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

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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.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Her jaw clenches, but she doesn't jerk her arm or move away.]

Blood sacrifices and burning people alive, mostly, though there's a fair few mobs acting in the typical ways.

[She says it simply, like that's an ordinary thing to happen. Rosalind glares down at her wound, preferring to stare at that rather than watch his expression shift and change.]

I was chosen for the latter. An . . . acquaintance of mine decided to step in. His method of helping was to offer me for the former, and then imply that to kill me quickly would be a waste of a body.

[And she will never, ever forget the looks she'd gotten then. The open stares, the frank appraisal, the leers that far more about a show of power than anything truly lustful . . . never, ever, and she will never forget those faces, either. Each man will be remembered, marked for a later date, when the chaos has died down and she's able to retaliate from a place of safety.

Not that John has to know that.]

He's more skilled in cutting than healing, however. And I was in no mood to give him a wound of mine. So I took care of it myself, which was working fine right up until I decided to make a break for Olympia.

[ jesus.

he doesn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't that. Jesus fucking Christ.

it pulls him from his task for a second. his focus goes all to her face, expression a mask of dumb shock. blood sacrifices and burning people alive. ... it only takes him a moment to come back to himself. to know that if he were her in this moment, what he'd hate more than anything is having to engage with it on anything other than his own terms. to have to look at somebody else offering whatever it was they thought he needed when what he'd really need is for them to fuck off and get on with it.

so he does that instead. fucks off with the shock on his face and gets on with it.

he's taking careful scissors and tweezers to the rough job she's done to herself when he finally finds something fitting to say. ]

I know I talked about the next disaster, but this is ridiculous.

[She huffs a laugh, more exhausted than anything truly amused, and silently thanks god John Watson has sense enough not to try and be comforting.

She would have lashed out at that. Pity, sympathy, horror . . . she would have snarled and shoved him away, because her pride has already been through the wringer and she can't take much more battering. But no. No, he knows to just shut up and get on with his work, and she's grateful for it.

She supposes she shouldn't be surprised. If he was a combat medic (as she's almost certain he was), he'd have gone through his fair share of trauma. He'd know what it is to be on the other side.]

I rather liked it better when it was a neat problem I could solve, I admit.

[Her fingers curl into a fist, her nails digging in to stop herself from flinching or hissing in pain as he cuts those stitches free. He's being careful, but it's still painful.]

Tell me: how many times over the past few days have you done something like this?

[ another snip and John shakes his head, tugging the suture with practised care away from the wound. ]

If I kept count I'd get tired.

[ no. the honest answer is not as many as I should have, and that's not worth saying either. he could have remedied that, could have done something about it by going direct to Claire's makeshift clinic as soon as it was opened and helping out there. instead he's been all about the city, sticking his nose in where it probably shouldn't be.

he looks considerably worse for wear, none of the usual unassuming polish about him: he's not slept, evident in the colour under his eyes if not in his steady hands; his clothes are tarnished with soot from across the city. but his eyes are bright. there's no sign that the strain is too much. ]

It's like you said. We're few and far between.

Implying you aren't tired already. When's the last time you slept or ate?

[She says it briskly, some of the usual haughtiness returning to her tone. There's not as much concern there as one might expect; she asks as if it's a quota that he's neglected.]

When's the last time that was any of your business?

[ it's said lightly enough, a joke - except it's not quite the usual tone he takes with play, the words themselves a little sharper an angle than he tends to opt for.

a while ago, then. ]

Since you became my teacher and I your student.

[The retort back is said just as quickly, unfazed and unimpressed. Her blue eyes are steady on him, though her jaw tenses now and then as he keeps working.]

That rather gives me an official excuse. And since I grew to know men like you, who have an unfortunate tendency to throw themselves into something like this, no matter that it might end up effecting your work.

But let's see . . . hmm. Your tone just had an edge, which means you're defensive over it, and that isn't because of me, because you were quite willing to answer my questions the last time I approached you. You've dark circles under your eyes, and frankly, it isn't as if there's much in the way of food around here anyway, never mind during a time like this.

