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exsiliumlogs2012-06-23 08:33 am
initiatesnpc) wrote in exsiliumlogs2012-06-23 08:33 am
TEMPORAL TURBULENCE: STONEHENGE&WOODSTOCK
Date & Time: 3089 B.C./1969 A.D.
Location: Assorted
Characters: Anders, Anora, Castiel, Lea, Mukhari, Nathaniel, Raven, Roslyn
Summary: Group #1's adventures spent lost in time.
Warnings: Drugs and hippie nudity?? (notify Elle or Liz of anything else worthy of labeling)
The mission was set. Team members were given their equipment: The cloaking devices would acclimate to the area and disguise them based on the historical data pulled in. There was a weapons check: The Initiative was insistent about having those chosen weapons along for the ride. Four operatives were introduced as beacons: They would stay in contact with the Initiative and relay any alterations in plans until the mission was deemed a success. And it had to be a success, or disaster would be the only thing left.
1890 A.D.
There was a man, not very well-known as far as famous men go. A writer. His existence alone was not the significant factor in the timeline's disturbance, but his profession and his choice to tell a particular, peculiar story.
This man, the Initiative states, helped sow the seeds for modern time travel centuries before its prime. What was a captivating fiction in that man's time was the reality of today, and without his account of the Time Traveler, there was risk of the very existence of so much. The recruits absolutely have a stake in this.
To the export room — the massive, rather bare and bleak place where so many were to exit and put a stop to what was putting a stop to the writer's tale. It was as yet unclear, but the Initiative is certain they'll know it when they see it, that it will be revealed once their reluctant soldiers set foot on ancient soil.
One last check, one last insistence on the urgency of their task. One, final urging to avoid as direct an impact as possible without ruining their chances; keep your temporal footprint as light as you can.
Good luck. We're counting on you.
A flash, a bitten-back breath, a blink...The room was gone.
But this wasn't right.
Out of the many who were assigned, only eight remained. Eight, and an Initiative's operative, who was immediately aware of a problem. A big problem.
STONEHENGE, 3089 B.C.
They had made it to England, all right, but far too soon. This was an ancient place, so far lost to history the cloaking devices struggled to attribute safe disguises. It was a cloudy place in the timeline, where the things they knew about it were things they were going to know about it: Those nine lost people were to bear witness to things never remembered, but often fantasized, of a monument so wildly famous in the future.
WOODSTOCK, 1969 A.D.
The Initiative's attempts to recalibrate and move its soldiers to the right place in time had another hiccup, and the nine were once again off the mark. An overshoot — nearly a century too far and an ocean away.
Luckily (or unfortunately), their issued technology quickly recovered to suit the time it had ample information on. Beads, tie-dye, hemp, denim...There were mountains of books on this time. This place. This mother of all music events.
From Stonehenge to stoners. It was hardly the smoothest of transitions.
Location: Assorted
Characters: Anders, Anora, Castiel, Lea, Mukhari, Nathaniel, Raven, Roslyn
Summary: Group #1's adventures spent lost in time.
Warnings: Drugs and hippie nudity?? (notify Elle or Liz of anything else worthy of labeling)
The mission was set. Team members were given their equipment: The cloaking devices would acclimate to the area and disguise them based on the historical data pulled in. There was a weapons check: The Initiative was insistent about having those chosen weapons along for the ride. Four operatives were introduced as beacons: They would stay in contact with the Initiative and relay any alterations in plans until the mission was deemed a success. And it had to be a success, or disaster would be the only thing left.
1890 A.D.
There was a man, not very well-known as far as famous men go. A writer. His existence alone was not the significant factor in the timeline's disturbance, but his profession and his choice to tell a particular, peculiar story.
This man, the Initiative states, helped sow the seeds for modern time travel centuries before its prime. What was a captivating fiction in that man's time was the reality of today, and without his account of the Time Traveler, there was risk of the very existence of so much. The recruits absolutely have a stake in this.
To the export room — the massive, rather bare and bleak place where so many were to exit and put a stop to what was putting a stop to the writer's tale. It was as yet unclear, but the Initiative is certain they'll know it when they see it, that it will be revealed once their reluctant soldiers set foot on ancient soil.
One last check, one last insistence on the urgency of their task. One, final urging to avoid as direct an impact as possible without ruining their chances; keep your temporal footprint as light as you can.
Good luck. We're counting on you.
A flash, a bitten-back breath, a blink...The room was gone.
But this wasn't right.
Out of the many who were assigned, only eight remained. Eight, and an Initiative's operative, who was immediately aware of a problem. A big problem.
They had made it to England, all right, but far too soon. This was an ancient place, so far lost to history the cloaking devices struggled to attribute safe disguises. It was a cloudy place in the timeline, where the things they knew about it were things they were going to know about it: Those nine lost people were to bear witness to things never remembered, but often fantasized, of a monument so wildly famous in the future.
The Initiative's attempts to recalibrate and move its soldiers to the right place in time had another hiccup, and the nine were once again off the mark. An overshoot — nearly a century too far and an ocean away.
Luckily (or unfortunately), their issued technology quickly recovered to suit the time it had ample information on. Beads, tie-dye, hemp, denim...There were mountains of books on this time. This place. This mother of all music events.
From Stonehenge to stoners. It was hardly the smoothest of transitions.
Sex, Drugs, & Rock 'n Roll
All around him were the sounds of singing, chanting, babies crying, and people engaged in intimate actions that in Nathaniel's opinion should occur in the bedroom, and not in front of thousands of people. Up on the stage was a band of long-haired, scruffy, men and women singing and making noises with various musical instruments in a manner that in Nathaniel's opinion should never, ever be classified as music.
He looked around himself, frowning. "These people came here voluntarily?"
no subject
A complete stranger touched her plaits and without warning started undoing them. Had she been back in Thedas, the man would probably have lost both hands. But here? There was nothing she could do save for jerk herself away, only to have her hair fall completely loose and another stranger crown her with a wreathe of purple violets. A topless woman had drawn her in uncomfortably close, and despite getting herself away from that mess she lost one of her shoes in the mud, there was mud covering her ankles, and had she had access to a mirror, she would have been appalled to see her looking progressively more like these...hobos.
Anora was never one for vanity, but she did pride herself in both acting and looking the part of queen, and this? This was unacceptable. Long blonde hair out of her usual style, a bare foot, flowers in her hair...she didn't want anyone from home seeing her.
And of course, with that sort of mentality it was only inevitable she would run into someone from home looking the way she did. She stopped a few paces when she heard Nathaniel's voice, her eyes widening briefly before narrowing to show her displeasure towards the entirety of this situation.
"It appears so. Maker knows why."
no subject
If he'd had his cloak with him, he would have draped it onto the ground for her to sit on -- Nathaniel is nothing if not a gentleman -- but he has to settle for brushing the grass down next to him and patting it invitingly. "Quite a lot of them seem to be smoking some sort of tobacco; perhaps it's having an effect on their judgment."
no subject
She doesn't look at him as she sat, but rather out at the ground before her, and it seemed as though her face was to be set in a permanent grown.
"That must be. I can't imagine anyone enjoying this without being one some sort of...substance." She tucked her legs underneath her, habitually brushing strands of her loose hair behind her ear.
"It smells horrid."
no subject