so if you see my sister rosalind tell that girl to hurry home again

[originallutece]

Who: Rosalind Lutece (originallutece) & YOU
What: Various open prompts! Most of them coming from the opening log.
When: First half of February
Where: Wyver and Olympia
Warning(s): Maybe some nsfw??

Wyver - Lagoon

[Perhaps not all that unusually for her, Rosalind is once again at the lagoons. What is unusual: she doesn't seem to be alone. She's most certainly chatting to someone, murmuring instructions and the occasional bit of praise, but to whom? There's no one around-- Or so it seems, anyway.

Come in close, and you'll spot a very small, very determined hippo kicking its way through the water. He keeps looking up at Rosalind, seeking approval and praise-- and oddly enough, she seems inclined to give it, in her own reserved fashion.]

I told you that you'd do well. You're built for this. No, don't come to shore, don't be lazy, you've got to build up your muscles and your stamina. I've a treat for you when you're done.

[But here's the truly oddest thing: the hippo seems keen on mirroring his master. He wiggles joyfully when she smiles; he grunts with effort when she prompts him into exercising more. But that's probably just a coincidence . . . right?]

Wyver - Victory Celebration - Festive Spirit - maybe nsfw

[There's some kind of celebration going on in Wyver, but honestly, when isn't there? She's only been in this universe six months and it seems as if they're having a celebration about the moon or the stars or some long-dead hero . . . it's headache inducing, but she supposes there's little harm in it, especially when she doesn't actually live here.

She doesn't mean to venture into the festivities, but it's hard to avoid them. Someone presses a cocktail into her hands and leers at her when they offer her paints, and she rolls her eyes at both, but it's easier to just pocket the latter instead of refusing them. She does not offer her body to be painted, but she might let those paints drop if she finds herself with someone she's already acquainted with.

But in the meantime, she sips her drink and stares with a neutral expression at someone wandering around with paint and little else. Whether they're a man or a woman is irrelevant; she stares, and though her expression is blank, her gaze lingers just a little too long. Is that a flush to her cheek? Perhaps.]

I suppose that's one thing about Wyver: they certainly are eager to offer entertainments.

Wyver - Victory Celebration - this time with Robert tho

[Of course, Rosalind isn't the only one enjoying herself. There's a man wandering around, tall and bright-eyed, smiling as he sips at a drink and socializes with others. He seems somewhat eager to talk to others, though his smile is a little odd . . . almost as if he's all but taking notes behind those blue eyes of his.

But hey, it's not a time for introspection. Right now, the man-- his name is Robert, has he told you?-- gestures for another drink, smiling as he turns to watch whatever entertainment is spilling out on the streets.]

What on earth are they trying to do? Good grief, they're bound to break a neck trying to jump around atop each other like that.

Olympia - Dark Turns

[But all good things have to come to an end, and soon Rosalind returns home. The far more somber festivities are still taking place, not that she much cares. She ignores the glares she gets for coming in from Wyver, rolling her eyes at the whispers . . . but it doesn't stop at that. People have warned her that she'd get in trouble for trying to play both sides, but she'd ignored them. Oh, she's noticed the whispers and rumors and whatnot, but so what? That hardly effects her.

But she's come back at night, and people are feeling particularly patriotic, and that . . . that means trouble.

There's three men following her down the street. She can hear them, because they're not bothering to be quiet, not at all. They're jeering at her, catcalling and calling out to her; she ignores them. There's no use in confronting them. But that isn't enough for them, it seems. One of them catches up to her, grabbing her elbow, and she jerks, yanking her arm away sharply.]

Get off.

Olympia - Flona Cove

[She's not foolish enough to swim in the cove again. She doesn't even stick her feet in, not when the last time she'd done that had resulted in her feeling up a boy a decade younger than her. But she does sit by it, her boots shed and resting at her side, watching the water with a surprisingly soft expression. Her little hippo is nearby, of course, huffing and puffing as he swims around in the water. His grunts of effort echo throughout the cove, and Rosalind smiles to see him work.

No one comes to bother her for a long while, though, and that's nice. It's nice to be alone, frankly, and she's lulled into a relaxed state because of it. The water is warm and she feels so very calm . . .  and so, her voice very soft, vocalized under her breath, she sings.

