#sgnals

[sostarry]

@sgnals gets a short starter !

"You're not driving." Myka isn't sure if H.G. can drive, and she doesn't want to find out by risking an accident. "Hand me the keys."

[forwardmoved]

@sgnals , ylfa & esther , quangl'd into a land of candy ...

electricity crackles and lingers only seconds longer as a wizard is shunted into an unfamiliar world, then the portal closes... and the air becomes still. esther, although not unfamiliar with the concept of a quangle-- yet to have experienced one herself. it was only a matter of time, and she supposes that first-hand experience would ideal for research at the occult society, although inconvenient.

the overwhelming scent of peppermint permeates, and esther's head turns to take in her surroundings and realize that she stands in a forest of peppermint bark trees. her staff of sorrow in hand, she sweeps the air around her and casts detect magic to find that she's not alone. something-- someone not of her world, nor this one, is hidden among the trees behind her, and esther turns around. "if you can hear me, i mean you no harm. my name's esther, and i'm not from this world. i can tell that you aren't from here, either."

[ofeluvians]

@sgnals asked: “   who hurt you?   ”   from taash to falon

the question is unexpected and causes them to freeze, body stiffening. they can faintly taste the echo of blood in the back of their mouth, feel the old scars stinging as memories that they'd rather not linger on force themselves into the forefront of their mind. a hand moves to rest on their forearm, absently tracing the few scars that were visible from the rolled up sleeves of the outfit that they wore around the lighthouse. it's not a new question. after all, the heavy scars on their face and the ones that poke through the rolled up sleeves tell a story. the ones that decorate the rest of their body and remain hidden at all times beneath their clothing make that story far more obvious.

they swallow before finally finding their voice. "someone from an old life." they speak cautiously, not wanting to get into the details. they can distantly feel the sting of the whip on their skin for punishments, the slice of a knife for blood rituals. memories that were best left buried. "it doesn't matter any more. they're dead and i'm not. i made sure of that. that's all that you or anyone else needs to know of the matter."

[caulfect]

aisles of useless things tower around her, straight and not at all curved : there is a poise to it, something proud, shadows of shelves eaten by the bearing down fakeness of bright, white lights, and max can’t stop peering up at them every now and then. as if she’ll see anything above her and the squeaking, dead noise her cart makes as it’s thrust forward -- hands unsteady where they flex against handlebars, redness blotching against knuckles and the scritch-scratch of her palm like a really bad rash. food items blend together in a whirl of expensive brand names or unheard ones ( the kind that are way too cheap & super gross, max knows intimately ) and she barely picks anything up, occasionally resorting to idle picking at peeling labels, with the index of a trimmed fingernail, an absentminded thing that enthralls some primitive part of her otherwise haunted brain before interest fades, smoked out then abandoned, and max carefully slides it far away from herself. those wilting, trying edges of pink mouth pinching with palpable displeasure she barely bothers hiding. there isn’t a single place where max caulfield can safely sheath herself into, burrowed and untraceable, allowed to be a begrudged translucent presence rather than what she really is ; a physical thing, a heavy thing, crippled by her own tightening muscles that freeze when she rounds a corner, cursed with eyes a little too wide and ever curious, and hair which still frames a faded face. so she frowns away, casts her judgements that remind her of foggy girlhood ( when she was a girl, that flimsy, fickle teenager / face half-camera and half-blood / before the quiet emerging of clinging hair, wet slick skin, a storm in her heart and a storm branded into right hand ), and continues through the expected motions.

it’s a shock of blue that finally stops her completely. snagging against downturned, tiresome corners of an equally blue gaze, only difference being the impossibility of hue ; hers softer, duller, a little blurry from years of gathered wetness, while the other color is … harsher. lively, max decides, already abandoning her mostly empty cart for this new thing. slinks towards it, butterfly to bucket, before she actually realizes what it is. hair dye : bombshell blue. oh, she thinks, before awaiting something else, some memory of eyepatches and first mates, dusty pirate hats and that greasy, perfect smell of bacon cutting through twisting limbs, the high pitched screams of delight and faux madness. but what greets her is tiled floor instead, barren, unfilled promises, and a sky of green and gray, and something red.

@sgnals, safi : “ i can see you thinking. ”

arm is already reaching out for a box when safi finds her, voice unabashedly loud in a way max adores, even if it scares her shitless. hand wrenches back to her side, a flurry of autumn cardigan ; long sleeved and too big for her, slinking further down one shoulder when she moves too fast. eyebrows raise, lips part in a revealing ‘o’ shape -- someone who’s definitely been caught red handed … or thinking, as her friend says, all-knowing and all-seeing, an oracle with how she knows max so well. there’s an expectation in those dark, lined eyes and a certain twitch to her lip that means max is more than done for, rooted in place by hands that are already prying her open, nudging around bones and organs to find that sensitive, bruised core. it’s only been a handful of odd months since she’s known safiya, since she’s been here, haunting the hellerton house and caring for students at a measured distance, but somehow they’ve cultivated something already. feels the connection behind her eyes and in her head, in how she smiles involuntarily, always relenting, free time steadily filled with mundane activities like movie nights, grading papers, and mutual grocery shopping. and fear occasionally digs between fingers, where skin and lies web, at the idea that safi might find out more than she should one day, too smart, too observant, for max’s own good. but that’s a problem for future max. right now she’s too pleased by the company to sever it, so instead hands fist around their strings and tug them closer, in a meek, unceremonious way. safi’s better at words and gestures than she is. imagines what she’d write about them or this : how her cart’s a wasteland while safi’s is … somewhere, probably filled to the brim with junk food or notebooks. she isn’t actually sure what safi buys. just hopes it isn’t sour katz, since that’s one of the only things max has bothered hoarding during this quick trip.

gaze drifts elsewhere while she cranes her head, dismissive, “ should i be offended that it’s obvious to see when i’m thinking? how do i look when i’m not doing that? ” questions are easy, playful, though brows furrow when glancing at a box of red hair dye beside them. “ and don’t say stupid, i’m expecting some poetry here. ”

[alcriti]

“ you’re staring, ” sylas bluntly says. 🖤

Westgate was… different. Mimicking that of the Gate's Lower City but with more crime, fish markets, and an all around hardened populace, where a look from any one sailor could wilt the fainthearted. In submerging himself within Westhavian customs, he had come to understand where Laera developed her toughened skin from her. Sailors were an interesting sort of a people — a group all their own — that had been tempered by the choppy seas. Their wills had been broken against the bows of their great ships, and when they came to dock again in Westgate's Great Port, they're a changed lot.

Astarion is beginning to recognise some of them, and despite his exceptional ability to charm almost anyone, it isn't so with the sailors and the local regulars. Maybe they sense his frustation as his constitution, too, continues to been whittled down from the haggling and playful taunting. As an honourary barmaid at The Dove's Nest, where he might settle disputes with a bloody knife fight, his sharpened retorts are about all he can manage as not to upset his much beloved host.

One such patron, however, has caught his eye — and not because he deems them a worthy target; he has gladly retired from that — but because something, something, is off about this one.

❝ I am. ❞ Astarion admits, attempting to quietly deduce his suspicions from behind the bar. The man, and his wife, have taken a room upstairs, some three doors down from where he and Laera sleep. Generally, they keep to themselves, but Astarion has begun to notice the wife making more of an appearance since they first arrived. She's more social; he isn't, so it doubly surprises the vampire when his elusive guest begins first conversation. ❝ You've been here three days, and I simply don't you see you very often. Your wife, is she, is much more social than you are. Although, I don't entirely blame you for avoiding the sailors; they're a lot to handle, regardless of if they've drank or not. ❞ Their laughing and singing rattles the walls of the dockside establishment, and for a moment, he forgets he's supposed to be working! Reluctantly, he takes to stacking glassware behind him, if only to keep this rare talk going. ❝ I'm usually discouraged from prying too much, but I can't help myself: What brings you to beautiful Westgate? ❞

[technodontstop]