there's bound to be a ghost at the back of your closet;

[originallutece]

Who: Rosalind Lutece (originallutece) & OPEN
What: Wyver shenanigans!
When: Later half of October



I. The Old City;

[From an Institute to this . . . Rosalind really hates Wyver so far, not least of which because she doesn't have her precious lab. No, it's all shamans and magic now, prayers and belief systems and no hard science to speak of, never mind things like inventories or stocks of supplies. But working with nonsense is better than not working at all, and so she dives in, her demeanor prickly but hard-working. But the stocks of supplies aren't to her satisfaction, not at all, and so soon she's taking a trip to the market.

Here she is, stepping carefully through the crowds, a bag on her shoulder and her gaze sharp as she wanders through the stalls. You might catch her in a more amiable state of mind, but you might just witness her bickering with someone behind a stall:]

I'm not going to pay you with a story. Surely you must accept currency; that's far more useful than some tale about my past.

[Of course, she's not simply looking for ingredients. Rosalind can also be found peering at food, trying to decide what might be easiest to cook, and staring rather longingly at a row of books.]

II. closed to Harry;

[Majima is her bodyguard, but she can't pay him for every trip. Fortunately for her, she's got a fair few gentleman friends nowadays. Mr. DeVere is a tailor, but the point isn't whether or not he'll truly be able to defend her; the point is that people who might rob a woman alone likely won't if they see she has a man with her.

And given she quite enjoys his company, everyone wins.

So here they are, walking along in the Old City, chatting amiably about this or that while she peers at cut up animal bits and dried leaves, trying to remember the properties of each.]

Honestly, the nonsense some of the others spout . . . magic this and magic that, as if wishing and hoping will get anything done. All I ask is that they give me a list of some known properties of plants and animals, since apparently I'm a pharmacist, not a physicist anymore, but even that is beyond my grasp at the moment.

[She doesn't realize it just yet, but they're being followed: three men have been trailing them for at least a block now, their demeanors just a touch too causal.]

III. DRAGONS;

[Well, obviously she's goign to check those fuckers out.

The East End normally wouldn't hold much interest for her, but the promise of seeing mythological creatures draws her like nothing else would. If anyone asks, her interest is purely scientific: she'd like to observe them and resolve any number of theoretical impossibilities about them, including how they stay upright and what they do in order to spit fire. And that's not untrue! She really does want to find out about all that!

. . . but she's also eager to see them because, well. Dragons!

She's settled a healthy distance away from an open field, a notebook open in her lap and her eyes trained on the dragon swooping around above her. She's not precisely hidden under this tree, but nor is she simply out in the open like a sitting duck, so it'll probably be fine. Her pencil is moving freely over the page, and if anyone gets close enough to look, they'll see she's not just taking notes, but drawing: little illustrations of the wings or jawline or talons.]

I wonder if their bones are hollow . . . but they're far bulkier than birds, that wouldn't really work, would it . . .

IV. October 31st; in which I play a dangerous game by forward-dating, also closed to existing CR;

[On Halloween proper, Rosalind isn't to be found out and about. Oh, you might catch a glimpse of her, but even that, that will be when she's making her way towards the station. There's something urgent about the clip of her pace, something that suggests this isn't an errand she runs idly, but nor does she look upset. Just . . . melancholic, perhaps.

Anyone who happens to be on the station as well (or, perhaps, who follows her), will find her settled in front of one pod in particular. She sits in silence for the most part, working in a notebook she brought along, but at some point, she murmurs:]

Happy anniversary, I suppose. It's a bit lacking with you still lazing about asleep.