(Perhaps the cove is effecting her more than she realizes).

She's a sweet voice, steady and surprisingly high-pitched, and the tune she sings has the tune of a waltz, her voice rising and falling. Only about half the lyrics are articulated; for the rest she hums softly, continuing the tune, enjoying the way the cove echoes her voice back to her. And if she isn't interrupted, she'll turn to something a little more jaunty. Though this tune, oddly enough, doesn't sound as though it comes from her time period. And it isn't the right name she articulates-- rather, she puts her own in place of it, laughing softly as she does.]

Other; [Rosalind will also be wandering around as her counterpart, Robert Lutece. She'll be disguised completely, an illusion covering her. Her interactions will be far more energetic, and "he'll" be eager to socalize, so feel free to meet him in Wyver or Olympia, deep in the festivites.]

Comments

[originallutece]

Oh, no. You'll know when I'm trying to get you to buy me expensive liquor, because I'll tell you to directly.

[But there's a hint of a smirk playing at her lips, because she likes challenging people. Especially those who annoy her.]

I'm asking what it is you prefer when you're trying to enjoy yourself.

[shikomizue]

Heh. [Fair enough - and maybe with such a brazen request, he'll feel like indulging her.

Though, her taste buds probably won't thank him.]

Sake, sochu... [His voice tapers, the petulant bite almost fading.

Those drinks don't exist here.]

Rice liquor.

Though when it comes to a festival, I'm not too discerning. [He's never really that picky when the goal is to get drunk.] Parties aren't the time to get picky.

[The derisive bite is back to his words, statement nothing but accusatory.]

[originallutece]

And yet you started us down this line of thought.

[If the statement is accusatory, Rosalind doesn't seem all that bothered by it. She lifts a shoulder, shrugging, unrepentant in her personality. She's snobbish and arrogant and cold, and she's long since accepted those parts of herself.]

So go buy us both a drink, then, if you're ready to enjoy yourself. Or are you done for the evening?

[shikomizue]

[Annoying.

But he won't betray anything other than a readiness to drink, a scoffed laugh given in reply to her question.

He's hardly whet his appetite for the night.] Aa. But I can't guarantee your tastes will be satisfied.

[As in, he's going to buy something strong and cheap, something that burns from lip to gut. He departs, weaving through the crowd to stop at a bar stall. Drinks ordered, he doesn't return to her - he'll beckon her over with one lazy wave, once the crowd parts to reveal a line of sight.]

[originallutece]

[She meets his gaze, but doesn't immediately come over. She's the one who does the beckoning, not vice-versa, and she won't obey a man so easily.

But nor is she so stupid as to ignore him entirely. She makes her way over slowly, ignoring anyone who might want to catch her eye. They're too eager to revel in their hedonism, and she won't be a part of it.

Though someone does manage to shove a set of edible paint into her hands, and she pulls a little face as she sets it on the bar and comes in next to him.]

Here. You'll find more use for them than I will.

[shikomizue]

[It's petulance he recognizes - what he would have done himself - though their similarities does nothing to comfort him. Takasugi doesn't wait for her arrival to take a drink.

He keeps watch, from the corner of his eye, his body turned away - sees the paints be hoisted onto her.

The city is eager to break her down, make her indulge.

He's not so focused, though he's not sure he'd pass an opportunity by.

Or a solicitation.] Is that a request for a massage?

[Of course not, but Takasugi asks regardless, raising his glass to his lips again.]

[originallutece]

[She scoffs as she reaches for her drink.]

Please.

[It's a hideously strong drink, and the fingers of her left hand curl tightly as she sips at it. But she doesn't shudder and she doesn't spit it out, though it burns as she swallows.

She glances over at him, her expression amused, in an patronizing sort of way.]

What about any of our interactions makes you think I'd want such a thing from you?

[shikomizue]

[The bite of her refusal is muzzled by the acrid taste of her drink. She may not wear any displeasure on her face, but Takasugi knows how it tastes.

That she's taken a sip would be enough, but he's sure she'll finish it. Better to suffer the flavor than surrender.]

