first_timelord: (Default)

[- OOC Information -]

Name: Yume!
Do you play any other characters in Outer Divide? nope

[- Character Information -]

Character Name: Rassilon
Fandom: Doctor Who
OU, AU, or CR AU: AU, maybe a bit of CR AU
Canon Point: Any time before the New Series.
Journal: [personal profile] first_timelord

Appearance: Five-foot-nothing, ginger as all getout, with wavy more-or-less-shoulder-length hair and a short, neat beard. Green eyes greener than the greenest thing in the universe and then some. Occasionally they glow, as in they emit light. Appears to be in his mid-forties. Slender build. Radiates a kind of wolfish and playful sensuality. Likes to wear lots of colours and no shoes.

World History: (OC? AHAHAHAH.... Oh, dear god, I can't claim responsibility for Doctor Who...)

Character History: Zillions of years ago on Gallifrey there was--yanno what, even the canon history can't seem to make up its mind about this. Were the Pythiae a thing? What's this Loom nonsense? Time Tots? SERIOUSLY? Was Rassilon good or evil or just a nutter? Did the Other exist? Was he the Doctor or the Doctor later or Merlin or something something Timewyrm something ouruborous blargle meeble flerp? Was Omega an eminent scientist or some lucky bloke with his head in a soup can who happened to slap together a stellar manipulator on a Sunday afternoon, like y'do? Just when did Gallifrey exist or not exist or exist again in a wobble of wibbly time only to implode seconds after being time-locked? So I'm going to do the same thing the writers of the show/books have been doing for half a century--I'm going to keep the bits I like and drop the bits I don't. SO.

Zillions of years ago on Gallifrey, when the Universe was less than half its present size (which tells you just how long ago that was) and everyone still thought warp matrix engineering was The Next Big Thing, Gallifreyans were just that--Gallifreyans, a race of time-sensitive telepaths with a really high drive for technological advancement. They'd flattened every other aspect of science and stuffed it in their collective pockets to pull out and giggle at on a rainy afternoon, so they turned their sights on the last thing there was to own--time, itself. They wanted to tame it and sail it like a crusty old sea captain. This is where a chap named Rassilon and his buddy Omega come into play (and not a word has been said about their lives before this point, as though they'd simply sprung into existence right then), as they had drawn up elabourate plans for time travel vessels that, unfortunately, required enormous power. Omega built a semi-sapient stellar manipulator with which to customise stars. Now, the original purpose of this device and its ultimate use were never satisfactorily linked, but the story goes that Omega used said stellar manipulator to cause a nearby star to go supernova, whereupon he and Rassilon could harness that energy... by use of... something never specified. However, plot being what it is or, rather, isn't, Omega was sucked into another dimension not to be seen again until someone got the idea for a cracking good villain to pit William Hartnell, Patrick Troughton, AND Jon Pertwee against. And then, later, Peter Davison. Gallifrey (and Rassilon) mourned and then got on with things as Rassilon had succeeded in harnessing that energy but it clearly wasn't enough. So he needed to try again. HE created a... erm... a thing called the Sash of Rassilon which apparently created some kind of protective force that stopped him meeting the same fate as Omega did and tried another star. This one was forced to become a black hole and was... somehow... brought back to Gallifrey and, as the tale goes, 'set in a dynamic equation against the mass of the planet so that they may neither flux, nor wither, nor change their state in any measure,' which means... well, I've no idea what it means and neither does anybody else. Rassilon managed to do this as a feat of dizzyingly high mathematics--the kind where if you forget to carry the 1 somewhere along the line, everyone can suddenly run at mach five and glass is something you can just poke your hand through and watch it wobble for a laugh. So they--the Gallifreyans, that is, not the runners and glass-pokers--had their power source and could invent the TARDISes and Time Scoops and whatnot and become the Lords of Time. Jolly good! Let's do like Rome will in another several thousand years and annex other races with lesser technology and create a giant arena for them to fight for our amusement in!

