[closed] ever see the wings of a dragonfly?
Who: nobilified and trephaestos
When: Not long after the auction.
Where: ICT to Market to Dismas to Clinic, meeting at any, or anywhere in between…
Format: Prose into action?
What: Will Shirley get what she paid for? ...Which is what?
Warnings: Social disregard and/or incompetence? ;-)
He woke up with the uncustomarily simple thought: orange.
There was nothing to build on, so he shunted himself out of bed (i.e. off of cot) to stick his head under the tap, pulling himself free of excessive layers as he went. That's what you get when you let yourself be clothed by a Brit. Jackets on sweaters on… brr. Water = cold.
Shaking himself doggishly to dry, he glanced at the reflective equipment beside the sink and squinted at another sample of orange. It's the reflection of the biohazard box. Probably not what he'd been expecting, or dreaming about without remembering the dream. (Unless you're the sort who believes in premonitions and wants to panic at association, which he isn't.)
By sheer accident, it seems to be morning. A good time to restock. He pulls some layers back on-they may or may not be the same ones he'd already removed-and loads up his carrying case.
He'll stop at the public market, first, before going on to Dismas. See if he can find most of what he needs lying around where it's unlikely to be recognized or be misused as flower pots or forge accessories or hell knows what. Also to sweeten the pot of what he has to trade with the Tunnelmen, when inevitably all of what he needs is not among the flotsam.
And he requires more beakers. The easiest and most reliable place to obtain them being… [grimace] …the Clinic. One place in Anatole, however irrationally, he never wants to go back to.
But at all places today, still more irrationally, he keeps jolting up his head and making sharp turnarounds at every sight of orange. It's a book, or a spark, or a cloth, or a goddamn orange. Somehow none of them are right, but all seem to be heralding something. No, not heralding: trying to recall. What?
When: Not long after the auction.
Where: ICT to Market to Dismas to Clinic, meeting at any, or anywhere in between…
Format: Prose into action?
What: Will Shirley get what she paid for? ...Which is what?
Warnings: Social disregard and/or incompetence? ;-)
He woke up with the uncustomarily simple thought: orange.
There was nothing to build on, so he shunted himself out of bed (i.e. off of cot) to stick his head under the tap, pulling himself free of excessive layers as he went. That's what you get when you let yourself be clothed by a Brit. Jackets on sweaters on… brr. Water = cold.
Shaking himself doggishly to dry, he glanced at the reflective equipment beside the sink and squinted at another sample of orange. It's the reflection of the biohazard box. Probably not what he'd been expecting, or dreaming about without remembering the dream. (Unless you're the sort who believes in premonitions and wants to panic at association, which he isn't.)
By sheer accident, it seems to be morning. A good time to restock. He pulls some layers back on-they may or may not be the same ones he'd already removed-and loads up his carrying case.
He'll stop at the public market, first, before going on to Dismas. See if he can find most of what he needs lying around where it's unlikely to be recognized or be misused as flower pots or forge accessories or hell knows what. Also to sweeten the pot of what he has to trade with the Tunnelmen, when inevitably all of what he needs is not among the flotsam.
And he requires more beakers. The easiest and most reliable place to obtain them being… [grimace] …the Clinic. One place in Anatole, however irrationally, he never wants to go back to.
But at all places today, still more irrationally, he keeps jolting up his head and making sharp turnarounds at every sight of orange. It's a book, or a spark, or a cloth, or a goddamn orange. Somehow none of them are right, but all seem to be heralding something. No, not heralding: trying to recall. What?