| abstract
| - "A Friend Indeed" (originally called "Toujours plaisir") is the twenty-third episode of the first season of the 2014 French TV series Peanuts produced by Normaal animation and based on the comic strip Peanuts by Charles M. Schulz. It will air in the USA on May 27, 2016. The main theme of the episode is everything related to friendships.
- Log Title: A Friend Indeed Characters: Axegrinder, Shawn Berger, Jr. Location: Berger Building, New York City Date: 23 June 2014 TP: Non-TP Summary: Shawn Berger, Jr. makes contact with Axegrinder to discuss their common interests. (Radio) Shawn Berger sends Axegrinder a radio transmission, 'Axegrinder. My name is Shawn Berger. I have a proposition for you.' (Radio) Axegrinder transmits, "I heard o'you, Mr Shawn Berger. Heard you like giant alien robots as much as I do." to Shawn Berger. (Radio) Shawn Berger sends Axegrinder a radio transmission, 'Yes, indeed. We have much in common, and I believe I can help you.' (Radio) Axegrinder transmits, "Oh yeah? Hey, you're made o'money, ain't'cha? You help me keep my jet airborne, I'll take apart more alien robots'n you c'n count!" to Shawn Berger. (Radio) Shawn Berger sends Axegrinder a radio transmission, 'That sounds like an excellent arrangement. Would you like to meet? I'm not certain how secure this radio band is.' (Radio) Axegrinder transmits, "Probably not very. Sure. Where'll we meet up?" to Shawn Berger. (Radio) Shawn Berger sends Axegrinder a radio transmission, 'We can meet at one of my offices. Name a major city.' (Radio) Axegrinder transmits, "What is this, Jeopardy? Okay, New York City. I ain't been there in a while." to Shawn Berger. (Radio) Shawn Berger sends Axegrinder a radio transmission, 'Meet me at the Berger building on Fifth Avenue.' Shawn Berger waits in his office in the penthouse of the Berger building. He is dressed in expensive slacks and $1000 shoes, as well as a crisp polo shirt. Axegrinder This woman stands about five and a half feet tall and is of average build. She wears a black flight suit, the helmet of which is tucked under her arm. Her green eyes gaze out from a thin, fine-boned face, framed with brown hair which is tied into a ponytail in the back. Those eyes occasionally dart about, and give the impression that their owner may be about to go for someone's throat. Axegrinder makes her way to the Berger Building and bullies her way past the reception and into the elevator, which she takes to the penthouse. She carries her pilot's helmet under one arm, allowing her to glare with open hostility at most everything she comes across. Her brown ponytail flicks back and forth slightly as she lifts her chin toward Berger in what might in some places pass as a greeting. Shawn Berger says, "Ah. You must be Axegrinder. It's so nice to meet you." He steps forward and holds out a hand. Axegrinder grins toothily, reaching out to clasp Berger's hand with a strong grip. "Always nice t'meet somebody else who understands, who ain't drinkin' th' Kool-Aid, y'know?" Shawn Berger nods. "Definitely. I'll not forget what the Autobots did to my father. I'm not fooled by their PR machine." Axegrinder snorts. "They c'n say all they like about how they're th'heroes an' whatnot... they still go around knockin' buildings over an' breakin' things. They got no right t'have their stinkin' war on our planet." Shawn Berger nods. "I represent a consortium of individuals who agree with just that, and we are growing by the day. We financed Damon Ward's efforts a decade ago... I feel it's time you took up his mantle. Axegrinder's expression sobers for a moment at the mention of Ward's name, then the angry sneer returns. She clenches a gloved fist in front of her. "Megatron's the one that killed Damon," she growls. "I'll have 'is head fer a trophy!" She makes a two-fingered pointing gesture toward Berger. "I been wantin' t'finish what Damon started fer years. Didn't have his contacts, or his money. But there's no time like th'present, eh?" Shawn Berger smiles confidently. "Indeed. I have the money, and some contacts of my own. Whatever you need, you'll have.' Axegrinder grins, shaking her fist. "Best news I've heard in ages, Mr Berger. When d'we get started?" Shawn Berger says, "Immediately. Do you have a bank account into which we can funnel resources, or would you rather request equipment directly and we'll provide it? We have some of the best scientific minds on the planet on our side -- you'd be surprised." "If they c'n hold a candle t'Damon's genius, we'll be golden," Axegrinder enthuses. She pauses to consider her options. "Fer now probably best t'just ask ya fer what I