Only they made the mistake of electing a scientist as their first ever Lord President of the High Council of Time Lords and that scientist was the selfsame Rassilon. Rassilon, Omega, and some shadowy fellow called The Other had been more or less in charge of everything even before the time travel experiments and now, with Omega gone, this job was given to Rassilon and ostensibly to the Other because... he was there, I guess. Now. Being a decent type, Rassilon put the kibosh on all this Roman stuff pretty quickly and went on to draft the Laws of Time and other such things. Along the way he invented a lot of things that the Time Lords later stuck his name onto: things that amplified one's mental powers or served as power sources for terrifying weapons or allowed one to access the Eye of Harmony--er, the black hole thing I mentioned earlier, or... whatever the Ring of Rassilon does. Oh, and the symbiotic nuclei, too, because why not, sure, he can do genetics, too. Bit of a polymath. A Renaissance Gallifreyan.

Somewhere in this confusing mishmash of Gallifreyan history he also led the war against the Great Vampire and his spawn. With bowships! That fired planet-sized silver arrows to kill these giant, giant creatures because there's no such thing as silly in Doctor Who!

Things were going pretty well for Gallifrey now, and Rassilon decided, 'bugger this noise, I need a holiday.' So he had a Tower built and apparently faked his own death so that he could be interred in a nice, quiet Tomb with excellent wi-fi for the rest of eternity because, oh, right, he was immortal by then. Never explained that, either, did you, Doctor Who writers? Only he didn't fake it very well because people kept going up there wanting him to share his immortality, which he knew was a really bad idea, thus his penchant for turning them into statues through... some... mechanism nobody bothered to explain because Clarke's Law is a great cop out. Round about that time the Other vanished completely in a puff of insane theories.

And that's all the canon has had to say about him--all that's coherent, anyway. I left out all the argy-bargy with the Pythiae and the Looms and whatnot because I think it's utter shite. Used to like it but I look back on it now and wonder what I was drinking. And I'm staying away from the New Series' characterisation because it's astonishingly unoriginal--what's that you say? Madness and treachery and evil amid the Time Lord elite? That's only EVERY GALLIFREY-BASED PLOT SINCE 19-BLOODY-74. JESUS CHRIST, COME UP WITH SOMETHING NEW, YA LAZY DOORKNOBS.


AU History: **If you're not apping an AU character, omit this section.**

Previous Game History: **If you're not apping a CR AU, omit this section.**


Powers/Abilities: Canonically, Rassilon is a Gary Stu and I left his universe-bending powers intact in the last game I played him in, but that really doesn't fly in anything other than those freeform multiverse things. Originally he was a multipowered psionic capable of ridiculous, godlike levels of telepathy, telekinesis, mind control, and temporal manipulation.

Not here, he ain't. Wearing a physical form should have diminished his power greatly and it does do so here. To wit:

-His telepathy is now a very personal thing, limited to 'networking' maybe three or four people and one-on-one scanning. Any deep scanning would take the better part of a day to do and would leave him exhausted.

-Mind control is out of the question unless his pushes his abilities and even then it'll only last for a few minutes before he blacks out with a horrible nosebleed.

-Telekinesis is limited to objects the relative mass of one of those itty little smart-cars. Maybe one with a really small driver in.

-Temporal manipulation, which is difficult to explain, can only be done to himself or one other person he is in physical contact with. What this means is that he can advance or rewind time for himself or that other person to the extent of maybe 24 hours. Great for fast-forwarding through the worst part of a cold but not much else. Again, doing that takes a lot out of him.

-His time sense can stay at the level of any other Gallifreyan's. All of his species are time-sensitive and can literally see it wibble and wobble and which directions it's going and where the artrons are all balled up... kind of like Neo seeing the Matrix only with less silly wallpapering. Stopping and smelling the chronons, if you will.

