Call me Out

[dammitmasa]

Faded characters are currently inactive. Please do not call them out!

Ronon Dex Stargate: Atlantis chewie	Wolverine X-Men (films) lumberjackman	Jack Horner Fables originaljackass	Ganondorf Legend of Zelda dragmire	Xander Harris BtVS xandman
Gendry Game of Thrones bullhorned	Carver Hawke Dragon Age anotherstory	Iskander Fate/Zero conquershearts	Isabela Dragon Age sixthings	Tyrion Lannister Game of Thrones impathy
Avatar Wan Legend of Korra hadwanjob	Ling Yao Fullmetal Alchemist avaricious	John Stewart DC Animated brightestday	Samurai Goroh F-Zero hageshii	Hakoda Avatar: TLA hakoda
Lilly Pendragon Suikoden fortinto	Nathan Drake Uncharted selfnnamed	Will Turner PotC pirateblood	Zelos Wilder Tales of Symphonia wilderchoice	Arthur Pendragon Merlin (BBC) arturius

Full Journal List

code by cawaii
- Refer to the list above for an active muse. -
- To call them out, put their name in the subject line. -
- Prose or commentspam are fine! -
- Start with a scenario or give a prompt for one you'd like to see.

Preferences:
- I don't play for shipping, fluff, or smut. If it arrives naturally, I'll play it. But not as a starting point.
- In universe, AUs, crossovers, post-game, or other situations are cool.
- I will play prose or brackets, but definitely prefer prose.

Comments

> will turner

[whitby]

Here foundered the Neptune's Lady -- her sails in tatters and her mainmast split. Her crew was spread massacred across the deck, guts spilled and heads smashed. A few cried feebly for their mothers or their lovers or for unavenged wrongs. And their captain -- a woman with wild black hair and a slight figure easily mistaken for a boy's -- was slumped across the wheel. They had all watched her fall, a thick splinter of wood dug deep in her side. And they took a strange comfort in knowing she had died with them.

Except...she hadn't. Hadn't yet, really. For she was no mere captain. No simple human, prone to bleeding out and passing on from such a wound. No -- as twilight settled and as the Dutchman came, Captain Robin Whitby clung to life long after her crew had died. For she was a Slayer, and she wasn't yet ready to pass on her torch.

[pirateblood]

To mortal men, this ship would long be lost. No crew, good or ill, would come upon the Lady while it still lingered above the waves. The bodies of sailors were flipped over and checked for signs of life. Each time one was checked, a voice would rally back, "Gone, captain" or "Passed on, this one" and so on. All but one, an older man who found a boy bowed over the captain's wheel. Too young to be a captain, the man figured, but still alive. A cabin boy, he would wager.

"This one's still breathing, Captain."

A set of footsteps approach and a man all in black approached. He had no heartbeat and his steps made hardly a sound. When he was standing before the wheel, the older man pulled back the boy by the scruff of 'his' coat, so the captain could see the last living sailor.

The young captain had only one question. "Do you fear death?"

[whitby]

Whitby's head lolled back; she groaned. Her lips parted and she coughed, but thankfully no blood bubbled with her breath. But Christ above and the devil below, did she ever hurt! Searing pain and proof of live deep into her nerves, lighting her up. Making her sigh.

Her eyes found his. A smile twitched on her lips, for she understood who this man was and would take sweet pleasure in denying him another soul. "Darling," she drawled in an accent that might have once been British but had since been muddied by travel, "I am death. Can't hardly fear myself, now, can I?" And with a second cough, she wrestled herself free.

The woman -- for she was undeniably one now that she stood on her own feet and pulled the hair back from her face -- was pressing two fingers most gingerly against her wounded side. Blood stuck her shirt to her skin and her coat to her shirt, but the hole had closed up. Even so, the organs felt tender below. It would take a while, she supposed, to heal fully.

[pirateblood]

The Captain exchanged looks with the older man who was still keeping her steady. But now that she had been heard, the crew remained wary and concerned.

"A woman," said one of them. "Bad luck to keep her aboard, Captain. Even on the Dutchman."

Another was quick to agree. "Let her die here. You can ferry her soul like the others. There's no need for her to be aboard the ship."

The captain listened, but he shook his head. "The offer remains, darling." He repeated her affectation with no small amount of sarcasm. Dying or dead or even death itself, she belonged to him right now. That was Calypso's law of the ocean. "A hundred years service on the Dutchman or to whatever fate lies before you in the next life."

[whitby]

She continued to behave as though she was barely concerned with the wound -- certainly, this was the case now that she had given it a perfunctory examination and found herself still somewhat-steady.

"How sorry I am to disappoint you lads, but I won't be doing any dying. Not any time soon." But her voice began to die off as she saw further than her own belly. Bloody hell...

