[ota] Oh, half-past nine is when we'll hit the bar, half-past ten we won't know who we are.
The day after the carnival, Murphy wakes up shivering. She's in her cabin, in her bed. It's disorienting, that's for damn sure, on top of the fact that aches from head to food and feels like she's going to puke. Her head starts pounding in time with her too-fast heartbeat as soon as she tries to move.
What happened?
She groans, curling in on herself a fraction. She can't remember. She remembers the carnival itself, the impossibly tall red-haired woman... And then nothing. A white haze of cheerfulness. A floodtide of glee. Thinking about it now makes her feel slightly giddy. She coughs and puts a hand to her throat--and promptly yanks her hand away with a hiss when her fingers brush against something that stings like hell.
That particular pain sends another wave of nausea thundering through her. She rolls out of bed and just makes it to her cabin's entrance before leaning outside and vomiting next to the door.
Poor shrub never had a chance.
What happened?
She groans, curling in on herself a fraction. She can't remember. She remembers the carnival itself, the impossibly tall red-haired woman... And then nothing. A white haze of cheerfulness. A floodtide of glee. Thinking about it now makes her feel slightly giddy. She coughs and puts a hand to her throat--and promptly yanks her hand away with a hiss when her fingers brush against something that stings like hell.
That particular pain sends another wave of nausea thundering through her. She rolls out of bed and just makes it to her cabin's entrance before leaning outside and vomiting next to the door.
Poor shrub never had a chance.