-The only special thing I'd like to leave him with is the ability to mentally pop small objects, like a glass of water or a book, out of space and time. It has to be something from somewhere he's been or he has to make sure he goes to that place later to make sure it's there to have been retrieved. Say he pops a glass of water out of tomorrow afternoon. He then has to remember to pour a glass of water that next day and place it on a table for it to disappear from, else time will get even more wibbly wobbly and he'll have to sit down for the next day or so to write out the maths that'll fix it again. Needless to say, he doesn't pluck things out of the future unless he absolutely has to.

He's also a fookin genius in canon and I can't in good conscience alter that in any way. Thus he's a mathematician and engineer of terrifying skill and a ludicrously handy inventor. Building high-tech machinery out of scraps in a cave sort of thing.

That having been said, I'm also all for the idea that he arrives a bit more powerful than this and is promptly tackled into the dust by the Authority and inhibitor-collared like the deus ex machina he was clearly created to be, because I loves me some character drama.

Possessions: It may be easier to start out with what he hasn't got: namely that he hasn't got access to any of the dozen or so artefacts that the old series writers loved to tack his name onto. No Sash, no Coronet, no Ring, nothing. No transmat to any Tower with a Tomb in and definitely no stupid Harp. No Rod with which to open up floors. No Great Key with which to make a de-mat gun. None of that stuff. And he'll never have that gauntlet or staff that Timothy Dalton was waving about.

So what does he have, besides the clothes on his back which consist of a few layers of colourful robes? Well, he's got pockets with a few inconsequential Gallifreyan thisthats like the most timey-wimey comb in existence, a few bronze pandaks, a nail clipper with absolutely nothing special about it, a transdimensional bus ticket stub, a piece of paper with someone's comm number scrawled on it, a thing his aunt gave him that he doesn't know what it is, a validium sphere, a tiny Gallifreyan/Eldritch dictionary, a--what? What's a validium sphere? Well, it's a ball of iridescent living metal roughly the size of a tennis ball that can be phased through time and dimensions and is vaguely sapient in the way a really stupid dog is vaguely sapient. It doesn't do a bloody thing on its own except orbit him in a head-level hover and radiate OH BOY OH BOY OH BOY kind of stupid happiness to anyone who can sense it. It snuggles people, too, which I don't have to tell you is a bit bizarre. The thing doesn't lend him any kind of advantage except maybe to hit people upside the head with but he loves it like a pet. Have I mentioned he's a bit off?


Reason For Playing:

[- Writing Samples -]

Network Sample:

Log Sample:
first_timelord: (Default)
Since the latest imported entry is dated sometime in '09 it's safe to say that this rp canon can't be continued. Most of the characters he's interacted with are gone, save for Jeff and various Gabrieloi and possibly a few others.

However, I don't want to reboot him because then people would ask me 'but why does he look like a young Kenneth Branagh instead of Timothy Dalton?' To be perfectly honest, I've played him this way for years and I miss the character I'd sort of cobbled together, so here he is.

Therefore he has memories of the events from dear_multiverse and associated communities but has clearly moved on to other multiverses. If he meets up with characters he's interacted with before, he'll remember them. If the player of the other character doesn't wish to have their character remember dear_multiverse (understandably, in many cases,) then it's simply chalked up to alternate universes.

I hope this makes sense.
first_timelord: (eye)
Rassilon had asked, not long ago, if he mightn't take a look at that amulet that Jeff had taken off of Soze, the one that had allowed their minds to connect, however briefly, despite any and all mental shielding. A gift from a daemon, the others had said. Now, Rassilon had no truck with the supernatural, but he did know from otherdimensional beings and the kind of shenanigans they pulled, and he figured he'd feel a lot safer after he put the thing through a full analysis.

So he sat waiting patiently, now, in his laboratory, a place filled with machines whose purpose most other people could only guess at.
first_timelord: (tea--a necessity for operation)
Every once in a while, Rassilon can make the inner laboratory accessible to beings who don't blithely sidestep through time the way he and his son and consort do. This is one such occasion, as he creates a dimensional pathway, then dims the light.

