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westwhere2021-03-27 06:48 pm
groundrules) wrote in westwhere2021-03-27 06:48 pm
sa-hareth | arrival (mingle log)
WHO: Everyone ever + the local Sa-hareth squad.
WHEN: Arc I: Sa-Hareth arrival.
WHERE: Sa-Hareth citadel, salt mine, the old jailhouse,
WHAT: Our intrepid heroes get commandeered into the frosty unknown.
WARNINGS: the glorious undead, background House of Dew mentions, at least one person's terrible sense of humour.
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For a dimension called the Void, it certainly wasn't empty.
Eleven rubbed at his wrists and followed the group as they descended into the mine. Had it always been like this? Or was this another corruption of Mordegon's design? It certainly seemed dark and otherworldly enough. He struggled to remember the names thrown around as he'd come to and the fog over his mind lingered, unable to focus his thoughts.
His eyes darted around the other captive souls, at unfamiliar faces. He'd come here in search of one soul in particular, but the scale of that task had grown substantially.
"I'm sorry," he felt compelled to offer those he walked with, utterly guilt-ridden. "I'll do anything I can to help."
2. House of Dew- Arrival
Eleven blinked around once he'd had time to wash up and change. A brothel. In a city located in the Void.
He sat down, far more puzzled than unsettled by the fact he was in one for the first time in... whichever life this was. He still had yet to fully shake the effects of whatever it was that left his thoughts feeling vague and muddied.
"I don't understand," he muttered aloud, like that would make them more tangible and thus, sensible. "How would souls end up here?" He dragged his hands down his face. "Unless this is the next life? But then, how am I here? I wasn't dead when he sent me.."
3. House of Dew- Gen
Eleven took to cleaning and mending without complaint, happy enough to have something to do and some way to repay the inconvenience of sheltering him while he waited for whatever it was he was waiting for. He kept his eyes mostly on his work and the floor, with a proclivity for turning red whenever one of the ladies elected to tease him as they were occasionally wont to do.
He gave a nod to any of the faces he recognized from the group of refugees, accompanied by a small, mute smile on days he lacked the ability to communicate. On other days, rose quartz hung around his neck, he managed a bit more.
"How are you faring?"
4. Other
[Got another idea? I'm game. Also feel free to PM me if there's anything you'd like to ask/plan out first.]
2
Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on your circumstances, I do believe we are all still alive. We should count ourselves lucky. Clearly, it is not the case of everyone walking around town.
[Moran gives him a smile.]
You should get cleaned up and put on some clean clothes. Things won't look so grim then.
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salt mines | excuse lan wangji, the loopiest of drugged folk
He feels his own fever, the spell of lethargy, like wine work. Finds his body slowed, qi fettered, thinks, thinks: wards. No. None cast, none binding, no part of him mutilated. Lessened, but the whole survives. Poison?
Go east. Disruption before, after, when progress bides him a handful of paces forward, balance barely brokered. Water, somewhere, past what eyes, slanted and sedate, can grasp in darkness. He hears threat, before he spies it — knows, in rare, hot surges of instinct, to abide it, and eases soft against rock wall, slides beside it. Rodent or his inhuman captors, something walks with him. He waits it out, calculates —
Starts, hand gentle and failing, to unbind his hair, until the spiked filigree of his guan yields, and he may bind the crown against wrist, end points to his palm. Poor weapon: silver bends, before it stabs. Shame to his ancestors, to consider jewellery reduced to this. He will bear it. Distant, Bichen roils, separated from him. (Soon. Somehow. They were parted once.)
He encounters the boy's shadow, first, arm at the ready to strike — then, lowers it, glimpsing the young man, better than Lan Wangji, more secure on his foot. Good. Unbidden, Lan Wangji falls in line beside him, easy fealty for their one shared trait: human, and living, and warm. The food of my enemy is my friend. ]
Seek light.
[ To help. Stranded in the belly of a blind stone beast, they only live if they secure air, passage, an exit. ]
poor guy
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1.
"And what have you to be sorry for exactly?" One of those captive souls, despite looking no steadier on his feet than the rest of the hazy half-drugged entourage, scoffed sharply as he glanced over Eleven's way. He kept his voice low in deference to the pursuit that was most certainly coming at this point, but the words were no less derisive for it -- rose quartz glimmering in the dark as some unfamiliar tongue was translated for Eleven's benefit.
"Are you about to tell me you're with the kidnappers? If not, don't apologize on behalf of the guilty. They will most certainly get theirs when the time is right." Those words were spoken with a fervent sort of certainty, the stranger's green eyes narrowing as dark forbidding brows drew together in an expression that promised violence.
"More useful than self-pity would be keeping a lookout for weapons. There must be something of use left behind down here."
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Whoops sorry about tense change lol! We can switch back if you want
np I can roll with anything
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Jail House Rock: Pre Escape
Here, on the other hand...
He let out a long breath and leaned back on the cracked stone wall, closing his eyes and trying to centre himself. Perhaps he was dead, though he could not fathom why the afterlife would resemble this. In the end, it didn’t matter. He was here. It was as real as blood and bone, and he was trapped.
The chuckle started lowly in the dark, gaining vigour as he helplessly gave in to it. It wasn’t even that anything was funny, it was just so ludicrous to be beyond belief.
“I should have known better than to expect any rest,” he murmured to Korean to himself, though loud enough that the nearby cells would be able to hear it. “I suppose corrupt officials are universal, though usually I expect some vague excuse for imprisonment.“
He took another deep breath, shoving himself to his feet and wincing as his mangled shoulder flashed with pain. Ah. Yes. He would need to get that seen to. But clearly it was not a priority of his captors. He shuffled over to the bars of his cell, his feet chained loosely to shorten his gait, and then leaned against the metal, pressing his face as close as he could to get a look down the hall and to either side. Not even any guards, at least not right here, though he could see some figures shuffling a little ways away. A couple of cells down the door was almost rusted through, looking as if it would fall off its hinges at any second. His, of course, was unfortunately sturdy. He looked down at the heavy lock on his door, sighed, and started to search his cell for anything with even a scrap of usefulness.
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Distantly, Mingyu could hear some sort of commotion coming closer. Something like alarm bells, hushed voices carrying against the hard stone.
"Any luck in there?" he asked in English, then tried the question again in Chinese. Just in case. "找到什么了吗?"
Hover for translation
thats so cool and im definitely not doing that
lmfaooo CAN'T MAKE IT EASY ON ME
HOW ELSE WILL YOU LEARN
god
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He's pushed into a cell rather unceremoniously, stumbles, and then straightens up again, brushing his sleeve into order again and looking over his shoulder at the departing guards.
