RP: Getting Out of the House
Date: 07 April 2005
Character: Pansy, (anyone else?)
Location: Pansy's flat, and then Five Alarm
Status: Public
Summary: bruises finally healing up, Pansy gets out of her flat for a while.
Completion: incomplete?
Pansy had been more active the last few days, as the deep bruises were finally healing completely and her tailbone was no longer feeling so sore. Wih more practice, she'd found a decent level of control over the charms that heated her water for showering and tea, though probably it wouldn't hurt for her to find someone willing to teach her to make permanent (or at least, lasting) changes to the shower water, and even managed to put in a bit of time working this week. It hadn't been much, but considering the other choice seemed to be actually re-reading one of the dreadful "novels" in the bedroom, she thought probably anything was better than nothing.
She also had dug out parchment and quill, initially intending to make a list of her curent inventory, such as it was, and what she'd need in the space she still hadn't found to move production to. However, after the first part of that was done, as she lay on her belly across the bed, she'd found herself instead starting a diary of sorts. Or a memoir. Or a letter to herself. Something like that.
Those pages were now kept safely under the bed. She wasn't exacly a poet. Though it did occur to her that whatever it was she was wrting, at least it didn't involve buxom blondes spilling out of their corsets and heavily-muscled men losing their kilts preposterously.
Still, she kept writing more of whatever it was, and wondering how it was that she, the least creative person she knew, had managed to employ herself making fabric, and now was filling her spare time--well, her bored to death injury time, anyway--writing a story.
Well, it wsn't as though it was keeping her from anything else. She still wasn't comfortable sitting for very long, and only one job you could do lying in bed came to mind, and she wasn't about to commence a side operation as a single-position whore.
She frowned when she realized she'd actually written that into her story, then considered that six months ago, the word whore had made her cringe, as had nearly everything to do with sex. She wasn't sure whether it was a sign of mental decline, depravity, or just change that she was ...not consdering looking for a relationhip, to be sure, but just, becoming less alarmed by the prospect. Or the lack of prospects; there was hardly a line out the front door of the block of flats, at least, not leading to her door, but ...she was considering the topic, and considering it something that she could be perhaps a little bit silly about. Maybe it was the influence of the horrible novels.
She thought about that a bit longer, wondering whether she ought to go see some sort of mental health professional, until her stomach growled.
Soup had become a staple, especially since the microwave box and everything else had failed, but she was tired of soup, and she'd done enough work this week she thought she deserved dinner out.
She was still walking slowly, but she felt up to going to the Five Alarm. She put on a reasonably nice skirt and top and headed out, bringing along a meal voucher and a few swatches in case she might run across anyone who might like to order some particular fabric. She chuckled at herself as she locked her door. Yes, changes. Perhaps she should check into a mental health visit, after all.
Character: Pansy, (anyone else?)
Location: Pansy's flat, and then Five Alarm
Status: Public
Summary: bruises finally healing up, Pansy gets out of her flat for a while.
Completion: incomplete?
Pansy had been more active the last few days, as the deep bruises were finally healing completely and her tailbone was no longer feeling so sore. Wih more practice, she'd found a decent level of control over the charms that heated her water for showering and tea, though probably it wouldn't hurt for her to find someone willing to teach her to make permanent (or at least, lasting) changes to the shower water, and even managed to put in a bit of time working this week. It hadn't been much, but considering the other choice seemed to be actually re-reading one of the dreadful "novels" in the bedroom, she thought probably anything was better than nothing.
She also had dug out parchment and quill, initially intending to make a list of her curent inventory, such as it was, and what she'd need in the space she still hadn't found to move production to. However, after the first part of that was done, as she lay on her belly across the bed, she'd found herself instead starting a diary of sorts. Or a memoir. Or a letter to herself. Something like that.
Those pages were now kept safely under the bed. She wasn't exacly a poet. Though it did occur to her that whatever it was she was wrting, at least it didn't involve buxom blondes spilling out of their corsets and heavily-muscled men losing their kilts preposterously.
Still, she kept writing more of whatever it was, and wondering how it was that she, the least creative person she knew, had managed to employ herself making fabric, and now was filling her spare time--well, her bored to death injury time, anyway--writing a story.
Well, it wsn't as though it was keeping her from anything else. She still wasn't comfortable sitting for very long, and only one job you could do lying in bed came to mind, and she wasn't about to commence a side operation as a single-position whore.
She frowned when she realized she'd actually written that into her story, then considered that six months ago, the word whore had made her cringe, as had nearly everything to do with sex. She wasn't sure whether it was a sign of mental decline, depravity, or just change that she was ...not consdering looking for a relationhip, to be sure, but just, becoming less alarmed by the prospect. Or the lack of prospects; there was hardly a line out the front door of the block of flats, at least, not leading to her door, but ...she was considering the topic, and considering it something that she could be perhaps a little bit silly about. Maybe it was the influence of the horrible novels.
She thought about that a bit longer, wondering whether she ought to go see some sort of mental health professional, until her stomach growled.
Soup had become a staple, especially since the microwave box and everything else had failed, but she was tired of soup, and she'd done enough work this week she thought she deserved dinner out.
She was still walking slowly, but she felt up to going to the Five Alarm. She put on a reasonably nice skirt and top and headed out, bringing along a meal voucher and a few swatches in case she might run across anyone who might like to order some particular fabric. She chuckled at herself as she locked her door. Yes, changes. Perhaps she should check into a mental health visit, after all.