So. Last slept two days, last ate last night?

[It's a rough estimate, and she might be off. Heaven knows this isn't her field or forte. But she's clever, and this isn't such a difficult mystery to solve.]

[ John is, quite quickly, looking at her instead of her wound. it's mid-tweeze and he's careful to watch that he doesn't make any jerking motions before his attention's split, but split it becomes.

there's an edge to his slow-forming smile that sits somewhere strange. somewhere that doesn't belong in the usual vocabulary of habitual acknowledgements and scathing smirks she may have seen him wear before. it isn't wry, it isn't encouraging. it's... pleased, maybe? fond? neither. both. sharper.

it doesn't last long. he's back on task. ]

Something around that, yeah. Problem?

[Oh. That's an interesting sort of smile. She can't quite place it, but she memorizes it, curious as to what had prompted it. She'd expected another snapped remark, because she knows she's insufferable (it's just that she doesn't care).

Anyway. Moving on, and she sighs as the last of the stitches leaves her arm. Thank god.]

It's going to be a problem soon, yes. You're going to faint if you keep thinking you can go on, and frankly, John, you're a bit too big for me to drag away to a bed. I'm hardly Florence Nightingale; this won't end in anything but you lying unconscious in an alley-- if you're lucky.

If you aren't, you'll be lying around unconscious in a city that's caving in on itself, and there's an awful lot that can happen even when you're on your guard.

[A beat, and she wiggles her fingers. Wryly, edging into bitter:]

As I so admirably demonstrate.

Edited 2018-02-25 23:46 (UTC)

Yeah, thanks, whatever would we do without you.

[ the joking tone again, deflection at its finest, but he does accept her point. she isn't wrong - he's been going for longer than he should've, and if he doesn't rest soon there's a 50/50 chance he'll be bird food before nightfall.

that doesn't mean he feels like slowing down. on the contrary, he's flying.

new needle and thread next, and he doesn't provide her warning before he's working to realign the edges of the wound and make his first stitch. ]

When I find a minute to rest, I'll rest.

Ah—

[A breathed out sound of pain for that needle, but though she clenches her fingers, she keeps her arm steady. Rosalind’s voice is a bit more strained when she next speaks.]

I suppose— ah, I suppose we can open our first official lesson with an I told you so.

[Overhead, that hideously oversized bird takes off, circling around the clinic. There’s a scream as it finds a hapless victim, and Rosalind shakes her head.]

Are you planning on storming the gates?

[ he'd apologise, but John's no stranger to sounds of pain in times of trauma, and he doesn't have any way to lessen it for her. besides, she's weathered the wound and had the strength of character to stitch it herself, she'll be fine.

confirmed when her bite holds in spite of the pain. rendered irrelevant when someone else is spirited loudly away, and it's fortunate that John has as much experience as he does compartmentalising horrifying shit in the name of getting a job done, because this place really does take a number of cakes. ]

God knows. Yeah. Maybe. I've worked with some of the people in there, I might at least manage to get a word or two in before I'm nailed to the pavement with a crossbow bolt.

If ever there were a time to choose your words properly . . .

[It's kind of a joke. Rosalind tips her head back, her eyes closing. She's silent for a long few seconds, thinking quickly. Then, slowly:]

And how do you feel about bets and bargains, Dr. Watson?

[It's not actually as much of a left swerve as it sounds.]

[ he's mid stitch, pauses briefly to frown and then pull the thread through and tie off before: ]

Why?

[ please, Rosalind, let's be plain. there's a giant bird eating people, give me the straight talk. ]

[hey, what if she was cryptic and mysterious instead]

I've energy enough to get us both in and out of there just once without being seen.

[She thinks. Probably. He might need to tend to her afterwards, because you shouldn't exert yourself after stitches, but yolo, amirite? Rosalind curls her fingers, examining her newly stitched up wound, before glancing up at him.]

And in return . . . you'd owe me, hm?

[Some people would just do it for the sheer humanity of it all, but not her.]