He then waits for Some to meet with him.
first_timelord: (not warm enough)
He'd promised Jon's head would be kept safe and out of sight.

So it was that Rassilon took it to a room in his laboratory, dimly lit save for the glow of various machines. Green light. It lent everything a murky emerald monochromaticism that somehow fit the still, sombre mood.

He carefully set the head in its gravity bubble in a stasis generator. Silently, he passed the fingers of one hand through a hardlight command sequencer--a specific pattern, like plucking the strings of a harp, half physical coded input, half telepathic. Gallifreyan technology always had been half art or half music or some unearthly combination thereof.

A ring of green energy spun around the head, replacing the gravity bubble, joined by another, then another, multiplying and spinning in countless directions until they formed a sphere. Reality seemed to blink in that instant, then continue.

The ice hadn't even started to melt.

Jonathan's head hung now in temporal stasis, caught in a nanosecond, preventing neural decay, awaiting the collection of the rest of his body. Still dead, but possessed of a glimmer of hope at life in the future.

Rassilon lightly touched another control and the green bubble, head and all, sank slowly into an opaque, protected sphere. There it would wait, shielded from everything.

Only then did he allow himself to weep. For Some, devastated at the loss of a love so powerful that his mind, for once, had resonated something readable. For Jeff, overwhelmed and stricken. And most of all, for Jonathan, deprived of the chance to win the struggle he'd been finally coming somewhere near to winning.
first_timelord: (Default)
Following the co-ordinates brings one to a quiet area. In absolutely every sense of the word.

((ping here. Replies will explain the null zones further.))

OOC meme

Jan. 23rd, 2008 02:59 am
first_timelord: (oh oh see)
"Because we never really know each other as well as we think, in response to this post I'd like you to ask a question. Anything about which you are curious, anything you feel you ought to know about me. Silly, serious, personal, fannish. Ask away. Then copy this to your own journal, and see what people don't know about you."

The last part is not required, but feel free to do so if you wish. You're also free to ask multiple questions. Make sure that the questions are IC.

Feel free to ask anything of any of my characters:

[ profile] darkoctavius -Otto Octavius
[ profile] inthetower -Rassilon
[ profile] ardrukuru -ArdruKuru
[ profile] doctorbluebox -The Doctor (all ten of him)
[ profile] o_delerious -Inky!
[ profile] _just_edward_ -Edward Scissorhands
[ profile] doc_w -Clair Watson
[ profile] timeswitness -Nebogipfel
[ profile] mathemanic -Tom Sorenson (Mathemanic)
[ profile] _dualnature_ -Skekses/urRu (all twenty of them)
[ profile] objective_ali -Alistair Munro (original)
[ profile] moyas_pilot -Pilot
[ profile] ironicname -Remus Lupin
[ profile] vicarious_v -V
[ profile] kraken_master -Davy Jones
[ profile] lil_outergods -Thooly
[ profile] white_fadeout -Alistair Munro (eShop!verse)
[ profile] x_blind_faith_x -Alexander Wilcox
[ profile] old_timelord -Borusa
[ profile] coxofthewalk -Dr. Perry Cox
[ profile] rats_of_nimh -the Rats of NIMH
[ profile] dr_decolletage -Dr. Lisa Cuddy
[ profile] p0p_y3w_l4r -Galinda Upland

...and any of the ones not listed.
first_timelord: (*innocent!*)
Omega was born yesterday.

A completely natural birth and probably the worst kind to have for a species who hadn't done the childbirth thing for several thousand years. Poor Kiam had started the labour racked with pain and terror--which had given over quickly enough to a healthy rage, no matter how many telepathic techniques Rassilon employed in attempt to divert the physical pain (rather foolishly to himself since he could think of nowhere else to direct its energies), maintain psychic balance, and generally ease the process. Festooned with everything from antediluvian Gallifreyan neuroresonancing rings to stones and objects carved with meditation symbols from seven planets to the spiral-chased stone weights he'd only recently acquired, he tried everything he could think of.

It was probably the only thing that stopped her killing him.

Yes, Omega was born yesterday, and it was quite the ordeal for all concerned.

To-day, however, the bedroom is filled with Ferulian orchids. And Rassilon himself is somewhere on the bed, dead asleep.
first_timelord: (he's listening really)
I believe there's an internet vernacular that applies here.


I've had spectacularly esoteric demands made upon me for food (Unicorn? There's only one in all the multiverses! And I sincerely doubt it'd be a good idea to EAT IT!), I've had things thrown at me for the most incomprehensible of reasons (Never has the subject of interior decorating come to violence anywhere except in the Grand Palace on Myzymyris Minor), and I don't think I can survive another round of Guess My Mood In The Next .02 Seconds And Don't You Dare Use Telepathy.

I love her, but I'm afraid she's going to kill me....

first_timelord: (not warm enough)
It had been seven days, now.

Rassilon had spent the last three of them unconscious, save for a few confused moments of semiawakeness. During those, it was enough of an achievement to get him focussed enough to drink something. He did so without a murmur of protest, despite the periods of hallucinatory thrashing he would sometimes experience on the cusp of such awakenings.

He was still cold, though the shivering had ceased as though he were simply too weary for it to continue. He still breathed, his hearts still beat. His face, however pale, was not grey. But an odd rash had started on his fingers, spreading up his hands, wrists, and forearms as this malady progressed. Odd, round, clear bumps. Where they grew over veins, the veins looked noticably dark. It didn't appear to cause him any pain, but that didn't worry Kiam any less, and though her medical knowledge was scant at best, she cared for it as best she could, wrapping his hands and arms with bandages. She began to despair for his life. Wondered if she shouldn't venture into this Nexus to seek help, any kind of help.

Then, on the evening of the seventh day, something changed.

She'd been sitting next to him, reading, letting the words run though her mind and around his, when the muffled miasma of dark, incomprehensibly shifting, sharp-wire-tendrilled energy started to fade, sucked away, pulling itself into curves and lines, spirals and circles. Its unspeakable sounds faded, replaced by the familiar perspectives of the infinite whirling gears of time. The red, horribly pulsing mind-lines cooled. Spread. Became green. Darkness became blinding light.

Kiam put the book down for a moment and leaned over, placing a soft kiss on Rassilon's forehead. Still too cool. But that will change. She pushed wild, thick locks of red hair from his forehead and his eyes flickered open for only a moment. They were green again, though the black had moved to the whites, now, as though receding.

"Welcome back," she whispered, her mind gently touching his.

He was too weary even for coherent thought, but she could feel his mind curl round hers, the way it was supposed to be again, before his eyes slipped shut and he fell into a dreamless sleep.
first_timelord: (not warm enough)
It's been a few days, now, but it's felt like longer. He can almost feel it eating away at him, his strength waning the longer he has to keep this sheilding up to protect his own mind from the thin, sharp pulsing wires and tendrils of chaos as well as to protect everyone else from its drifting, seeping influence. Double-shielding. Psionics doesn't come easily, now.

He's gone cold, now, or maybe it's the rest of the world that's gone cold, inhospitable to this influence he carries that leaves him twitching, stomach full of black nausea and red lines in his head one moment; hyperaware and ravenously hungry another. It's always cold, though, now, no matter what else, and after a while he finds he can do nothing more than curl under blankets.

Every time he falls asleep, he tumbles into the Dreamlands, unable to control this aspect of his power. While he's there, Rassilon finds himself lost, and occasionally ends up chased by cats, swarmed by zoogs, reality-displaced, swept into rivers, or tumbled down hills. He doesn't wake up feeling rested at all, and often feeling even worse.

A thought comes to him, though, as he hides under the blankets in his home, now, that exposure to all of this barely controlled miasma of the Great Old Ones' influence must surely be why Omega turns out so immune to its various manifestations later.

