lavender ribbons of rain sang

i • ii • iii • iv you blew through me like bullet holes; left stains on my sheets and stains on my soul.

[dreadfulcry-blog]

anton sokolov

Originally, the man had been an irritant. A well paying one, yes, but a demanding passenger as well. He'd had the most peculiar demands, the oddest ideas, but Meagan is a professional; she'd simply filled the requests as possible.

After a while, he'd started seeking her out to have a wall to bounce his ideas off of. Most of it went straight over her head, but she contributed as she could, often while cursing out whichever part of the Wale she was trying to fix.

Then he started showing up for dinner. His demands there were just as odd as anywhere else, but his company was—strangely not unwelcome. After a few months? She'd found herself invested in his well-being. Found herself going out of her way to make his days brighter and easier.

Before she knew it, it was as if he were her own father, aging ever closer to death, living where she could ease his final years. Now that she's in the Ark? She's gone mad with worry for him.

Meagan clears her throat.

"Always pays passage on time. I don't ask for anything more from a passenger."

[dreadfulcry-blog]

vuotoeretico‌:

Corvo blanches. More than blanches; he visibly reels, eyes going wide and mouth working, trying to find something to say in response, but failing. Reminds her of Karnaca? She’s going to end all of that with an idle comment on how familiar the sun feels? 

He splays a hand over his eyes, the other on his hip. It’s a stiff kind of position he only reserves for things like when one of his informants comes back to him saying they’d made a royal screwup that could have been easily avoided. He sighs once, twice, and after a few moments, he shows his face again, no more relaxed but at least composed enough to speak.

“Sure. Yeah.” He could go on about how it’s been so long since he’s been on Karnaca’s shores that he could barely remember, or that how he always wished that the sun shined like that in Dunwall, too, but he respectfully declines the opportunity. “So is that what I have to look forward to when I finally get out of this place?”

Meagan very specifically doesn't raise an eyebrow as the volour drains from the Royal Protector's face; had he been Daud, this would be where she asked if he was losing his edge. As is, though, she manages to keep her tongue in check. It's harder than it might have been, considering how recently she's consorted with people who knew her only as Billie, but she manages.

Every word he says reinforces the fact that he is different from the man she'd come to almost consider a friend, and it can't help but shift her from pleasant surprise towards formality. So when he asks his question, she spreads her hands wide at her sides, raises and drops her shoulders in an eloquent expression of unknowing.

"The witch is here," she says "I don't think you necessarily need to worry about when you go home, if you work out how to keep her here."

Plus, every single person Meagan truly cares about would be spared pain immeasurable if the witch were removed. But hey! Details, huh.

[dreadfulcry-blog]

thisdeadvessel‌:

Jessamine eyes Meagan’s arm with more consideration than the action probably merits before she takes it, using the support to lever herself off of the lounge, and she picks up her glass and the bottle in her other hand, perhaps a little awkwardly, but doesn’t let go of Meagan’s arm. Rather, her fingers curl into her sleeve, and she leans against her a bit, comfortably, casually.

She doesn’t wait for Meagan to lead the way- rather, she pulls her into the first few steps, beginning the trek towards the pier, precarious in the shifting sands.

“I believe that is one of the most amazing feats of engineering I have heard of. Anton would have a conniption at the very thought, I am sure.” She takes her first step onto the pier with great relief, realizing she’s drunk more than she thought she had. She’s a little unsteady, and increasingly grateful for the support she’s been offered.

“Do you like it? I would imagine it must be uncomfortable for a woman used to living above the water, to suddenly be below it.”

It would be lying to say that Meagan hadn't half-hoped the wine would be left behind, but instead of the discomfort she might have felt sober, she simply watches Jessamine work for her grip on the bottle. She deserves to be allowed to relax, probably, even if Meagan isn't sure this is the right way to go about it.

"Anton has his fair number of conniptions as is," she offers, lips quirking into a fond smile, "but I think you might just be right about this. He might drop dead of it, at his age." Meagan is considerably less souced than Jessamine, a fact she's grateful for as she steers them like Jessamine's grip on her arm is a rudder on a boat. The pier is a relief for both of them, and Meagan's next steps are heavy, stomping off as much sand as she can from her boots.

She eyes the entrance to Bi Xiu as they approach, rolling the question around her thoughts as they walk. Finally, as she disentangles herself from the Empress to get the door, she offers a small chuckle. "It was odd at first, but I like to think I've adapted well. Nightmares for the first week, but!" She pauses for a second, as though to draw out the suspense. "Turns out? Their sea life has nothing on ours."

They reach the sleek elevator doors, and Meagan hits the call button casually, seemingly inured to the sleek white and clear interior of Bi Xiu. Fish flit past, a stingray glides past, and the elevator dings arrival gently.

"After you."

[dreadfulcry-blog]

everykindoftouch‌:

Jupiter doesn’t say anything else.  Her face manages to convey a wide range of emotions over a few seconds, most of them indescribable, finally settling on unsettled confusion.  Huh!  Rats running a black market.  What will the world come to next.

“Credits don’t really seem to mean anything, so it’s probably easier to just wait here for a bit until the owner comes back?“

It really is like watching a younger version of herself, Meagan muses. Jupiter looks about as incredulous as Meagan had been when she found the Bottle Street gang blew fire. Of course, Jupiter doesn't have a stream of the stuff jetting towards her face, but her expression still sends a rare pang of nostalgia through the older woman.

"Problem is," she volleys back, "I haven't seen anyone but residents in here. And it's been a while. She shrugs. "Not that I don't appreciate the concern." A touch of a smile curves a corner of her mouth as her shoulders settle back down. "I haven't found the rules too strict, as long as you're careful." She cats Jupiter a glance, curious. "This place still getting to you?" Okay, so it's a guess. But it's an educated one! Meagan can read Jupiter's discomfort like it's scrawled in block capitals across her face. It's either Meagan herself, or the grand scheme of things. And Meagan has been as non-threatening as she knows how to be.

[luanzang]

@dreadfulcry—

If he had thought the surface of the city morbid, then its underbelly is a nightmare. Winding narrow pathways filled with the scent of sewage wind back and forth, radiating outward like crooked, branching spokes on a wheel that lead to who-knows-where—it’s lucky that he has a good sense of direction, always has, so he hasn’t gotten lost yet. Rather, Wei Wuxian knows exactly what he’s here for this evening.

Word has reached his ear of a rather unsavory sort, a fighting ring that meets each night in the Sea of Crises in order to do what such rings do best. He’s never been interested in showing off by brawling, himself, but it’s a telling glimpse into what the city is really like—and he’s not about to give up a chance to see it.

Is it morbid interest? Almost definitely. A part of him says that he probably shouldn’t even look into it; there’s nothing to be gained from watching a troupe of denizens curb-stomp one another. Another part, though, a part that sounds like a year spent in Yiling, says that that’s precisely the sort of thing that he should be attending, watching over like it’s something he can nurture.

He shrugs to himself. There’s no use ruminating about these things now—although, he does allow himself to think rather lightheartedly, Lan Zhan would probably flip out if he saw something like a rat fighting ring. The Gusu Lan sect is just too upright for this sort of stuff!

With the soft echoing of his steps against stone, he finally emerges into the warehouse; it’s dim inside, lit like sight was an afterthought. There’s the musty scent of sweat and the iron of blood—must be something built up from the nightly activities, something that sinks in and can’t be scrubbed off or hosed away. A quirk of the mouth, whether satirical or not, makes its way into Wei Wuxian’s expression. 

He stands about, blending more-or-less into the shadows at the edge of the room, waiting. As he does, he catches someone’s eye: a woman, stern-faced, observant but unobtrusive like him in the gloom. She might well be seeking to be left to her own devices—she doesn’t seem like the overly-sociable type, anyway—but Wei Wuxian has never been one for liking to read the mood, and so he makes his way over, weaving around a couple of the denizens gearing up for the night’s events.

His voice isn’t loud but it also isn’t pitched down, as curious as usual. “Hey, are you also here to watch? Do you know when they’re going to start it up?”

[dreadfulcry-blog]

"Participate, actually."

The man who's approached Meagan is handsome enough, though he appears to be younger than she; she can't honestly say a stranger initiating conversation in one of these dens was anything but a surprise. She's placed herself in one of the dimmest corners of the room, after all, waiting for the rat in charge to signal her turn in the ring, and most would recognize the behaviour as avoidant.

Still, the sense of curiosity mingled with—excitement, almost, that the man's body language was all but screaming was refreshing, so Meagan found herself not minding the intrusion.

She'd decided after her encounter with the Whaler, after her promise to Min to teach her self defense, that getting a little brawling in to make sure she was in top shape would kill two birds with a single stone. After all, the agitation of vulnerability burns under her skin in a way she's never managed to adapt to.

She gives the stranger a once over, mostly for show (if she needed to be obvious about taking stock of a person, she'd have been a corpse long ago), and then offers a small smile.

"Ought to be sometime in the next ten minutes. See that rat over there?" She gestures to a rat whose fur ran more silver-grey than brown, a long scar marking his muzzle. "He's in charge tonight. Mc and bookie, far as I can tell." She pauses, then says: "I'm Meagan. You?"

[dreadfulcry-blog]

phthalovoid‌:

“Because, Billie Lurk,” Delilah says, smile at her lips, “I know you. Now I know what you’re capable of, what you’ll bend and break for. And I can always cut you off if I must. I like you, and I think you’d be better suited doing more than following at Daud’s heels for the rest of your life. …Ah, here’s a waiter, finally.”

She gestures the waiter over to their table, and she orders promptly, barely giving them her attention to do just that. She’s still speaking when she folds her arms on the table and looks away, eyes bright and fixed on Meagan once again.

“Now, as I was saying. I don’t usually give second chances, but I’m willing to make an exception. You may think about it as long as you want.” Her smile is pointedly guileless.

“Oh, I’d at least love to paint you again sometime. I so enjoyed doing the last painting.”

A full-on wry smile paints Meagan's lips, and she really does relax a little at that, visibly.

"So instead of following at Daud's heels, you want me at yours?"

Meagan orders a strong black tea; subtlety of flavour is firmly lost on her. All she wants is a warm drink to brace against. The taste is irrelevant, she thinks she might not taste it once it arrives, her focus is so laser steady on the woman across from her. Delilah's attention hasn't wandered, and Meagan... Meagan feels it might not be clever to let hers wander first.

She remembers that painting. Remembers the sittings for it, remembers—she forces a smile to her lips. "Your plan for the Void extends even here?" It's a deliberate disregarding of Delilah's comment, even if the avoidance might tell Delilah she's struck bone.

Meagan gestures to the clientelle of the shop, not-quite derisive. "The Void is empty, yes, I share a building with the Outsider—and don't get me started on that one—but if even He can't access it, how could we?"

[dreadfulcry-blog]

waretheredeyes‌:

Hilda figures that Meagan’s long blink was supposed to be a wink. She chuckles quietly. She’s really not used to this kind of thing, and she suspects that neither is Meagan, but she’s happy to take a chance here, wherever it leads.

She casually sits on the edge of the sturdy table (ignoring the bear motioning at her to get the hell off) and instead of answering simply takes Meagan’s glass out of her hands, takes a slow sip and gives it back with a grin she can’t hold back. Her lips have left a mark on the edge: an obvious invitation

“Do you want to go back to dancing after this?” she asks. “Or would you rather do something else? I have the whole evening open.”

Meagan relinquishes her glass without a hint of fuss, watches Hilda bring it to her lips. Watches her throat work as she swallows, assassin training leading her eyes to the motion and something quite different keeping them there. When she takes it back it's also without hesitation, a grin curving her lips up and she turns the glass to fit her mouth to the same place Hilda's had been.

Her first reaction upon tasting the juice is surprise—it's fruitier than anything she's routinely had, and its sweetness hadn't been exaggerated. Her grin softens into something more appreciative than flirtatious as she lowers the glass, and her tongue swipes out to ctach any residue as her eye closes as she savors the flavor.

When she opens her eye, it's to shoot the insistant bear who's still trying to get them to move on a look, and she offers Hilda an arm. "I hear the forests here are beautiful at dusk, if you'd want to get out of here.”

[dreadfulcry-blog]

sine-nomine-ferrum‌:

Gentler, she says, and quickly her faraway gaze is matched by the Whaler’s. Their mouth, however, does not echo her faint smile; instead, their jaw sets hard and angry. 

Their Daud was supposed to have been gentle. Kind. They always thought, even if they didn’t mean anything to him—how could they have, they barely even existed—the Whalers as a whole did. They thought he’d return the loyalty his men showed him. And he didn’t.

But this one, this Daud— the Whaler feels every scar from their betrayal at the other one’s hands, and logically, the pain from those wounds should be stronger looking at a man who’s the same as the man who hurt them in all but spirit. But this Daud soothes their aches. He’s… soothing. Warm. They can’t help but believe everything he says.

They deflate, slowly, all the indignation and hurt seeping out like a balloon left out overnight.  

“I’m not here to steal him from you, Billie,” they say. As if that were even possible. “I’m not even trying to warn you away.” The Whaler sighs, shifts High Overseer Martin to their other side. 

“You were never like the rest of us. Always faster, always smarter, always just a little more ruthless. You were barely an adult when I signed up, but even then you wore that red coat and gave orders to people twice your age without flinching.” They smile, bitterly, under their mask. “Daud… he lavished attention on you. One of the few he trained personally. I think he really thought of you as his daughter.” They shrug, head tilted. They’d never been jealous of her. They’d been content to be an invisible hand to Daud, someone to help and disappear, no gratitude needed. Now, though… the thought they’d always be second to her in Daud’s mind stings, in a blunt, resigned sort of way. 

“Of course I care about him, Billie. I… I gave up a lot more than my life for a version of him. This one… seems to deserve it. I’m not going to deny him his peace.”

It sends a fresh pang through Billie, seeing the Whaler's shoulders slump under their burden. She really had considered them family, once, had known every Whaler apart by ability if not by name. By chips in the lenses of their masks, by a hesitation when swinging from the right, by the way a breath might catch firing a crossbow in freefall. Watching them hurt, even when she'd been able to justify it, had been like taking that hurt on herself. Now, when she knows full well the uselessness of her actions?

It's worse.

She rolls her shoulders, trying to be rid of some of her own anticipatory energy—it's largely futile.

Her attention keeps wanting to get snagged in the ridiculous stuffed animal they carry, keeps wanting to rifle through memories over a decade old to ferret this one's identity out, but she keeps it on track with a ruthless determination, smile still present on her face even as it fades to an expression closer to miserable than happy.

"I don't think there's a world where we could truly ever wash our hands of each other." She admits. "He's too much of what made me. I'm too much of what he regrets." It's a harsh analysis, a self-condemnation more succinct and unadorned than any the Whaler has tried to throw at her. She could try to explain, sure. Could remind them of the way Daud had buckled, after the Empress' assassination. Could explain the vision of a future with every Whaler dead and Daud the cause that had motivated her to finally take that bloody plunge. But what would be the point?

Succession had always been a matter kept between her and Daud; the tacit understanding that a betrayal when she gauged him weak was part of her job as second in command a secret even they had barely alluded to.

"Then we can both agree. The ones we left behind might have deserve what I did, but this one didn't." She hesitates for a minute, then forces herself to continue. "If you want to know what happened. It's a story I know how to tell."

[dreadfulcry-blog]

Corvo Attano

It's weird. In her head, there are two distinctly different Corvos: the one when she was Billie—for whom she feels an emotion best summed up as 'that poor bastard,' and the Corvo she knew as Meagan, far more personally.

The Corvo of Jessamine's reign? A stranger, of no consequence beyond making certain the threat he posed was neutralised. The Corvo who ran bloody murder down palisades to the harbour and dragged himself onto her boat like something out of a void tale?

For him, she feels a fondness she's scared to admit to. He fixed up the Wale for her. Woke screaming from nightmares. Clutched a throbbing nightmare in his hands on her deck and whispered to it like a lover.

He reminds her of Daud, a little, though she'd sooner die than say.

She wants his good opinion, in the part of her heart not yet closed off to friendship; can't stomp it out even knowing she should.

"He's alright, I think. Devil with a sword. Not much more to it, really."

[rp-memes-n-things]

Send me a character’s name and my muse will tell how they feel about them

[dreadfulcry-blog]

sine-nomine-ferrum‌:

Fifteen years. The Whaler almost physically balks at the date Billie gives them, but it does explain her friendliness. Or, her previous friendliness; her tone and expression are decidedly more brusque than a few moments ago. They can’t exactly blame her, although they’re reluctant to admit it. Fifteen years is a long time to spend running just to be confronted by a past that hates you.

Briefly, though, they consider telling her just who exactly they’d lost. Maybe they’d all survived the Overseer invasion, but half of them had been tortured for Void knows how long before Daud showed, and then they had to flood the whole base, and maybe more of them would’ve survived Corvo if—

But no, they’re going to be nice. Losing their composure is a bad habit of theirs these days.

“Fifteen years… I’d like to see how the Isles look now.” They’re not sure they do, actually, but they doubt Billie cares. Her jaw tenses after she asks her own question, maybe out of defiance, and a burst of anger flares in the Whaler’s chest.

“I am,” they say. They’re much more careful to control their tone this time, keeping that loaded statement as neutral as possible. “At least, we’re both from the same year. It looks like he’s not the same as…” they struggle for a moment. They don’t like claiming their Daud as theirs, at least not to others. “as the one I knew. They made… different choices.” A hint of bitterness creeps into their voice, despite their best effort. 

They shrug it off. Their Daud isn’t here, for whatever reason, so there’s no point in dwelling on him, or the comparative merits of this new Daud. 

“Have you seen him?” They ask. “Seems as if you’re still his favorite.” 

Something unpleasant rises up in their chest at the thought of this Daud and this Billie interacting. Like heartburn, which is as good an explanation as any. They do not explore it any further.

Billie's lips quirk into a private, small smile; for a moment, her eyes are far away.

"He is, isn't he." She agrees easily. "Kinder than the one who raised me. Gentler." She's under no illusions that she is being, herself, anything but kind, but that first reverberation of hurt is still aching through her, and she might be older, wiser, but there is no outrunning a childhood spent in Gristol's gutters.

Carefully, she leans on one of the plant-laden tables, watches them intently through her single good eye. She considers for a second, can imagine the petty thrill of taking this obvious open wound of theirs and gritting salt into it. But. But.

Void take it, she is trying to be better.

"You don't have to like me. You don't even have to look at me. But I have met him, and he wants me back." Emotional honesty is the last thing she wants right now, the longing for a simpler equation granted by fists and blades thrumming through her lungs like air itself, but. "I'm not going to turn him down. He's hurt enough."

She stares down the mask covering the Whaler's face, no sign of hesitation anywhere in her body language. "If you care about him at all, I'd suggest a pre-emptive truce." Rich words, coming from her, but she means them. The last thing she wants is to ruin this for him. She wants this resolution so bad, more than her lost arm, her lost eye. This kindness offered to Daud means more to her than half the world shrouded in darkness.

Void, but she hopes this works.

[dreadfulcry-blog]

ashininglion‌:

Min hesitates at the train’s doors so long they almost start to close on her. She hop-steps out onto the platform, almost drops one of the shopping bags she’s holding. I usually trained people to kill. Sounds like her first impression of Meagan was almost spot-on. “Uh,” she says. Settles for answering the other things she said first. “Not a jester, no, oh my god. I played games for a living back home. Like sports? But not really sports. It was all digital, like on the holophones? But on a bigger screen. We called people that played a lot of those games gamers. Just as general term, but-”

She rambles some more to Meagan, letting her brain take over auto-piloting her towards Bì Xiù. Thinking. Min doesn’t want to kill anyone. She knows in the very core of her being that she never wants to inflict the kind of harm on another person that has been done to her but - there are things in the fog that aren’t people. Not anymore. And even if she only wants to defend herself here, she doesn’t know that there aren’t similar things here. Ace is here now. Who’s to say that something else couldn’t follow him through one day?

Her mouth is occupied with a convoluted definition of the term e-sports; without taking a beat, Min says, “I’d like… I’d like to learn whatever you can teach me. The fog had a lot of - I mean, if I ever go back there, stuff that could kill a human would probably just immobilise them. If you know what I mean.”

E-sports sound... awful, frankly. Meagan can't imagine playing make believe games for a living, not unless the person trying it was if the nobility. And even then, the nobility didn't work, leaving that to those under their stations.

It almost takes her aback when Min accepts her answer on the tail end of an explanation of what a "league" is, she's so busy trying to make sense of the concept.

Almost.

She hefts her bags, lets a small, satisfied smile touch her lips. "I don't have much in the way of weaponry right now, so most of the training I can provide will reply on improvisation—not that it sounds like this 'fog' would allow you many traditional weapons anyway." The pier comes into sight, framed against the horizon, and Meagan has to fight not to quicken her steps. "I don't have anything on tomorrow, if you think you'd be able to get well rested enough to be ready for your first session. They're not easy, but surviving never is."

They make their way down to Meagan's room, and settle the bags next to the barrels of water Meagan has taking up most of the space in the bathroom, before Meagan thanks Min, walking her back to her own door in turn.

Pleased with a night well spent, Meagan nods farewell after extracting a promise of follow-up on self defense training for Min, and she settles down to enjoy a supper of tinned fish.

[dreadfulcry-blog]

bloodedundine‌:

Lizzy was silent for a long time, a long time.  It was hard figuring out which emotion to settle on, really.  Regret because she shouldn’t have gone back to the Eels so quickly after dropping Daud at Brigmore.  Maybe she could’ve talked Billie out of it?  Doubtful, considering how determined Lurk could get.  Then there was anger.  At Delilah, and at herself.  Delilah had played innocent the whole time and she’d even tried to pull the same con on Lizzy.  Thank the Outsider she’d been adamant about not getting her painting done.  Lizzy forced the anger down, though.  Let it simmer under the skin until she got the right chance to mete out punishment on the witch. 

Lizzy briefly went to reach up a hand to wipe away Billie’s tears as they formed in a corner of her eye, but fell short.  It was frustrating, not knowing how to comfort someone.  Or if they even wanted comfort.  Lizzy had never been good at it, but she was good at being honest.  And even if this wasn’t technically her Billie Lurk, one thing couldn’t have changed: the Billie hated being bullshitted.  And so she leaned in, took one of Billie’s hands in her own, and spoke.

“I’m not going to waste your time and say it wasn’t your fault.  You’d call me on it the minute the words left my mouth.  You fucked up, and you paid for it.  And I’m sorry the price you had to pay was that steep.  But that’s it, isn’t it?  That’s Dunwall.  All of us, all the way up to the throne and all the way down, have fucked something up in that city.”  Outsider knew she had.  She’d stopped caring about most of it, sure, but Lizzy had a long list of her own personal failings.  “You fucking survived.  And you’re here.  Missing a few parts and twice as old as I last saw you, but you’re here.”

The tears were coming back to Lizzy’s eyes again, and she very stubbornly wiped them out.  She replaced them with a forced smile. “Anyways, thanks for telling me.  Going to have to find me a way to get back at Delilah.”

Compassion is the last thing Billie expects, after telling Lizzy the hows and whys of her abrupt exile from Dunwall; the abortive movement of comfort, the way Lizzy’s fingers curl around Billie’s hand--she chokes a bit, does her best to turn it into a laugh, but the sound is watery, no matter her best attempts.

“Thanks,” she says, through a bit of a snort, “but I’m only fifteen years older than I was--” she hesitates for a minute, musters up a grin, continues: “--brat.” Billie isn’t the sort inclined to giggle, but she’s tempted; the novelty of being so much older hasn’t quite worn off yet, and she can’t help but find any reminder both disquieting and hilarious. She’s hoping the joke will lighten the mood, never one to want to dwell in her own feelings for long. Lizzy's attempts at humor are more than welcome, leave an odd feeling of warmth in her chest. It's been... a while, since she felt this particular brand of it. She thinks she may have missed it.

“As for Delilah,” she says, scrubbing at her face, “I’ve got a few ideas bumping around. Want to be careful, though. She’s tricky; it’s half the reason I liked her.” She leans back on the bed, now that she’s finished telling her story, bumps Lizzy’s foot with her own. “Does that mean I can count you in, when I work out what I want to do?” She hopes the answer is yes. She hopes.

[dreadfulcry-blog]

thisdeadvessel‌:

Jessamine goes still, thinking, ah, the woman is right- it is a self-imposed exile. She doesn’t expect either Corvo or Emily to find their respective ways here terribly often, and she expects also that if either of them wish to find her they will have more than enough ease in doing so, given the communication devices they’ve been provided with. And so she is staying out of their ways, until they wish… unless they wish otherwise.

Has she become afraid? Of them? Perhaps in a way, she has, yes. Not of them necessarily, though, but of hurting them, of forcing her presence on them and demanding they relive their grief. They have done their mourning- it’s hardly fair that they should have to do it all over again, when she inevitably disappears again.

The question is a welcome distraction from her quickly souring mood, and she blinks several times before saying, “Bi…. Xiu?” mouth forming the sounds hesitantly- “No, I have not. Frankly, I have no notion of what… what that is. A place, I presume?” She sits up slightly, fuzzy curiosity starting to form in her mind.

“I suppose I need not simply sit here. Will you show me?”

Whoops. If Meagan had known that Jessamine was unaware of the picture her actions were painting, chances were she'd have kept her mouth shut about it. It's too late for that now, so instead she plants her feet on the ground, shoves the bottle into the sand, and offers Jessamine her arm, once she's on her feet.

"Sure," she says easily, "Bi Xiu is the building I'm housed in; see that pier over there?" She gestures to what is indeed a pier, some hundred feet away. "The building in almost entirely underwater. I'm ten storeys deep—the sea life is incredible, down there."

Not to mention, she can fix the woman a warm drink: it looks like she needs it.

"The outer and inner walls are both some kind of sturdy glass," she explains, "and the blue of the sea is incredible."

[dreadfulcry-blog]

everykindoftouch‌:

Jupiter nods absent-mindedly at mentions of nobility, the same way she does in almost any conversation that she doesn’t understand, which is the majority of them.  Sure, why not, maybe it’ll make sense later; if it doesn’t, it’s probably just because she’s stupid or something.  Works every time.  

“You’d get killed for stealing them, though,“ she comments, “or I guess that’s what the rules say, at least.  No stealing, no murder, no whatever.  One’f the animals, whoever maintains these, would probably sell them to you if you asked?”

"The rules say no stealing, but there's a thriving black market, in Crises, if you know where to look." She flashes Jupiter a smile, brief, and continues: "I'd rather figure out what's actually allowed than avoid dying, especially if I'll just wake back up. Always wondered what it was like to die, anyway."

If she's aware how crazy that sounds, not a flicker of it shows on her face. She's been risking death her whole life, after all; the permanent kind, too. This? Seems closer to a punishment nap than anything else. Not a deterrent.

"Might do both just in case they take the stolen flowers while I'm out, though. I really do like them."

[formerxheiress]

@dreadfulcry

This place is.. hauntingly peaceful. For a woman like Weiss who lived on the knife edge of controlling her every emotion to never draw a Grimm  to her location? It was getting hard to adjust to such peace and a lack of the creatures! Her pale hands absently tightened the sash around her waist.

And the absence of her sword!

Pale blue eyes flicked up and she pasted on a smile.

“It’s a lovely place.. but the peace and so much water? i must admit it’s not what i’m used to seeing in my day to day life.”

[dreadfulcry-blog]

Meagan's been watching the girl as she clearly scrabbled for some kind of mooring in the atmosphere of the Ark. That uncertainty marks her clear as day as new here, and she's been debating offering an introduction, when the girl soeaks first.

Meagan takes a few steps forward, closing the distance between them to one more reasonable for polite conversation, smiling her sympathy.

"That's almost exactly what I thought when I first arrived." She says. "Of the seas, Nectar's my last favourite, by far. Always feels like there's something waiting to jump out. You do get used to it. I'm Meagan. You are?"

[dreadfulcry-blog]

waretheredeyes‌:

“Enjoying myself? More than I dared expect,” Hilda says. Both of them seem to have quickly given up any subtlety, flirting very openly. Out of the corner of her eye she can see the pair of bears next to them spying in on their conversation. Just to give them a little more to whisper about — and, all right, also for her personal enjoyment — she makes sure to put her hand on Meagan’s waist as soon as the dance moves allow it.

“I could use a break,” she says, “and I think the partner switch is coming up, anyroad.” She’s right: just a moment after she says it, the band stops playing, signalling for the dancers to find new partners. Hilda raises her hands apologetically to the young man who walks up to her, and together with Meagan walks up to the refreshments table.

“I’ve tried the pink stuff before; it’s pretty good. Bit sweet, if you like that.” She manages to hold back a terrible line about the company being much sweeter.

On some level, Meagan had thought she had her interest in things like flirtation very much under control, in check. The warmth that lingers for a moment after Hilda moves her hand off Meagan’s waist, and the smile it continues tugging at her lips both put that to a lie.

“Perfect,” she replies, dodging the approach of her next partner to stay close to Hilda instead, examining the table once they arrive. 

Usually, Meagan’s not much of one for overly sweet things, but with Hilda’s suggestion she acquiesces easily. “I’ve never had a pink drink before, either--it would be a shame to miss the opportunity, wouldn’t it?” It’s hard to wink, with just one eye, but she gives it her best shot anyway, just a light airy thing before she pours her drink.

“Can I get you anything?” She asks. “Or would you prefer to share.” She tilts her head, leaning just slightly on the table, turned towards Hilda to pay closer attention to her, now that Meagan’s own drink is poured. 

She can’t wait to be outside, in the cool night air, wandering with Hilda, conversing quietly. If you’d asked her this morning, she’d have laughed at the very idea she would be doing something like this. Now, though, all that incredulity does is make the night even sweeter than the drink itself, or she’d bet good money on it, at least.