daisy, daisy, give me your answer do! i'm half crazy, all for the love of you!

[heavyhanded]

WHO: Martin Septim and Jaime Lannister
WHERE: outside the imPort housing
WHEN: an hour after this thread!
WARNINGS: PROBS NOT
SUMMARY: Some sort of horrible fantasy rendition of "who's on first", perhaps?? Or maybe just some identity confusion because man that guy sounds a whole lot like Eddard Stark.
FORMAT: quicklog

[ He doesn't know what to expect.

A rotting corpse, perhaps? Head tucked neatly under one arm? No, Jaime doubts that. This City may be marvelous, but nothing is so bizarre as that. Could Stark somehow be alive and intact? But— no, an entire kingdom couldn't have been fooled. Jaime hadn't been there himself, but he knows perfectly well the story of how the King's Hand lost his head.

So he waits grimly, arms folded across the golden armor of his chest (golden hand hidden under one arm, as it were), sword sheathed, and jaw set. Whatever it is on its way to see him, he'll deal with it however it needs dealing with, missing hand or no. ]

Comments

[septim]

[ Confusion is an understatement. There's annoyance, at not knowing what in the divines' names is going on, and anger, not sure why, but it's there, all churning in his stomach in a particularly unpleasant maelstrom.

Who, or what, is Stark? Martin clenches his teeth, fingers balled into fists at his side, cassock rustling furiously as he flies down the staircases to his destination, determined to put an end to this farce.

And so he arrives, to stare down at a golden-haired, golden-armored knight who seems to share his sentiment of displeasure at this situation. ] I wasn't beheaded. [ So Martin lowers his collar one-handed, showing that there's no scars or sutures anywhere around his neck. ]

[heavyhanded]

[ His left hand drops to his hilt as soon as Martin is in sight, eyes narrowed. But... no, that's not Ned Stark. No matter how he looks at him, it's undeniably another man. The voice is a perfect match, and should he close his eyes he'd swear up and down the Lord of Winterfell stood before him, but closed eyes is no way to go through life.

He looses his hold on the hilt slowly, reluctantly, but doesn't look any more pleased. ]

No, you weren't. [ A beat, and grudgingly: ] I'd confused you for another man. My apologies.

[septim]

[ Although Martin's expression softens into wariness, they're still not done. He dispels the wisp of fire formed on instinct in his palm as Jaime's hand moves away from his sword's hilt. ] You wanted to slay the man you thought I was. So tell me, should I fear for my life in this realm? [ Not that it'd be a change of pace from Tamriel. ]

[heavyhanded]

[ He'd been so intent on the man's face that he'd utterly missed the fire, and he only catches it when it snuffs out. He stares at Martin's hand, half disbelieving, but— no, later. There are more important matters.

He straightens and steps away from the wall, gloved hand and golden hand both falling to his sides. ]

You're no Eddard Stark, I see that now. And if you've no part in the war of my own world, then I take no issue with you. Fear the threat of some other man, if you must fear.

[septim]

Eddard Stark. [ Martin mulls over the name as if chewing on a tough piece of meat. ] I will remember that name.

[ There's no joy or pride in these words. ] I've already fought and won a war. I have no intentions to become involved in another. [ The image of this golden knight, with his golden armor and golden hair and golden hand, needs to burn into his mind, lest this issue resurfaces once more.

It's not the only thing that burns. His right hand clutches onto a fireball as if a lifeline. In a sense, it is—simple spells are a comfortable, relaxing focus, a sort of mental anchor for mages. ] Apology accepted. I don't need to make enemies in this strange realm.

[heavyhanded]

[ How is he supposed to ignore what might have been seen wrongly when Martin goes and does it again, and leaves so little question? Jaime's staring again, hand hovering near the hilt of his sword, for what little good it would do it were he to draw. ]

Then it's good I'm not inviting you into another war. [ He darts a glance to his face, then back down to the fire again. ] What trick is that?

[septim]

[ Yes, it's a good thing the Avatar of Akatosh isn't being invited into another war. ] Not a trick. [ Martin raises his hands, palms up, in front of him. In one hand the clutched fireball diminishes into a gentle flame, roaring and twisting softly, while his other houses a small thunderstorm, miniature bolts buzzing, crackling, building upon one another like the branches of a tree. ] Magic. I'm a mage.

[heavyhanded]

[ Okay, so maybe he'll look a little impressed. Just this once. And when he looks back to Martin's face again, although he hasn't exactly relaxed, the suspicion is gone. ]

Now I know you're no Stark. If any of them of Winterfell learned any of that, you'd see naught but ice and snow from the lot of them.

[septim]

[ Meanwhile, Martin doesn't see a point in not being relaxed, so his shoulders drop, a small smile tucking at the corner of his lips. This man is carrying a metal two-handed sword and wearing ornate, golden-colored metal armor, perfectly outfitted for his sparks to leap and dance, cooking him where he stood.