His consciousness wavers in and out. Most of the time, he's barely aware of Kiam's presence as she stays by his side, tries to keep him warm, coaxes him to eat. He's simply too tired. He wonders how much longer this will last.

He finds himself apologising profusely. Kiam tells him there's nothing to apologise for. He can't remember half of what he's apologising for, but he's sure ... somewhere he must have done something wrong. Offended someone? Miscalibrated something? Mistook something for something else....?

"Been like this before," he mumbles, the present slipping. "Symbiotic nuclei... tests left me blood-poisoned for a ... fortnight...." His eyes flicker open for a moment, still depthless and black. They barely focus on Kiam. "Mmmm. What ... was I working on ... again?" His hand twitches toward her.

She rubs his hand between hers, her own warmth hopefully enough to combat the shivering cold that hasn't left him alone. A huge pile of blankets cover him, and she knows under those he's gotten worryingly thin. "The Station," she tells him. "And the Looms. Do you remember?"

"Nnnh. Looms. Progenitive cascades ... biogenic ... radiation...." his eyes slip shut again and he mumbles something she doesn't catch, lost to weariness and shifting memories. It isn't sleep his brain falls into now, but a sort of unconsciousness. A cold fever-state.

Kiam arranges the blankets around him a little better. There's nothing for it but to wait. Wait and hope he survives and listen to Omega's tiny, embryonic dreams.
first_timelord: (time heals all)
Medical confinement, indeed.

He was perfectly fine, both he and Kiam knew this much. After she derived a great amount of amusement at beholding him in a dress, took him home from the Clinic, and then shouted angrily at him for making her worry so, he'd slept on the sofa that night. He'd deserved it, he knew. He'd been an utter, utter fool.

He rose early the next morning, or whatever passes for morning. There was work to do, and he'd done quite enough dillydallying. The Nexus had distracted him long enough. Silently, he slipped into the bedroom and put on some different clothing. Kiam was still asleep.

Not even Time Lords know why these moments stop, suspended, unmeasurable, peaceful. Why everything seems to hold its breath at the very moment you pause to watch someone you love while she sleeps. After a few seconds stretched to an eternity, he leaned down and kissed her softly before slipping out of the room again.

Quietly, he made his way to the place he liked to do this work from--it only involved a little spatial hopping. A sideways step in time, really. Rassilon appeared in a room with no outer door because the only people who needed to come to this place needed no doors. The lights came up softly when he appeared, revealing a roomful of terribly complex computers.

He'd done difficult and sometimes terribly dangerous things to acquire some of this instrumentation. He'd had to steal originals from the past, copy them, and return them exactly where he'd left them. Once he hadn't and the Lower Modular 8 System Crash of '54 had occurred, which they'd historically blamed on Borusa's infamous students--of which the Doctor had been one.

It was different, he'd told himself, than attempting to go back himself. Pulling things from the past was a simple dip of a fish net into time. Returning them, of course, was infinitely more difficult and required the utmost precision, but it was still not nearly as bad as returning himself. And that was that.

The computers were activated and resumed their silent, complex work, knitting together almost unimaginably vast amounts of data. They would be invaluable when needed. And they compiled the dimensional parameters needed for what he was going to be doing, himself. And they formed the programme base for the device being built in the next room, which he slowly made his way to.

In the next room lay a machine. A heavy, instrument-laden cylinder of glass embedded in a metal cradle. Its structure, its working parts, everything was complete. He stood over it for several seconds, looking it over, looking past it, gazing at the genetic databank that lay beyond it. That was what lay incomplete. The final task whispered to him--find the data. Find the data and the Loom will weave again. His fingers tightened around the rim of the open Loom cradle. That would be the riskiest undertaking of all. But the subjects in the Nexus were too few. He would have to penetrate the past to collect more--

Later. That will be done later.