"... Well, that was rude."
Moran sighs and looks around his new surroundings. he can probably rest whilt sitting with his back against the wall.
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escape part 2: mistakes are made
The group they were in ran into trouble, split off from each other, and before he knew it he stood alone in a dark corridor with Lee Chang, no real clue of which direction was out. He stopped, breathing hard, and tried to listen.
His hand still held the other man by the wrist.
"Are you hurt?" he asked now in English, the translation devices glimmering prettily hung around their necks.
"...I mean, more than you were already," he added dryly, hoping the devices translated sarcasm. Did Korean have sarcasm? He wasn't sure. He wondered why he'd never asked Fox, then... shook the thought away.
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[It's cold, much colder than it had been when Xingchen was last conscious, back home. He doesn't even need to see to know that wherever he's ended up is not Yi City; the sounds are unfamiliar, the chill in the air burns his lungs with every breath, and the atmosphere just feels off. It's disconcerting, of course, considering he has no idea where this is, nor how he got here.
But worrying about that isn't going to help things, especially since it seems they're a wanted commodity. They. A group. Xingchen listens as they make their way down below the earth, almost hoping to hear a couple familiar voices.
He doesn't. On the one hand, that worries him more, not knowing where his charges are, but then this land seems harsh. Perhaps it's best if they don't endure this, as well.
The trek down through the mines is hard for Xingchen. He feels...weak and more than once he presses a hand to his lower stomach, frowning when he doesn't quite feel the constant existence of his Golden Core. As if that weren't already bad enough - and it is - this terrain is unknown to him and more than once he has to catch himself against the rough-hewn walls when his feet catch on a crack or uneven patch. No complaints on his blindness leave his lips, but he does purse his lips during these moments and exhale harshly through his nose. Frustrating.
Thankfully, though, this group of theirs comes upon what he gathers is some sort of abandoned camp. So he gathers up a tattered blanket and wraps it around himself, the fabric cold against him at first, but he lets the shiver rush through him before letting his body heat do the rest. Grabbing another blanket, he lays it out on the ground and pats around for any other supplies that may still be salvageable.
Of course, he is still blind, the cloth across his empty eyes making this more apparent. Xingchen can't judge the size of this little camp in the limited time they have. So he turns to his nearest companion.]
Do you see anything else we should take with us?
2. House of Dew
[After the salt mines, Xingchen is grateful for warmth and structural stability. And flat surfaces. Being assigned cleaning duty doesn't even dampen his gratitude toward the lady of the house for giving all of them refuge. He happily scrubs the floor and straightens up the sitting area, among any other simpler tasks the other workers just don't have time to take on.
Of course, he can't be exactly sure how good a job he's doing. Has he missed a spot? Flipped an embroidered cushion upside-down?
Will you tell him or watch and see how long it takes for him to get reprimanded?]
3. House of Dew Again
[After picking up an odd gig of sitting in on some sessions with certain patrons in case he needs to protect the workers attending them, Xingchen has a small amount of money saved up for his efforts. This is good! This is what they need to do!
And then their possessions are returned to them, and Xingchen is visibly relieved when he seeks out his sword, fingers feeling along the delicately carved sheath of Shuanghua, but he is also reunited with his other scarce belongings, including two pieces of hard candy.
Those sweets have caught the eyes of some of the younger workers, making Xingchen popular once again, but he simply cannot split two candies among...well, he can't discern exactly how many voices surround him when they speak at once demanding his "treats," but it's definitely more than two. Choosing two lucky people wouldn't be fair!
He has that money saved up, though.
Surely some more sweets won't cost too much.
So he bundles up and straps his sword to his back and heads toward the door...only to realize he has no idea where the market is. Hearing someone nearby, he turns toward them.]
Excuse me, if I may bother you for a moment? How do I get to the marketplace?
4. Salt Mines Redux
[Okay, so his previous money ventures haven't been as successful as they probably should have been, but there is another way to make money, he's sure. Yes, it's more dangerous, but with Shuanghua at his back now, the undead residing in the mines won't be nearly as much of a problem as they were when he first traversed the depths. Besides, there is plenty of salt down there and seasonings and spices are always valuable. This is a great idea.
Thus, the blind man walks toward the front of the brothel again, intent of making his way out to the mines. By himself. With only his sword for protection.
He'll be fine. Right? Surely.
Right?]
5. Wildcard!
[You know how this goes. Want to bother Xingchen somewhere else? Hit me up!
1.
[ Give him a moment, he's still trying to sort out whether he might yet want to just let go and die to wake up from this which is clearly a dream, or the voice he overheard through the borrowed crustal really is the one he thought he is.
Then again, can he risk it if it is?
Xunxian's doing whole body shivers with his robes which are, frankly, not at all fitted for this weather, let alone for being drugged and tied up for a while in it, but he poke his mind to more wakefulness at the question. He blinks for a moment at the white-clad man asking it, the way his hands have not fared well from catching him against the icy walls. ]
Do you think you might want a walking stick? I can probably find something to do as that.
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4.
Seeing Xingchen wander out in what appeared to be the wrong direction, he called to him]
The markets are over this way, if you're looking for them.
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3
Moran has been making mental notes on everyone. This man is a proficient martial artist, in spite of his blindness. The sword he carries fits him, and he doesn't seem to have much trouble walking around now that they're all much more clear-headed. He's also soft spoken, and quite ready to help out. He's also much more proficient at housework than Moran is, somehow.
This could be a nice occasion to get to know him more.]
Daozhang, if you'll just wait a moment, let me inquire about whether some errands were required for the kitchen and I'll accompany you.
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Su Xunxian | Oh! My Emperor
Being drugged is not like being drunk. In fact, the difference is pretty significant, and Su Xunxian knows exactly where his preference is. Then again, he is not given the option. Between the unusual sluggishness of his mind and the snatches of what should not exist, he summarily decides that this is a dream, and the faster he wakes up, the better.
So when he is rescued, he chucks it off to being part of the dream and almost doesn't move away from the captivity location... until a certain voice is overheard briefly over the crystal lent to him. He isn't sure that isn't a dream either, but even in a dream...
He has to go place himself in service to his lord.
So he pulls his thin robes around himself and starts slowly making his way in the direction they were told to.
... then he stilled. He could hear the bats' cries echoing. And he did not understand them.
Moran... I hope I can be of use to you even like this.
"This way. Let me help." His teeth are almost chattering, but beyond the time and the drug, his body is in a reasonably good condition. Possibly better than some.
II. House of Dew - Looking for Moran
Once he is certain they have arrived where they should, Xunxian's focus is very precise - he has one goal alone. To find Beitang Moran.
Even without his powers, his practice of understanding languages helps him start figuring out some of the simplest concepts, more than words or phrases specifically. So he starts trying to ask, in as many ways he can figure out how.
"Please, take me to the most beautiful man who did not arrive here with me." Humbly and earnestly, until someone agrees.
III. House of Dew - Music
Once his things have been delivered, Xunxian takes stock of what the situation is, and what he has, and what he needs.
The last one being, primarily, information.
So he straightens himself up as much as possible, then humbly begs to be allowed to entertain in the main room with his music. This much, he knows he can do, and it is easy to listen to any conversation while he plays.
IV. Wildcard
Hit him up, or hit me up with questions/ideas, etc.
ii.
The slight, claustrophobic, nigh-rodents' rooms in the lower-bellied levels of the aged house, mild spores battling gold paint and wreaths of dents on crumbled walls. They offered Lan Wangji better, first, an emptied slot beside a modest-ranked courtesan's quarters — lacking window glass. He understood it in the same heartbeat as the establishment's nature: there must be where violence is brokered, if not against the brothel's workers, than to sully its clients. With steeled eyes and a flinched hand, he refused. They moved him.
Now, he has his peace in servants' squalor, with old wood and deep striations, and straw stabbing his legs, where the silks of his tattered robes yields, between brushwork of pale soot and the mines' bloodletting. Drip and drip and drip, and Lan Wangji has transgressed against both the precepts of efficiency, and those of ablution — dallying, knelt and indifferent and slow, to negotiate removing the stains off his face and neck and arms, with sponge and rusting water. Already, they have changed his wash bowl twice. He thinks, more fool him, the steps creaking hard behind him mean to avail him a fourth time over —
Stills, to see a man beside the girl, and reaches for the silver carcass of his disentangled guan on the floor, raising it for weapon, to show the spiked ends of the crown's construction. Teeth-gritted, growls: ]
No.
[ He is not the son of one sect leader and the brother of another and the leader, tenuous, of a cultivation world whole, so that he might consider his body in the brothel's service. If they have brought him his way to earn his keep — may they not lack for burial grounds in their gardens. ]
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2
Moran's robes are slightly mangled, but he's clean, he's managed to put his hair up again for now, and he's somehow managed to abscond to a quietish corner with a pot of tea.
He's examining the quartz bauble in the light. It looks like simple stone and nothing particularly special, so it has to be imbued with some sort of power, to be able to transmit voice and written words, and make them understand one another, but the person who gave it to him could not explain how it worked exactly - and did not seem to care overly much.]
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III
He offers the man a grateful smile when his eyes pass over him, then follows up between refrains.
"Your music is beautiful."
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II
Mingyu has been taking customers, but this early on he has certainly not been given any of his own. He looks Su Xunxian up and down, appraising his body language, his demeanor. His carriage is more a courtesan himself than a client, so Mingyu's smile is stiff, his gaze shrewd, nothing like he presents himself for company he is meant to seduce.
"I presume you have come for a different kind of service...?" he attempts in Chinese first, lounging back against the wall where he's curled on a borrowed cot in his current temporary lodgings.
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[Moran certainly hasn't been enjoying the work, but he knows better than to lord his status from his own world over anyone here, because clearly, no one would care, and mostly, no one would even understand him, from what he can tell. None of the people he has met so far speak any language intelligible to him, and no one understands his own.
They seem to have understood he is a disaster at cooking though - not that the... honestly half-decomposing looking soldiers seem to be bothered - so instead he's been sent to scrub and clean. He's not very good at that either, to be quite honest, and his silk robes have taken quite a battering from it, but doing so has allowed him to try and listen to their captors, an attempt to keep his brain engaged by looking for linguistics patterns in their speech while doing the mindless tasks.
He's still pretty tired by the end of the day, and his eyes are closed until the moment where he feels himself being bound to someone else, and he opens them a slit to examine the person.]
2.HOUSE OF DEW - ARRIVAL
[Contrary to what one might expect, Moran does not even bat an eye at the type of establishment they end up in. He is glad to finally be clean, does not protest one bit about the quality of the food, nor about the slightly repurposed ladies' clothing he attempts to use as robes. Being clean, fed and clothes is more important than the 'how' of it.
If someone protests a bit too much, he will intervene.]
We are being given these for free. Let's be grateful and appreciate it.
3.HOUSE OF DEW - EARNING COINS
[So it will become very readily apparent that housework that is not very simple cleaning is quite out of Moran's usual purview, as in, he's relatively not very good at it. Not necessarily for lack for trying, but he's never, ever had to do these sorts of things for himself, and certainly not for other people.
He is, however, an excellent musician, and learned, so he can compose poetry, even though no one here would really understand it. But one certain evenings, instead of cleaning duties, he ends up int he main room to provide some musical accompaniment for the atmosphere, either on his own, or with Su Xunxian.
And if a guest gets too drunk and rowdy, they might end up being surprised to see that yes, the slightly waify-looking musician can, and will, grab them by their collar and eject them out of the door rather firmly. Fists, thankfully, are a universal language.]
4.SNOOPING AROUND
[This is a strange land, and Moran, always the politician, is eager to know several things. Namely, where is this, what is the history, the political situation, the lay of the land, and who is their rather generous benefactor.
He is, of course, hindered by his own lack of knowledge of the language. Before he manages to secure a quartz bauble, he'll have to rely on Xunxian, and his own learnings as he tries to listen to everything and commit sound patterns to memory.
Once he gets enough money to buy his own personal translation device, he'll attempt to simply have some strolls through the market at first, hidden under a cloak to not look too out of place, simply to listen to conversations. He might volunteer to go shop for food for the brothel on certain days just so he can try and put an ear to the ground and understand what is going on.
jailhouse!
[Her smile is still in place, light and friendly like she doesn't notice at all that he seems a bit exasperated--or maybe just tired? Ah, well. He doesn't have the language required to tell her to stop and she's going to take advantage of that.
He says--something, and her eyebrows furrow a little, not sure if it was a name or something else. But then when he gestures to himself and says something different, she assumes that's probably the actual name?]
Chen Wang. [She sort of slurs the words together by mistake and frowns, brow furrowing again in concentration before she repeats it a bit slower, more accurately.] Chen Wang.
[And then brightening once it seems she's got it. She can't exactly execute a full curtsy like this, but she bows her head and upper body as best she can with the corset in the way before she straightens.
Winnie turns a little and leans over, dragging her finger through the dirt to draw a vague outline of the United Kingdom onto the ground. She points to herself, then the island she's drawn.]
England. [Then she writes down 'England' beneath it.]
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thine snooping
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[It's all just almost a bit too much. Almost. It's all a whirlwind of sound and information and rushing about, everyone scrambling to get away. Winnie hangs back a little, watching everyone run about with a passive look on her face, like she's analyzing what everyone's doing, categorizing it all.
Then she blinksas soemoneenarly runs into her, looking as if startled from a daydream] Oh! Dear... It's all going topsy-turvy now, isn't it? [She remarks to no one, but there's a slight smile on her face as she turns to follow after some unfortunate NPC prisoners.
Unfortunate because they die moments later when some of those undead kill them. Winnie falls back and hits the ground with a yelp of pain, then freezes, eyes wide as she stares at the advancing corpse-person. Her mind whirls, but it... Doesn't seem at all interested?
She blinks as it just sort of walks past her, barely sparing her a glance. Winnie pauses and then sits up more, frowning as she looks around] I'm not even worth being killed? I'm not sure if I'm offended or not. Oh-- Look out! [She's not sure if the other person can understand her, but hopefully they can understand a warning when they hear one]
2. Can You Hear Me Now?
[FOllowing the rescue and escape into the city, Winnie has taken to the quartz gem with gusto, eagerly seeking out any familiar faces--and perhaps not-so-familiar ones, but ones that at least look as bewildered as one probably should be upon waking into such a foreign world]
Hello! Look! [She holds the rose quartz up with a little shake, beaming] I think we can understand each other now! Isn't this quaint? I've never heard of 'Sa-Hareth' before, have you?
[She doesn't look all that broken up about any of this though, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed about it all]
3. Market
[She just wanted a taste, okay? She managed to get some money, she could spend it on some treats, right?? At one stall, she's popped a few berries in her mouth and looks quite pleased until the shopkeeper starts asking her for money.
She pats at her gown and checks her sleeves with a frown, looking perplexed] Perhaps we could just call it a 'free sample'? [She smiles sheepishly, but the guy doesn't look convinced of this great idea.]
Oh dear... [She looks around and turns to the nearest person, grabbing at their arm or sleeve and practically beams at them] Excuse me! Help a damsel in distress? I'm afraid I don't have my money on me and I, er... sampled a couple of berries-- Honestly, it was only a couple, I didn't think it would be that big of a loss, but he seems quite irate now so I suppose I really should pay for it, it'd be rude not to, and I honestly did think I had money but apparently I don't. But I promise I can pay you back!
[JESUS WOMAN BREATHE.
She smiles hopefully. HELP HER OUT]
4. Wildcard
[for other shenanigans! I can do prose or bracket style, whichever.]
2.
..Where are you from?
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iii........................... just here to make this worse
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paint me like one of your french girls
Sleep hasn't found Mingyu since he arrived. Being robbed of his hard-won magic sets him on edge, takes him even farther back than losing Fox. Here, in this foreign place, this alien world, he is a helpless child. He is worse. He has no weight to his family name, no legacy to exploit, no safety net at all. And still, always, sharks circle the waters. The shambling undead have been an unpleasant point of consternation so far, but Mingyu isn't particularly worried about them. They are an immediate, readily apparent threat. Their motivations are straightforward (eat people), and the solution clear (avoid being eaten).
The people are the real issue. People always are. The ones here are strangers, of foreign culture in a foreign land, but Mingyu's understanding as diaspora himself is that people are fundamentally people. There is no outrunning the core tenets of humanity, and people boil down to two types.
People who can't be trusted, and people who aren't going to make it.
He expects no different here, their rescuers reeking of opportunists waiting to cash in. On what he can only guess, but he keeps an eye out for it, going along because it's a wiser choice than chancing it alone. Some arrangements can be mutually beneficial, played carefully enough. Mingyu holds his cards close to his chest.
So far removed from his world, his cause, he has been surprised to find succumbing to despair has not been the most difficult thing. Instead, he finds his skin crawls and his teeth itch with the insidious nature of hope, promising him unbearable things.
If the magic that took them could rob him from his bed, past every ward, every cloak, every trap and defense in his possession, it is entirely possible it bring Fox as well. It could send them home together, or they could simply make a life here. Either way, Mingyu has to dig deeper, has to find out more about this world and what makes it tick.
It would be so much easier if Fox was here.
Mingyu is exhausted to his core that it's always him, that he's the one with the burden of this freedom. Fox could do this so much better. Fox would have saved him by now, were their positions reversed.
He has to keep going. He can't stop until Fox is saved, or existence itself has paid the blood price of taking him away.
...right now that means mending clothes for the brothel that is housing him, which is a spectacularly interesting sentence he never imagined he would have to string together in his life. He volunteered because he's at least done a little sewing of his own, rescuing the occasional stuffed animal in his pre-magic life. But the light in here is dim and spell components haven't worked right since he arrived. He's still working out if that's because of the world itself or some residual effect of whatever sedation he was under. Either way, it means there's nothing he can do about how he squints at the eye of the needle, multiple poke injuries on his ungloved hands.
Heaving out a sigh, he briefly shuts his eyes to rest them, then tries again.
ii. house of dew - hustle
Sex is a tool, a bargaining chip. Fox taught Mingyu many things, some intentional, others not so much. He did not mean to teach Mingyu this, but Mingyu learned it all the same. Sex can gain you a bed for the night, can stretch a person's tolerance, can barter you safety day by day, one safe harbor at a time. It's not so much a stretch to adapt to using it to get coin as well in a place like this, the House of Dew.
Acutely aware of his standing here, or lack thereof, Mingyu treats his approach to establishing himself in a professional capacity with caution. First, he identifies the social hierarchy within the brothel. The favorites, the ones in power, the hanger-ons, the ones on the outs. Every social circle has an order to it, predictable patterns if you know what to look for in the ranks. Those at the top have no reason to give him the time of day, and those at the bottom have severely limited usefulness in the short term. They would have more utility if he planned to stay, but for his needs in the moment—
He goes for the girls doing moderately well for themselves who are perhaps hungry to do a little better but by no means worried about their status. He ingratiates himself to them, paying warmth and encouragement, tending their errands, offering them his friendship. He listens to their troubles, and then when conversation turns to shop as it always does, he offers his services. To them, and not in any official capacity. Just if they need a little help with a fussy customer, or if someone has a particularly voracious appetite, he's happy to help out for whatever they're willing to spare him. A few coins, a small bauble, he's just happy to be of service and make a little allowance while he's at it. And he'd be extremely grateful for their tutelage.
