Bit of both. I really can't do incredibly detailed CS, it's usually quite daunting to have to figure out that much of a character before you've even played them. Not to say your RP doesn't look cool, it's just I can't apply with the format you've given, and I wouldn't remember to update it as I play. I hope you guys have fun though!
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Mixtape Ghost N
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Hi, you're still accepting right? I'd like to start work on a CS, and I have a friend who wishes to join as well but he's currently busy.
EDIT: Actually, looking at the CS, I think I'm going to have to reconsider whether or not I'm able to join this RP. It looks a bit out of my depth. Thanks anyway!
EDIT: Actually, looking at the CS, I think I'm going to have to reconsider whether or not I'm able to join this RP. It looks a bit out of my depth. Thanks anyway!
Rosa had seen her fair share of people from all sorts of different backgrounds, which is why she was a little disappointed in the line-up. All of the people here looked as if they could afford breakfast; maybe even luncheons, if she was going to be adventurous with her musing. She was even a little offended that Sam Wu, Esq, had such a fancy-pancy way of speaking. Where was the honour? The integrity, the pride in your own heritage? She dished out some disappointment in her stare. Maybe that’ll get to him. Or maybe he’ll just wonder why this chocolate ragamuffin was giving him the stink-eye.
Whether it worked or not was irrelevant, Samuel Wu (Esq) still gave out his business cards and Rosa was temporarily placated with the notion of an offering. She didn’t quite know what to do with cards like those, especially since her time on the telephone was severely limited after racking up that bill talking to the girls back in Louisiana. However it wasn’t hard to spot a bored young lady, and a bored young lady was she. Rosa knew how to amuse herself, and waiting was probably one of her fatal weaknesses. Now she had a card.
Another woman walked in but barely said anything - no introduction this time - as Rosa was perfecting her masterpiece, a paper boat that could weather all the storms and shit you’d find in the New York gutters. It was intriguing to see her handiwork, especially given she was still wearing those gloves and hadn’t taken them off when she came in. In fact, out of all the people who came in, the only one that really introduced herself was the dirty young blonde who looked like she’d come from harder times, but hadn’t, because she was a LeBlanc. In fact, that name alone made Rosa nearly drop her paper boat.The LeBlancs made everyone’s life hell. Even being near one made Rosa bridle with disgust.
This didn’t mean Rosa didn’t like any of those assembled. It was just-...she wasn’t impressed by them. There was something lacking - something they needed to prove to her first before she could really appreciate who she was working with. For Samuel, it was a bit of relatability. For the two unknowns, it was primarily their names. And the LeBlanc-...well, Rosa didn’t know how anyone could redeem themselves if they’d openly call out that name in a high rise apartment. But she knew a thing or two about the path to redemption. She was willing to keep an eye out for some sort of miracle.
When the contract arrived, Rosa had completed the business-card-turned-sea-vessel and was ready to set sail into the dangerous waters of binding agreements. She regarded the paper with scepticism. It crinkled under her clunky grasp - but only a little. She inhaled through her nostrils. She rubbed one eye. She looked up at Joseph, then down at the contract. She did not - could not - mention nor react to the absolutely absurd amount of money she’d be making, on a salary. She barely batted an eyelid at the reimbursement clause. She absolutely, positively did not make any sort of indication of surprise or excitement whatsoever, on pain of death, or the loss of such a good deal-...
...A deal too good to be true.
Rosa’s finger traced the circle of the symbol painted on the letterhead. She was at least vaguely aware of what her employer was trying to tell her, but her thoughts went back to the cereal gypsy of her ill-fated discovery of the investigation unit. Her blood seemed to curdle in her veins, as if she was dumped into a bucket of ice water. She knew there had to be a condition somewhere. A ‘but’. She had an inkling of a suspicion, that had now blossomed into a great big ugly bloom of hypotheses.
When Rosa spoke she stood out immediately, which probably explained why she was so quiet in the first place. For starters, a voice like that didn’t come from New York. In fact, it was really difficult to place her anywhere geographically from the sound alone. Sometimes there was a Louisiana drawl. Her consonants had all the heavy heat of Maghrebi plains. The Irish in her came out like a little leprechaun elbowing its way through the sentences. And, as if it were an afterthought, there was that unmistakable New York varnish on top of the entire debacle, as if tossing some loose semblance of familiarity onto the most otherworldly accent known to man would make it a little easier on the ears. It was coherent enough though. You could hear her. She spoke in a way that could be understood.
She said, “Do you know what this symbol means?” Her gaze snapped up to meet Bitsy’s in the eye, a ballsy move for someone with more patches in her pants than dollars in her pocket. “Or did you just draw this on for the hell of it?”
Rosa and Joseph Kimbell
The apartment block awoke in a tremendous groan as the mass of pipes began to heat up. An unruly bell had been trilling in Rosa’s ear for the past fifteen seconds, loud enough to rouse the dead but only just managing to get the woman conscious enough to bat it clean off the table with a deft swoop. The motion sent her body past the point of no return, off the edge of the bed and towards the invitingly cold floorboards. Another tremendous groan followed the tremendously loud thump that followed.