He uncurled his fingers from the Loom and proceeded to the third door. It opened into a vast, peaceful chamber, bare save for a squashy mound upon the floor. Said mound faced a panoramic view of none other than Earth. And between the room and the Earth floated the skeletal beginnings of a vast, vast station.

Rassilon seated himself on the aforementioned mound. Made himself comfortable, but not too much so. He took a deep breath and released it with a quiet sigh, closing his eyes for a moment. "Now, where was I?" he murmured, nudging a channel open to the computer's telepathic circuitry. An orderly steam of data came to him. Dimensional information--measurements, if you will, down to the last tiny corner, curve, roundel and knob.

"Hmmmmm." His eyes opened again, already glowing softly their bright green hue, and he started to murmur something under his breath--equations, an unimaginably powerful stream of numbers--all the while watching the station as it floated serenely over the Earth, slowly, ever so slowly forming more of itself.
first_timelord: (Default)
He'd paced, drunk tea, watched horrible B-grade horror movies, surfed the Nexus Internet, bought a dreadful wall clock and an incomprehensible object d'art taller than he was, drunk more tea, downloaded the entire first season of So You Think You Can Dance, while pacing some more, drinking more tea, swallowing stimulant pills, watching some horrible infomercial about Pilates balls and snerking thinly at the inevitable images of people looking incredibly silly using them...

And after two days of this, he finally fell over on the sofa. In the condition he was in, he couldn't fight sleep for long, no matter how frightened he was.
first_timelord: (Default)
He'd cheated a bit, but who could blame him? This entire healing process was going to take ages and the last thing Rassilon wanted to do was lie on his back in a hospital bed and stare at the ceiling the whole time.

So he sped up time around himself. Accellerated the healing. And the Nexus doctors knew that was what he was doing, but there wasn't anything for it but to unwire his jaw and to remove the halo traction ahead of the normal schedule because the outward damage had healed. It was as simple as that.

He could still only barely move, though. That was taking longer. And they weren't happy with the idea of his making up for the inability to move with telekinesis. Still, time was on his side. It usually was.
first_timelord: (Default)
He's gotten quite used to the Nexus hospital.

It's been several days since Rassilon came out of his coma and while the bruises have gone down and there are mutterings of unwiring his jaws, soon, he's spent most of this time asleep or trying to move his fingers.

He has, at least, had visitors, as well as Kiam's constant presence. However, he would occasionally prevail on her to--for the love of small things!--go and get some food or some sleep in something other than a chair. There were doctors and Doctors in and out of the place at all hours of the night, which didn't bother him, as they either made sure he was progressing or brought him amusing things. ("It's the cutest cold in the universe!" Ten had fairly squeebled.)

Most of the time he simply lay there, staring at the ceiling, idly listening to the minds and voices around him and wondering if it'd be worth it to advance time around himself a few months just to be out of there.
first_timelord: (femme)
He... or, rather, she hasn't quite got the cavalier attitude to whatever body one might be wearing that his--her genetic descendents might have, but Rassilon has leapt wholeheartedly into being female. She's exploring every inch of it. Like right now--she's painting her toenails. Though she wouldn't be averse to company while doing so.
first_timelord: (Default)
He'd been sleeping a lot, lately, though he had, in actuality, been needing the morphine less. Staying at home doesn't lend itself to much else, after all, no matter who you live with.

His dreams are sometimes nonsensical, sometimes terrifying, but never dull.

Going Home

Jan. 23rd, 2007 06:58 pm
first_timelord: (Default)
Well. They finally decided they'd had enough of me and sent me home. I suppose, in the end, I'd depleted their morphine stock. They tell me the wound's only about half healed, but if I stayed there any longer, they'd have to move me to the room with the rubber walls.

Kiam is right, though. I ought to stay at home for a while.
first_timelord: (Default)
Oh, hullo, here's my journal.

Are you available?: For what?
What is your age?: Oh, make me do the math... Factor the temporal differential... number of days on respective calendars... seventy-five thousand four hundred eighty-two.
What annoys you?: Willful ignorance.

