MiM has some fans and it seems love for him is growing [be that due to the books or the many blogs popping up]. Here is a fun and easy list of ways for your Earthbound character to interact with him that don’t involve spontaneously appearing on a space ship hundreds of thousands of miles away from Earth.
Be Patient. The Man in the Moon might come down to Earth on an expedition or for fun. You’ll have a great chance then.
Get Creative. The Man in the Moon listens to his balloons which are linked with children all over the Earth. If you really need to talk to him, just focus on those thoughts. Sending a message via balloon would help too.
If you want to ask him a question, ask it! A lot of MiM roleplay blogs also serve as ask blogs. Muses will answer questions out of their current setting. So all you have to do is ask something.
Talk to a Guardian. MiM is the head of the Guardians. Maybe talking to one will yield some results.
Even just watching them might be good. An opportunity could spring up any time, via M!A. [Hell, you can even send a Magic Anon to turn ‘em human sometimes!]
But please pleaseplease please stop showing up on the Clipper out of nowhere. In all honesty there is just nothing to go on when you do that. We MiM muns are just as human as you are and one-sentence intros sent via askbox, featuring your muse just randomly appearing on a secure vessel are horribly difficult to write off of.
The Tsarina was expected to embrace classic forms of dress. She was supposed to represent the tradition of the dynasty. Very rarely was the Glittering Lady Lunanoff seen in attire from off world. Much of her wardrobe consisted of large long dresses that earlier Tsarina’s made popular.
And some weapons. The sword Lord Tarr gave to Pitch is pretty much Anduril (Aragorn’s sword from Lord of the Rings, first picture and SO PRETTY). The others are all just inspiration for nothing in particular.
Honey tinged green eyes were locked on the owner of the voice, the question resonating absently on her senses. How long ago did she hold company, how long did she answer a question such as that? Eons. This was in Earth’s reign, and grim battles still roiled around her at times, so familiar to how she had served the Lunanoff house beneath the Golden General.
The medic, the Silver Colonel.
She dug through years of memory either way, taking the question seriously even as predatory eyes remained forward, not moving and even the star host didn’t bother to intake air. Focused as she was, she didn’t care to bother. Only when her gaze flicked away did she breath in and spoke up, hands folded behind a stiff back.
“I wonder if you ask, expecting a soldiers answer, a heroic story. But with what I take in to your expression, scent even, perhaps you ask out of genuine curiosity. For that reason I answer.”
The look returned, but she remained still otherwise.
“My eyes follow my prior family, it is my job they survive. At least most. I am, and was, no god, I could not bring anybody back from the dead. What goes through my mind, as a battle becomes grueling, is who in the worlds, do I protect and heal first?”
She leaned forward slightly from her ramrod posture, her focus on his face gone as if to stare through the other, recalling and putting what she could into words.
“My fellow medic’s can still only do so much, among the fights of fearlings. Fear will get to anybody, and only survived battles are truly any good training. I must realize that some will die, each battle, as will I again and again if I tried to save them all. I saved the ones who had survived before, those who I knew could survive in the first place. If I could, I would bring another to safety.”
The long smell of blood and ichor filtered her senses of memory now, dead fearlings, soldiers, her own scent, and she exhaled heavily, her eyes closing finally.
“I did not follow specific thought. Battle does not allow wordy analysis and inner monologue. I died saving a few in last desperate moments, the ‘luck’ of having a makeshift immortal among the ranks. As I recall my thoughts now though, and put them into understandable tongue, it is dread, it is bristling fear. It is the smell of blood and fire and the pulse of your own blood in your ears to drown out the crying. It is the knowledge that, you will lose something, and it better damn well be worth what your fighting for.”
By her tone now, it wasn’t. But she did not clarify what she regretted personally.
Send me “What are you doing in my room?”, and I’ll generate a number between 1 and 25 for what my muse will say to yours.
☾ ▐░ ┈┈┈ It was a thrilling chase through the solar system! Behind him sluggish guards were topped upon tiny speedships that resembled jagged dragonflies with ruby eyes, in which sparked and flamed at what appeared to be random intervals (Lunar’s father would refer to this as simply “intimidation tactics”). Stars and planets and trails of ice were zipping by and the air was impossibly cold as Lunar Lunanoff surged through the starlit cosmos. He was perched on what might be considered a “motorcycle”, but it was suited more for the insanity of space rather than paved roads. Lunar weaved deftly around meteors and the like, while the two chubby guards still raced after him (they also looked something like bugs, now that Lunar thought on it).