V. Wildcard;

[Feel free to make up your own starter! Rosalind will be eager to explore and test the parameters of her new environment, and that means exploring, even in places like the jungle or out towards the farthest reaches of the city. Catch her teleporting, there and then gone and then back again; approach her for some of that stop spreading the illness potion she's got going on. Or whatever! I'm game for anything, so throw something at me or hit me up on kitnkat

Comments

why are you like this - iii

[flashystyle]

[Dorian knew he was going to be meeting with Rosalind again from the moment they first met. The banter between them on the complexity of magic was too delicious to leave at a simple dismissal. So he'd arranged to find her after their endeavors at work together, and when he heard "East End" he'd assume it was safe enough to head on over. He'd assumed he'd enjoy this, like their last safe encounter.

She's very fortunate that he likes her enough to not flee the moment he sees the creatures. The very sight of them, even so far away, has him instinctively keeping his hand on his staff as he closes the gap between him and the woman at work.]

They aren't hollow. We used them for heavy armor, back home. Improved resistance to fire.

YOU HAD YOUR CHOICE OF PROMPTS

[originallutece]

[She glances over, pleased as she hears the familiar voice. For all their disagreements on science and magic, Dorian is an enjoyable companion.]

Then how on earth are their wings supporting their bulk? They oughtn't be able to fly, not if they follow known aerodynamic laws.

THIS IS STILL YOUR FAULT?

[flashystyle]

They breathe fire, and that is your primary concern?

[He says bitterly, bitter. Still, he's not going anywhere apparently, taking a seat next to her.]

I don't think you're accounting for how slender they are. They don't just fly from the start- they have to learn to support their weight. Build strength.

I.

[hannya]

[Majima is just as lost in the new city as Ros, but as long as she's paying him to look out for her, he has no plans on letting it swallow them up. Wyver is warmer than Olympia, warmer than anywhere he's used to, so he's content to hang at a slight distance, enough to keep out of the heat of the crowds but close enough not to lose her.

Once they hit the market, however, he has to quicken his step, as Ros darts around stalls almost faster than what seems possible. He catches up with her by the books and rolls up his sleeves; he's going to need a kerchief to wipe the back of his neck like an old man before long.]

Anything interestin'?

[originallutece]

A bit . . . I wish people would label their products properly. Or organize their wares . . . it's like hunting for a needle in a haystack if I want to find something specific.

[She glances back at him. Victorian ladies don't sweat, they glow, but Ros is glowing just a little less than Majima.]

Not used to the humidity?

[hannya]

Dunno if it's worse than the market in Olympia, but at least I got used to that one.

[Majima picks up one of the books and starts to page through it absently. A few of the illustrations catch his eye and remind him of old screenprints he's seen back home. The images themselves, though, are utterly foreign-- some of the strange creatures of Olympia's forests make grotesque appearances.

He snaps it shut and looks up at Ros again, though he quickly avoids her eye when he realizes how obvious it is that the heat is affecting him.]

Not in October. The climate around here doesn't make any goddamn sense.

WILDCARD let me know if this works!!

[punshots]

[ You know what sucks?

Horses.

You know what sucks when you're already exhausted, hungry, haven't showered in too long (read: a day), and anxiously anticipating your arrival in a city that's known to be hostile to the one you just came from while all the sick people you're worried about are getting even sicker?

Yep, you guessed it - horses!

And you might think, comfortable as he is on the back of a chocobo, that the transition to a horse should be no big deal. But that isn't the case, unfortunately, and Prompto is already feeling sore and irritable when his horse decides to veer towards the left, on a collision course with the one Rosalind is riding. Prompto tugs on the reins in a vain attempt to correct the horse's trajectory, but the horse just shakes its mane indignantly and jostles him none-too-gently. ]

- See? That's what I'm talkin' about, Stinkyface! And after I gave you an apple, too...that was my lunch!

[ This is, inevitably, part of an ongoing (one-sided) conversation. And yes, the horse has been affectionately nicknamed...Stinkyface. ]

[originallutece]

[She can, actually, ride a horse. It was part of the rigid education her mother had set for her back when she'd thought her daughter might actually stand a chance of being a proper lady. French lessons and watercolors and, yes, horseback riding lessons.