Do you live in a big house?: I live on a big space station.
When is your birthday?: Seventeenth day, fifthmonth. Wich doesn't correspond very well with the seventeenth day and fifth month on your calendars.
Who are your best friends?: All of them.

What's your favorite candy? Those lovely pixy stick things.
When was the last time you cried?: the last time I dreamed of home.

Do you daydream?: Oh, yes. A lot. Especially now.
Favorite kind of dog?: Couldn't tell you. I prefer cats.

How do you like your eggs?: Edible.
Have you ever been in the emergency room?: Many times. Three days ago, for example.
What's the easiest thing ever to do?: Forget things.

Have you ever flown in a plane?: The equivalent thereof, yes.
Do you use fly swatters?: I haven't any flies about.
Have you ever used a foghorn?: Whatever for?

Do you chew gum?: No. Dreadful habit.
Are you a giver or a taker?: Both.
Do you like gummy candies?: Some of them.

How are you?: Foggy from this morphine. But at least I'm not in pain.
What's your height?: Five foot, last time I checked.
What color is your hair?: Red.

What's your favorite ice cream?: the one with the cherries in. In the small tub.
Have you ever ice skated?: Don't think so.
Do you play an instrument?: I play the harp relatively well and I play a few other things relatively badly.

What's your favorite jelly bean?: The little green ones.
Have you ever heard a really hilarious joke?: Oh, yes. A lot of them.
Do you wear jewelry?: I try not to. Most of my jewellery has a tendency to bend reality.

Who do you want to kill?: No-one.
Do you want kids?: Have one. Well, will have one.
Where did you have kindergarten?: Kinder-whatnow?

Are you laid back?: Yes, usually.
Do you lie?: In all senses of the word.

Whats your favorite movie?: Don't usually watch them. though I did like the one with the Dread Pirate Roberts.
Do you still watch disney movies?: Haven't watched any of them.
Do you like mangoes?: Yes.

Do you have a nickname?: Oh, several.
Whats your favorite number?: Erh... haven't got one.
Do you prefer night over day?: Yes. I still refuse to beleive morning exists.

Whats your one wish?: To let go of regrets.
Are you an only child?: Yes.

What one fear are you most paranoid about?: Losing the people I have.
Whats a personality trait you look for in people?: Humour.

Are you quick to judge people?: Who isn't?

Do you think you're always right?: I plead the... what was it? Fifth?
Do you watch reality tv?: That is a contradiction in terms on a quantum level, I'll have you know.
Whats a good reason to cry?: Greif.

Do you prefer sun or rain?: Rain.
Do you like snow?: Not particularly.
What's your favorite season?: Anything warm.

What time is it?: Ermh... Ask the difficult questions, why don't you--dratted morphine. Erm... 4 am. gads.
What time did you wake up?: Oh, about ... 3:40 am. And 9 pm. And 4 pm. And....
When was the last time you slept in a tent?: Never?

Are you wearing underwear?: Erm... not at the moment. They don't let you wear your drawers in hospital.
Underwear or boxers?: See above.

Where do you want to go on vacation?: Somewhere quiet.
Where was your last vacation to?: Erh... I can't remember.

What's your worst habit?: Haedonism?
Where do you live?: On a space station.
What's your worst fear?: People repeating questions.

Have you ever had an x-ray?: Three days ago.
Have you seen the x-games?: The what?
Do you own a xylophone?: Oh, now this is just getting silly.

Do you like the color yellow?: Not particularly.
What year were you born in?: ... I'm too tired to figure that one out.
Whats one thing you yearn for?: Home.

Do you believe in astrology?: No. Load of superstitious flimflam.
What's your favorite zoo animal?: Erh... something huge and grand and dangerous and completely cordoned off from where I'm standing.


first_timelord: (Default)

September 2012

161718 19 202122


RSS Atom

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Oct. 17th, 2017 09:15 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios