And What is the Time?
Nov 17, 2008 19:36:08 GMT -5
Post by Erique Khorzescu on Nov 17, 2008 19:36:08 GMT -5
This was a bit different and presented a set of slight problems.
For one, in his own place and time, he only stood out due to his height, and most folk ignored that. But here, not only were the average heights of people considerably less making him even more abnormal, the air was also cleaner and no one wore masks or eye protection or rebreathers. They did not have mechanical body parts, and he was acutely aware of his silvery hand.
He was drawing stares and so he ducked into the Foyer of the familiar and entirely different opera to have a look around.
It seemed smaller than his own Opera, and much more...or much less...something. The colors were different, perhaps. More saturated. The scents were sharper and dustier, less metallic, even through the vents of his face piece.
He pulled a heavy copper timepiece from his coat pocket and glowered at the pearl face, the hands frozen and the mechanisms stopped, unwound. He could feel that the springs inside were snapped, probably from his rather violent landing, and the thing would need repair, but for now he simply tucked it away again and passed around the great hall, listening to what people had to say--at least they still spoke recognizable French, most of them.
Information must be gathered before he could begin to move. What did these people know about the rift, how to get him back to his own place? That was his chief concern, and barring that...what sort of wealth was to be had, what names to be known, how strong was the police force, how capable the inspectors...these were of more interesting import, and while he doubted he would hear anything about these matters inside the opera, there should be enough going on to keep him amused until he could settle.
A bal masque? A performance? A rehearsal? Anything at all.
For one, in his own place and time, he only stood out due to his height, and most folk ignored that. But here, not only were the average heights of people considerably less making him even more abnormal, the air was also cleaner and no one wore masks or eye protection or rebreathers. They did not have mechanical body parts, and he was acutely aware of his silvery hand.
He was drawing stares and so he ducked into the Foyer of the familiar and entirely different opera to have a look around.
It seemed smaller than his own Opera, and much more...or much less...something. The colors were different, perhaps. More saturated. The scents were sharper and dustier, less metallic, even through the vents of his face piece.
He pulled a heavy copper timepiece from his coat pocket and glowered at the pearl face, the hands frozen and the mechanisms stopped, unwound. He could feel that the springs inside were snapped, probably from his rather violent landing, and the thing would need repair, but for now he simply tucked it away again and passed around the great hall, listening to what people had to say--at least they still spoke recognizable French, most of them.
Information must be gathered before he could begin to move. What did these people know about the rift, how to get him back to his own place? That was his chief concern, and barring that...what sort of wealth was to be had, what names to be known, how strong was the police force, how capable the inspectors...these were of more interesting import, and while he doubted he would hear anything about these matters inside the opera, there should be enough going on to keep him amused until he could settle.
A bal masque? A performance? A rehearsal? Anything at all.