She'd even had a horse of her own. She hadn't really liked it much, but it was hers. She can't actually remember the name right now. Peach something? Something saccharine, she thinks. Something to do with sweets? It's really quite stupid to get caught up on this, but god, she's so bored on this trip, she really is. Time and again she's wanted to try for a carriage, but there's only so many and she's picky with whom she shares it.

Add to the fact she's never really liked horses (they've always seemed a little insane, frankly) and that she hasn't seen one in twenty years, and Rosalind isn't precisely in the best mood right now.

But it is what it is.

A break in the monotony comes about midmorning when a horse veers into hers. Her mare (unnamed) snorts in irritation and stumbles to the left to avoid the oncoming collision, and Rosalind jerks awake, yanking too hard on the reins in compensation.]

Prompto--

[It's scolding, but it's mild.]

It's not going to listen to you if you keep shouting at it, for heaven's sake.

[punshots]

You don't know that fooooor sure!

[ No, she probably does know that for sure, but the horse had been unresponsive to the affectionate cooing that usually got him his way with a chocobo, and so here he is. Shooting an apologetic grin Rosalind's way as their horses straighten out - much more thanks to her efforts than his own. He'd given up his seat in a carriage in a heartbeat, but now's he's wishing he had a little more self-preservation to save his aching legs from getting saddle-sore.

A belabored sigh. ]

I can't help but notice yours is, uh...not doing that. [ So. ] What's the secret? Oh, Madam Lutece, please, tell me the ways of the horse whisperer!

[ He adds a little dramatic flourish with his hand - which is a bad decision, because his horse shakes out its head as soon as he takes his hands off it. Whoops. ]

forever in your inbox....i

[daemonized]

[Ardyn actually makes an entrance one of two ways — with a flourishing fanfare, full of dramatics, or like a shadow, creeping up upon someone and appearing without warning.

Today, it’s the latter; he speaks, suddenly just a bit behind Rosalind. How long has he been there? It’s a mystery.]

A story provides entertainment, which some might find far more valuable than currency. What, can’t think of one worthy of a handful of food, Madam Lutece?

yesssss

[originallutece]

[The only indication of surprise she gives is a sharp inhale, so quiet he'll have to be pressed close to her-- but then again he is pressed close, too close, and she turns to face him, hoping to make him step back through sheer force of personality.]

Can't and won't are two very different things, Mr. Izunia, and I assure you, it's the latter at work here, not the former.

But you're very fond of stories, aren't you? Why don't you act the gentleman and pay for my dinner, hm?

[daemonized]

If you think I'm anything at all even close to a gentleman, then I'm afraid I've given you the wrong impression of my character, Madam Lutece.

[It won't be that easy, Rosalind.]

Come now. I want to hear something, too.

I

[fractaljesus]

Wyver is as different from Olympia as fire is to ice. First of all is the climate, which is just this side of uncomfortable. Second is the way the streets are overgrown, and the haphazard way the buildings are slapped together. It's chaotic and unstructured, and yet fascinating.

Today finds a man in a cloak completely unbefitting the humid weather walking the streets and market stalls for anything that catches his interest, coin in his pocket from his time working in the institute begging to be spent (he's recently grasped the concept of currency, but apart from rent, has no real use for money). He's about to pass by Rosalind entirely until his eyes fall upon the same row of books she's admiring, stopping him in his tracks.

The worst part about being separated from the Institute? Not having access to the library. And upon closer inspection, he vaguely recalls seeing her around the Institute, though they've never interacted before.

"You desire them?" He asks her, though his gaze remains fixed on the books. She's not the only one who wants them.

[originallutece]

"I do." Quite a bit, actually. She'd had any number of books in Olympia, but she'd only gotten to bring along a select few. She's read them all already, of course, and she'll likely read them again, but she wants to absorb as much knowledge as possible about their new surroundings.

