[ASSIGNMENT: No. 3]
Who: Everybody in this post, latecomers welcome!
What: Something's in that lighthouse. The town investigates.
When: Day 46
Where: The lighthouse
Rating: PG-13 just to be sure.
(ooc: We'll be setting up posting order later, so just mingling for now will have to do for you people c:)
[Bell Pointe's weather was beginning to take its toll on the residents, and Garcian Smith was no exception. Though usually the picture of neat professionalism, the water that covered the town and flowed through the streets in streams was unavoidable--his suit pants were soaked, the white fabric darker and dripping water. His shoes were worse for wear too, and a path of wet footprints followed the man as he approached the lighthouse.
His thoughts were heavy on his mind, too. Garcian's knuckles were a shade paler than normal as he gripped his suitcase handle more tightly. The Cleaner--austere, emotionless, unshakable in the face of anything thrown in his direction--had been made to doubt. Doubt himself. Why should he, he wondered, why should the ramblings of a Remnant Psyche fill him with such unease? It was ridiculous, unprofessional, even, to be concerned with anything besides the will of Harman Smith and the search for a way home. Maybe this little venture would distract him--set him back on the right trains of thought.
And at least he'd found a drier area to wait. Good.]
I must be the first one here.
[Garcian set his suitcase down on the ground and debated on pulling out his phone. Maybe not quite yet. The other Smiths, if they were on time, should've been following soon, along with the rest of the people who'd volunteered to join in today; he'd take a couple minutes to wait for the cavalry to arrive.]
What: Something's in that lighthouse. The town investigates.
When: Day 46
Where: The lighthouse
Rating: PG-13 just to be sure.
(ooc: We'll be setting up posting order later, so just mingling for now will have to do for you people c:)
[Bell Pointe's weather was beginning to take its toll on the residents, and Garcian Smith was no exception. Though usually the picture of neat professionalism, the water that covered the town and flowed through the streets in streams was unavoidable--his suit pants were soaked, the white fabric darker and dripping water. His shoes were worse for wear too, and a path of wet footprints followed the man as he approached the lighthouse.
His thoughts were heavy on his mind, too. Garcian's knuckles were a shade paler than normal as he gripped his suitcase handle more tightly. The Cleaner--austere, emotionless, unshakable in the face of anything thrown in his direction--had been made to doubt. Doubt himself. Why should he, he wondered, why should the ramblings of a Remnant Psyche fill him with such unease? It was ridiculous, unprofessional, even, to be concerned with anything besides the will of Harman Smith and the search for a way home. Maybe this little venture would distract him--set him back on the right trains of thought.
And at least he'd found a drier area to wait. Good.]
I must be the first one here.
[Garcian set his suitcase down on the ground and debated on pulling out his phone. Maybe not quite yet. The other Smiths, if they were on time, should've been following soon, along with the rest of the people who'd volunteered to join in today; he'd take a couple minutes to wait for the cavalry to arrive.]