[ that's... what? it's clear that he hasn't got a clue what she's talking about, frown deepening. the concept of a favour isn't a concern - though it doesn't escape him that by the same logic she owes him for the patch up job, this place doesn't have an NHS - but getting them in without being seen? ]

You're going to have to run that by me again.

[No, see, it only works that way because Rosalind says it does in this precise moment, and so he'll only owe her. That's how it works.

Because she's kind of a jerk like that if no one calls her out on it.]

Do we really have time for that?

[She hoists herself to her feet, then holds out her left hand. It's an offer to help him up, yes, but there's something in her gaze that suggests there's a little more to it than that.]

Trust that I can do it. We can go over how later on. Yes or no?

[ the concerned frown makes no move to absent itself. he looks from her to her hand and back again. there's a sense that whatever this is might be far more than he really expected to get himself into today.

still. right now, it's do or (almost depressingly literally) die. so John doesn't bother with verbal confirmation, just shoves the rest of his kit back in his bag, hikes it back onto his shoulder, and reaches to take her offered hand. ]

[The good news: it's absolutely painless and over within, literally, half a second.

The bad news: it's some weird nonsense. Sorry, John. Probably no weirder than a giant bird eating people, though, let's be fair.

It's at least scientific nonsense, not magic, because Rosalind knows precisely what she's doing and how it works. But what it is, is, essentially, teleportation. Painless, instantaneous (suck it, Star Trek) and, if not effortless, at least fairly easy on a normal day.

One moment they're in the alley, and her grip on his hand tightens, and then suddenly--

Suddenly they're not. There's no flash or light, no indication that they've moved. They're just there, standing in the midst of the clinic, while outside that bird screeches and people scream. There's voices from around them, calls to hold the barricade steady, but fortunately for them, there's no one in sight.

Rosalind holds onto him tightly for a moment, her eyes widening as dizziness washes over her. But far be it for her to be weak; she lets go and takes a step back, waving him off.]

Explanations later. You're perfectly fine, now go and get things before we're caught.

[She's awfully pale, and she's going to lean up against that wall, but she's fine. Nothing wrong here. Not . . . a . . . thing.]

[ that's—

that's fucking weird.

John's not completely new to teleportation, being new to teleportation isn't much of an option when you're up and back between Thesa at least once a week on sanity missions that inevitably require shaking an already tentative grip on the one resource (sanity) you're there to obtain, but. this isn't that. this is alley to Sanctuary in less than a blink. in nothing at all.

John's frown now has hit an all time depth. but there is mercy in distraction, and he takes it. it wouldn't be difficult for anyone to tell that the trip's done something to Rosalind. John's a doctor, and the clasp of her hand before she breaks away focuses him in immediately on every noticeable detail thereafter. ]

I'm perfectly fine, yeah, what about you?

[ he doesn't wait for an answer. can't be bothered with the sarcastic backlash. they're in now, and discovery by a bunch of Lysa's daughters doesn't concern him overmuch. so he brusquely walks over, slots himself in next to her, and makes to apply a supporting arm about the waist. it's a sequence that bridges no argument, but that's not to assume there won't be an argument, though if by some miracle there isn't he'll start walking them both towards a doorway that he knows leads to a private room. she can at least sit down while he robs the place. ]

Edited (mdah) 2018-02-28 23:44 (UTC)

John--

[She honestly hadn't expected that, if the way her back arches and her eyes go wide are any indication. It doesn't matter if she's spent six months here; she comes from a culture where any kind of contact between men and women was strictly monitored.

Her mouth curls into a frown a few seconds later, irritated at not having all her instructions obeyed precisely, but she won't waste their time further by arguing. Instead she walks with him, trusting him with some of her weight, trying like hell not to appear as though she's out of breath (which she is) or trusting him to guide them (because she's dizzy and can't precisely see straight).

Only once they've reached the room does she break away, pulling from him to go sit. She refuses to sag while he's still looking; instead she sits up straight, one eyebrow raised as she looks at him.]

Go. I shan't collapse, I promise you.