So he starts taking on work and learning the trade, keeping his head low as he can and ruffling as few feathers as possible. But he's driven, works hard, and proves a quick study so what comes next is almost inevitable.
The proprietor senses talent, moves him up in the ranks. He gets nicer lodgings, starts having a few clients of his own. Then comes the unrest, the jealousy.
Mingyu returns from reconning the Sa-Hareth market and ports to find his door ajar. Within, his things are upturned. His working robes are slashed, what few hairpins and accessories he had broken. That's fine. He'll mend what he can, sell the rest for parts. His mother's chest is missing which is a larger issue, but it's both warded and has a tracking spell on it so mostly that's just going to be a pain in his ass.
The worst part is knowing he's got a target on his back. It makes him tired, is something that will need reassessing, recalculating before he gets backed into a corner here. He can't brute force this, can't make the people in his way disappear. He sighs, slipping into his room to clean, leaving the door ajar behind him, too occupied with his thoughts to notice.
[ Feel free to barge in to ask him what happened, get invited to his nice lodgings for tea and snacks outside of this revenge crisis, or sit down with him after recovering his mother's chest so we can open it and have ten dildos fall out. PM/discord me if you wanna hash something out! ]
1.
Archeval hates this place.
That's hardly a shocking state of affairs, considering that he hates most places, most things, and quite emphatically most people. But he's developing a very special hatred for whatever backwater shithole he's been thrust into in the past few days, and it's starting to be... tiring. He's not used to that. Hatred to the Dark Lords of the Sith is a sustaining emotion, a passion that fuels a Sith's power, gives them strength and drive to go on. But what he's experiencing now is an older and more familiar feeling: the sullen, directionless hatred of the powerless. There is nowhere for this feeling to go, no useful way to utilize it, no drive for it to fuel.
On his home planet, a few of the old tales talk about the afterworld for those who did evil in life, a prison unending full of ruin and decay and suffering. This Sa-Hareth, in some ways, calls to mind those long-ago stories. The undead seem present at every turn, and even those around him who still breathe and speak feel unnervingly dead in a way that differs little from the walking corpses. Arche can't feel the Force, not even the spark of it in anyone else around him, nor even inside himself. It's easy not to realize how much you truly rely on one of your senses until it's suddenly whisked away from you. He feels a little like, sometime during his abduction here, someone has sewn shut his eyes. It's every bit as disorienting.
So his hatred is of no use to him: it can't connect him better to the Force, because the Force eludes him entirely. It can't drive him forward, because he has nothing and no one on this strange planet -- no way to communicate with his crew or his subordinates, no connections or money, none of the unfathomable power that first set him apart from the rank-and-file of the slave pens years ago. It doesn't spur him to action, only drags him down. As his old friend Sirynn would surely once have said, nothing feels more useless and miserable right now than being pissed off, by himself, alone in a strange land. So he's... trying to let go of just how much he hates all of this. Trying to focus on just controlling the things he can control, doing little things like spiriting away small trinkets when they won't be missed, beginning the long slog toward accumulating whatever resources and power he'll need to escape this place he's been kidnapped off to. (And isn't that the strangest thing, he truly can't fathom why his Sith rivals or Republic enemies wouldn't simply murder him with great prejudice and have it over with--)
But that doesn't mean it's exactly easy.
For example, right now he's let one of the brothel ladies set him to helping with the mending. This particular place and these particular chores give him the sorts of dreams he prefers not to dwell on in daylight, but well, at least he is very familiar with the work. These tools are more primitive than the factory where he grew up assembling uniforms and armor; even more primitive than the measures and needles allotted to keep clothing tidy in the slave pens, but -- the principles are the same at least, and he knows what he's doing. The same absolutely cannot be said of the man sitting next to him. On top of everything else awful and unnerving and uncomfortable about this place, watching someone try to thread a needle ten times and fail at eight of them is becoming so unbearably annoying that he's just about to burst. Another moment passes, another failed attempt, and -- Archeval finishes taking in the hem of the delicate lacy robe in his lap before, with a frustrated noise, reaching over to attempt to snatch the implements straight out of that stranger's hands.
"For crying out loud--" The words, spoken in Basic, are probably intelligible, but who knows if the little rose-quartz commlink or whatever translation technology is installed into this facility are going to deign to work today or not. "Just try it this way before you stab yourself all over the damned cloth. You'll have us all scrubbing twice the laundry for bloodstains at this rate."
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ii
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2
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post ii.
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re: armless dead follow up
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It was the best of times, it was decidedly not actually the best of times, but also not the worst of times, which said something about his life expectancies in general. Coming out of his first narcotic spell haze to find himself staring down at the most decidedly wretched and strange manifestation of what surely wasn't a puppet, surely was some poor being caught in some level of decay had set thoughts about demonic cultivation a'twirling in an entirely useless manner, given as soon as they occurred he was struggling to fight off the depths he was sinking back into.
He'd firmly clawed his way out by the time the night of rescue arrived, leading to a series of events that culminate in cautiously stalking his way through the latticework tunnels with a ratty bleached-out, more than slightly salt-encrusted blanket tossed over his shoulders and worn like a sad, poor man's cloak, and a lantern burning and tied off to a long pole that's seen better days. Listening, and having a dark cloth to drop over the lantern as long as he avoided the open glass panel, was doing wonders getting through since he was separated from other living souls.
Which may or may not explain why, when he ran into another living soul, it was while his lantern burned merrily on its side on the ground, and Wei Wuxian was spidered up a wall, ratty blanket covering most of him while salt was generously covering his back, and he was moving his hand to indicate come here while murmuring intently, "Down the left tunnel, now."
Dropping from where he'd been perched, he darted for the lantern, hid it within his ratty blanket cloak, and promptly heads for said tunnel. Elsewhere something wheezed like an asthmatic dog trying not to snore when it had a lung infection.
Dewdrops On Roses, Whiskers on Patrons
For the lucky soul in their situation who met him that first day of his arrival, Wei Wuxian was a smile and then a long, hard stare at the warm millet served with more plentitude than he strictly deserved. He stared into his bowl, nonplussed, mumbling about spices, and why this of all things was familiar, before settling in with the slack faced determination of a man ready to internally complain about the spice of hunger because if nothing else, that is more groundingly familiar than the rest of this, so far.
In the day and days that follow he was nothing but smiles and light flirtation and a quick learner of what smaller things needed doing (the mending, ah, he managed it in the chunky style that said he was immediately not managing it past his first darned stocking) until he could get himself errands for petty cash that was leading to more coin, or at least opportunities to work on lightfinger skills he'd pretended not to need for a good chunk of his life but was falling back into with all the grim faced gusto of a man who stole knockoffs of his own inventions from the charlatans wandering around claiming to be him, only better funded.
As one does.
It also means he makes efforts to learn the faces of those in the same situation, popping in and out to say hello and introduce himself and catalogue each of them in this situation. Which may well be why he showed up with a second cup of weak tea, or the morning rations of millet, or at one point, a series of partly burnt flatcakes which were more than edible if one scraped off the extra carbon, and handed it to one of his fellow escapees.
"Here," he said, settling down on some nearby surface. "Have anything exciting planned for the day?"
Lock Target: Market Forays and Other Miscellaneous (Mis)Deeds
He moved to act as errand boy, as dirtied and bedraggled denizen, as a shadow on the street, as no recognised face, and while some of the time it was to legal and unremarkable means, others, it was less so.
Wei Wuxian lingered over the combs he could afford without having the memory of Wen Qing telling him we can do without, and stares at the unremarkable wooden comb that has teeth wide enough without being too uneven, and no particular carvings etched into its handle, but something like the waves of a storm at sea. "This one," he said to the shopkeep of the small store, who'd been watching him half out of boredom and half out of keen suspicion, but the understandability of his speech and the quality of his smile has them narrowing their eyes and smiling in return.
When he'd filched that particular quartz earlier, he'd kept a less quality one dangling around his neck, and a small coinpurse tucked away like he'd eyed more of those moving through town did. If the point was familiar enough patterns in a twice-ravaged and conquered city that saw plenty of naval merchants in and out, he could fit himself in well enough for now, sweeping back out into the streets with another goal in mind. Paper, this time.
Wildcard
( Hit me up with whatever! I'll match your tagin style, went with prose for my ease. )
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This is his refuge. He makes his bed here, past the labyrinthine mouse burrows of the servant quarters, coarse linen and pillows of cotton tatters, bundled, and a splintered wood piece. If he must accept the failure that binds him — limbs weak and thoughts clouded, and the injury of his temple a silent, swollen ache — to this shelter, he need not wear its filth. He afforded himself one day of arrival in seclusion. By late dawns, he rises with purpose. Uncle raised a man of virtue and one of the gentry. He scrubs, unfailing.
Until, head bowed, he knows only the pace and scratching sounds of his hand at its work, the cloth, the rinse, the bowl, the floor — and the creeping intrusion of shadow, looming, the distant approach of a traveller down the corridors, and he stills himself, quiets and waits to read the passage, scry the signs of the man's steps like fortune in flame, and chances to glance up, absent —
— and there, the aim, the speed, the swerve, the purpose. Lan Wangji's body, remembering itself, jolted like cart wheels on cobblestone. Alive, and striking like a serpent, to bridge distance and shove this poor, benevolent intruder, back to the thin abstraction of a hall’s wall, the late afterthought of Lan Wangji’s free hand coming up behind Wei Ying’s head to spare it a vicious crack.
Wei Ying. No, the skin span and stitch work and colours of him, likeness lent. Common, petty, vulgar theft. To strip Wangji of title, birth right, strength, Bichen and qi is punishment the sect or heavens might dole out, due.
This, sixteen years of poison later, is cruelty.
Belatedly, the sword dance remembered: if this were duel, or battle, or war, he might pin Wei — the creature’s hands, strike his ankles, weaken his footing. Might constrict him, past the natural barrier of Lan Wangji’s body, taut, and the wall behind, waiting. Does not.
Listens: to breathing, his heartbeat. To the tender, thundered carnal reunion of a courtesan wooing a patron under the conceit of belligerence, whip’s sting answered by staggered moans in the neighbouring room. 'Ahhh' and 'Oooh' and 'Nnnnhhhnnn.'
Feels himself feverish with awe and anger and frustration, sudden like storm’s break. ]
Name yourself. [ As ghosts cannot, and skin walkers hesitate to. ] Consider honesty.
[ And the consequences of the alternative. ]
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[The Wildest Card]
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lock target
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[ Mina woke up in some unknown place, and while she'd usually be loud, this time she stops and assesses her situation; she has no powers currently and she doesn't know anything about this strange place, but she knows she is in some prison of sorts and people around her are in the same predicament if not worse - she can see the bones, after all. While it's unusual for her, she remains mostly quiet and tries to get to know the place she is in and tries to formulate some sort of plan -
and then she is rescued.
Naturally, she runs but not until she ensures everyone else comes along. In fact, she stays until last, waving at the other captives to move along ] This way, careful with your step!
[ and like that she moves through the corridors of salt. Whenever she comes across abandoned camps, Mina's hero instinct is to again protect others. Offer them water and food first, give them clothes that they might need. And once that is done, she takes the salt spikes to use as a weapon, and even grabs some wood to attempt to use as a shield. As usual, she makes sure no one is left behind by staying behind the group herself. ]
it's okay- [ she whispers with a grin ] We are almost there! [ she says that with a cheerfulness characteristic to her - she may not know for sure if they are almost there, but she will keep their hopes up ]
2. House of Dew
[ After arriving and being shoved behind the scenes, Mina happily takes the food offered to her. Millet is more than fine when you are starving and tired, and Mina's cheerful expression never changes, thanking everyone loud and clear with a huge grin. And once she puts the food in her mouth, she can't help but to gasp ] So yummy~!! [ that's what hunger does to you, you don't get to be picky.
One thing Mina learned was that she needed to stay hidden due to her skin color. At first, she didn't quite get it - in her world, humans come in all colors and shapes! - but once she looks around and realizes everyone looks very regular, it sinks in: she is recognizable, easy to spot and easy to track. So Mina is offered basic body paints by the lady of the House, and while the girl is thankful, it's easy to see she is... well. A bit upset? Having to hide her own skin feels wrong (even though she understands why). The horns are hard to hide but she can just say it's an accessory, though she has no solution for her eyes. While she paints herself, Mina turns to the closest person nearby while she looks at herself in a mirror ] Hi- sorry! Can you paint my back for me?
[ and finally, she also offers first aid to those in need. She is no doctor - and her powers are not medical at all - but she knows basic first-aid, which every hero must know in order to help other people. So if she sees anyone hurt or in need of help, Mina will approach with a big smile while carrying some bandages ] Hi! Do you need any help? I can dress wounds! [ and do basic check-ups too.
Whatever it is, Mina just wants to help. ]
3. Assignment
[ Coin is needed. While she is at the brothel, Mina does her best to help the workers and Lady Tamaiu, either by cooking, bringing them food and paints, or by helping cleaning and keeping the place tidy and nice; due to her age, thankfully she is graced with not having to directly deal with any -ah- sticky situation, but that also means she's very limited in how she can help the group gather the money they need to move on from Sa-Hareth.
In the end, and once her powers have returned completely, Mina gets to work: making acid! it sounds silly until you realize just how useful it is. In fact, her first clients are the prostitutes of the brothel, while she shows them that by pouring this ~mysterious liquid~ (which she won't divulge where it comes from) onto trash, it makes it melt away; amazed by this feat, they surely appreciate doing it with ease, and so Mina's little empire of acid begins.
With empty bottles she finds, she fills them up with acid in all sorts of concentration and viscosity, and eventually even asks some of the brothel workers to try and sell them to the clients - or at least to show them the product is available. That allows her some coin which she uses for basic needs - rose quartz necklace, decent food and clothes - and this also allows her to think further ahead: how to sell it outside the brothel.
Whoever passes by Mina's room will probably see her filling up bottles with acid - be careful when entering, you don't want to get your boots burned if you step in an acid puddle - and Mina herself with a thoughtful frown while she murmurs to herself. ] Uhmm... I wonder if I can just hire someone to go sell it outside.
4. Rose Quartz Network - Username: Taste of twilight’s trickled honeydew
Hey! Has anyone tried the network yet???
I might need a hand with something!!!
Also my username is SO CUTE I LOVE IT!!!!
5. Wildcard
[ If anyone would like to make some coin using Mina's acid, the ooc plotting post is here! Also, feel free to approach Mina wherever, or you can contact me through PM or plurk
2
... Until he blinks at the sight of who was, presumably, asking. )
Oooh. Ah, if you want, unless you want me to look for someone else to help?
( Poor girl, what in the worlds is going on with her hair? Skin? Those e....... okay, the eyes are the most normal thing yet. )
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House of Dew
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[ This is unusual for Catra.
Oh, she's an expert at sleeping in and being late to things, but she's also a very light sleeper, ready to jump up into full consciousness at a moment's notice. Now, she's phasing in and out of sleep, and in those brief moments of wakefulness, she can't seem to pull herself fully out of it despite the biting cold permeating her very being. She'd panic if she had time to, but before it can really take, she's drifting off again.
While she wakes -- or while she sleeps, she couldn't really tell you -- she sees visions. Of beings, terrifyingly emaciated and with an inhuman glow in their eyes, surrounding her, closing in, but then not, far away, wanting, wanting. She wants to run. Her legs do not move.
That is, until there is a racket and a noise. People shouting, and someone is shaking her, telling her to get up, she needs to run, they're here to rescue her -- and y'know, she'd protest that normally, because she doesn't need rescuing, but her mind has not fully caught up yet, so she limply lets herself be pulled to a standing position and blinks a few times, hoping to finally return to the land of the fully conscious.
Finally, her eyes focus, at the same time her body remembers the cold, making her hair and fur stand on end. Which turns out to be a bit of a paradox, because she is surrounded by fire.
She's alert instantly, taking in her surroundings at a glance. There is only one exit, and the person who woke her is nudging her towards it. Hardly trustworthy, but it's the best she's got right now, so she bolts toward said exit in a rush of adrenaline -- only to see that it is an entry. Down, down it goes, into the darkness, reeking like the air above the seas of Salineas, and she almost has to puke being reminded of that boat ride. There's a rickety minecart with a lever on the side, and Catra has to choose.
She looks around her again, sharp eyes searching for any alternative, but there is none.
Alright. Time to pull a lever.]
2. House of Dew
[ A brothel.
Catra has heard of such things. But whatever she imagined, as a child listening from her hiding spot in the vents of the Fright Zone as soldiers told each other of their visits to such places, this wasn't it. It looks almost like a palace, richly decorated and lavish, with stylishly decked out people milling about it.
That is, until she is acquainted with the brothel keeper and ushered off to... the servant quarters? Are you kidding her? Well, fine, that particular thing will have to be cleared up, but for now, she's given clothes and food. The clothes are threadbare, but she'll take anything to ward off the cold a little better right now; the food is tasteless, but it's food. No worse than the brown ration bars for sure.
When they hand her a bucket of water to clean the place, she laughs. "Awww, it's so cute that you'd think I'd clean up your messed for you. Here, watch this," and she kicks the bucket, making the water spill all over the place.
The lady who gave her the bucket is less than amused. Catra knows that look, seen it too many times on Shadow Weaver's face, and later in Hordak's. This woman is ready to get violent to keep her in line. In response, Catra flashes her fangs with a growl and unsheathes her claws. She's not going down without a fight.]
[House of Dew]
[The voice that comes from behind holds enough authority to freeze everyone in place.
Moran hasn't exactly disclosed his own status as an Imperial Prince back home, because it holds literally no sway here, and it could prove more detrimental than not at the moment. But that doesn't mean he doesn't know how to act like one when necessary, and between his voice and his gaze, steely and uncompromising, plus the unexpectedness of it all, it's enough to stop everyone in the vicinity who was ready to witness the fight in their tracks.
Moran walks closer, and then cups his hand towards their hostess.]
I apologize for my companion's rudeness. I will make sure this is taken care of. Please do not trouble yourself further.
[The lady of the house seems almost ready to grouse just for appearance's sake, but Moran's apology, and his charming smile, defuses her anger slightly, although she still glares at the girl before turning away and exiting.
Which allows Moran to turn towards said girl with a decidedly unimpressed look on his face.]
We owe these people our continued life and sustenance. I suggest you quickly find it in yourself to show appropriate gratitude for this, unless you have a very pressing need to be thrown out and left for the undead to feast on.
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They got him.
Five spends most of his time in the cell pacing or otherwise ignoring everyone around him while he fights over one of a dozen possible theories for how in hell this happened. For someone who has the capacity for understanding things well beyond anyone's grasp, Five is at a complete loss, and that's liable to drive him crazy before anything else does. Was this some secret prison the Commission created to take him after the board assassination? It seems unlikely, but he can't imagine anyone else being behind this, and he feels like a fool for daring to trust them into letting him take one of their briefcases. He even wonders if his own siblings corrupted the timeline again and they'd royally screwed it up beyond repair. (Or maybe he's lucky and there's a simpler reason: that frying pan that smacked him in the skull could have done more damage than he initially thought. Considering the truly insane shit keeps getting glimpses of, it can't be ruled out entirely.)
Wherever he is, he keeps getting interrupted before he can figure it out. Mostly by their strangely grotesque captors taking advantage of his confusion and ordering him around to do mundane tasks. Well, they try to order him. Five seems to be a slow learner when it comes to understanding mime, because he only responds by squinting and gesturing back at them.
All that works out to being chained to another prisoner, as if that's going to suddenly help him figure out what he's being asked. Any minute now he expects someone to come along and gloat about all this, but they never do, and he's almost... nervous. Nobody's ever been able to catch him quite like this. He's seen constantly pumping his his fists, trying to will his abilities to work, but he's completely tapped. Not even a glimmer.
He's hardly asleep when the alarm sounds at night. There's really no choice but to go in the same direction as the other captives. Especially when he finds he's still chained to one of them.
| Ferry
Getting this far was harrowing enough, and by the time Five sees the ferry, he's at a breaking point. He makes a path directly for the man unloading supplies and pays no attention to anyone else around him. Already there's an unwelcome wavering in his voice (obviously from the cold) when he informs them that he's going to be letting him on his boat. He might have done well to play up his appearance for sympathy, but he's beyond his capacity to put on a show. Fortunately that necklace he was given with those loose instructions are enough to send him in a direction.
When he's met with resistance, he finally loses his temper. The choices he gives are these: either take him to the mainland or get strangled by these small dirty hands and packed up in one of your own shipping crates. He seems serious; just waiting for a laugh to give him an excuse. It's that kind of energy.
| House of Dew
It'd been a welcome change of scenery. Once Five reached their destination, he'd been treated with a lot more consideration than he expected. Well, he had been invited, and they practically ushered him in like they were genuinely concerned. By this point, he's getting used to being mistaken for a child, and as much as it grates him, he doesn't always correct them when he can play it to his advantage. For his part, he doesn't immediately verbally assault anyone who calls him a kid, or little one, so he's doing well to seethe quietly or give a tight smile instead. It's hard to deny that he's at a disadvantage as long as he's kept in the dark, and he's determined to learn everything he can before revealing more about himself.
Five knew what kind of establishment it was almost immediately, and he couldn't care less about being out of place. Nor is he making any great effort to start right to work to earn coin. (As soon as he's eaten and rested, he's sure his powers are going to come right back to him, and then he figures he'll simply take whatever he needs.) He's more interested in the ones who helped him escape from the jail. More importantly: descriptions of anyone else who might have seemed out of place. Like him. He studies anyone he speaks to carefully, and he isn't putting on an act when he tells them he's looking for family. The poor boy.
Jailhouse
She tries to be subtle so as not to upset a child when testing her magic, but it's hard to miss when she uses a large splinter from a rotting waste bucket nearby to slice into one of her fingers. Disgusting and disturbed! It must look so. Her expression is only one of puzzlement while she mutters in her native tongue and snaps a bloody finger. It was bad enough that she couldn't access her other magic, but whatever has been done to her has stunted her blood magic? They did something to her blood. It angers and frightens her, and however the child responds to her strangeness is largely ignored at first.
By the time night falls, Merrill is seriously considering testing to see if she and the child can squeeze through the bars... It might break some ribs, but they're both exceptionally small compared to the average human. How can she get her idea across, though? Would a child be willing to hurt himself to be free? How would they handle the guards in that state? How could she get her magic back? She needs her equipment, but oh she's so tired all the time between the sedation and the random labor that she has to try to do despite a reluctant partner always digging in his heels.
She doesn't see who breaks them out of their cell, the chaos and urgency enough to drive her (and fortunately her cell partner) forward. It's hard to know where to go... She really does need a weapon! And somehow she has to make sure that a child doesn't die on her watch, oh dear. And yet it's all she she can do to stumble to keep up at first. Especially when she feels a whisper and a chill brush against her neck, just as it had so many times earlier in the day.
It gets her to stop right in the middle of a dead run, stumbling and jerking forward just a bit when Five tries to keep going, but for now managing to keep him right with her. ]
I knew it. There are spirits here... Are they helping us? Oh, you can't understand me. I can't understand them...!
[ She knows they need to leave, but if a spirit is trying to communicate then it could be important. She also knows she should be more alert to try, but what if she never gets the chance to return?
Then someone else bumps against her in the night: a guard. With a loud yell, Merrill trips backwards and turns to try to fling herself and Five to the ground with her staying on top in case the guard strikes. She doesn't have a weapon but she can kick out in a panic to try and slow him. She knows it won't do anything to something undead, though. To be this helpless in battle is alien and terrifying to Merrill, and to not have complete control of her own motor functions is even worse. ]
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Ferry
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house of dew
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Rachel "Honey Badger" Silva | OC
The stinging salt in her cuts is part of what keeps Rachel jolting out of her still semi-drugged haze. She still felt ready to throw up, and she hadn't been able to break out of her shackles on her own. She was willing to blame that on the nausea and the drugs, but she still felt weirdly weak. Is this how everyone else feels?
She turns to the nearest co-escapee. "You seen Temple of Doom before? 'Cause I'm definitely getting that vibe. If someone tries to rip out your heart, run."
2. i've crawled my way out of here before but i keep on coming back [House of Dew]
Cuts, scratches, abrasions, everything was coming up ouchies for Rachel. Having a scrub had helped; at least getting the salt off of her made it feel less like she was, well, having salt rubbed in her wounds.
She'd never been to a brothel before. Truly, she wouldn't have known where to find one. At first she'd been pissed to see kids wandering around, but once she was assured they were merely assistants with nothing unsavory happening around them, she was ready to relax. Good - she'd have hated to Hulk out on her gracious hosts.
Speaking of, she'd found herself asked to accompany a few of the working girls out as a discreet escort for some money. Girls had to look out for each other, and since she was getting her strength back, she was more than happy to do so.
It's nice to be able to take a breather. You'd probably be able to find her resting at the House of Dew if she's not shadowing one of the courtesans, but she seems a little bit wary, even at rest, like she's ready to bolt despite no apparent reason to distrust their hosts.
3. intoxicated, higher than the iss [House of Dew, also]
Rachel dug through her backpack, looking for something. When she couldn't find it, she stood, zipping the bag and slinging it onto one shoulder.
"Hey, anyone seen a..." then she stopped, faltering. "There's a...I'm missing something."
4. i'm not getting out of here this time, i brought a lemon to a knife fight [wildcard!]
[just jump in or hit me up at
3
"What are ya missing?" she takes another spoonful of her food.
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