bakerstreet | Treehouse Meme

Your character is now the owner of a bitchin' treehouse! Give a quick description and/or a link to an image of what it's like. How many people can it hold? Does it just have the bare necessities, or is it decked out in enough gadgets to make Tony Stark proud? Invite your friends, or visit others. Feel free to age down characters for kid shenanigans.

Need a scenario?

PARTY!: You're throwing a wild party in your brand-new treehouse. Anything from a pizza party to a wild kegger.

SECRET CLUB!: You're having a secret meeting, and it's invitation only. You need to know the password to get in. No Homers Allowed. What sort of club is it? Or maybe you want to break in on someone else's meeting. It's not fair that they won't let you in!

INVASION!: Another treehouse group is plotting a takeover! You better defend yourselves, or get ready to take over that lousy club next door.

SLEEPOVER! Get into your sleeping bag, gather 'round a lantern to swap scary stories. Or maybe you want to cuddle up to that special someone on a cool fall night.

BUILDING! Your treehouse is still a work in progress. What are you adding to it? Maybe someone can come along to hinder help get it ready.

ALONE TIME! You're hiding in your treehouse, minding your own business and totally not reading dirty magazines, when someone crashes in on your fun.

WILDCARD! Whatever else you can think of!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He may well. Although Magnus looks for all the world like a boring old coot, he is a werewolf. There is something extremely appealing about violent sports, although for the most part, modern sports are far less bloody than those of the past. Still, this Roller Derby does sound a little more violent than the sort of sports he'd encourage young people into, even with the modern world's plethora of protective clothing.

She gets up before he has a chance to comment, and for a brief moment is left alone with his thoughts, contemplating the young lady that was not at all how he envisioned, but on the other hand, is exactly what he expected from her clan.

She comes back with the tray, carefully balanced, and he can not help but smile at the comment.

"Bone china. I do appreciate it, you will have to pass on my thanks to your staff." And with that he will pour a cup from the cafetiere with a practised hand, and then set it carefully back down again.

"These derbys you attend, I assume you break other competitors on a regular basis?"

"You're welcome." Settling back down, she sits a little straighter at the praise, just as happy to tell him more about her hobbies as she is to play host. She doesn't get to do it as often as she'd like.

"Only sometimes; the majority of the time they're just accidents, perils of the game and all that. Half the time you're so into it though, so long as you can still skate, you just get right back up and keep going. You're s'posed to get up as quick as you can anyway, just so you don't cause a pile up. Most of the time they're just badass bruises anyway, like this one."

Pushing up her sleeve just past her elbow, she reveals a fading bruise, now more yellow and green than black and blue, but it is much larger than the ones on her calves. "You only get hurt real bad if you don't fall safely, or you drop the box of kittens."

"That is an impressive war wound," He smiles, because it is. Most children, and when he speaks of children he is remembering his own sons, and the werewolf children whom he is guardian over. All younger than her, and all likely to scream the house down should they gain a bruise that sort of size. "I suppose that if you don't move, then you will simply be hurt further?"

As she's said, you want to avoid a pile up and while the term is thoroughly modern, it paints a very clear picture of a pile of children, all legs and arms, a pedestrian version of a multi-car crash.

He takes a sip of the coffee, which is wonderful, rich and deep, as good as a coffee made by Italian should be. But he swallows it with difficulty, looking back at her with some concern.

"What exactly do cats have to do with it?"

She knows that she should probably turn the subject back to business, back to why Magnus is here in the first place - he's probably only really being polite at this point, listening to her go on about skating. She knows it's rude to dominate the conversation, generally speaking - but she can't help it. It's been a while since someone who wasn't on her payroll came up here to talk to her, and even longer since she's talked to someone totally new.

Matt used to let her ramble about it for hours at a time, and when he wasn't too busy, so would her father-

"It's how you learn to fall safely!" She replies quickly, shaking away the ghosts and kicking a cushion out from the pile. "So like, you're going, you're going- and BAM, you're going down-" This, of course, comes with a demonstration, wherein she rather gracelessly crashes down to her knees, hands held out as though she's holding a box.

