#c:ishmael

[dayanitas]

Closed Start for @ishmaelhassan​ Location: The Britannia Time stamp : Thursday, October 4th, 1888

She had done nothing wrong. 

Daya would go to her grave maintaining that she had acted as any reasonable woman, as any mother would. The old man’s words had been a step too close to the edge, and she had lashed out in anger. 

Still, if she’d have known that blowing out a bloody candle would cause all of .... that, then she probably would have thought twice before doing it. The poor fellow certainly hadn’t deserved it (though, Daya would much rather he suffered from the consequences of her actions than she. An architect could hardly show up for work with scratches on her face, whereas for a pub landlord, it seemed par for the course). 

That was what drove her to visit today - not long after opening time, to make certain she had plenty of time to get home, this time, a basket of fresh fruit looped over her arms. She had never been great at apologies, but thought it prudent to bring a gift to offer. 

“Floor’s sticky,” she muttered, more to herself than anything as she approached the bar. “Probably need a mop.” She set the basket on the bar, and finally met the eyes of the man she had damn near seen maimed. 

“I’d like to offer my apologies for the other night. And give you this,” she spoke with sincerity, even though she didn’t really think she was to blame. “I will also pay any doctor’s expenses that you might have incurred. If you got it seen to, that is. How is it healing?”

[pollysheedyarchived]

Open Starter for @ishmaelhassan​ Location: The Britannia Timestamp: Noon, the day after Baba Yaga’s séance

The séance had brought with it uncomfortable revelations, ones Polly wasn’t sure they truly understood the magnitude of. The old crone spoke of a danger, of wrong choices, and that had put the frighteners up the young vagabond. There was too much to be on the lookout for, and they only had one set of eyes. And so, the feeling of unease that had been planted in the pit of their stomach bloomed, filling their every waking thought. 

Before, they had been weary of Ish. There was something about him that seemed wild and dangerous, and Polly had made it their mission to be on their guard around him. However, they weren’t the only ones confronted with spirits last night. In contrast to the warnings that spilled from Baba Yaga’s mouth, Ish’s own spectre seemed designed to torment, and with the knowledge of the blackouts spilling from the man’s lips, Polly began to feel something new for the governor - sympathy. 

They made their way to The Britannia not long after they had awoken, though the church bells told them it was gone midday. They’d had a fitful night sleep the previous night, horrible visions weaving their way through their dreams, and when they awoke, they had a gut feeling they weren’t the only person struggling. Going to see Ish was perhaps unexpected - he was as guarded around them as they were around him, but there was no doubt in Polly’s mind that it was the right thing to do. 

“Afternoon,” the chirped, slipping through the front door and catching his eye behind the bar. It was early enough that it was still quiet, a few lonely punters propping up the bar on the other end of the pub. They could speak freely without fear of being overheard, unlike the other night. Polly moved in a little closer, brows knotting in their head in concern. “I know you probably didn’t expect to see me today. After last night,” they acknowledged, a small bow of their head. “I just wanted to check you were all right, though? Seems like there was a lot to be said last night.” 

[pollysheedyarchived]

Closed Starter for: @ishmaelhassan​ Location: The Britannia Pub  Time Stamp: Early Evening, Saturday, September 7th, 1888

There was something about Ishmael Hassan that didn’t sit right with Polly. 

It wasn’t that he was a bad man. Not that they knew of, anyway. They had heard rumours, of course, of the things he was involved in, but there was scarcely anybody they knew who didn’t have experience in the illegal. It was one of the givens of the world they lived in, and not the marker of what made someone a bad person. 

But there was something else that didn’t sit right - and the cacophony of voices, those that they knew to be real, and not some sort of internal madness, certainly sang louder when he was near. They’d been listening to them more of late, and if they were calling out a warning to them, they would trust it. 

Still, they were stuck here for the night, together - at least there were witnesses, they supposed. If he was a danger to them, it was unlikely he could do much inside the crowded bar, and they had never been the retiring type to begin with. They approached him as they approached everything, chin raised, eyes wary, accepting her fate, whatever may come of it.  “Got any work that needs doing?” they quirked a brow in question. “I can sweep or scrub tables or something, if you’ve got money to spare for it.” Ever the opportunist, ever gauging every situation for a chance they desperately needed. Polly crossed their arms, awaiting his answer.