Space truly was a silent place, but the Golden Age continuously made all sorts of wonderful contraptions to work around petty things like “a lack of molecules to vibrate to create sound”. Their solution was a megaphone that not only amplified your voice by jarring amounts, but it also let loose its own, void atoms to fill all that empty space–but they were contained and safe, so they only added meat into an otherwise quiet space.
Suddenly a crackling, oozing voice spluttered into one of those said megaphones. Lunar pinched the bridge of his nose, almost as a reflex. He even mouthed along to the words being said at that moment: “Lunar Lunanoff XXIX The Heir to the Most Noble Constellation of Lunanoff–” Oh my Stars, does father make them truly say that every time? “–you are approaching forbidden territory in 720,982,981,346 kilometers!!”
The slurping bug did sound more worried than usual. Though these two insects in particular had delivered this speech more times than any of them cared to remember (they simply had the unfortunate duty of being the entrance guards at the darkest hours of night, so it wasn’t anything personal), but now their creaking voices were filled with just a hint of terror.
And that only made Lunar all the more curious.
What was this “forbidden territory” anyway?
Well, if one traveled the speed of light, he could cover that distance in a minute or more, roughly anyway.
“LunarLunanoffXXIXTheHeirtotheMostNobleConstellationofLunanoff–” a great inhale of breath here, “–you must stop! You are heading into a guarded keep that does not belong to your father!”
Oh? Somewhere that didn’t belong to his father in some way or another? Well now! He had to break in, that was that. He patted his thick silk coat, rattling with all the hidden goodies stolen from his father’s personal weaponry (which was kept underground on their home planet, locked in layers of steel, cement, and meteorite; guards posted every few feet–blablabla he managed to slyly get past all of it by simply throwing an inconsolable “fit” until the guards delivered him safely into the heart of the weapon’s room, just so the sniffling prince could see his Papa–but really he just wanted to steal stuff). He shrugged and clicked the big red button used for “warp drive”.
In a flash he was gone, the two insect-guards stopping dead.
“We can’t follow him there, ya know. We’d get fried and the reports would say, ‘Oh Tsar Lunanoff your unfortunate guards wandered too close to my manor and so I blasted off their heads, antenna and all, my sincerest apologies’.” The green guard said, clicking his sharp talons.
“Yeah, the kid’s on his own,” his companion replied. “So just that we’re on the same page–did that blonde ditz just warp drive to Lord Pitchiner’s home?”
“That would be correct.”
“At what point do we tell Tsar Lunanoff that his son is dead?”
Warp drive began and ended in milliseconds, and Lunar had been sailing on ships with this function for his entire life. Newcomers to ‘space sailing’ often complained of nausea, of being lightheaded, and the most severe reactions could (rarely) kill days later after using warp drive. It was not something intended for the unaware, especially when the warp drive function had been slapped onto a vintage motorcycle to be ‘cool’. The better the ship, the less one even noticed anything after warp drive–the rust-buckets of space were always unnerving to get on for that reason (and more, probably). But Lunar felt nothing at all, just a tingling in his head.
And so Lunar could see the blinding flash of light ahead that signaled he would be spit out of the wormhole. There was a low grumble, and then–
The wormhole began to collapse! The unwavering light gleamed invitingly, but he failed to get any closer! And as the wormhole began to shrink, so did Lunar.
This is a trap to stop ships from warp-driving onto the planet! Lunar thought frantically, watching as his own atoms began to get squished together, flattened and stretched in bizarre ways. If he stayed in here much longer he would become nothing! The wormhole would plunge him into an invisible existence–becoming nothing more than black matter hanging mournfully in space!
He slammed a now diamond-shaped fist onto the small control panel fixed on his motorcycle, but his now fracturing hand hit the wrong button! He wanted to go forward not–!
The motorcycle had been equipped with a little magic stardust for the most dire of emergencies. It was the kind of thing you added as a “just in case”, but it was even more respected than that. This was the kind of button you only pressed when you were going to die. Stardust was rare, anyway, and if his father ever knew he had stolen some Lunar would be dead either way.