Not that he'd like that, mind you. ]

Winterfell, you say. [ Okay, so Martin's having a bit of fun with this, sue him. The flame and sparks hiss as they are snuffed out, replaced with a swirling sphere of ice and snow hovering above his palms, a thick icicle at its center. ] Frost is an excellent choice against soldiers. It slows them down and saps their stamina.

[heavyhanded]

[ His eyes dart back to the display again, and— alright, with that voice, that's almost eerie. Not to mention the casual mention of the use of this magic in warfare. Seems kinda like he was even more outclassed than he was a second ago, when all he was missing was a sword hand. ]

Aye, enough. [ He waves the good hand like it would dispel the ice. ] I've seen enough strange showing away for a day.

[ not like it makes him nervous or anything ok ]

[septim]

[ Martin closes his hands, ice storm shattering into a cloud of white smoke, then tucks his hands into his cassock's sleeve, the very model of a priest. ] Don't worry, I prefer my work as a healer. [ He chuckles lowly, meant in jest, not disdain. ] This is a strange realm. I've been confused for another man, told by a stranger that they wished I hadn't died so they could have slayed me, and then he doesn't even give me his name.

[heavyhanded]

[ He relaxes just a little when the magic disappears (still not sure if that's some trick, or... actually magic, but as long as it isn't being turned against him then it doesn't seem too pertinent), straightening and sweeping his hand through that golden hair. The living hand, of course. The golden hand's fingers curl too tightly for any hair-sweeping. ]

Jaime of house Lannister. [ He allows a smile, but it just looks wry. ] And you— Martin Septim, did you say? A name I'd judged invented, when first I heard it.

[septim]

[ House Lannister, a nobleman. ] Invented? [ No, the Septim surname is too notorious to invent. ] There was a time I didn't believe my surname either. I haven't been a Septim for most of my life, so Martin is just fine.

[heavyhanded]

[ Oh. That's a title? Well, "Septim" sounds an awful lot like "Septon", so he's just gonna assume they're the same. Plus some weird fire/ice/lightning magic. ]

Martin, then. [ He sticks out a hand— sorry, the left one, to hell with custom— as introduction. ] Well met.

[septim]

[ A title as much as a surname in Tamriel.

Martin grips the offered hand, his handshake strong but not crushing. ] No hurt feelings, yes? I'm used to threats on my life. It's almost...comforting to hear them. [ A pause, reminiscing on this realm. ] The more things change, the more things stay the same.

[heavyhanded]

Then we have something in common.

[ It's weird, to be approaching something like friendly with the guy that sounds exactly like Ned Stark, but there's something about this guy that seems easy to get along with. ]

Now, what was this of— a dragon statue, did you say? [ wtf seriously, he sounds so skeptical. ]

[septim]

[ Voice of the Emperor + Sean Bean voice bonus, Jaime. ]

Ah, yes, that. [ Martin rubs at the back of his neck, unsure if his explanation will make any sense. ] That war I fought and won, it was against the daedric prince of destruction, Mehrunes Dagon. I...had to tap into the power of the Dragon God of Time, Akatosh, to fight Dagon. I became his Avatar, cast Dagon back into the Wastes of Oblivion, sealed the barrier between Oblivion and the Mortal Plane, Mundus, and then was petrified into a statue.

So I died. And here I am.

[heavyhanded]

[ and Martin is just. getting such a look. ]

I know none of the names, but I recognize the story. It's the one they tell boys who love tales of long-dead heroes, isn't it? Mayhap my own Lady Mother told me it a time or two.

[septim]

[ Martin laughs. ]

Not a story, I'm afraid, though it might become one. Though I don't care to become famous. My citizens being safe is enough of a reward.

[heavyhanded]

Your citizens? [ That definitely gets a cocked brow. Maybe septons from his world are more possessive of their flocks than the ones Jaime knows. ]

[septim]

[ Six months of convincing himself he was the emperor have taken their toll. Now, in a world where his title doesn't matter, he keeps slipping. ] I'm, was the emperor.

[heavyhanded]

[ He pauses, and for a second actually looks surprised— more than he'd been to see the magic display, even. Out of the four kings he's known, he can't think of a one that would have said the same about the safety of their subjects.

But of course he only says: ] A septim and an emperor? You must have been a busy man.

[septim]

[ Talking about himself, the emperor, bothers Martin. He doesn't want to come across as a self-aggrandizing arse, but he doesn't want to lie either. ]

I was, for a couple of months. I'm not nobleborn. I didn't know Uriel Septim VII was my father until he and his legitimate sons were assassinated, leaving Tamriel open for Dagon's attack.