead, now. We cannot change the rules as they stand until this round is completed. I am hoping you can help me win this round so I can put a stop to the this. Permanently."
"I plan on sending you and the others on your merry way. You can go wherever you like - your home, a new world where you can start a new life, a friend's world... you could want to go to the Fire Swamp for all I care. I'd let you go, if that is what you wanted."
"Remain yourself, mostly. I chose you because you fit my idiom well."
Death pauses, his fingers clasping together, and he frowns. "I really am sorry I can do nothing more than encourage you. It is in the rules by which I and my brethren are bound that we cannot go into specifics. But I will answer whatever other questions I can."
"...I fit your idiom well? What does that mean?" She bites back the even mean, but it's still in the tone, as much as she wishes it hadn't been there.
She's not going to point out that her being herself won't help him very much. She won't be able to do much, only hide in the shadows and hope to remain unseen, and somehw survive. Let him believe that she'll be useful, that is important.
"I am unaware how much you know of the Tarot. But it is an apt enough simulacrum of me and my kind. The Tarot has been used for divination as a representation of certain... concepts, ideals. In other words, an idiom. I am Death's idiom as much as Death is my idiom, miss Lindberg."
He waits for that to sink in, then adds cautiously, "Are you sure there's nothing I can get you?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
As her eyes get used to the light and she looks around properly, she shrinks back and then scrambles to her feet quickly. She doesn't know this room, she's definitely never been here, and she has no idea how they even brought her here. They must have flooded the room with some kind of strong anaesthetic. Also who the hell puts a fire as big as that into their wall. ...And what is that kind of style. Someone here is really obsessed with the number thirteen, though to be fair there are many spleens among Kindred that are much worse than that.
For the moment though, she will move away from the fireplace and towards the other end of the room as she waits for whomever she was brought here to meet and likely be humiliated or otherwise tortured by.
no subject
The room suddenly has a man dressed in a nice suit with a white tie - the type of suit one might find at a Swedish funeral. He sits on one of the thirteen chairs, furthest from Malin.
"Please, have a seat. I mean you no harm. Might I get you anything? I admit my usual offer of a drink might not apply to you. But if you require vitae, I might be able to scrounge something up."
no subject
Not mortal, either, no, but not a vampire, and that's unexpected. Not impossible, though, and she eyes him warily as she shakes her head in silence. Nothing good comes out of offers this early into... anything, really, and offers in general are to be distrusted, she has found.
She does pull out a chair and sit down though, because sitting on chairs makes her feel a bit more like a person again and why should she not get what niceties she can out of those encounters? It'll soon enough deteriorate, she knows that much from experience, and keeps tabs on him and their surroundings as much as she can. At least she has a wide variety of finely tuned senses these days.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
And how does that relate to her being here? Just to have a pleasant chat about his nature? Surely not.
no subject
"We are engaged in a tournament. The winner of this tournament will be able to decide the rules for the next tournament, including what to do with all the people who have been brought here - including you."
He rests his head on his hand, massaging his temple a little as if fighting off a headache. "We, being me and sixteen others, did not personally bring you to Liminal Space. You were chosen at random from a pool of candidate sentiences. That was a rule the previous winner, Fortune, imposed... but Fortune is dead, now. We cannot change the rules as they stand until this round is completed. I am hoping you can help me win this round so I can put a stop to the this. Permanently."
no subject
"So what are you planning on doing with me and those others once the tournament is over?
Why yes that was a Princess Bride reference
no subject
She's not saying yes. She doubts that she'll get the chance to say yes or no, really. So she's just asking. She'd rather know what's expected of her.
no subject
Death pauses, his fingers clasping together, and he frowns. "I really am sorry I can do nothing more than encourage you. It is in the rules by which I and my brethren are bound that we cannot go into specifics. But I will answer whatever other questions I can."
no subject
She's not going to point out that her being herself won't help him very much. She won't be able to do much, only hide in the shadows and hope to remain unseen, and somehw survive. Let him believe that she'll be useful, that is important.
no subject
He waits for that to sink in, then adds cautiously, "Are you sure there's nothing I can get you?"
no subject
She shakes her head at the question, no, she'd really not accept anything from this guy. Just in case his blood is potent enough for a blood bond.