About as much as would make me think you'd let me buy you a drink.

[None. And yet here they are.

He empties his nearly in its entirety, nostrils flaring in protest to the bitterness. But it runs down his throat smoothly.]

[originallutece]

[Give him this: she exhales a soft hah to that, amused at his honesty.]

Fair enough. But there's a difference between buying me a drink as a prelude to you sprawling in my bed and because I demanded it of you. Or at least: there is in my mind.

[And he's right, too, in that she'll finish this drink come hell or high water, because she's stubborn and prideful. No matter her tongue protests very loudly to putting the glass to her lips again; she does it anyway, her left hand curling tightly again as it burns her mouth and throat.]

But perhaps someday you'll earn a place there. If you're particularly good. How old are you?

[shikomizue]

Twenty eight. [Dismissive - he knows he doesn't look young for his age, though maybe she does for hers. Still, no reason to withhold that information - and he even offers a truthful response.]

Though, I can't say I'm looking for a place like that. I think I'd rather pass out at the bar.

[Takasugi finishes his drink and waves for another - instructing the bartender to leave the bottle.

So he can refill her glass when she finishes, perhaps? Maybe her nails would break skin, fingers curling tighter and tighter with each gulp.]

[originallutece]

[Well, that's good, at least. Their odd argumentative relationship might never make it to the bedroom, but if it does, it shan't be hideously inappropriate.]

You're well on your way for that. Though I should think you're all but inviting yourself to be robbed. I rather want to pick your pocket myself.

[shikomizue]

[His lips curl; in the face of every threat being thrust onto him, Takasugi only relaxes. Body folding forward, he puts his weight on the bar, balanced between both elbows. One hand plucks his drink from the counter, holding it limply near his lips.]

What do you think you'd find?

[A coin purse, surely, but he's not asking for such a mundane answer.]

[originallutece]

[She glances over at him, her eyes dragging up and down his frame. In other people (and, perhaps, for Rosalind herself at other times), that would be a leering gaze, but right now there's nothing but frank consideration in her eyes.]

A knife.

[She says it slowly, then meets his eyes again.]

Or some kind of weapon.

Am I right?

[She lifts her glass to her lips, finishing off the drink, her gaze never leaving his.]

[shikomizue]

[Takasugi stares as the woman's eyes rake over him - an appraisal is exactly what he'd wanted. Chest bared, covered in paint, clothes disheveled and loose, with hair no more kempt than the rest of him - Takasugi wears the mess of himself with confidence.

An appraisal is exactly what he'd wanted; the lack of sultry sighs or wet lips doesn't disappoint.

Her answer is better than any implicit proposition could have been.

The smile that spreads over his face is thin, akin more to a gash than a grin. That's all the confirmation she should need.

He takes a drink.]

And in yours...? [She may have played his guessing game, but Takasugi doesn't intend to reciprocate.]

[originallutece]

What do you think you'll find?

[The sentence comes out whip crack fast. She doesn't smile, not yet, but there's something more interested in her gaze. And yet it isn't because she's implicit confirmation he's carrying a weapon; she knows plenty of men who carry weapons, and a capability for violence alone isn't enough to impress her.

Perhaps it's that smile. It isn't boasting or full of bravado, but nor is it demure. Just . . . confident, perhaps, is the word. Confident and proud.

God knows she's drawn to that.]

[redacted]

[shikomizue]

[The bulwark of his confidence isn't shaken by her rebuttal, but Takasugi doesn't offer a response in kind.

He doesn't know.

A practical woman carries nothing she doesn't need, and a smart woman needs little to nothing in her resourcefulness.

Stubbornness hand in hand with self-assurance, he refuses to admit he doesn't know.

He puts his bet on his best guess.]

Nothing, aside from some silver.

were you ever gomen to begin with

[originallutece]

[He's right, actually. She doesn't carry much beyond money, because what's the point? Oh, some days perhaps a notebook and a pen, just to be certain she's recording some interesting data, but beyond that . . . no, nothing at all.

But far be it for her to praise him, insolent, insufferable thing that he is.]

Perhaps.

