SAMPLES; First Person Sample: Er, is this — working?
[ Amateur film-making is always a little awkward to look at. Arthur is a blur of blond hair and armour in the feed, as he tries to get the camera fixed on his face, zoomed in to the right position — the buttons make his fingers feel huge and clumsy. ]
[ Eventually he settles for a little more than half of his face on the screen, frowning through to the other end, his eyes blue and pensive and far too old for his boyish face. ]
I need the use of a crossbow or spear. I’d be willing to trade for the rabbit I kill, or whatever other game is around, and water, of which I currently have at least two week’s supply. Or gold, if you want it.
[ He pauses, wondering what else to add. How to convince people he can’t see that he’s the best damn hunter in the city right now, and they should band behind him? Words have always come to Arthur when speaking to a crowd of men, noble and inspiring words, that made men hold up their swords and shout the name of he and his kingdom. But right now it’s just him and the unforgiving screen of the device, and no words come. He swallows, throat clicking. ]
The pamphlets talked about monsters. I thought I saw—
[ He breaks off, suddenly, looking off-screen, his head cocked as though he’d heard something the microphone hadn’t picked up. Then suddenly he’s scooping up the phone from wherever he’d propped it to speak, getting a nice close picture of his calloused palm. There’s the sound of his sword being drawn, and he forgets modesty, forgets awkwardness, just wants to wrap the one-sided conversation up. ]
If you want to work together, I’m your best chance at survival. Contact me privately to trade locations and negotiate the terms of our alliance.
Third Person Sample: Arthur Pendragon is not from a world where long-distance communication is instantaneous. He is more used to the length of time a message takes — whether it’s sending a servant running three floors in order to tell the Court Physician that actually, his shoulder was starting to give him a bit of trouble, if he could make up some salve? Or all the way down to the lower town, to tell the blacksmith to get started on twenty new dragon-crested shields for the knights errant that had sworn to the service of Camelot after the latest tourney. Or a rider across the kingdom, out to the lords and their holdings, perhaps even over the border to treat with another kingdom all together. He had even once sent a message to the Roman Empire, mustering across the ocean, though the seasons turned three times before he received a response to his query.
So it is with some bemusement that he watches the small device go through its tutorial once more, trying to grasp just how effective the ability to “record” and “transmit” his voice would be when it came to combat strategy. Scouts could film an enemy encampment rather than risk the long trek back! Messages could be passed between leaders on the field and off as developments shifted the course of the battles. Treaties could be negotiated from separate locations, without the risk of ambush or treachery!
To be honest, the rest of the information has somewhat gone in one of Arthur’s ears and out the other. Fictional realities seem improbable. The walking dead even more-so. The possibility that he had been taken from his kingdom for good sends a strange sort of static through his brain, a blankness that he’d only ever felt before in the depths of a fight, a clean and emotionless feeling of pure purpose. It isn’t something he wants to examine too closely, so instead he spends his time toying with the simple device until he thinks he’s gotten the hang of it.
It’s not that he doesn’t believe what is right before his eyes. Arthur is smart beneath his temper, and though at first he’d raged around the room, the moment he’d walked out those doors it had become obvious that this wasn’t the kidnap plan of some rival kingdom. Madness or sorcery seem viable explanations, of course, but Arthur flinches away from those as well. Sorcery is too far outside his control — his father’s dying face imprinted on his eyelids reinforcing the belief that magic is unquestionably evil — and madness, madness, oh. That has run in his family too long to be a comforting thought.
Mad people don’t wonder if they’re mad, he tries to reassure himself. It doesn’t work.
Without anyone to attack, he feels aimless in this ruined village, where every way he turns there seems to be something he doesn’t understand. A large part of Arthur’s heart is still grieving, but the cheerful brown parchment reminded him to eat and drink, and his survival instinct had kicked in. Food. Water. Shelter. Information. Those would be his saviours. The last would help him find the first.
It is for this reason Arthur swallows his wonder and pride, and turns the “phone” device to record.