And so Lunar became, quite literally, a shooting star. He was launched straight up and burst through all the impossible layers of the worm hole and he climbed ever higher as he wavered between consciousness and unconsciousness (his body was trying to rearrange itself back into what was a normal shape here). When he blinked his eyes open he saw that he was suspended in space, drifting over what looked like a sinister manor floating absently through the blackness. His motorcycle was spinning away faster than Lunar thought was possible, looking blackened and fried as it crash-landed into a comet, making that explode too.
I almost died–! Who-who in this lifetime has a warp drive blocker that isn’t my father?!
The answer would have been obvious to anyone else, honestly.
He took a moment to gather his wits and then fished around in his pockets, his pale hand emerging with a glass orb filled with shining liquid.
It was moonlight, even rarer than starlight! And also one of the reasons the Lunanoffs were as prominent as they were.
Now if Father knows I stole this he will surely disintegrate me.
Lunar slammed the clear orb into his hand and it exploded harmlessly, the glass splintered into sparkles then drifted away. However, it was what remained that was important: the hundreds of glimmering white threads that floated and hovered in front of the prince. This was the secret magic that only the Lunanoffs could use (and possibly Nightlight–no one knew for sure what that glow-stick could do). It was the power of light and goodness and it could only be manipulated by a Lunanoff. The closer one was to the Tsar in regards to bloodlines, the more easily they could fix the moonlight into whatever they desired (this meant, unfortunately, his mother could not use moonlight as she came from a different noble family). It was the secret that held his family above almost all of the others.
But Lunar knew none of this! Well, he did know what the moonlight vaguely was. And yes, he had seen his father use it a rare time or two, but Lunar’s lessons for truly mastering the moonlight did not begin until he was eighteen–right now, he was only seventeen.
He looked uncertainly into the whirling threads. He wasn’t quite sure what to do, and he bit his lip in uncertainty, then plucked out a dozen shining threads. Finally, he began to paint.
Truthfully, the young prince was quite tired. The journey thus far had been overwhelming, but he flicked the strands this way and that, stretching, scrunching, waving them all around–because he was dreadfully curious about the manor that was far below him. While he worked, he began to look for ways into the home (it should be noted that he had no qualms about breaking into someone else’s HEAVILY GUARDED home, thus one can suspect that this sort of thing was, well, common for the mischievous prince). It took him nearly an hour to fix the moonlight into some clunky mess that floated before him. It looked rather ghostly, the stars behind it easily shining through.
“Papa always said we have to believe. That belief is the most important thing, so it must be important now. I, ah, believe in you… oh great moonlight… thingy?”
He threw in a few ominous hums for effect.
“Alright, now what was it that Papa always did after…?” He snapped his fingers. He whistled a tune. He talked to it for a minute. He made popping sounds. The tangled heap just floated in front of him, entirely unfazed. “Oh come on!”
He slapped his hand against his forehead out of frustration.
The wisps shook and sparkled for only a second.
“Don’t tell me it’s that easy. Don’t tell me it is that easy–!” Lunar clapped once very loudly.
The strings of moonlight glowed brightly once more and when the light faded it was a block of solid glowing mass instead. It looked fairly deformed, but it wasn’t as if Lunar had ever claimed to be an artist anyway. (At least it only solidified into a glowing silhouette, so many of the details were washed away in moonlight.) He picked it up and found that it weighed as light as a feather!
“Amazing,” he breathed, shouldering the block onto his back by straps he had carved out beforehand. “Well, if this doesn’t work I’m certainly dead.” He shrugged. “And if this does work, I’m probably still dead either way. So I should at least answer as many questions that I can until then.” He nodded to himself.
And then he muttered that little chant his father always told him to remember:
“Believe. Believe. Believe!”
And the crude jet-pack he had created out of the moonlight burst to life, as if it had been there all along and made to work precisely thus. Lunar’s girlish shrieks followed as he was hurtled to the manor–
He vaguely heard alarms sound somewhere from beyond the manor–
Were those guards coming for him now?!
Suddenly he lurched to yet another stop–the manor had a protective barrier over it as well. Oh goodness, who lives here? The Golden General himself?!
“I BELIEVE!” Lunar roared.
The jet-pack hissed and then burst, propelling itself and Lunar through the barrier and launching straight into a jagged roof and face-first into smooth, cold flooring.
The jet-pack, having expired all the energy it had from the moonlight, poofed! into a million pretty glittering sparkles. Lunar came to again, groaning as sirens and the sounds of utter chaos erupted outside. He touched his face, very sure his nose must be at least bleeding. He could feel the left side of his face becoming tender as well. He staggered to his feet, again blinking rapidly to clear his head and vision.
He was in some kind of bedroom. And there were certainly people in here.
“P-Please don’t send me away…” Lunar gasped, panting, holding out a hand weakly to stop any incoming attacks.
♣: What’s your muse’s biggest cause of stress or anxiety?
The Fearlings and everything they represent. Its because of them he’s lost everything and has so much work along with nightmares. They will always stress him out. If he had a choice, instead of imprisoning them, he would have killed them. His mercy ran out a long time ago and the only thing keeping those things alive is by Tsar Lunanoff’s orders. Aside from that, work. It’ll always be work. He takes it home and can’t separate it from his personal life. His work IS his life.
She's covered in bright silver fur, long like a serpent, and she's gonna curl up on Manny's shoulders. Cause why not.
Manny hummed happily when Pho curled up around his shoulders, supporting her weight well enough before starting to walk through the Lunanoff gardens once more, brushing his fingers along the plant life. “Hiding from, Kozmotis again, my dear?” he asked after a while of strolling along, rubbing his hand over her creature-like cheek.
Nightlight’s parasitic armor feeds off of his light and energy, and therefore if he isn’t absorbing enough natural light around himself to convert into both his glow and feed the armor, he is driven to consume other sources of food. Usually meat, though he can digest fruits and vegetables and other things.
Nightlight has eaten corpses, torn apart star fish, even once eaten part of himself out of desperation (a chunk out of his forearm).
Once the Lunanoffs became aware of this, Nightlight was either left for the night under a manufactured star lamp or allowed to spend days in the gardens watching over his charges.
Nowadays he spends at least 80% of his day outdoors so the problem is minimized.
Core Lead will also force him to go after other sources of food, because it restricts his natural abilities to absorb and transmit the light he needs. He was actually dangerously close to flickering out in the Core Lead box Pitch threw him into during the Battle at the Earth’s Core and would have eaten Qwerty if he did not have better restraint.
☾ ▐░ ┈┈┈ He barged in through the entrance door. He slammed open the thick black barriers with a flick of his hand, and the mere act of opening his own door disgusted him. He marched into the manor as if he owned it, and perhaps he might have–his father was Tsar Lunanoff, so there was certainly a possibility that their infamous moonlit grasp also held this place. Everything was cupped in his father’s hands, in some way or another.
The universe owed the Lunanoffs, surely.
Lunar Lunanoff XXIX sniffed the air and his pointed noise wrinkled. The air stank of pungent flowers or some such, not at all what Lunar was expecting. Did women live here? With his new keeper?
Lunar motioned forward his own little entourage. And so his personal assistant Sir William Eli came skittering in–he was a very eager Moonmouse that loved the Lunanoffs more than the Lunanoffs loved themselves. In a way, it could be perceived as loyalty to a fault, or a sickness. Lunar liked to call the Moonmouse “Will” for short, but only when his father was not around. The Moonmouse in question motioned in everyone else, which was a meek Glow-Worm that refused to speak to much of anyone (not many cared to learn the petty nuances of the Glow-Worm language and so the creature was insulted by their horrid pronunciations, thus he only spoke to Lunar who was fluent in their tongue), and two hapless Moonbots whom were probably not supposed to be there (as in, Lunar spirited them along somehow).
The young heir sighed loudly and looked at William pointedly, tapping his foot.
Will started and then cleared his little throat: “Lord Kozmotis Pitchiner, High General of Our Prestigious Golden Age–” His father did love long and important-sounding titles. “–I present to you Lunar Lunanoff XXIX the Heir to the Most Noble Constellation of Lunanoff.”
There was a beat of uncomfortable silence and then Lunar kicked off his cramped boots, and they skittered across the floor, one sailing straight into an expensive vase. The other flopped headfirst into a rug.
“Well, now that we are acquainted in such a dreadfully boring fashion, I’ll get straight to it General: you shall be my bodyguard for the impossibly long time span of a week. My father will be sending a Moonbeam with further instructions.” His face looked suddenly pained, hurt. Yet it passed in a second. “Apparently, he has some very sensitive information to share with you, but I wasn’t allowed to know.” His smile was thin.