[She turns back to face the bar, reaching for the bottle to pour herself another glass. She's smiling faintly, less because he's wrong and more because she likes the thought of him being frustrated in not knowing.]

Going to finish off the bottle?

//leans into the mic 'i dont recall'

[shikomizue]

[Takasugi gleans from her lack of correction that he's gambled and won. In matters of pride and shots in the dark, throwing an error in the opponent's face is too tempting a satisfaction to forego.

He wouldn't have.

And she's no better than he is.

He settles back into the bar himself, watching her pour a glass of the liquor she'd hated with a dull smile on his face.

That little display asserts her dominance more than a mystery of pocket contents.]

If you like it so much, you can have it. [He slides the bottle back her way.

Not to forego alcohol himself, he's quickly ordering a drink to fill the vacuum of liquor left by his 'generosity'.]

[originallutece]

Aren't you generous?

[It's disgusting, but at least now it doesn't sting so badly. Rosalind puts the glass to her lips, sipping it slowly. She's fine with asserting herself through drinking, but getting hideously drunk in front of him won't do anything.

Besides: she hardly wants to lose control. God forbid she say or do something foolish and hand him an easy victory.]

I'm almost touched.

[shikomizue]

Mmn?

[His drink arrives, the glass containing it warped and chipped. A sign that the bar is growing busier, many winding down from their vitriol to come drink the fuel to set it alight again.

Several men come to settle near them, each smeared in as much or more paint than Takasugi.]

Think your company is enough repayment?

[Derisive - he swallows a mouthful of smoother liquor.]

[originallutece]

Oh, yes.

[She says it without a moment of hesitation, treating his question as though it was in earnest. Rosalind finally sets her glass down, shifting her weight. She can't say as she's pleased at the sudden influx of company, but no one is bothering her just yet.

She flashes a rare grin, egged on by the drink and her own arrogance.]

Or do you buy every woman you meet a bottle of liquor and offer her your time?

[shikomizue]

[Liquor and his time are a paltry sum to pay for a woman's company.

Though he doesn't consider this woman capable of satisfying that role; gentle song, poetic sense, and dainty frame the allure of women he's accustomed to sitting and drinking with.

(There was a time, years ago, where he'd be paying exorbitantly for such women to spend a night with him.

Since then, he's simply abandoned that particular leisure.)

The appeal now, is in the harsh crack of her smile and the onslaught of superiority she doesn't tire of confronting him with. He matches her grin with his own, leaning back into a stranger who has brushed against him to access the bar.]

Only as often as you take nearly naked men up on their proposals.

[He drinks, finger toying with a chip in the brim of the glass.]

[originallutece]

[For just a moment, her eyes flicker downwards. It's an instinctive glance, something she regrets immediately (if only because she hates that he saw her doing it). But it's hard not to look when he points out he's only half dressed, and god, but he is appealing, but--

No, and she doesn't make the amateur's mistake of busying herself with her drink. Instead she takes a step forward, preferring to be closer to him instead of some drunken idiot.]

You'd be surprised.

[Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe that's just a way to leave him wondering, because she likes being cryptic.]

[shikomizue]

[That regret is valid - Takasugi notices her eyes dip. He can feel his yukata against peeling paint, dry and beginning to flake off as it brushes cloth. There's not much left to the imagination, but there's also hardly any skin to be seen, scars obscured and filled in by splashes of red and gold.

He leans forward, letting the garment hang from his shoulders rather than drape across his chest.]

Would I? [With her step and his bend, Takasugi is close enough to smell the bite of liquor on her breath.] You'll have to tell me a story sometime.

[Now is as good of a moment as ever, but he doesn't press the issue - he doesn't care enough to.]

[originallutece]

Perhaps. If you earn one.

[She has a fair few stories she could share, frankly. The gala alone had been a dizzying night, something that left her knees bruised and her jaw sore. She'd have to be careful how she told him, though . . . she'd hardly want to come across as some pathetic little girl desperate to impress.

She's had an awful lot to drink, though, and she hasn't a large frame to begin with. She's not built for drinking so much in such a small amount of time. Perhaps that's why she reaches for him, two fingers hooking beneath his chin and tipping his head back.]

If you tell one in exchange.