Rosalind Lutece (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
originallutece) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
nysalogs2018-02-10 01:16 am
originallutece) wrote in nysalogs2018-02-10 01:16 am
so if you see my sister rosalind tell that girl to hurry home again
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.]
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.]
no subject
[Is that really worth being heard? Apparently so! But it isn't as much of a risk as it was a moment ago. Though there are still shouts from below, they're growing fainter. They've decided to run down another alley, figuring Rosalind and Richie must have put on a burst of speed, never guessing that they could have climbed a building so quickly.
And to be perfectly fair, they haven't.
Belatedly, Rosalind takes a step back, finally separating them. Clearing her throat, she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, meeting his gaze with a slight purse of her lips.]
It's teleportation. And it's perfectly scientific, so don't ask if it's magic, because there's no such thing as magic.
no subject
Okay, Rosie.
[Their pursuers are dumb as a sack of bricks. Maybe teleporting wasn't the natural assumption to make, but there was fresh snow on the ground. They'd left tracks. Yet onwards they go. "They can't have gone far!" "This way! I think I see them!"
Whatever. If they're drunk enough to chase shadows, let 'em.
Her statement draws another long look. So sure of herself, yet so incredibly wrong.]
And what happy reality have you been living in? After all the shit I've seen, I'd say everything about this place begs to differ.
[Richie pulls away now that she's given him the space to so, looking left and right at the scenic spread. The city's quite pretty like this, lights in the windows and Charlie Brown snowfall dotting the skyline. He takes a few steps closer to the edge and crouches to check the space between the street and whatever storey they were standing on. Looks pretty steep. No fire escape, either, at least not one that he can grab at from the roof.
He shoots a look back at her.]
So what is the science behind it?
no subject
So there's an extra edge to the way she glares up at him as he says that, but she won't take the bait and snarl at him again.]
There's no such thing as magic because there simply isn't. And I've lived here six months, thank you, and I still stand by that answer. Everything can be explained via science, no matter how bizarre it is. That includes all the "shit" you've seen, and then some.
[She glances back at him, her expression arch and superior.]
But that trick in particular has to do with atomic displacement. [A beat, and then:] Do you know what an atom is?
no subject
He responds not with his own voice, but as a sixty-something headmaster of the old stone halls in Oxford, pipe in hand and piles of dusty tomes sitting like towers at his back.] And I look foh-ward to your dissertation on the subject, Madum, par-ticularly the part where you've situated yourself as God omnipotent, and authority most high of every shit that's been shat in all the iterations of Earth represented on these Isles.
[Then she goes for a blow herself. Richie scoffs.] Do I look like one of those sword and shield ninnies to you? Christ, they'd already split the atom two years before I was born.
[He pinches his nose and pulls with a groan. All right, all right, he'll bite.] How exactly are you displacing them?
no subject
Good grief.
It isn't easy for her to remember all the things she'd learned back when she really had been omnipotent, but some things stick. Splitting the atom, oh, yes, she'd been delighted to learn about that, now when had that been . . . somewhere within the 1940's, hadn't it? Yes. And so that would make him . . . hmm, well, say he's thirty-five or so, so he's from the late seventies or early eighties. Hm. Good to know.]
My god, you know the basics of science. What a clever man I've rescued.
[But though that's absolutely challenging, it isn't quite nasty. She just likes being on top, that's all.]
Once, my atoms were scattered. Torn apart and placed throughout all the universes. This gave me any number of interesting side-effects, as you can well imagine, but one of the more delightful benefits was the ability to move around space and time as I saw fit.
[She says this very casually.]
Sadly, thanks to . . . something here, and I have yet to figure out if it's the reason they've fed us or something else, my powers are limited to one universe. Which is a bit inconvenient, but at least allows me to get out of scrapes like that without much fuss. Though I can't use it in front of the natives, lest I be burned at the stake or worshiped or whatever idiotic thing they'd do when they saw a bit of advanced science.
no subject
[Okay, the second half of the game she'd taken full charge of, he'll grant that, but it wasn't his hide on the line to start with. And he could have made good on dodging, probably. If he'd kept smart about where he landed his hits and quit while he was ahead surely it would have all been fine.
But she's already launched on to the lecture, so for once he bites his tongue.
It's...a lot of bullshit. It truly is. He desperately yearns to call it so, but he's been whipped so thoroughly by the curves this place throws him that yet again, he withholds the urge to state how stupid that sounds. "Atoms scattered", all right, okay. There's a precedence for that in Sandra, though she's a specter serving jail time in a giant marble, and there's one in Boxer too, though what he is remains unclear. Another ghost or a transcription of a personality, written into a digital sword and trapped there for time unknown. This woman, in turn, had spent her time before the Orbiter's arrival as a light mist.
Bend him over and fuck him sideways, why don't you.