“I hate to see de evenin' sun go down," came the raspy, croaky notes of a very groggy figure slumped on the floor. “Hate to see de evenin' sun go down," she repeated solemnly, sluggishly pushing her torpid figure up onto its knees, then onto its arse and finally those reliable feet. “'Cause ma baby, he done lef' dis town…” W.C Hardy, eat your heart out. Armstrong had Rosa's, locked up in his trumpet case and that dastardly doggone smile.
You had to be a certain way to sing the blues. As in, not necessarily black - not really, though the best ones are - but downtrodden. Well and truly fucked by Life, the world's oldest and loosest whore. “Feelin’ tomorrow like I feel today," observed Rosa as her nails scratched lazily at her buttocks. “Feel tomorrow like I feel today," she confirmed, louder this time. “I'll pack my trunk, make ma git away," she crooned, brushing her hair in vain as her feet took her out to the kitchen.
The kitchen was a dead thing, cruelly reanimated by the creaking copper central heating pipes. It lacked colour, or even brightness - the white tiles had given up long before either of the inhabitants did and sunk into a lowly, dingy grey that couldn't be scrubbed off. It held the spirit of Louisiana captive for so long that she went mad and shot herself, leaving nought but the orange spatters of the exit wound over the stovetop. Crusted-on Cajun sauces that neither of them could afford anymore were all that remained. On the worst days, the ones where there was no food on the table for weeks, did Rosa ever lick those spots out of desperation - but only once, to preserve their memory like a shrine? To breathe life back into her aching shoulders and reinvigorate her trembling body as it came to from one of her otherworldly interruptions? For what purpose were these fermented stains left upon an otherwise clean enough kitchen, laziness or something deeper?
Rosa's nail scraped at one of those orange landmarks. “The bayou is stubborn," she murmured. “Speaking of stubborn…”she continued, raising her head to peer out of those useless reveries. “Uncle Joey! Un-cle JOOOOOH-WHEEE!” her hollering shook the paint on the walls, made the room inhale it's dusty air after a whole night of relative peace. Undead culinary stations and the lonely moans of the Saint Louis Blues could only temporarily hold back the irreverent mass of colour and energy that is, was, and forever will be Rosa Kimbell. “Getcha god-fearing ass outta bed so’s I can dig into these telegrams and eggs!”
“ROSA!” Joseph let out a muffled yell from behind his door. “YOU GOD DAMN LOUT!” followed by several minutes of silence as heavy footsteps stamped around behind his door. The door suddenly swung open and into the kitchen barged Joseph who refused to speak a word to the girl as he angrily banged about the pans and glasses in preparation for their breakfast.
Content that Joe was starting the process of yet another round of fried eggs (or some eggy equivalent) as their main, and probably only meal, Rosa set to work opening the envelopes. “A bill. Another bill," she mumbled, peering miserably at the numbers. “A...Oh right, yeah. Hey Joey, do you have friends?” Joseph continued to ignore her, a hint that he had not gotten over his rude awakening. “I mean like, anyone who'd actually ring our flat. Who's Hobbs?” Rosa persisted, drumming her fingers on the tabletop in a valiant attempt to make the most annoying noise possible.
Joseph stood facing the stove and away from her, baring his teeth as the drumming got on his nerves. “It’s the agency.” he forced out from between his teeth. “The private investigator job.” he finished and fell back into silence as he continued with their breakfast preparation.
“Huh.” Rosa stopped being annoying and pulled a face of great contemplation. “After you went to bed, someone called us. Said we needed to meet them in a penthouse suite - Upper East Side.”
“What time?” Joseph responded, briefly pausing the cooking as he took a moment to understand the implication of the telegrams request.
“Ten in the-SHIT," Rosa threw her arms in the air, twirling around and pacing the tiny room like a gibbon in a birdcage. “That's in an hour! What am I gonna wear?! I need my gloves but I can't just go in my jumpsuit, can I? Maybe a dress? Who the fuck wears a dress in the day?!”
Joseph had by now calmed down, primarily due to Rosa’s sudden hectic turn. “Clothes.” he replied, turning to slip the cooked eggs onto awaiting plates.
Rosa froze mid turn and eyed the eggs hungrily. She collapsed back into the chair - food had a greater influence over her than fear - and started to wolf them down with what could best be described as 'grotesque enthusiasm’. At any rate, it was enough to keep her seated and keep her silent. That was all Joseph needed. “We’ll grab the subway. Go get dressed when you’re done.” he ordered.
It didn’t take long for Rosa to tear through the meal. After letting loose the customary burp, she leapt out of her chair and made it into her room in two bounds. Her wardrobe was sparse at best, with raggedy old oil-stained clothes and a couple of tenderly kept pieces of dress clothing for the multitude of parties she snuck into. The place they were going wasn’t some sort of speakeasy shindig - it was the real deal, Long-Island-and-Chauffeurs sort of rich. In a world like that, honesty was the only thing that people like Rosa had left. No sense in pretending to be a rich immigrant - she pulled on the trusty slacks, the cleanest vest she had on hand and her work boots (somewhat pointlessly scrubbed down with an old oil rag). Her jacket covered the skin on her arms - a set of ladies’ leather gloves covered her hands.