need. I'm a pilot, not a technician. I know my plane, but it'll be so much better to have a proper crew t'look after 'im." Shawn Berger nods. "I'll make it happen. What's your current airbase?" Axegrinder chuckles. "Wherever I c'n set down long 'nough t'get fueled up an' get out, usually. You got a place we c'n call a more permanent home?" Shawn Berger says, "I'll make a place. Do you have a preference from where you'd like to operate?" Axegrinder says, "Someplace safe, where the law won't get all up my nose. Someplace comfortable, not in the middle of a swamp or the frozen tundra. Someplace with good pizza places." Shawn Berger smiles. "I'm sure we can work within those parameters," he grins. Axegrinder gives Berger a double thumbs-up as only an exuberant Australian can. "Can't wait." Shawn Berger smiles. "Shall we celebrate?" He goes over to his bar to fix them drinks. "What's your poison?" Axegrinder's eyes light up at the offer of booze. "Ooh, haven't had a good rum 'n' coke in months." She follows Berger eagerly to the bar. Shawn Berger grins. "I have the best rum in Manhattan. I'll fix you a drink." Axegrinder claps her gloved hands and rubs them together enthusiastically. "I'm hopin' the quality o'yer jet fuel's th'same... my jet's been drinkin' the bloody dregs last few months." Shawn Berger , "I have contacts that can get you fuel lightyears ahead of anything you've seen." Axegrinder says, "Fantastic. He'll be so happy." Shawn Berger says confidently, "'He'll'? Your jet?" Axegrinder nods. "Yeah. The Prometheus. We've been through a lot together." Shawn Berger nods, not looking like he finds that odd at all. Axegrinder says, "Glad you looked me up, Mr Berger. Me an' you, we'll teach those damned robots a lesson, eh?" Shawn Berger grins. "Yes, we will." His eyes glint dangerously, and he seems very pleased to have made a friend.
- This card is available for use by the following players: All This card is available as a reward from the following quest(s): Raising the Stakes
- Taran is relaxing by the fire. Although the room is warm, it's fairly clear why - the bard is quite wet, his leather cloak soaked. He's even undone his hair to dry it, which is causing a few "long as a girl's" remarks among the patrons. A rather solemn-looking Milora emerges from outside, also wet. There seems to be a little tussle behind her; apparently some of the young horses at the stables don't take too kindly to thunder and lightning. Removing a square of white silk from her bodice, she wipes some rainwater from her face and neck. Taran looks up at the sound of scuffle, offering a formal nod and a smile to the noblewoman. "If one can bear the heat, my lady, the fire dries wet cloth quickly," he says. "Master Taran," Milora says, sighing gently and giving a little smile. "I thought that I saw Prestissimo outside. Are you well?" she asks, approaching the fire and at once coming to Taran's side. Taran raises both eyebrows, absently wringing out his hair. "My lady, I have no idea why my presence should cause you dismay, but I will redress it if I am able. As to your concern..." he reaches in his pack for a comb, "Aside from a good drenching I am well enough. I have not seen you in some time." "Dismay?" Milora repeats, almost breathless with a sudden wave of apparent disbelief. "I am /happy/ to see you, Taran Songbird. Are you not my friend?" The words hang there for a moment, almost awkwardly, before she gives a slight frown and moves her hands to her frizzy, damp hair. "Why, how could you ever think that I disliked your company?" "The utter delight upon seeing your long-absent friend, my lady, is breathtaking to witness," Taran replies with dry humor. "Please. Come and sit by the fire to dry. I do believe I have a spare comb in my bag, if that would please you?" "I think that a comb would be a bad idea. My hair is so thick that I cannot pull anything through it painlessly unless it has just been washed." Milora seats herself obediently, giving Taran a rather forlorn look. "You do not exactly radiate affection, sir. What would you think of me if I were to treat you as I would like? Suppose I asked to embrace you, now that we've remet; I would certainly be turned away. I think that you'd say that you would /rather/ I didn't. If I am reserved, it is only because I do not want to put you off." Taran chuckles quietly. "The one thing you are not, my lady, is clearly a mindreader," he says. "Why should you fear me? What have I done, that gives you this impression of distaste? I am, at the moment, merely wet - as you are." He flips the long strands of black hair across one shoulder. "And aye, I well know the troubles of thick hair, tis one reason I keep it bound. But it will take all day to dry if I leave it bound while wet." "That is an idea." She reaches back and handles her long curls expertly, eventually having them fall slothfully past her shoulders, Raking her fingers through the yellow mass and wincing, Milora breaths a sigh. "The last time we were together, you were very quiet and would go away as quickly as possible; always when I am near you I suspect that you would rather be elsewhere. I do not blame you, as I can be a very unpleasant person, but it does not dispose me to think you very fond of me." Taran looks honestly surprised, absently using the comb in his hand to hold his hair out, separated, near the fire. His other hand offers Milora another comb. "My lady...you will perhaps not credit it, but unless I am performing I do not fare particularly well with crowds and large groups of people. It seems to me often to be very stifling; perhaps a consequence of too many years on the road. So it is not a distaste for you, but rather that you seem to have quite the circle of admirers." Accepting the comb almost reluctantly, Milora pull her hair over her shoulder and begins to drag the tool through it, her face contorted with displeasure at the sensation while she listens to Taran. "I did not know," she concedes mildly, at last. "I had always assumed that you were a social creature, because of your charm and charisma and the way that people and especially women are drawn to you. For example, I very much love you and it is not only because you have a name similar to my own brother's, but because you are perceptive and easy-mannered, usually, and diplomatic. As to my 'admirers', I would almost rather be without them. I have certainly lost a friend since yesterday. -- Anyroad, I understand you better now. I will now make an effort to single you out in crowds, and see you often in private, and to try to make you very comfortable. I understand what it is to sink into invisibility when placed next to a multitude of others. Taran laughs quietly, demonstrating. "Don't comb," he chides. "Just hold your hair out with it, as if cloth on a drying rod - when it is drier, you will have an easier time combing it out and making it proper. But as to the rest, my lady," he shrugs. "I do quite enjoy people, and being around people, and speaking to people. But when one is on a stage, there is a barrier between the performer and the audience; I am in effect apart from everyone. Performances aside - my lady, I have ever had few friends. T'is a consequence of travel, that I see people so seldom. And so the gatherings I am accustomed to on a social level are invariably small." Again Milora obeys. The ceremony with which she treats her hair, then, seems to be much more effective than the unpleasant yanking that preceded it, and she blushes slightly as she listens to Taran. Listening to him, however, she seems to grow upset and immediately once he is finished she abandons her noble task and jerks forward, meaning to hug him warmly around the shoulders. "I dislike that you should be without those who are fond of you. I suspect now, on my reflections, that I may have slighted you in the past. Can you forgive me?" "Done, of course," the bard replies with a laugh, though with his hands full of comb and hair he's more engulfed by the hug than able to return it. "But you mentioned less fortunate tidings - have you not been well then, of late? Is that why I have heard so little news of you?" "On the contrary," Milora says, withdrawing and taking up her comb again, "I am clearer-headed than ever, but I have adopted some very unpleasant and ungirlish qualities and habits; for example, last night I was very rude to a certain mutual friend of ours." She pauses. "I believe that they call this state of conflicting desires and emotions and thoughts, and this solidifying of views, 'coming into oneself' or else 'growing up'. I think that I might be growing up, Taran, and I am not sure if I /fully/ like what I am becoming." Taran's expression turns serious, and somewhat concerned. "Aye, I know that feeling. But the word is not 'coming into oneself', nor even 'growing up' - t'is only change, and that comes to us all from time to time. What is it that concerns you - for I can aye guess the name you are not saying, but she has had troubles of her own of late." "I know that," Milora replies, bringing her legs up onto the chair with her and casting her eyes downward. "I know that she is not without her hardships. I used to love her as a sister, but change has a way of turning things around. I /have/ changed, but so has she. If you would like to defend her now, Taran, you may and I will not resent you. Say what you are thinking." Taran shakes his head. "T'is not the bard's way to judge so, my lady," he says. "T'is for the priest to say this is right and that is wrong - for a bard it is to mediate. I know her troubles, but do not know yours. How, then, could I possibly mediate any dispute between you, nor explain the one's position to the other?" He blinks, tilting his head (which slackens the hair held out in the comb a bit) and makes an 'ah'. "Of course. You saw only half my work...you would not know." Feeling that her hair is dry enough, or perhaps just impatient, Milora moves to comb again and meets more success. "What do you mean, Taran?" she asks, looking at him with a politely puzzled expression. "Why, the *last* time you and lady Celeste had an argument," Taran laughs quietly. "You were fortuitously absent for all the days I spent trying to tell her that his grace had a *point*; you were only present for those times I was attempting to explain her position to you." Smiling softly, Milora nods her head. "If I may be honest with you, I /had/ thought you partial to her, but now I understand that your bias existed only in my mind. And why! It is perfectly reasonable that you would try to explain her to me and vice versa, because where does it get anyone to hear about the points that they themselves have made? I appreciate you, taran, very much, and not as much as I should." Taran lipquirks. "My lady, there is personal and there is the duty of my calling. I do not - indeed, cannot - let the one dictate the other. I was asked to mediate, and so I tried to do. No good purpose would have been served in letting the dispute go farther than it already had - there would only have been loss on every side." There's a gentle sigh, and Milora nods again. "I am not as wise as you, Taran, I think." A pause during which she shifts her weight and move to comb the back of her hair. The result is that it is drying in nearly smooth bands, somewhat better looking than her original state. "So we've established that you are a good mediator; now what?" "Flatterer," Taran replies with gentle amusement. "You do realize, my lady, that you still have not said what happened between you, nor why - beyond the evident estrangement - it upsets you?" "You would like me to?" She pauses again. "Well, yes. I told her that I thought she was a hypocrite and that she was vain and only tried to affect goodness for her ego's sake, and then I told her to stop blithering and slathering long-winded speeches on everyone who might dare oppose her. I compared her to two-faced noblewomen of low caliber. Then she began to cry, of course, and spouted off something in her defense and left. I am not sorry, but I should not have done it so publicly and I was too hard on her." Taran raises both eyebrows. "No, my lady...such words should never be public. It is much harder to mend a public humiliation than a private argument. But what pushed you to say such things to her?" "Some of the things she says are so snide. She condescends without knowing that she is doing so. I told her that Duke Lomasa and I would have a private wedding and would not have her perform the ceremony, as we believed it would be too stressful for her to pull herself away from her duties; she proceeded to arrive to the conclusion that His Grace disliked and despised her. Her treatment of my future husband is really what angers me; she pretends to be his friend, and yet her behaviour absolutely points to the contrary. She does not trust him. She does not respect him. She believes that he has ill wishes toward her and her purposes, when in reality he would prefer to neutrally disregard her." The bard adjusts position, holding out a different patch of hair for the fire to dry. "Aye, well, that is no new thing, my lady," he says mildly. "To be fair, I do not think she truly condescends. It is more that she sees something different from most, and does not realize that it is different from most. So she speaks what to her is self-evident, and becomes surprised when her audience does not follow it." "That is true," Milora admits, frowning slightly. "However, I can not forgive her refusal to consider the opinions of other. Her stubbornness is very unattractive to me; perhaps she was milder when first I knew her, or else I did not immediately recognize these flaws in her personality. She condemns. She is too quick to judge. She cannot see through any eyes but her own, and she /pretends/ to be able to. It is fine that she can not, but I am disgusted with her