Presumably, a box of kittens.

"If you drop the box, the kittens get turned into salsa, so you've gotta remember to keep your hands up, and not let 'em drop down to try and catch yourself. One way ticket to the historic and scenic city of Snapped Wristsville."

And then, once she's sat normally; "Eventually you just kinda do it, but that's what we tell new kids."

Magnus clearly has no qualms about letting the mademoiselle talk about her interests, and in fact, he is enjoying it a great deal. For so many years he has listened to other people, to learn about their weaknesses, to use their dreams against them in a political game. But there is something pure about listening to someone so young listen to their passions.

He's not expecting the demonstration, but perhaps he should be, as the young heiress seems very active. At least, far more than he as he quietly sips his coffee. He stops, shocked when she falls to her knees and then winces when she says snapped wristville. Which is stand, as he possesses jaws which can easily crush a man's throat and has frequently snapped bones.

Apparently, this is different. When it is this child talking about breaking bones, it is infinitely worse than the idea of it when it comes to prey.

"It sounds like a very valid training technique, it is very difficult to over-ride instinct in these matters." He says, and he is impressed that she has. It speaks of someone with a strong will, but remembering who her father was, is he surprised?

"Would you recommend it, as a sport? There are some young ones I know who might... benefit from something of the sort."

Holly grins, a wide, mischievous thing interrupted by a missing tooth on her top row.

"Would I ever - it's the best, way better than soccer or whatever. And if any of the kids you know are girls, then I definitely recommend it. It's good for bringing people outta their shells. Or like...violent crashing them out've 'em. Same diff."

Which brings her to her next point; "Are they your kids then? My age? I'm twelve, thirteen next year. If they are they could totally come to practice with me, no sweat."

"There are some young ladies I know of your age." He pauses, if only because in a vampire older than she is, he would never even consider the offer, but he does not believe Holly about to threaten any of them. "They are Lycans. That does not change your mind?"

He glances away from her for a moment, under the pretense of pouring coffee, stirring the contents of the cup. "I am their guardian, I think you would say. The oldest two are 5 or so years older than you. But there is one about your age and some that are younger. They are part of my household."

There is no need to discuss his own sons. They died too long ago, far too long ago.

She shakes her head and shrugs. "No way - I mean I know there's this super old thing where it's like, 'Lycans and Vampires have to hate each other, blah blah blah', but I know a tonne of Lycan kids. There's a couple that skate on my team anyways!"

And by 'a tonne' she means 'a few', but it's not totally dishonest. If there's one thing that comes more naturally to Holly than lying, it's hyperbole.

His elaboration strikes a curious chord in her, and makes her want to ask again if he has any kids of his own, but that instinct is squashed by the generic adult voice in the back of her head; he would've brought them up if he did, or he just doesn't wanna. Good idea not to push it.

"Your household..? Like they had in like, the 1500's or whatever? That's what they used to have back when King Henry and the Tudors and that were around. My sister used to read books set back then, and they always go on and on about 'their households' and 'will my lady mother be given a household worthy of her station'."

Said with her best - yet more comical than accurate - fancy British accent. Not one complimented well by the New York-ness of her own.

Her over-exaggeration is not uncommon in her age group nor in fact in the parlance of the time, so Magnus doesn't assume that there is a tonne of werewolves in her skating group, but that there may be one or two. Even that is a pleasent surprise. As she says, there have long been problems but maybe this new generation are putting them aside.

"If you recommend it, I will pass that on to them. I am sure they would relish the chance for casual violence."

Thw accent makes his lips quirk into what might be a smile. His own accent is still decidedly French but tempered by a long stay in London. Her attempt isn't accurate, but it is amusing.

"I am, by convention, not allowed to call them my Pack. Nor are they my blood or bite relatives. They simply live with me and I am responsible for them. It may seem outdated but I think of it as the most accurate term."

Treehouse Meme

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