Rosa checked herself out in the mirror, gave her rump an encouraging slap and sauntered out into the kitchen. “So, are we going with the usual shtick today, buddy? Skin condition and seizures?” she queried, tugging the belt of her trousers so they’d fit on her dwindling figure. “It’s one thing wearin’ gloves in a factory, a fashion statement at a party, but in someone’s home...I dunno, Upper East Side fellas seem like the sort to kick up a fuss.”
“There will be a time and a place, that time isn’t now. Gloves stay on and you don’t talk about it.” Joseph plodded into his own room after resting the dishes in the sink to dress himself. Out of habit and boredom, Rosa dried the dishes whilst she waited.
“I know, that wasn’t what I was asking. I was making sure we got our stories straight, so when they do ask I can just say it’s a health thing, instead of sayin’ shit like ‘I don’t wanna talk about it’ like some sorta freak," Rosa retorted impishly. A jingling of keys and the heavy clumping sound of her work boots came from the living space before the door swung open (“Hurry up Joey!”) and two slightly sleepy, slightly nervous figures sloped out and towards the station.
“Y’know," murmured Rosa conspiratorially as she gave Joseph’s ribs a quick jab with her elbow, “I get the feeling she’s...got the same disposition that I do.”
To put it lightly, Rosa hadn’t seen this much open nudity since a couple of her friends from the factory had broken open the street’s fire hydrant. The marble statues depicting - in painstaking detail - the curvature and forms of both men and women were certainly gaudy against the paintings and tapestries, and the whole place stank of Nouveau Riche. Not that Rosa was particularly surprised. She wondered how much this Hobbs woman was paying poor Mr. Foley to repeat the same spiel, the same mechanical chores, day in, day out. She wondered if he was ever reprimanded for letting the endless monotony slip - a slight deviation from his instruction manual would land him where, precisely? In the scrap pile, next to the broken bulbs and the blown out fuses? Rosa felt a twinge of pride for her utter inability to find any job in customer service - she did not have the right programming.
Joseph grunted “Don’t," a quick warning and a firm end to the conversation. It snapped Rosa out of her musings and reminded her of where she was. She had to remain sharp, be formal, and above all - keep her mouth shut. One look up at Joseph’s sullen stare was enough to confirm that he was thinking the exact same thing.
The room that contained Miss Hobbs was a prime snooping room, chock-full of whatsits and doodads just waiting to be picked apart by grubby little fingers. Books, papers, ornaments, the odd painting here and there - everything had a story to it. Everything looked like it mattered. Rosa’s jaw clenched and she tried to pass it off as a distaste for the décor, because it certainly fucking was a distaste for the décor.
The place was a psychometric minefield. Even now Rosa could feel the goosebumps on her arms. Her fingers were getting pins and needles. She thanked her lucky stars that she tucked in her shirt. This was always the case when she went somewhere new, but it certainly taught her to stop fidgeting with everything she saw and it kept her wary enough to notice things that you wouldn’t usually notice - because usually, picking up a paperweight wouldn’t give your average Joe a seizure.
Joey. Rosa looked over at the older man and tried to unlock any latent telepathy skills that went with her own weird abilities. Maybe he’d be able to figure it out by the look of discomfort, but probably not. By the look that he gave her back, he definitely did not understand, and wasn’t even remotely thinking about Rosa even though he also picked up on the layout of the room. They both sat down on one of the sofas - slowly, stiffly - one out of age and strife, the other out of back-sweating terror.
The apartment block awoke in a tremendous groan as the mass of pipes began to heat up. An unruly bell had been trilling in Rosa’s ear for the past fifteen seconds, loud enough to rouse the dead but only just managing to get the woman conscious enough to bat it clean off the table with a deft swoop. The motion sent her body past the point of no return, off the edge of the bed and towards the invitingly cold floorboards. Another tremendous groan followed the tremendously loud thump that followed.
“I hate to see de evenin' sun go down," came the raspy, croaky notes of a very groggy figure slumped on the floor. “Hate to see de evenin' sun go down," she repeated solemnly, sluggishly pushing her torpid figure up onto its knees, then onto its arse and finally those reliable feet. “'Cause ma baby, he done lef' dis town…” W.C Hardy, eat your heart out. Armstrong had Rosa's, locked up in his trumpet case and that dastardly doggone smile.
You had to be a certain way to sing the blues. As in, not necessarily black - not really, though the best ones are - but downtrodden. Well and truly fucked by Life, the world's oldest and loosest whore. “Feelin’ tomorrow like I feel today," observed Rosa as her nails scratched lazily at her buttocks. “Feel tomorrow like I feel today," she confirmed, louder this time. “I'll pack my trunk, make ma git away," she crooned, brushing her hair in vain as her feet took her out to the kitchen.
The kitchen was a dead thing, cruelly reanimated by the creaking copper central heating pipes. It lacked colour, or even brightness - the white tiles had given up long before either of the inhabitants did and sunk into a lowly, dingy grey that couldn't be scrubbed off. It held the spirit of Louisiana captive for so long that she went mad and shot herself, leaving nought but the orange spatters of the exit wound over the stovetop. Crusted-on Cajun sauces that neither of them could afford anymore were all that remained. On the worst days, the ones where there was no food on the table for weeks, did Rosa ever lick those spots out of desperation - but only once, to preserve their memory like a shrine? To breathe life back into her aching shoulders and reinvigorate her trembling body as it came to from one of her otherworldly interruptions? For what purpose were these fermented stains left upon an otherwise clean enough kitchen, laziness or something deeper?
Rosa's nail scraped at one of those orange landmarks. “The bayou is stubborn," she murmured. “Speaking of stubborn…”she continued, raising her head to peer out of those useless reveries. “Uncle Joey! Un-cle JOOOOOH-WHEEE!” her hollering shook the paint on the walls, made the room inhale it's dusty air after a whole night of relative peace. Undead culinary stations and the lonely moans of the Saint Louis Blues could only temporarily hold back the irreverent mass of colour and energy that is, was, and forever will be Rosa Kimbell. “Getcha god-fearing ass outta bed so’s I can dig into these telegrams and eggs!”
“ROSA!” Joseph let out a muffled yell from behind his door. “YOU GOD DAMN LOUT!” followed by several minutes of silence as heavy footsteps stamped around behind his door. The door suddenly swung open and into the kitchen barged Joseph who refused to speak a word to the girl as he angrily banged about the pans and glasses in preparation for their breakfast.
Content that Joe was starting the process of yet another round of fried eggs (or some eggy equivalent) as their main, and probably only meal, Rosa set to work opening the envelopes. “A bill. Another bill," she mumbled, peering miserably at the numbers. “A...Oh right, yeah. Hey Joey, do you have friends?” Joseph continued to ignore her, a hint that he had not gotten over his rude awakening. “I mean like, anyone who'd actually ring our flat. Who's Hobbs?” Rosa persisted, drumming her fingers on the tabletop in a valiant attempt to make the most annoying noise possible.
Joseph stood facing the stove and away from her, baring his teeth as the drumming got on his nerves. “It’s the agency.” he forced out from between his teeth. “The private investigator job.” he finished and fell back into silence as he continued with their breakfast preparation.
“Huh.” Rosa stopped being annoying and pulled a face of great contemplation. “After you went to bed, someone called us. Said we needed to meet them in a penthouse suite - Upper East Side.”
“What time?” Joseph responded, briefly pausing the cooking as he took a moment to understand the implication of the telegrams request.
“Ten in the-SHIT," Rosa threw her arms in the air, twirling around and pacing the tiny room like a gibbon in a birdcage. “That's in an hour! What am I gonna wear?! I need my gloves but I can't just go in my jumpsuit, can I? Maybe a dress? Who the fuck wears a dress in the day?!”
Joseph had by now calmed down, primarily due to Rosa’s sudden hectic turn. “Clothes.” he replied, turning to slip the cooked eggs onto awaiting plates.
Rosa froze mid turn and eyed the eggs hungrily. She collapsed back into the chair - food had a greater influence over her than fear - and started to wolf them down with what could best be described as 'grotesque enthusiasm’. At any rate, it was enough to keep her seated and keep her silent. That was all Joseph needed. “We’ll grab the subway. Go get dressed when you’re done.” he ordered.
It didn’t take long for Rosa to tear through the meal. After letting loose the customary burp, she leapt out of her chair and made it into her room in two bounds. Her wardrobe was sparse at best, with raggedy old oil-stained clothes and a couple of tenderly kept pieces of dress clothing for the multitude of parties she snuck into. The place they were going wasn’t some sort of speakeasy shindig - it was the real deal, Long-Island-and-Chauffeurs sort of rich. In a world like that, honesty was the only thing that people like Rosa had left. No sense in pretending to be a rich immigrant - she pulled on the trusty slacks, the cleanest vest she had on hand and her work boots (somewhat pointlessly scrubbed down with an old oil rag). Her jacket covered the skin on her arms - a set of ladies’ leather gloves covered her hands.
Rosa checked herself out in the mirror, gave her rump an encouraging slap and sauntered out into the kitchen. “So, are we going with the usual shtick today, buddy? Skin condition and seizures?” she queried, tugging the belt of her trousers so they’d fit on her dwindling figure. “It’s one thing wearin’ gloves in a factory, a fashion statement at a party, but in someone’s home...I dunno, Upper East Side fellas seem like the sort to kick up a fuss.”
“There will be a time and a place, that time isn’t now. Gloves stay on and you don’t talk about it.” Joseph plodded into his own room after resting the dishes in the sink to dress himself. Out of habit and boredom, Rosa dried the dishes whilst she waited.
“I know, that wasn’t what I was asking. I was making sure we got our stories straight, so when they do ask I can just say it’s a health thing, instead of sayin’ shit like ‘I don’t wanna talk about it’ like some sorta freak," Rosa retorted impishly. A jingling of keys and the heavy clumping sound of her work boots came from the living space before the door swung open (“Hurry up Joey!”) and two slightly sleepy, slightly nervous figures sloped out and towards the station.
___________
“Y’know," murmured Rosa conspiratorially as she gave Joseph’s ribs a quick jab with her elbow, “I get the feeling she’s...got the same disposition that I do.”
To put it lightly, Rosa hadn’t seen this much open nudity since a couple of her friends from the factory had broken open the street’s fire hydrant. The marble statues depicting - in painstaking detail - the curvature and forms of both men and women were certainly gaudy against the paintings and tapestries, and the whole place stank of Nouveau Riche. Not that Rosa was particularly surprised. She wondered how much this Hobbs woman was paying poor Mr. Foley to repeat the same spiel, the same mechanical chores, day in, day out. She wondered if he was ever reprimanded for letting the endless monotony slip - a slight deviation from his instruction manual would land him where, precisely? In the scrap pile, next to the broken bulbs and the blown out fuses? Rosa felt a twinge of pride for her utter inability to find any job in customer service - she did not have the right programming.
Joseph grunted “Don’t," a quick warning and a firm end to the conversation. It snapped Rosa out of her musings and reminded her of where she was. She had to remain sharp, be formal, and above all - keep her mouth shut. One look up at Joseph’s sullen stare was enough to confirm that he was thinking the exact same thing.
The room that contained Miss Hobbs was a prime snooping room, chock-full of whatsits and doodads just waiting to be picked apart by grubby little fingers. Books, papers, ornaments, the odd painting here and there - everything had a story to it. Everything looked like it mattered. Rosa’s jaw clenched and she tried to pass it off as a distaste for the décor, because it certainly fucking was a distaste for the décor.
The place was a psychometric minefield. Even now Rosa could feel the goosebumps on her arms. Her fingers were getting pins and needles. She thanked her lucky stars that she tucked in her shirt. This was always the case when she went somewhere new, but it certainly taught her to stop fidgeting with everything she saw and it kept her wary enough to notice things that you wouldn’t usually notice - because usually, picking up a paperweight wouldn’t give your average Joe a seizure.
Joey. Rosa looked over at the older man and tried to unlock any latent telepathy skills that went with her own weird abilities. Maybe he’d be able to figure it out by the look of discomfort, but probably not. By the look that he gave her back, he definitely did not understand, and wasn’t even remotely thinking about Rosa even though he also picked up on the layout of the room. They both sat down on one of the sofas - slowly, stiffly - one out of age and strife, the other out of back-sweating terror.
It is seriously imperative to gameplay that you have a discord. If you do not it is super easy to set up and WAAAAY convenient.
Whoops, joined it just now.
I love that there's only one straight person on this team thus far.
In the 20s, LGBT people were definitely the best at hiding things. And it was illegal! Takes a criminal to catch one, right?
Adrian, Maellinn, Victor, and Vathalar
The Road to Eamonvale
---
Adrian, who had not done much except for eating, dozing off and staring, had suddenly jolted upright with enough intensity to give the two flanking her a bit of a fright. Her head whipped around, smacking Victor with ginger tresses as she glared at the back of the cart, nostrils flaring.
“Easy there.” he looked at her with furrowed brows before following her gaze to the back of the wagon, unable to spot anything. “You notice something?” Victor asked.
“Bad man,” Adrian muttered bracingly. “Someone bad is coming.”
“Calm down, it’s probably just a-...”
“‘Hey! Stop, please!”
Victor paused as he heard the stranger from behind their wagon voice out at them. He shot up a glance at Maellinn, letting her decide what to do. “We should see what he wants?” he asked.
Maellinn pursed her lips with uncertainty, “it's no secret that strange men trying to stop you on the road is usually bad news,” she thought out loud, “but…”
“Whoa,” Maellinn commanded John, and suddenly the slow moving wagon creaked to a halt. She looked at Victor, “they may need our help-- besides they did say please.”
Adrian shook her head. “Bad men do not need help,” she warned Maellinn, but had no say in the stopping of the wagon.
At first it seemed as if no reaction had been triggered, but after a couple of seconds the carriage finally was commanded to a grinding halt. Vathalar eased his horse along the side of it carefully before bringing his exhausted mount to a full stop as well. He was honestly trying to look friendly, but as he did his facial expression was already betraying the fact that he was not adept at dealing with complete strangers. "Erm... Hello!" it came out of his mouth somewhat low and hesitantly. "Would you mind another passenger for a while ? It seems you are heading the same way I intend to go..." At this point his nose had not yet noticed how freakingly close he had come to someone of his own kind.
“Uh,” Maellinn shifted in her seat, “well, no… But also no-- what I mean to say is, I can't... Or well, I can! But-- he!”
She pointed at John, her voice resting into a polite smile “it'll be too much for ol’ John.”
Vathalar looked at the ox that the woman pointed to. It seemed very strong, and he himself ? He looked down along the outline of his own body. Well... that meal still made his belly bulge a little, but he knew that excessive fat was nowhere to be found -- just the same as with
excessive muscle. He wasn't heavy! However he didn't dare to contradict her, but instead hoped that someone else would do so.
Victor was silently staring Vathalar down, seemingly trying to make a quick study of the stranger. He interrupted their conversation: “Where are you headed?”
“Erm…” Vathalar took a brief, but noticeable moment in order to figure out his answer. “Roughly the direction of Eamonvale, but I’m in no particular hurry.”
Victor nodded slowly, still seemingly unsatisfied with the strangers true intentions. “Your horse, is it ill?” he shifted his gaze down to Vathalars mount.
“It’s tired.” Vathalar replied, this time less hesitantly. It was the truth after all. “I’ve already traveled a long way.”
Victor looked back up at Vathalar: “And what do we call you?”
“Vathalar. Just that, Vathalar. May I ask about your name ?”
“I’m Victor, hitched a ride on the wagon from Bradlesworth. You’ll have to argue about hitching a ride with the boss here. It’s her transport.” he explained, leaning back as he opted out of involving himself with the final decision. Instead he turned to look at Maellinn, his brows briefly furrowing.
Adrian had not taken her eyes off Vathalar since he trotted into view. This was not one of her usual stares - it was cold and impersonal, her eyes narrowed into little green pinpricks as she watched him with an intensity that could scrape the rust off steel.
Maellinn looked at all of her companions then back at Vathalar, her face flushed with indecision and held together with a weak smile.
“I-- er, well,” She sputtered.
“Maybe?” She looked cross, “I mean four bodies and a wagon is a lot for John… but I could walk aside I suppose. I don't know, we need to stop soon ourselves, John's been tugging all day.”
“Alright. You heard her.” Victor interjected again. “Take my spot. I’ll be on my own horse. He’ll be rested by now.” he directed at Vathalar and before anyone could butt in he had stood up to hop off the wagon and move towards his own horse that was tied to the wagon before their departure.
Maellinn shifted uncomfortably in her spot as Victor shot off the wagon. The finality of her decision weighed on her slightly, “oh, I can walk it's fine, Victor.” She called after the man, “been sitting all day and we don't have much longer before we all need to rest anyways.”
“Don’t be stupid.” he stated, already hoisting himself onto his horse and trotting it besides the wagon parked on the road. “We can’t be too far from the nearest settlement anyway”, he remained adamant. “Adrian, behave.” he warned the girl still sat beside Maellinn on the front of the wagon.
Meanwhile, Adrian was still reeling from Victor's split second decision, staring at him dumbfounded. She made a half incredulous snort then wheeled onto Vathalar with a voice as severe as her glaring; “Go away.”
“Hey- hey!” Victor quipped at Adrian. “What did I say?”
Adrian’s face contorted into a snarl as she jabbed a finger accusingly at Victor. “You did not listen! You never listen! I warn you both! And now he-...He go to--gnnrh!” Adrian groaned with frustration and abruptly cut off into a different language, one that sounded familiar to the Common tongue but was spoken too quickly and with too heavy a dialect to understand. Although the little rant took no longer than half a minute, it had a fluidity and a sense of power that could not be appropriately translated into Common. It was also accompanied with various angry gestures towards various people around her, at one point seemingly yelling at poor John.
Then the rant abruptly cut off and Adrian folded her arms, twisted back around, and stared stonily at John’s rump in a picture perfect display of sulkiness. “I warned you,” she grumbled. “Your fault now.”
Victor, incredibly out of his element when faced with what was a sour child, could do nothing but shoot her a glare and bark back “Then sit in the back!” Adrian made an angry noise and started climbing over the bench, disappearing into the murky gloom of the covered wagon. You could hear her stomping.
Vathalar's mood had slowly, but surely turned into anxiety as he had been waiting for anything that could be interpreted as a clear 'Yes' -- or at least an equally clear 'No' to get things over with. However neither thing happened. Instead that one girl who he didn't even know the name of darted glances at him that were like cold needles cruelly put into his heart. What had he done to provoke such thing ? Usual prejudices were pretty much out of question since neither she looked like a snob nor he looked like the very poorest of peasants ? He couldn't help but silently interpret her worry about overburdening the ox as nothing but a haphazard pretense.
Then the other woman who had previously been called 'boss' raised her voice, rising his hopes again as she gave a clear word. To Vathalar she appeared rather confused however, if not intimidated by the obvious hostility against him presented by Adrian. After all Victor seemed to the most neutral and most friendly one of the three, even going as far as offering his seat for him to take. He nodded friendly towards the tall male. Vathalar really would have liked to express his gratitude with more than that, but Adrian's outburst managed to keep his mouth shut. What the hell was going on with her ? She didn't look that much like a hopelessly underaged priss either...
Vathalar dismounted, grabbed the free end of the reigns and heaved himself into the empty spot which was still warm from Victor's presence. His own horse would just trot next to the wagon, loosely guided by him. Vathalar took another innocent breath -- and then it hit him. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he picked up a faint, but certain scent that could only mean one thing... It could probably explain a lot, but still Vathalar would have given a goddamn, bloody worthy thing if it just had not been there. Another werebeast, another wolf-ish werebeast to be precise.
Halfway unconsciously, Vathalar's body shifted on the seat. A few, but noticeable inches more now separated him from Adrian, the one person he suddenly was very careful about. Bad mood and beast, an uncomfortable combination that made him try and gain as much pre-warning time about her as possible. He couldn't help but turn his eyes towards her several times, observing her.
Maellinn watched with worry as Adrian crawled away in anger. Worried, Maellinn turned to John, “get ye up, John! Get ye up.”
