50 Minotaur Lane, Late Sunday Evening
Janice's trunk was much lighter now than it had been a few hours ago, thanks tor a quick stop on the mainland to sell off a few . . . "family heirlooms." Thank God that sixty-two years later there was still a thriving black market dealing in ancient artifacts. The resultant wad of cash in her pocket was considerably lighter now, too, thanks to her purchase of the property she was now approaching.
This didn't stop her from keeping one hand tucked beneath her jacket, where her revolver was concealed.
"Huh," she muttered as she dragged the trunk up the front steps of the house and took out her new key. "Not bad." Truth be told, it was much better than not bad. By the time Janice had hauled her trunk into the master bedroom and unpacked her belongings, she'd decided that this was the nicest place she'd ever lived. Modern amenities were impressive, on top of all that. Whoever had been buried in that tomb she'd looted to pay for this place, she definitely owed them a debt of gratitude.
But . . . well, it was almost too nice, almost ridiculously decadent to someone who'd grown up in the dust and chaos of dig sites on foreign soil. And it was so damned peaceful. This made Janice a touch more uncomfortable than she cared to admit; she couldn't afford to be lulled into complacency, and this fear in turn caused her to tense up too much.
And that, inexplicably, was why she headed outside and settled down on the porch with a lit cigar clamped in her teeth and an open hip flask of brandy, trying to relax a bit as she got acclimated to her new surroundings and the role she was going to have to assume.
If it got her those Scrolls back, and the means to fund further expeditions to find the rest, it'd be worth the pain in the ass. It had to be.
[OOC: Open if you'd like, for another . . . oh, hour or so. Scratch that. Hoil. Sleep now.]
This didn't stop her from keeping one hand tucked beneath her jacket, where her revolver was concealed.
"Huh," she muttered as she dragged the trunk up the front steps of the house and took out her new key. "Not bad." Truth be told, it was much better than not bad. By the time Janice had hauled her trunk into the master bedroom and unpacked her belongings, she'd decided that this was the nicest place she'd ever lived. Modern amenities were impressive, on top of all that. Whoever had been buried in that tomb she'd looted to pay for this place, she definitely owed them a debt of gratitude.
But . . . well, it was almost too nice, almost ridiculously decadent to someone who'd grown up in the dust and chaos of dig sites on foreign soil. And it was so damned peaceful. This made Janice a touch more uncomfortable than she cared to admit; she couldn't afford to be lulled into complacency, and this fear in turn caused her to tense up too much.
And that, inexplicably, was why she headed outside and settled down on the porch with a lit cigar clamped in her teeth and an open hip flask of brandy, trying to relax a bit as she got acclimated to her new surroundings and the role she was going to have to assume.
If it got her those Scrolls back, and the means to fund further expeditions to find the rest, it'd be worth the pain in the ass. It had to be.
[OOC: Open if you'd like, for another . . . oh, hour or so. Scratch that. Hoil. Sleep now.]