(no subject)
Who: Dairine and open! she probably needs to meet someone new
What: collecting. dairine needs someone to save her.
When: 12-24, 4PM
Where: Pulling along main street.
Rating: low-ish
Christmas eve was meant for things like fireplaces and last minute shopping and getting frustrated by door-to-door carolers (though Dairine would admit she'd never actually seen them in real life. They'd probably get arrested for harassment nowadays anyway.) It was meant for boyfriends and snuggling and ugly sweaters and hot chocolate.
Well, alright, after several hours in the snow and ice, hot chocolate did sound awesome.
The wheels on the base of the little wagon squeaked, groaned and rattled precariously as Dairine pulled its chain. She walked backwards, carefully keeping it balanced as it skidded over the sidewalk. She couldn't afford to drop its payload.
Which, strangely enough, was a grandfather clock. The old kind. Really old. Peeling varnish and a cracked glass case with a tarnished, brass pendulum that swung erratically. Designs reminiscent of French Rococo twisted around its base, leading in snaky, leaf-like tendrils until finally fading into the wood's surface.
The strange thing was that anyone who knew Dairine would wonder why she didn't just transport it in the wizardly manner. Or why her faithful computer, Spot, seemed to hang back a few feet, spidery legs scrabbling along the ice. Instead, Dairine wore an expression of intense concentration, tongue between her teeth and she pulled the chain of the plywood excuse of a wagon. They listed dangerously close to a patch of snow and she tightened her hold on the chain.
"Watch it, watch it..." Spot drifted closer to the clock and Dairine stopped altogether. "Nonono! Spot! Don't touch it!" As Dairine watched, as if in slow motion, the sudden stop made the clock and the cart wobble, tilt, and start to fall.
What: collecting. dairine needs someone to save her.
When: 12-24, 4PM
Where: Pulling along main street.
Rating: low-ish
Christmas eve was meant for things like fireplaces and last minute shopping and getting frustrated by door-to-door carolers (though Dairine would admit she'd never actually seen them in real life. They'd probably get arrested for harassment nowadays anyway.) It was meant for boyfriends and snuggling and ugly sweaters and hot chocolate.
Well, alright, after several hours in the snow and ice, hot chocolate did sound awesome.
The wheels on the base of the little wagon squeaked, groaned and rattled precariously as Dairine pulled its chain. She walked backwards, carefully keeping it balanced as it skidded over the sidewalk. She couldn't afford to drop its payload.
Which, strangely enough, was a grandfather clock. The old kind. Really old. Peeling varnish and a cracked glass case with a tarnished, brass pendulum that swung erratically. Designs reminiscent of French Rococo twisted around its base, leading in snaky, leaf-like tendrils until finally fading into the wood's surface.
The strange thing was that anyone who knew Dairine would wonder why she didn't just transport it in the wizardly manner. Or why her faithful computer, Spot, seemed to hang back a few feet, spidery legs scrabbling along the ice. Instead, Dairine wore an expression of intense concentration, tongue between her teeth and she pulled the chain of the plywood excuse of a wagon. They listed dangerously close to a patch of snow and she tightened her hold on the chain.
"Watch it, watch it..." Spot drifted closer to the clock and Dairine stopped altogether. "Nonono! Spot! Don't touch it!" As Dairine watched, as if in slow motion, the sudden stop made the clock and the cart wobble, tilt, and start to fall.