for attempting to appear more than she is, whether the attempt is made knowingly or not." Taran raises an eyebrow at that. "She is more perceptive than you give her credit for, my lady," he says mildly. "Though aye, she can also be blind. It is an archer's focus, to see only the target and nothing to either side." He pauses, studying Milora. "She truly angered you - what happened?" Lyddmull Seamel steps in, his coat only slightly damp with rain. Without noticing the familiar pair, he moves to the bar and requests a bowl of ale, putting a few coins down in compensation before he turns to look around. Frowning, Milora shakes her head. "It is an observation of her behaviour over a very long period of time, rather than any one instance, that has turned me against her. You accuse me of having narrow vision and not seeing all, but is that to be my fault? If she would like me to understand her, she must /make/ me understand her by explaining herself to me - without exaggeration. Any account of oneself loses credibility once it is infected by vanity and self-righteousness." "No one sees all, my lady, and it is always wise to remember that," Taran chides gently. "Neither you, nor I, nor her, nor any other in the world. And - aye, I could wish that she could. But you have been her friend before, have you not? Does she react with grace when she feels under attack, in your experience?" Lyddmull Seamel's eyes light on the conversing pair, but he is somewhat out of earshot and does not wish to interrupt their conversation. He nods gratefully to the barkeep as his bowl appears, scooping it up and taking a sip with a contented smile. "Absolutely not. It is as you say: she regards any opposition to her own thoughts and ideas as an attack." Milora's eyes are downcast and her legs are tucked up under her, her hair freshly combed and rapidly drying. "She is unable to accept the possibility of any points of view that may rival her own, and so she twitters and sputters and usually begins to cry as though her feeling shave been hurt; she accuses her agressor of a personal vendetta, directly or indirectly, and tries to turn the situation or the conversation in her favour." Taran takes a deep breath, and carefully sets about combing out his now-dry hair, preparing to put it back into its long braid. "If there is a thing she holds too dear to debate on, it is her faith," he muses. "Therefore I would guess it a matter of faith upon which you disputed?" Now matter how much he tries to give the pair their privacy, Lyddmull’s gaze seems to be drawn now and again to their conversation, though he hears none of it. He chuckles a bit at himself before turning to face the counter, sipping at his ale. Milora shakes her head. "I feel that what she is doing is silly and badly thought-out, however well-intentioned, and that her refusal to listen to the reason of others on the matter betrays an evil in her character that may never be improved, but it is not my place to argue with her. She will not listen to me; even when presented with solid arguements against her own she bursts into a fit of hardheadedness. When backed into a corner she normally brings forth tears, or lays further arguements so hypocritical that they verge on idiotic." Comb, comb...Taran has rather a lot of hair, it seems, when it's not bound back in its usual traveler's braid, and he tends to it with a methodic simplicity. "And what are you doing, then, my lady?" he asks mildly. "Thus far, lady Celeste has acted alone. Is that changing? Or do you wish to administer Night's Edge?" "Administer?" the blonde repeats, her eyes widening. It appears as though the suggestion surprises her. "I can not even support the idea. I could not fairly supervise the project or take part in it without causing a series of ultimately harmful arguements and disagreements. Further explain your meaning to me, please." Lyddmull Seamel's curiosity gets the better of him and he turns about, bowl in hand, as he approaches the pair. "Good evening, Lady Lomasa, Master Songbird," he says, smiling faintly, "If I am interrupting, I shall gladly move on, but I did not wish to simply pass by without so much as a greeting." Taran sort of half-bows forward a bit - it's hard to do a properly courteous obeisance when you're trying to comb out a few feet of hair. "My lady, I am simply trying to understand the situation at hand," he pleads quietly. "I understand that you and Lady Celeste had a disagreement about which you are still wrathful - but truly, that is all I understand at present." "Taran, there is no more to understand," Milora says mildly, her eyes only briefly flicking to Lyddmull. "I am tired of her behaviour and her altered disposition; I am tired of her continuous assumption that she is the only one in the kingdom who is ever perpetually right. I do not wish to be associated with her any longer; I do not feel that it is good for me, for my betrothed or for the reputation of my House, if these proceed in this manner. Do you see now?" Lyddmull Seamel's pleasant demeanor darkens as he suddenly realizes what it is he has walked in on, his eyes narrowing slightly. "It would appear that while I am _indeed_ intruding here," the Seamel says, his normally warm tone going a bit cold as his gaze flicks between the two. Taran looks up at Lyddmull, rather surprised and startled. "My lord?" he asks, clearly at a loss. "Have I caused you offense somehow?" Milora raises her head, sighing in Lyddmull's direction. There's a rhythmic heaving of her back and shoulders, silent but visible, that suggests she is coming down from a momentary high of sorts. "It would appear that you caught me in a moment of passion, sir," she confesses. Her expression is slightly pained, and more than a little apologetic. "I am very sorry." Lyddmull Seamel looks at Taran with a shake of his head. "Nay, Master Songbird, you did not ask me to stick my nose into this," he says before turning to Milora with a sigh. "I confess to not knowing much of what has transpired between you and Lady Mikin, but you should know that she has never spoken ill of you, nor shown anything but regret in regards to any animosity between you," he says before offering a slight bow, "My apologies for the intrusion." He turns back towards the bar, draining his bowl. Taran just blinks, shaking his head a bit as if words were much louder than they were spoken. "How...have you been keeping, my lady?" he asks carefully, perhaps seeking a safer subject. "Planning your wedding with his Grace, or are there yet other matters that occupy your days? I have meant to go and check upon the lilies - I never did quite finish that." Only mildly unsettled by Lyddmull's words, Milora takes them squarely in the face as though they were expected. Then turning, significantly deflated, toward Taran, she shrugs. "He has requested that it take place sooner than we expected - as in, next springtime, perhaps after I am nineteen. Now it would please him to hold it as this season's end, and there is little planning to be done. An elopement has been suggested, and I would almost agree if it were not for the fact that such a thing would disappoint our families. We will, I suppose, do it quickly and quietly in the tournament grounds and then offer wine and music." Lyddmull Seamel places a drinking bowl on the bar before he turns to head for the door, affording the pair a quick glance before he makes his way out. Bustling into the tavern comes Dianna, mumbling to herself as she tosses her cloak over her shoulder to offer free movement of her hands. With a quick side step of Lyddmull, who gets a brief nod, the Lomasa is off in the direction of the bar. "All well, Kat?" She calls to the cook. Taran says, quite softly, "I understand that you feel very strongly, my lady - but a tavern is not the place. Did you not already say you regretted the public venue before?" Then, somewhat more normally, he says, "A duke, eloping? Does his grace fear trouble, then? Surely the marriage of a house patriarch should be a cause for grand celebration?" Lyddmull Seamel nods to Dianna as he passes. "My lady," he says quietly, though his tone is oddly tight, his expression distracted as he moves out into the street. "You point out my own hypocrisy. You are correct, but I can not help myself. I am still upset." She draws a breath and nods her head. "In normal circumstances, it would be. However, in this case, His Grace's divorce has been exceedingly recent and the wounds of the women who have been upset be him are not yet quite healed over. It would be an obvious insult to them to have something too splendid, and so we are opting for something smaller, less fashionable, and more to the effect of celebrating a successful union of love." Stepping through the back wall of the tavern, Duhnen emerges into the common room, solidifying and casting a look about. He folds his hands behind his back as he observes, setting his mind to a rather important question. "What to drink?" he murmurs. Taran gives Milora a rather steady look at that. "We always have a choice, my lady," he says. "We simply do not always choose well. You are changing, aye - consider well, so that you change into someone you are proud to be."
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