So he has to assume she was able to de-mist at some point, otherwise what side-effects would there be to brag about? And she'd been a human person too. She looks, sounds, and dresses too specifically to have just congealed into being on the universe's whim. The gal's the epitome of English stiff upper lip and intellectual superiority.]
Sounds like a pain in the ass. [About the restrictions, at least.] Can't say I'm buying too much of what the Orbiters are selling myself, but what can you do?
[He'll neglect to point out that her lack of explanation might poke a hole in her haughty assumptions for two reasons: the first, is that she is at least partially right. Toothaches used to call for exorcisms and the Greeks thought some jock in a chariot was driving the sun across the sky. Some things will get explained in time. (Though others, he doubts very much. The promise scar that Stan had cut across his palm, the one that disappeared for twenty seven years only to bleed white and pucker again when he'd gotten Mike's phone call, when he'd started to remember — that's proof enough to him that some mysteries can't be slotted under a microscope.)
The second? It's fucking freezing out here. Richie's arms have drifted into a lock part-way through the conversation, hugging his middle and hands clasping at the backs of his thin cotton sleeve. It's a nice enough uniform, but hardly build for cold weather.]
You mind scattering my atoms someplace with central heat? [Richie frowns.] Or fuck, I probably should go back to work. Maybe no one's cottoned on to my going missing yet.
no subject
[Because teleporting with another person takes a great deal of effort, and she hadn't had a whole lot of energy to begin with. Though if he's freezing, at least she's not doing too much better: the peacoat she's wearing wasn't built for windy roofs, and Rosalind shivers.]
In the meantime: it occurs to me I don't yet know your name.
[. . .]
And yes, I rescued.
[That's literally the pettiest point, but nonetheless, there she is, insisting on it.]
no subject
[Seems about right. Why was the magic shit always cutting out when you needed it the most? Some help, thanks local mystics and wizards.
Pardon him — thanks, nebulous mechanics of quantum physics.
He purses his lips when she demands the name. Right, he hadn't said shit about himself. There's a lot to be said for the lack of social niceties of this whole exchange, but they've both got fires stoking under their asses and Old Man Winter nipping at their bare skin and thin clothes. Richie clucks his tongue and moves in closer to take a spot at her side, staring out at the sleeping city. They can split some of the body heat this way without getting too friendly. Didn't seem like much a risk, mind. She's all prickles, this one.]
Rich Tozier. [He turns his head to shoot her a grin.] Esquire.
[He snorts at her petulant insistence.] If you were fine you were damn sure taking your time to fix the problem. Just nail them in the balls next time and book it. He wasn't gonna let you go for girls or gold, not in that hateful state.
no subject
But then he says that, and her smile fades.]
I'm well aware of what men like him will do.
[She shifts her weight. She isn't exactly ready to throw herself in his arms, but on the other hand, he's warm, so. She'll allow this, she supposes, and even edge a little closer towards him.
Anyway, she's already been pressed up against him. That boundary is long since shattered.]
But I can't precisely disappear on a whim, not in front of these idiots. So I was waiting for the right moment to, ah, perform the action you just suggested.
no subject
She goes solemn a moment later, and the winter chill bites that much harder for it.]
Didn't mean you weren't. [He pats his pockets, lungs suddenly in need of assuaging. The smoke pack has been whittled down to four sticks total, but he's willing to make it two if it keeps them from freezing in misery. He shakes a spare from the carton, offering it the lady's way first. Manners and all.]
I just meant they already had the grab on you, and how were you going to give them the slip like that?
no subject
If worst truly came to worst, I would have let them see my teleportation. But if not . . . they were drunk and careless, and it isn't as if they were very bright to begin with. It wouldn't have been long before he loosened his grip on me.
[She waits until she's lit up, then inhales sharply. Only once the nicotine has settled in her lungs does she add:]
And where is it you work, that they'll be missing you so sorely?
[She asks not because she's interested, really, but because she doesn't want to talk about this.]
no subject
I suppose it doesn't matter much either way, now. They're off chasing dust motes on the wind and no one's the wiser to your tricksy ways.
[He takes a heady drag himself and feels instantly improved. It's all placebo, he's not an idiot. The flesh is still prickling red, starting with his ears and his fingers and splashing over his cheeks, and any time the wind shifts he gets a harried shiver shaking his spine, but that's all dandy. Just as long as her recharge doesn't take much more than another five, say ten minutes.]
You didn't see where you were going? Shades Darker. I bartend over there. Yourself?
no subject
I swear, between you and John Watson, I'm getting to know everyone there save the most important workers. And no, Mr. Tozier, I wasn't watching where I was going, not after a few blocks. Though even if I was . . . I don't precisely make a note of the locations of particular brothels.
[Christ, but it's cold. Rosalind inhales sharply on her cigarette and turns, facing him properly. It is, ostensibly, to talk to him better, but there's also the side-benefit of getting a bit of extra warmth.]
. . . but as for myself.
[She sounds smug. Or if not that, at least unbearably proud.]
I work at the Institute.
[Hold your applause.]