It's surprising how much of memory is built around things unnoticed at the time.
[Fifteen minutes past amnesia, January 13 (day 227)]
[Miskatonic Café]
I'm on the road. On a street, rather, neat cobbles and scabs of snow and buildings (in fine enough repair, low-built, a storey or two; lived in, like enough) under the grey air. Sun's overhead through dim clouds and I'm guessing it to be midday.
I've no mind for where I am. None at all.
Catch myself and a quick glance back and 'round isn't showing me anyone I think I need mind, and I keep walking as if I'd some mind for where I was going. Pass a building smells of fresh-cut wood and another with mannequins and glossed clothes in the window, and at least none of what I'm seeing so far is making me worry. There's a woman crossing into the gated garden on the other side of the street, walking easy and alone, and the glass of the windows is split into smaller panes in places but it's not broken nor laced with bars. Safe enough to walk here for now, I think.
The street ends and another crosses it, and I see what I'm guessing's a general store only a touch to my left. Consider it a moment, but not sure what I'd say, and no mind for how well they'll take to me there or how long I could watch. There's an eating house near to it, though, signed up as the Miskatonic Café. Slip a hand into my pocket to check, and there's coin enough I think I can sit down and gather my bearings. Open the door to the Café and find myself glancing up startled at the music pouring out like churchsong, the interior like a green sea laced with brass foam. Not seen the like to this in ages.
Sit down and order a coffee and glance around when it comes. Wrap my hands 'round the cup and there's a dull chink of stone on porcelain, and I turn my palm towards my eyes to see--
Spit and staunchweed. Blink away the glitter and touch one hand to my temple, run my fingers back light across my hair, find it pinned back.
Well, then. Apparently I'm wed, whatever else I might be (and with that ring, guessing my husband's something of a-- I want to say magpie, and that seems not quite right). Carrying little enough and well turned-out enough that I've a place to stay, here, to keep a change of warmer clothes at the least, heavier boots, a gathering bag. And my hair's long enough to pin back, as well, suggests I might've settled here a while...
Start setting out what's in my pockets on the table as if it's of no never-mind, and seeing what I might have set in them as would mean anything. Glance around as I'm doing so, but I'm not seeing anyone I place.
[Open]
[Closed]
[Miskatonic Café]
I'm on the road. On a street, rather, neat cobbles and scabs of snow and buildings (in fine enough repair, low-built, a storey or two; lived in, like enough) under the grey air. Sun's overhead through dim clouds and I'm guessing it to be midday.
I've no mind for where I am. None at all.
Catch myself and a quick glance back and 'round isn't showing me anyone I think I need mind, and I keep walking as if I'd some mind for where I was going. Pass a building smells of fresh-cut wood and another with mannequins and glossed clothes in the window, and at least none of what I'm seeing so far is making me worry. There's a woman crossing into the gated garden on the other side of the street, walking easy and alone, and the glass of the windows is split into smaller panes in places but it's not broken nor laced with bars. Safe enough to walk here for now, I think.
The street ends and another crosses it, and I see what I'm guessing's a general store only a touch to my left. Consider it a moment, but not sure what I'd say, and no mind for how well they'll take to me there or how long I could watch. There's an eating house near to it, though, signed up as the Miskatonic Café. Slip a hand into my pocket to check, and there's coin enough I think I can sit down and gather my bearings. Open the door to the Café and find myself glancing up startled at the music pouring out like churchsong, the interior like a green sea laced with brass foam. Not seen the like to this in ages.
Sit down and order a coffee and glance around when it comes. Wrap my hands 'round the cup and there's a dull chink of stone on porcelain, and I turn my palm towards my eyes to see--
Spit and staunchweed. Blink away the glitter and touch one hand to my temple, run my fingers back light across my hair, find it pinned back.
Well, then. Apparently I'm wed, whatever else I might be (and with that ring, guessing my husband's something of a-- I want to say magpie, and that seems not quite right). Carrying little enough and well turned-out enough that I've a place to stay, here, to keep a change of warmer clothes at the least, heavier boots, a gathering bag. And my hair's long enough to pin back, as well, suggests I might've settled here a while...
Start setting out what's in my pockets on the table as if it's of no never-mind, and seeing what I might have set in them as would mean anything. Glance around as I'm doing so, but I'm not seeing anyone I place.
[Open]
[Closed]