The ox started it's slow walk again, the wagon creaking forward once more. Maellinn turned to Vathalar and handed him the riding branch with an apologetic smile, and then quickly ducked into the back of the wagon after Adrian.
She slunk through the gloomy atmosphere of the interior and plopped onto one of the benches, her shoulder against the clay oven, “Adrian, are you okay?” Adrian shot a glance over at Maellinn, waving her hand dismissively.
“Fine. Keep bad man in sights,” Adrian prodded a finger at Vathalar’s rigid back. She was not half as nervous as Vathalar looked - cold, but firm in her distaste for the other man.
You've got two more players working on a CS!
Adrian, Victor and Maellinn
The Road to Eamonvale
The sun hung high over the plains of Eamonvale, illuminating vast rolling meadows of yellow-green grass that rippled constantly with the buffeting wind. It had been a fairly peaceful ride out of Bradle’s Worth, partially due to the time; at that hour, many village folk had taken to the fields to tend to their crops. Judging by the stumpy shadows on the boulders peppering the landscape, it was now approaching mid-day.
The rustling and movement coming from within the wagon notified Maellinn and Victor that Adrian had woken up from her nap. Moments later, a head with a crop of ginger hair and a couple of blinking green eyes popped out from under the canvas flap, situating itself smack between the two drivers, idly munching on what appeared to be a wild carrot.
“So what is this, a baker journeying north to become a master?” Victor directed his question at Maellinn while focusing his attention at the newly risen Adrian, reaching out to pat her ginger tuft of hair.
“No, not quite,” Maellin answered, her eyes bouncing back and forth from the road to her two new companions.
“I’m looking for something, I think it is up north,” She continued, “besides that, I’m just enjoying the journey.”
“So an adventurous soul type thing? I understand pretty well, it’s how I started.” Victor nodded.
“That’s fun,” Maellinn smiled, keeping her eyes on John, “and how did Adrian get wrapped up in all this?”
“I stayed in a forest,” Adrian explained - or at least, attempted to explain. “It was-...safe there. Safer than home. Once I was able to, I left to find my people. But it wasn't snowing anymore, and I did not know where I was. I asked Victor to help.”
“Well that sounds lovely, the forest I mean, but I don’t think I understand,” Maellinn bounced her eyes towards Adrian briefly, “what were you doing in a forest?”
“I don't know,” Adrian replied blandly. “I went inside a long time ago.”
“She’s a bit of a mystery. I’ve had to help lost children before but… not -this- lost.” Victor interjected, looking at Adrian apologetically. Adrian muttered something about not being a kid anymore as she squirmed back into the covered wagon. “You ever encounter any trouble before? On your journeys.” He turned back to Maellinn.
Maellinn stared at John for a second or two before replying, “just once, but I seem to get along just fine. I may even be lucky!”
“How about you, many troubles? I can’t imagine life as a famous adventurer to be calm and peaceful,” Maellinn happily redirected the questions back at Victor.
“I’m not that famous, thankfully. Helps me focus on actually doing my job…” he trailed off before adding: “But no. Aside from being on the hunt I don’t encounter much trouble. Maybe if I’m working in a city or I’m stopped by highwaymen. I try to get by peacefully most of the time, less of a chance of winding up hurt or worse.” He explained, leaning back into his seat and casually watching their surroundings change.
“That makes sense,” Maellinn focused on driving, an ambient smile on her face, “where are you from?”
“Way up in the north. Small town in the heart of the northern alliance. Been a few years since I was up there.” he hesitated, eyes fixing themselves onto the road. “You?”.
“A small town tucked away in Urland, just enough people passing through to keep an independent store running,” Maellinn nodded, “but not much else. John was born there though, so that’s something.”
Victor’s eyes wandered onto the rump of the wandering ox, then shot a side glance at Maellinn in a confused manner without further comment. “Are you good at your profession? Baking.” he asked.
Meallinn glanced at Victor, a hurt expression in her eyes, “I like to think so, been doing it my whole life.”
Victor nodded, he had no prior interaction with a baker so he was unsure of how to carry out their conversation. “...what’s your favourite thing to bake?” he asked again with uncertainty, his stare intensifying.
“Pies,” Maellinn answered with absolute certainty, “You can really put whatever you want in them. What’s your favourite thing to hunt?”
“Ghosts and spirits. They’re one of the few ‘monsters’ you don’t need to kill to stop.” he said, shifting his gaze over their shoulder at the back of the wagon Adrian had vanished off into. “Adrian? You’re being awfully quiet.” Adrian’s head popped out again, a mouthful of leaves disappearing under her palm as she struggled to eat them all in one go.
“Hmmhph-...ghofts?” Adrian asked, looking confused.
“Yes, you know: Spectres, Wraiths, Banshees.” Victor leaned aside, providing more space for Adrian if she decided to crawl out. Adrian gladly took the opportunity, squeezing between Maellinn and Victor and peering out across the countryside, then down at John.
“What is wrong with your bison,” Adrian peered at it uncertainly. “It has no hair…”
Maellinn was just about to add to Victor’s list when Adrian question stumped her silent. Growing a polite smile she looked towards Adrian, “Oh, John isn’t a bison, he is an oxen! A big ol’ bull bred to be strong and tough, to do all sorts of things..”