Arthur Pendragon | BBC's Merlin | reserved | 2/2
First Person Sample:
Er, is this — working?
[ Amateur film-making is always a little awkward to look at. Arthur is a blur of blond hair and armour in the feed, as he tries to get the camera fixed on his face, zoomed in to the right position — the buttons make his fingers feel huge and clumsy. ]
[ Eventually he settles for a little more than half of his face on the screen, frowning through to the other end, his eyes blue and pensive and far too old for his boyish face. ]
I need the use of a crossbow or spear. I’d be willing to trade for the rabbit I kill, or whatever other game is around, and water, of which I currently have at least two week’s supply. Or gold, if you want it.
[ He pauses, wondering what else to add. How to convince people he can’t see that he’s the best damn hunter in the city right now, and they should band behind him? Words have always come to Arthur when speaking to a crowd of men, noble and inspiring words, that made men hold up their swords and shout the name of he and his kingdom. But right now it’s just him and the unforgiving screen of the device, and no words come. He swallows, throat clicking. ]
The pamphlets talked about monsters. I thought I saw—
[ He breaks off, suddenly, looking off-screen, his head cocked as though he’d heard something the microphone hadn’t picked up. Then suddenly he’s scooping up the phone from wherever he’d propped it to speak, getting a nice close picture of his calloused palm. There’s the sound of his sword being drawn, and he forgets modesty, forgets awkwardness, just wants to wrap the one-sided conversation up. ]
If you want to work together, I’m your best chance at survival. Contact me privately to trade locations and negotiate the terms of our alliance.
Third Person Sample:
Arthur Pendragon is not from a world where long-distance communication is instantaneous. He is more used to the length of time a message takes — whether it’s sending a servant running three floors in order to tell the Court Physician that actually, his shoulder was starting to give him a bit of trouble, if he could make up some salve? Or all the way down to the lower town, to tell the blacksmith to get started on twenty new dragon-crested shields for the knights errant that had sworn to the service of Camelot after the latest tourney. Or a rider across the kingdom, out to the lords and their holdings, perhaps even over the border to treat with another kingdom all together. He had even once sent a message to the Roman Empire, mustering across the ocean, though the seasons turned three times before he received a response to his query.
So it is with some bemusement that he watches the small device go through its tutorial once more, trying to grasp just how effective the ability to “record” and “transmit” his voice would be when it came to combat strategy. Scouts could film an enemy encampment rather than risk the long trek back! Messages could be passed between leaders on the field and off as developments shifted the course of the battles. Treaties could be negotiated from separate locations, without the risk of ambush or treachery!
To be honest, the rest of the information has somewhat gone in one of Arthur’s ears and out the other. Fictional realities seem improbable. The walking dead even more-so. The possibility that he had been taken from his kingdom for good sends a strange sort of static through his brain, a blankness that he’d only ever felt before in the depths of a fight, a clean and emotionless feeling of pure purpose. It isn’t something he wants to examine too closely, so instead he spends his time toying with the simple device until he thinks he’s gotten the hang of it.
It’s not that he doesn’t believe what is right before his eyes. Arthur is smart beneath his temper, and though at first he’d raged around the room, the moment he’d walked out those doors it had become obvious that this wasn’t the kidnap plan of some rival kingdom. Madness or sorcery seem viable explanations, of course, but Arthur flinches away from those as well. Sorcery is too far outside his control — his father’s dying face imprinted on his eyelids reinforcing the belief that magic is unquestionably evil — and madness, madness, oh. That has run in his family too long to be a comforting thought.
Mad people don’t wonder if they’re mad, he tries to reassure himself. It doesn’t work.
Without anyone to attack, he feels aimless in this ruined village, where every way he turns there seems to be something he doesn’t understand. A large part of Arthur’s heart is still grieving, but the cheerful brown parchment reminded him to eat and drink, and his survival instinct had kicked in. Food. Water. Shelter. Information. Those would be his saviours. The last would help him find the first.
It is for this reason Arthur swallows his wonder and pride, and turns the “phone” device to record.
Additional Information: