Ichabod Crane [Sleepy Hollow] (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tobearwitness) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
all_inclusive2014-03-09 01:20 pm
tobearwitness) wrote in all_inclusive2014-03-09 01:20 pm
Entry tags:
chess on ice
Ichabod has always been plagued with an insatiable curiosity and in his quest to return to Sleepy Hollow as quickly as possible, he has often stumbled through doorways that lead to fantastic places. He tends to stick to the hotel as much as possible in the vain hopes that somehow Lieutenant Mills will find a way to contact him on his new mobile telephone (no such luck) but today he has taken a chance on a door that seems to have an excessive amount of cheering followed by periods of intense silence.
Beyond the door lies something he has not seen since his last trip to Scotland some years ago. There are two teams of men in brightly-colored garb calling plays and sweeping furiously as a granite stone whirls down the ice. It's a game of Scottish extraction called curling, one that he had been graciously allowed to play once among a group in Kilsyth long ago. It's always been an elegant game to him, full of strategy and tedium, and it seems he's wandered out near the players bench instead of into the stands with the adoring public.
There's another team there, one set to play after this current match is done and judging from their uniforms and accents, they seem to be American, possibly. It seems so strange that the Americans would be playing a Scottish game but who is he to judge? He, too, has chosen America as his country of residence so perhaps it isn't so strange as it might seem on the surface.
"You're the third," the captain tells him and Ichabod racks his brain for the rules of this particular game. He thinks he has a handle on it from that game so long ago but hopefully modern conventions haven't changed this one overly much; he isn't sure what could be complicated about something so simple and elegant as curling but the modern world has a tendency to confuse even the simplest of things.
"Right, yes. The vice-skip, then?" he asks, looking for clarification. Somehow, some way, he's become a member of the American curling team. May God have mercy.
[Either play with Ichabod or join him after the game while he's still decked out in Team USA gear.]
Beyond the door lies something he has not seen since his last trip to Scotland some years ago. There are two teams of men in brightly-colored garb calling plays and sweeping furiously as a granite stone whirls down the ice. It's a game of Scottish extraction called curling, one that he had been graciously allowed to play once among a group in Kilsyth long ago. It's always been an elegant game to him, full of strategy and tedium, and it seems he's wandered out near the players bench instead of into the stands with the adoring public.
There's another team there, one set to play after this current match is done and judging from their uniforms and accents, they seem to be American, possibly. It seems so strange that the Americans would be playing a Scottish game but who is he to judge? He, too, has chosen America as his country of residence so perhaps it isn't so strange as it might seem on the surface.
"You're the third," the captain tells him and Ichabod racks his brain for the rules of this particular game. He thinks he has a handle on it from that game so long ago but hopefully modern conventions haven't changed this one overly much; he isn't sure what could be complicated about something so simple and elegant as curling but the modern world has a tendency to confuse even the simplest of things.
"Right, yes. The vice-skip, then?" he asks, looking for clarification. Somehow, some way, he's become a member of the American curling team. May God have mercy.
[Either play with Ichabod or join him after the game while he's still decked out in Team USA gear.]
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"I am an academic, something my father decidedly did not want," Ichabod admits.
"He is peerage, of course, and thinks my studies are folly."
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"Landed gentry with a voice in the House of Lords," Ichabod explains, wondering why such a term has fallen out of disuse. Even in England these days, there was still the peerage, wasn't there?
"He thinks academia is having my head in the clouds."
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Chase had definitely never heard of and had never used (or been) peerage, then. "Well, where I come from, academia is pretty much the wave of the future," he promises. "People spend decades in school trying to get degrees. I finished secondary, did my pre-med, then med school, then I've still been specializing until all of three years ago," he admits with a scoff. "I don't know that it's head in the clouds anymore. I think it's just life."
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"I could be a student forever," Ichabod admits readily. "Learning does not stop at some predetermined age once one has learned sums and writing."
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"At some point, I need to start working," he admits, rubbing his arms and nodding to the door. "Not to be completely an arse, but I'm kind of freezing and while it was nice, at first, for the wound, it's starting to get a bit numb. I don't suppose you're about to win the match or something?" he asks, trying to get his best guess at the rules of this.
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Ichabod frowns at it. "No, I think I'm about to lose. I have another stone," he says, "But I'm not throwing. I suppose we could leave and leave it all to chance. I'm not terribly invested at all, not if you're in discomfort."
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Chase still felt like he had no hope in hell of figuring out how the game worked and didn't exactly have much investment. "Maybe just a quick return to the hotel, check the bandages and warm up. I mean, I'm not supposed to have any alcohol with the meds, but maybe I could buy you something to warm up. Or are they free. I haven't exactly figured that place out."
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"I insist, let me buy you something warm. You're injured," Ichabod says, concerned about that even if Chase is a medical doctor and the expert in this particular matter. He has certain manners and standards to uphold and offering to aid this man falls in line with them.
"Nothing alcoholic, certainly, but something to chase the chill?"
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"It's getting better," he promises, because it's been enough time that he's bored with healing and recuperating, even if the wound isn't really to let him do things like get back to the lifestyle he was used to, before. "And I'd never say no to a hot cocoa," he says warmly. "I don't think anyone would."
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"So long as the levied taxes aren't astronomical. It was my understanding the colonists fought against such usury. Maybe I picked the wrong side of the war," Ichabod scoffs.
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