She recognizes this man, though. She doesn't think they've ever spoken, but at least they're both potentially scientifically minded.

"Do you?"

[fractaljesus]

They are in a similar situation then. The small house he'd occupied in his time in Olympia had been packed floor to ceiling with books; most of which were from the Natha as part of their deal. But he'd brought none with him, and so found himself with a regrettable lack of literature to slake his thirst for information.

"No," He corrects her, but continues. "I desire to read them. Ownership is not necessary." That was why the library at Simwe Institute was so convenient--he could read as much as he liked and not have to concern himself with where to put it all. But finally he breaks his unblinking stare upon the books to turn it toward Rosalind, expression remaining still and blank, as if a doll's.

"You wish to own them. If I may read them after you purchase them, that is acceptable."

I.

[latkje]

[ It should be said that is not exactly dressed for the heat. He is from a conservative country, and also a cold one, and furthermore, he's in the habit of hiding things up his sleeve. He actually came to the market to get better clothes. But a person gets distracted.

He sees Rosalind staring at the row of books, and casually grabs one of them, and starts leafing through it, then offers it to her, like he's never been taught not to bother strangers. ]

Don't tell me you were going to judge them by their covers.

[originallutece]

[Um.

So, on the one hand, nothing this man is doing is actually offensive in any way. He hasn't touched her, he hasn't said anything rude, and though he's a little in her space, it isn't anything overwhelming.

On the other hand: she's just been handed a book on-- what is it? Oh, a history book, and that is interesting, though she'd initially passed over it-- by a strange man dressed more for the winter than the humid heat who hasn't even introduced himself.]

You'd be surprised at how much a cover can tell you. And your name might be?

[latkje]

Sure. They tell you what books look like.

[ He tilts his head to the side, as if considering. ]

But you're right. I forget my manners. My name's Nash.

[ No last name— they aren't de rigueur where he comes from. ]

[etiquette]

[he likes madam lutece--enough that he's happy to accept her invitation for a stroll through a slightly less than savory part of town. it wasn't his or anyone's first choice to relocate so suddenly, he supposes, and while it was a tad irritating harry has spent plenty of time travelling and needing to pack up on short notice given his profession. it's good to get out and look at their current atmosphere--particularly to get a lay of the land and see if there's anything more serious he should be taking note of.

serious like the group of men following them. honestly if he were on his own he would have already ducked into a dingy alley and laid them to waste among the garbage, but he couldn't step up during an illicit fight club and he's not going to initiate that now. his hope is that they'll overhear the conversation, deem it as inane and move on to better targets--only he supposes that by their obvious accents and put-together attire, they must stick out and draw in attention as the best kind to mug. or worse. he's hoping it's the former.

still, he can devote eighty-percent of his attention to the conversation and the other twenty noting where best to go if anything unsavory happens right in the middle of the street.]

Well at this rate perhaps we ought to brave the jungle ourselves if you're looking for that. A very long time ago I had dreamed of studying alongside entomologists researching rare creatures--specifically as a lepidopterist. I wouldn't be opposed to having a look at what's here now.

--But as for magic, I don't know what to make of it either. It's hard to deny when it's looking you blue in the face.[or at his feet, like the marked associate that had escaped him and peggy managed to toss at them----]

I much prefer a little logic and science, I assure you.

[originallutece]

A lepidopterist? There's an unusual choice in career.

[But you do you, butterfly boy, she's not going to judge. It's rather a delightful fact to learn, though. But oh, magic . . . she waves a hand dismissively.]

It's not that I deny whatever they're doing is happening, I simply protest the fact it's all chalked up to magic-- a blanket term with no substance. I've seen things people might call magic, but all they were truly was the product of advanced science: things that granted a man power to, say, have fire at his fingertips, or summon a flock of crows at his whim. It was bizarre, yes, and it had dreadful side-effects, but simply because it looked strange didn't mean it was magic.

[HUFF HUFF she's kind of pissy about this, frankly.]

