I. Odin House Malcolm has slowly come to terms with the fact that this is not a dream. It was kind of hard, given that Malcolm tends to be practical, though he'd also wondered if he was having a psychotic break. That would honestly be more likely. It might explain the blonde-haired British version of his father that seems to be here (which is a whole other thing he has to worry about). However, he has finally firmly landed in the camp that this is somehow all real. And since there's apparently no going home, he might as well get settled in.
Odin House reminds him of being back at Harvard, only with a more modern set up than America's oldest institution. He's pleased to find that his prayers to Odin have been answered: he finds all of his medications on his bedside table and the restraints that he needs in order to sleep peacefully already attached to the wall above his bed. For now, he's glad that he doesn't have a roommate. He's sure the night terrors won't make a good first impression.
And come the night terrors do, as they do every night, variations on the same theme: his father, a girl in a box, being drugged with chloroform, etc. Malcolm tosses and turns, trying to get away in his dreams and ends up shouting as he wakes. Once he catches his breath, he sighs and lays back down on the bed. Malcolm doesn't bother to undo the restraints. Even though he probably won't fall asleep again for a while, he doesn't want to take the chance of sleeping without them. It's for everyone's safety, including his own.
The next day, Malcolm is in the living room, ostensibly reading the book on Ragnar Lothbrok that he borrowed (stole?) from Odin's library. It's a fascinating history, and it's kind of mind-blowing to him that it's written by hand. He wonders who here wrote it. While slightly lost in his book, he's still approachable and will say hello to whoever comes into the living room.
II. Temjask Arena The next day is decidedly not as good. He wakes up itching his right forearm, wondering if he's gotten some kind of bite or allergic reaction. Imagine his horror to find the words HIS FATHER'S SON tattooed on his arm like henna.
It takes two Xanax, a twenty minute yoga and meditation session and three daily affirmations (he wishes he had his card set here), but the Malcolm that emerges from his room is incredibly calm. Everything's fine! Please ignore that tremor in his hand as he drinks his coffee in the kitchen.
Today he decides to see about training at the arena in Heimdall, because when else should one hold sharp objects than when one has a shaking hand? He arrives in a long sleeved shirt because he definitely does not plan on explaining that mysterious tattoo. Being the self-taught blade historian that he is, Malcolm is utterly fascinated with the weapons on display in the arena. He carefully pulls down a sword and holds it in his hands.
"This is a tenth century Ulfberht sword," he says, turning it over and admiring the blade. "These are basically only found in museums now. I mean, in the time that I come from."
He's already learned that not everyone here is from 2019. Or Earth.
[ ooc: For prompt one, feel free to either hear him during his night terror and come to his room or to find him in the living room. Also if you'd like to find him somewhere else or want another prompt option just let me know! ]
Malcolm Bright | Prodigal Son
Malcolm has slowly come to terms with the fact that this is not a dream. It was kind of hard, given that Malcolm tends to be practical, though he'd also wondered if he was having a psychotic break. That would honestly be more likely. It might explain the blonde-haired British version of his father that seems to be here (which is a whole other thing he has to worry about). However, he has finally firmly landed in the camp that this is somehow all real. And since there's apparently no going home, he might as well get settled in.
Odin House reminds him of being back at Harvard, only with a more modern set up than America's oldest institution. He's pleased to find that his prayers to Odin have been answered: he finds all of his medications on his bedside table and the restraints that he needs in order to sleep peacefully already attached to the wall above his bed. For now, he's glad that he doesn't have a roommate. He's sure the night terrors won't make a good first impression.
And come the night terrors do, as they do every night, variations on the same theme: his father, a girl in a box, being drugged with chloroform, etc. Malcolm tosses and turns, trying to get away in his dreams and ends up shouting as he wakes. Once he catches his breath, he sighs and lays back down on the bed. Malcolm doesn't bother to undo the restraints. Even though he probably won't fall asleep again for a while, he doesn't want to take the chance of sleeping without them. It's for everyone's safety, including his own.
The next day, Malcolm is in the living room, ostensibly reading the book on Ragnar Lothbrok that he borrowed (stole?) from Odin's library. It's a fascinating history, and it's kind of mind-blowing to him that it's written by hand. He wonders who here wrote it. While slightly lost in his book, he's still approachable and will say hello to whoever comes into the living room.
II. Temjask Arena
The next day is decidedly not as good. He wakes up itching his right forearm, wondering if he's gotten some kind of bite or allergic reaction. Imagine his horror to find the words HIS FATHER'S SON tattooed on his arm like henna.
It takes two Xanax, a twenty minute yoga and meditation session and three daily affirmations (he wishes he had his card set here), but the Malcolm that emerges from his room is incredibly calm. Everything's fine! Please ignore that tremor in his hand as he drinks his coffee in the kitchen.
Today he decides to see about training at the arena in Heimdall, because when else should one hold sharp objects than when one has a shaking hand? He arrives in a long sleeved shirt because he definitely does not plan on explaining that mysterious tattoo. Being the self-taught blade historian that he is, Malcolm is utterly fascinated with the weapons on display in the arena. He carefully pulls down a sword and holds it in his hands.
"This is a tenth century Ulfberht sword," he says, turning it over and admiring the blade. "These are basically only found in museums now. I mean, in the time that I come from."
He's already learned that not everyone here is from 2019. Or Earth.
[ ooc: For prompt one, feel free to either hear him during his night terror and come to his room or to find him in the living room. Also if you'd like to find him somewhere else or want another prompt option just let me know! ]