[ if he notices the response, he doesn't mention it. keeps to himself, hold remaining firm and functional - he doesn't make any effort to keep her back once she decides she's had enough. she's in the room, she's sat down, he's mildly surprised he managed to get her anywhere near that far, that's enough for him.

still. his mood isn't the best. exhausted in ways he's yet to let himself acknowledge, slightly disoriented both by the nature of travel but mostly by the speed with which this entire unexpected interaction has escalated to even further unexpected heights, he doesn't attempt niceties when she puts on airs of better health than she has in this precise moment. ]

Please do, [ is his answer, matching her tone for tone, perhaps a little sharper. ] That's the only way you'll end up lying down.

[ which, in his professional opinion, is what she needs to do. and for longer than the duration of him heading off to pinch some things from the stock room. with that remark, he does as he's told, disappearing off out the door.

and stops just outside to text a friend about supplies. he will go, but first he'll take a pause to both get an inventory for what they need and make sure Rosalind doesn't, in fact, collapse horribly in a way that requires his attention. ]

Edited (so many edits! every edit!) 2018-03-01 00:26 (UTC)

[She doesn't actually collapse horribly. It's just that she's going off of a week of terror and grief and fear, not sleeping or eating properly, and god only knows how much blood she's lost . . . and then to teleport, well, that just took up the last bit of energy she had. It's as if she tried running a marathon after all that: nothing life-threatening, but a foolish idea.

So once he leaves, she sags, burying her face in her arms, closing her eyes. The table is cool, the room is dark, and right now, that's all she wants. A few moments to do nothing but rest.

It's been a hellish week. Idly, lazily, she stretches out her right arm, fingers curling and uncurling, feeling the twinges of pain as she does. Tani's blow had been the worst. Oh, not the cut (though that had been immensely painful, and she's not going to forget the intent way he'd stared at her, watching her for any sign of weakness). Afterwards, that's what she means. When he'd held her close, despite her demands to be released, and breathed that horrid phrase in her ear.

Make me.

She'd gotten out of Wyver after that.

And now Olympia . . . Rosalind hums softly, biting back a yawn. Olympia, rioting in her own way, the palace stormed and the empress once again nowhere to be found. Rosalind has no doubt she's safe, spirited away to some private hideout, ready to wait out this storm. But surely this can't last much longer. Even the most ardent citizens will only last a week or so; then they'll settle down, spent on their nationalism and their rage.

She hopes so, anyway.

She shifts, resting her head on her uninjured arm. Strands of red hair tumble around her face, escaped from the comb pinning it back, but she can't be bothered to redo it right this second. She faces the door, staring out, waiting for him to reappear.

She doesn't fall asleep. But it's a doze, perhaps, because she never gets enough sleep normally, never mind this week, and her body can only be pushed so far.]

[ it's quiet in the room - the brief sounds of shifting, then quiet. John waits long enough to be sure he's not going to miss any sounds of distress, any sudden thumps that signify rest gone wrong - and when none come, heads off to find what he can.

it's going to be interesting getting them out now: he isn't letting her do that again. not that he imagines he can stop her if she decides she's going to, but he won't be complicit in it. that means going out the usual way— or the back way. their luck's not good enough that the staff entrances will be unguarded, he won't hope for that, but they'll at least, he hope,s be less stridently policed. he can work with that.

for now, supplies, and then back.

he returns about twenty minutes later, original bag better stocked and carrying two extras, also full. arriving back, he casts her only a quick glance before setting them heavily down and fishing in one for a couple of things he'd picked up specifically: a tonic for pain relief and a bread roll. his refilled bottle of water. ]

Here. We'll recoup for a bit.

[The moment he returns she jerks away, sitting up sharply, blinking as she stares at him. Her cheeks flush, but she isn't so stupid as to insist she wasn't sleeping. They just won't mention it, that's all, and they can all move past that moment.

She is, however, foolish enough to insist:]

I'm fine, Dr. Watson. We don't have to stop for my sake. I meant it when I said I had enough energy to get us there and back again.

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