"My ship! What the hell've you done to my ship!" Now, she pressed a little more strength into her escape efforts -- keen to barrel herself at the Dutchman's captain. Tackle him, if she must.

[pirateblood]

The older man fought his best to restrain her, but even this weakened woman was proving to be more than enough for him to hold. All the same, the captain did not flinch of move to defend himself. A finely crafted blade was at his side, but he did not reach for it.

My ship, he pondered. That would make her the captain. He knew better than to smile, but it made him remember fondly the last Pirate King. A woman.

"The Dutchman does not sink ships, miss. Whatever brought your ship to ruin is not of my making."

Jack Horner

[spirit_says_so]

[To say "I told you so" would be beneath Raven, but it doesn't stop him for thinking it hard in the direction of one Jack Horner. This is what happens when you put all of a vast fortune into one small container with a handle. This is what happens when you gloat about said fortune to anyone who will listen. And this is what happens when you take your eyes off that fortune in its cozy little portable home for more than twenty seconds. It goes missing and you're left with nothing.

Raven does little to hide the annoyance in his voice.]

You misplaced your briefcase? You wanna run that by me again?

[originaljackass]

Gary misplaced it! Not me!

[It was always easy to blame Gary. Even more so now that his pudgy little buddy had lost all his powers in his inexplicable adventure with Snow White and Bigby. But now they were in this run down hotel, because Jack had refused to use any of the gold in his briefcase to pay for anything ritzier.

And they didn't have any more money for another night.]

I left it with him because there was a hot babe at the pool in need of directions. Was I supposed to just take it with me?

[spirit_says_so]

Why didn't you ask me to watch it? I would have.

[As if the answer wasn't obvious enough.]

[originaljackass]

[Jack simply stared at Raven with a look that suggested exactly why he didn't leave it with Raven.]

[spirit_says_so]

[Raven chose not to address that, opting instead to get back to the topic at hand.]

Does Gary have any idea what might have happened to it? I assume that's why you sent him to explain our situation to the front desk?

[Either that or Jack was using the Pathetic Fallacy as a scapegoat while he and Raven made their escape. Raven assumed it was the latter, but given Jack's inexplicable fondness for the older literal, Raven could never be sure. Presumably Jack would say one way or the other eventually.]

[originaljackass]

What do you take me for? Leaving poor Gary to that fate? He's simply agreed to stay here in the owner's good graces until we return to pay. Honest to God.

[Jack put a hand over his chest, but not over his heart.]

And since that young lady last night is also responsible for this, I borrowed these.

[He tossed a bundle of car keys to Raven.]

Shotgun.

> gendry

[steeledskin]

Petyr had warned her to stay away from the sky cells. They are not for ladies; the last remaining cornerstone of Winterfell need not concern herself with common prisoners. He resented how she'd learned, over time, that visiting the Eyrie's unique prison architecture bought her time away from Robin. Away from the rest of the household. Away from Petyr himself, when he was more Littlefinger than Petyr.

But the cells afforded her more than simple freedom. They gave her a cause, and sitting sedately in the antechamber to the cellblock halls, she prayed over Petyr's growing number of miscreants and pawns. For not all of them were criminals, some were kept because of their usefulness. It made her feel useful the way she'd felt useful during the Battle of the Blackwater, calming her fellow gentlewomen and leading them solemnly in hymn. Charity, she supposed, was the Lady of the Eyrie's right and privilege.

Lately, Petyr resented her ministrations all the more. More impressively, Sansa knew why: the young man in the fourth cell from the eastern corner was Robert Baratheon's natural born son. She wouldn't say how she'd learned it, but she'd become oh-so-good at blending into the woodwork. It was marvellous what one could overhear.

Tonight, she peeked through the bars on the bastard's cell door. Mord the guard was deep asleep near the fire two short halls away, and she had a fledgling hope to satisfy. Sansa didn't need to stand on her tip toes to look at the bundle of prisoner huddled in the cell's corner.

Tentatively, she rapped her knuckles against the door.

[bullhorned]

Gendry might have had a laugh if he knew that the one who led him into the Vale was his own step-sister. But for the past two weeks, he'd had a cold and unhappy cell facing nothing but clouds. On a clear day, he'd see the ground below. His time had given an uncomfortable amount of time to reflect on things. Like how he ended up back in the Brotherhood, despite them having sold him before. When they saw him again, they slapped him on the back, welcome him back, and declared that the Red God had a better future than what the sorceress had intended.

An ill thought attempt at trying to make common cause with the mountain clansmen had gone sour when they were taken by knights of the Vale. Some were taken as prisoners. The clansmen were all put to the sword. And Gendry...

The man who caught sight of Gendry remembered him. And Gendry remembered that man. A trusted friend of the Hand of the King. King Robert's Hand. The first one. Not the traitorous one. And that had led him here. In the corner of the room staring at the great abyss and once again wondering if it would be easiest to just simply walk into it.