Honestly . . . and they all simply accept it. Oh, it's magic!, and what on earth are they going to do if it goes wrong? You can't fix something you don't understand.

[Behind them, those men certainly haven't given up. One has split off from the group, ducking into an alley; likely he means to circle around and appear ahead of them, so they might trap them.]

[etiquette]

[ah, shit. even if ros doesn't appear to have noticed the change in tactics, harry most certainly has, sighing internally and trying to gauge just how bad this is going to play out. he'd really rather not have to take any more punches to the face just to look authentically like a bloody tailor--or at least one who's been out of commission when he'd previously been in the military. it'll be the second time in less than a week and it simply isn't a sustainable method--particularly for his face.

harry turns to look at her a little more quickly than he means to at the mention of a man shooting fire out of his fingertips.]

Where did you see that? The man with the--

[he gestures as if making a fireball, or his best summation of one.]

Because I've recently seen a man shooting off electricity at his feet and vanishing into thin air, and I'd like to believe there's a way to prevent that or at least figure out where the bloody hell they went next time.

[is he going to share that this was in pursuit of one of the "m" cohorts? no, not at all. in the meanwhile, harry hears those footsteps picking up. he leans in closer to ros, enough to encroach on personal space but he puts a hand in front of them where the men can't see it as if to say not to worry, voice lowering.]

I don't want to startle you, but I'm nearly positive we're being followed by those men. I think they may mean to rob us.

I

[ghettobatman]

[Matt is out, but he really shouldn't be. He really, really shouldn't be. He's sick as a dog, unfortunately, it's the stage of the sickness that compels him to go out and interact with people, constantly. That combined with him stubbornly refusing to rest has him out here -- though he's out looking for herbs and ingredients for the cure. Not for himself, of course, and not that he'll find it here.]

Excuse me.

[He tries to brush past Rosalind, but has a dizzyspell and bumps right into her instead. Oh boy]

[originallutece]

[OH BOY INDEED. Rosalind grimaces as the man knocks into her, though some of her irritation fades as she notices the sunglasses. She's bitchy, but she's not cruel; she's not going to yell at a blind man because he knocked into her.

And once he knocks into her, she can get a fairly good look at him: the paleness, the clamminess, the breathlessness in his voice . . .]

You're sick.

You're not going to last long if you keep stumbling about outside, you know.

iv. ONE MILLION YRS LATE

[tailorable]

[ He doesn't follow her, but he regularly wanders the stasis halls, especially now that some of his new friends have been returned to the pods for their own safety. Kara, Athena, Cassie, Kate. Hard not to wonder who will be next — even he and Harry could drop at any minute. But that's life, innit?

She stands out among the dark, metallic hues of the ship. The red hair narrows it down to a few people he's fond of, although he's surprised to realise it's Rosalind. As he strolls closer, he only catches half of her utterance and immediately decides to make his presence known before he starts feeling like a bloody creep. ]

Evenin', Madam.

[ His look is unassuming tonight. Black trackies and no snapback. ]

yessssss

[originallutece]

[She jerks, startled by his sudden appearance-- where had he come from? And yet in the next moment she relaxes, because it's only Eggsy, and while she isn't fond of anyone seeing her emotional, it isn't as if he'd walked in on her bawling.

The pod she's sitting in front of houses a man: tall and slender, his shoulders broad and his hands just a little large for his body. He's clad in a suit, tan and green, perfectly highlighting his red hair and freckles.

It won't take a genius to see he's her double; what differences they have are based only in gender.]

Good evening, Eggsy.

[She stands. Her expression is still, but there's something more exhausted about it today, some grief she's eager to suppress. She looks towards the pod again.]

May I present to you one Robert Lutece: still asleep after a quarter of a year has passed. I'd rather hoped he might deign to wake today of all days, but as you can see, he clearly didn't care to.

[It's a flippant remark, but it falls just a little flat.]