“John is special though,” Maellinn let go of her driving branch and placed it across her lap, “biggest and strongest ox I ever met. Smart as a whip, too. Ain’t that right, John?”
The ox snorted as it continued it’s slow and steady pull.
The Road to Eamonvale
The sun hung high over the plains of Eamonvale, illuminating vast rolling meadows of yellow-green grass that rippled constantly with the buffeting wind. It had been a fairly peaceful ride out of Bradle’s Worth, partially due to the time; at that hour, many village folk had taken to the fields to tend to their crops. Judging by the stumpy shadows on the boulders peppering the landscape, it was now approaching mid-day.
The rustling and movement coming from within the wagon notified Maellinn and Victor that Adrian had woken up from her nap. Moments later, a head with a crop of ginger hair and a couple of blinking green eyes popped out from under the canvas flap, situating itself smack between the two drivers, idly munching on what appeared to be a wild carrot.
“So what is this, a baker journeying north to become a master?” Victor directed his question at Maellinn while focusing his attention at the newly risen Adrian, reaching out to pat her ginger tuft of hair.
“No, not quite,” Maellin answered, her eyes bouncing back and forth from the road to her two new companions.
“I’m looking for something, I think it is up north,” She continued, “besides that, I’m just enjoying the journey.”
“So an adventurous soul type thing? I understand pretty well, it’s how I started.” Victor nodded.
“That’s fun,” Maellinn smiled, keeping her eyes on John, “and how did Adrian get wrapped up in all this?”
“I stayed in a forest,” Adrian explained - or at least, attempted to explain. “It was-...safe there. Safer than home. Once I was able to, I left to find my people. But it wasn't snowing anymore, and I did not know where I was. I asked Victor to help.”
“Well that sounds lovely, the forest I mean, but I don’t think I understand,” Maellinn bounced her eyes towards Adrian briefly, “what were you doing in a forest?”
“I don't know,” Adrian replied blandly. “I went inside a long time ago.”
“She’s a bit of a mystery. I’ve had to help lost children before but… not -this- lost.” Victor interjected, looking at Adrian apologetically. Adrian muttered something about not being a kid anymore as she squirmed back into the covered wagon. “You ever encounter any trouble before? On your journeys.” He turned back to Maellinn.
Maellinn stared at John for a second or two before replying, “just once, but I seem to get along just fine. I may even be lucky!”
“How about you, many troubles? I can’t imagine life as a famous adventurer to be calm and peaceful,” Maellinn happily redirected the questions back at Victor.
“I’m not that famous, thankfully. Helps me focus on actually doing my job…” he trailed off before adding: “But no. Aside from being on the hunt I don’t encounter much trouble. Maybe if I’m working in a city or I’m stopped by highwaymen. I try to get by peacefully most of the time, less of a chance of winding up hurt or worse.” He explained, leaning back into his seat and casually watching their surroundings change.
“That makes sense,” Maellinn focused on driving, an ambient smile on her face, “where are you from?”
“Way up in the north. Small town in the heart of the northern alliance. Been a few years since I was up there.” he hesitated, eyes fixing themselves onto the road. “You?”.
“A small town tucked away in Urland, just enough people passing through to keep an independent store running,” Maellinn nodded, “but not much else. John was born there though, so that’s something.”
Victor’s eyes wandered onto the rump of the wandering ox, then shot a side glance at Maellinn in a confused manner without further comment. “Are you good at your profession? Baking.” he asked.
Meallinn glanced at Victor, a hurt expression in her eyes, “I like to think so, been doing it my whole life.”
Victor nodded, he had no prior interaction with a baker so he was unsure of how to carry out their conversation. “...what’s your favourite thing to bake?” he asked again with uncertainty, his stare intensifying.
“Pies,” Maellinn answered with absolute certainty, “You can really put whatever you want in them. What’s your favourite thing to hunt?”
“Ghosts and spirits. They’re one of the few ‘monsters’ you don’t need to kill to stop.” he said, shifting his gaze over their shoulder at the back of the wagon Adrian had vanished off into. “Adrian? You’re being awfully quiet.” Adrian’s head popped out again, a mouthful of leaves disappearing under her palm as she struggled to eat them all in one go.
“Hmmhph-...ghofts?” Adrian asked, looking confused.
“Yes, you know: Spectres, Wraiths, Banshees.” Victor leaned aside, providing more space for Adrian if she decided to crawl out. Adrian gladly took the opportunity, squeezing between Maellinn and Victor and peering out across the countryside, then down at John.
“What is wrong with your bison,” Adrian peered at it uncertainly. “It has no hair…”
Maellinn was just about to add to Victor’s list when Adrian question stumped her silent. Growing a polite smile she looked towards Adrian, “Oh, John isn’t a bison, he is an oxen! A big ol’ bull bred to be strong and tough, to do all sorts of things..”
“John is special though,” Maellinn let go of her driving branch and placed it across her lap, “biggest and strongest ox I ever met. Smart as a whip, too. Ain’t that right, John?”
The ox snorted as it continued it’s slow and steady pull.
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