Then there was the familiar rap along the door. He didn't avert his gaze.

"Come to keep me company again, have you? I don't suppose you brought a blanket this time, did you?"

[steeledskin]

"No."

Her answer was simple. It painted a broad stroke across her real meaning: he would know if I took one. Mya had asked her to look out for the new prisoner, as she could stay only long enough for a hot meal before turning to the Gates of the Moon. Sansa had been left wondering just what it would entail to look out for a man marked for Petyr's game. It made her watch him with pity upon her visits.

Funny how no matter how hard she tried, she could never make him look like a prince in her gaze. She willed it so, and wondered whether -- if things were different -- would she have been betrothed to him instead.

"But we had lamb at the table. Cook prepared it exquisitely, and I thought you might..." What? Enjoy some fine highborn fare? Her words faded, but she held a small metal bowl through the bars. Like coaxing a dog across a yard, really.

[bullhorned]

It was hard to have pride in a prison cell. Even harder when you grow up lowborn with no sense of what pride might even be. He stared at the food warily. The first time she'd offered him food, he'd eaten it hastily because he'd been forced to make do on a day's offering of gruel from his less than friendly jailkeeper.

Afterward, he'd expected it to be poison and at once point, he made himself so paranoid that he sat over the edge, expecting he would heave up the food at any moment.

Of course, that never happened, and he'd learned to trust Alayne's offerings. He took the bowl greedily and stuffed the delicious meat into his mouth. It was cold, but miles better than anything he ever had in Fleabottom.

"It's good," he said when he had swallowed enough to be able to speak. "Really good."

[steeledskin]

Her smile did not reach her eyes. Not that her eyes were easily seen in the dim torchlight of the hall, and with a gauzy scarf drawn lightly over her auburn hair -- shadowing her down to her nose.

"It isn't that special," she told him. "Everyone knows the best lambs are born in the height of summer. They're beginning to taste...blander."

Trivial conversation for a trivial girl.

[bullhorned]

"Well, shame that. I'd have had the sense to send it back had I known."

Gendry wasn't always one for sarcasm. But when it came, it was barbed with the bitterness of his situation. He found it a poor thing indeed when this place was worse for him than Harrenhal. Once more he found himself thinking he would have been that much better off if he truly had made it to the Wall.

"It's not likely I'll live long enough to see a summer lamb, much less to eat one."

Notice: This comment has been left intentionally blank.

[bookworldly]

> ronon

[herotypical]

She didn't have to patrol. Not anymore. These days, Buffy Summers -- Paramount Prophecy Girl and Slaymaster General -- had other girls to patrol for her. Hell, they needed the experience. But when the ever-accumulating paperwork and tricksome red tape of a new-born bureaucracy threatened all to overwhelm her, she escaped the stifling stone of Castle Summers. She took to the cobble streets of a small Scottish hamlet. She paced its side pavements until the comforting gloom of the boneyard greeted her at the town's far outer limits. The whole cemetery was raised from the one road leading out of town, and it stood in the shadow of a worn cathedral.

There were no fresh graves here. Everything on the cathedral's grounds had stood there for centuries. Even so, it gave her purpose. And you never know, she would off-handed tell Xander, there could be some serious reliquary jackpots under all that dirt. Someone's gotta make sure it's not getting pilfered.

So she walked between the old stones, hunched over as they were like old peoples' shoulders. Tilted and askew with time and weather and weight. She tested the give of the ground beneath her feet, and she talked out loud to the stars and to the pious statuary guarding the tombs of the graveyard's wealthier residents.

"Gee, Mister Featherton the Third," Buffy spoke to one particularly ornate stone -- fingers touching the carved name as she walked past and noted fresh flowers on the grave. "Someone cares about you. Surprising, seeing as how you died around the same time they invented the wheel."

Kids, she thought. Kids leaving wildflowers to scare other kids into believing ghost stories. But I know better, Buffy thought. I know the ghost stories are real.

[chewie]

Using a pair of night vision binoculars, the Satedean specialist watched as the blonde Slayer weaved her way from one grave to another. It was boring observation work, but you didn't approach just anyone about the fate of another galaxy without doing the proper homework first. With him was Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard of the United States Airforce. Both had received clearance from the British government to set up their own surveillance of Castle Summers, but only under the auspices of an MI6 agent who had filled an entire cabinet full of case files ever since the once abandoned castle had become occupied again.

Ronon didn't care about any of that. No, it had been talking to Riley Finn that had made him interested. This woman was a killer in every sense of the word. If what he heard was true, she'd even have given Teal'c, back when he still carried a symbiote, a run for his money. But she was still in her prime. Or so that's what he'd heard.

"You know, buddy, if this Wraith slaying thing doesn't work out for her, you could always go out on a date. Women love foreign guys." John's deadpan humor came with no smile, nor did he even look at Ronon to deliver the line.

"I'll pass," Ronon said. He looked to the MI6 Agent with them. She was a tightly wound kind of woman who seemed to be half special ops and half librarian. Apparently she was known to have connections to an organization known as the Watcher's Council before coming to work for the government's interests instead. Coincidentally around the same time a Goa'uld ship crashed into the Earth's ocean and was explained away as an unexpected meteor storm. "Did your people drop the package yet?"

She sat behind the hill, out of sight, and tabbed through her tablet to confirm the information. "The corpses should be en route soon."

John frowned. "Does any of this seem, I dunno, inhumane to you? I mean, sure, they're soulless corpse-demons doomed to walk the Earth. But the Irish one was pretty funny, even when he threatened to chew on my insides."

Ronon snorted. "If she's not the real deal, you can dust him yourself."

"Oh, well, thanks. I appreciate that."

[herotypical]

The night was looking uneventful. Buffy hadn't really expected it to be anything but; however, her validated expectation came with a note of disappointment. The younger girls had all the fun, lately -- though Buffy would never dare to call it fun to their faces. When addressing them, she had to be Miss Doom'n'Gloom. She had to remind them of their birthright, of the opportunity they had, and of how fortunate they were to all be exceptions to an ancient rule. We are no longer one -- we are many.

She spun a gnarled wooden stake in her palm, and she hummed a few lines from a Britney Spears song. And then she stopped. It was like being plunged into an ice-bath, or else having a parade of spiders walk up her spine. Either way, the sensation was an intimate one. She knew it better than she knew a dozen other common-place sensations. Some of the girls who were just learning how to hone their senses understood it as the same shiver you got when someone walked over the future plot of your grave. Buffy only knew it as the immediacy of the undead.

"Really? Tonight? Here?" She announced to the old oak shading this corner of the yard. But for all the annoyance in her words, her voice held a wicked kind of delight. A delight she'd deny, given half a chance.

A trio of vampires swaggered out of the mist. Buffy threw up her arms in mock surrender, practically seducing the first to charge in and grab for her neck. He was dust within moments, and the second two circled wider. They were not stupid like their friend; they didn't want to rush into a slaying.

And so the show began.

[chewie]

Once she was distracted by the vampires, Ronon was on the move. Sheppard tried to grab his friend to stop him, but it was too late. He scowled and stood up and reading his P90, following just behind, but not nearly so quickly as Ronon.

She's good. Ronon watched as she took down the vampires almost as if it were a dance. Teyla had a certain elegance to her style of combat, but only in hand to hand gainst other humans. She never fought like this against wraith. They were faster and stronger than her. But this Slayer seemed to move with the vampires as if they were the slower ones. She's toying with them.

One. Two. Three. They all evaporated into dust. But there had been four. The fourth one was older and cleverer than the other three. He'd been the most dangerous of the lot. He should probably let her fight him off. The vampire propelled itself off a grave through the air, sailing through the air to take her from behind. So Ronon fired a single shot.

You can't shoot vampires, Riley had told him. They only die if you stake them, decapitate them, or expose them to sunlight.

That's what Finn had said. He hadn't expected Ronon's gun to have the raw power to simply remove the vampire's head cleanly off its body. It exploded into dust. Somewhere far behind him, John was rolling his eyes and muttering, "Show off."

Ronon twirled the gun in his hands before holstering it again. He'd always liked to make an entrance. But then John had made the mistake of introducing him to Westerns while they were stranded on Earth.

[herotypical]

"Ugh...!"

The shot vampire -- whom Buffy certainly had missed and who certainly would have knocked her to the ground for at least a brief tussle -- had dusted into the wind, and most of that dust had spattered disgustingly onto her face and shoulders. And her hair, which she seemed genuinely upset about as she tried to furiously shake the remnants of her enemy from her high ponytail. "Wow. Interrupt, much?"

She fixed the gun-toting lug with a bit of a glare, barely registering his appearance beyond the hair and the gun. The freaking gun. Buffy tucked her stake into her back pocket and proceeded to waggle her finger at the gun's whole existence. "Don't you know this is a quiet neighbourhood? The crime rate is uber-low. Gunfire's gonna bring the bobbies down on us. Hard. Thanks for that, as if I haven't spent enough time in the local station."

[chewie]

"Bobbies?" he asked, suddenly having entirely lost the upper hand of their meeting.

Fortunately Sheppard caught up about then. He was disappointed to have missed the fighting and lowered his gun into a safety position. "She means police, big guy. It's a British-ism. For some reason."

Why can't this whole planet speak normal Alteran like the rest of the galaxy? But Ronon didn't dwell on Earth's oddities. "You don't need to worry about them. Those were good moves. Who taught you?"