(no subject)
"For Mister Dorian Gray."
A sweaty, flushed mess of overworked limbs, Lyra crouched down in front of a rich cedar trunk seemingly abandoned in the midst of a patch of berry bushes. Out for her daily run, she'd spotted something gleaming promisingly amidst the jungle foliage only a short ways off the path that led from the Compound all the way to the signpost. A ray of sunlight caught its gilded accents just so, and as she ran her fingers along one sharp edge, Lyra was absolutely awash with glee.
"Pan," she grinned, her mind racing with a thousand different possibilities as her daemon climbed up onto the lid and began batting at the golden padlock that kept them from running off with its contents, "It's a treasure chest," she decided, her eyes wide with greedy excitement. "It has to be. You don't store anything boring in something this nice, do you?"
But it's not your treasure chest, he would have said. Lyra could almost hear her daemon's cautioning words as Pan twitched his whiskers at her in warning. "Unless... it's a trap." Lyra's brow crinkled then. "Maybe somebody wants this Dorian Gray fellow dead," she gave an anxious lick of her lips. "You may not store anything boring in something this nice, but an explosion wouldn't be any kind of boring, now would it."
The prospect was far more exciting than the reality of the situation, in her opinion. Another gift from the island, most likely, but one could never be too sure about these things.
In a sudden move filled with a great sense of purpose, Lyra hopped back up onto her feet and twisted one corner of her mouth up in thought. "Well, that's it then, isn't it, Pan? We've got to examine it for him, don't we? Been a while since we've had to pick a lock..." said as she reached up into her messy ponytail and plucked a hairpin free, "But if it's to save this Dorian Gray's life, then we'll be glad to do it, won't we?"
"Sorry?" someone suddenly called.
Lyra looked up, one hand still in her hair, the other poised with said hairpin pinched between her fingers. There was a man staring at her from the path, handsome and intensely English. Wealthy, no doubt. Lyra stared blankly back.
"Pardon the intrusion," he ventured when it became clear that she had absolutely nothing to say to him, "But as silly as this might sound... I do think I've just heard my name?" he smiled, an air of pleasant apology following him as he took a few uncertain, but determined steps towards her. "I could be wrong, of course. But you see," Dorian gave a non-descript gesture designed to help explain why he'd taken an abrupt, and possibly unappreciated, detour towards a girl who seemed hellbent on spiting her decidedly good looks with her atrocious fashion choices, "It was the context in which my name was used that I find... alarming."
Still, Lyra stared, though perhaps with a bit of disappointment now.
"... are you quite all right?" Dorian went on, "You look as though..." he paused when he saw first the trunk with his name scrawled neatly along an attached tag, and the little rodent perched protectively upon the lid.
"It's for you, I suppose," Lyra finally sighed.
"Ah," Dorian nodded, confused and not a little bit suspicious. "For me."
"It's not dangerous, if that's what you're thinking. At least, I don't think it's dangerous. Sometimes gifts just show up for people."
Dorian continued to consider the trunk, and the little animal, with only mild interest. In his opinion, it was of a hideous design. The island should have done better. "Ah, yes. So I've heard."
"Well, if you don't want it..." Lyra all but rolled her eyes, scooping Pan up into her arms.
"No, no," Dorian quickly protested, seemingly puzzling his way through some distant thought that Lyra couldn't be bothered to ask about. Not now that he'd all but ruined her fun. "Ah, so this is what the key is for... although I haven't the slightest idea what those pistols are about. Right. And if this is for me then... but how peculiar? Well, I suppose I ought to find her then, hm."
"... what are you talking about?" Lyra asked, disgruntled. She had very little patience where listening to someone think out loud at her was concerned, and it showed. "Find who?"
"You'll have to excuse me. I imagine I must be looking for a woman called Lyra Belacqua. Perhaps she'll be of the law-enforcing sort? Or military," he blithely explained. "You do seem to know the island well enough."
At that, Lyra visibly brightened. "Pistols? For me? That's brilliant!" she laughed and smeared a trail of sweat from her neck with the back of one hand.
Dorian's brow rose. He stood surprised, and not a little bit disconcerted, before recovering enough to offer, "My dear girl, is it really?"
--
Nearly a half an hour of trunk-hauling, gift-exchanging, and neutral banter later saw Dorian politely returning Lyra to the stretch of path where he'd found her, a lit cigarette in his hand and two twin paintball guns in hers. On her back was a hefty pack nearly as tall as she was complete with all the trappings of a paintball set tucked away inside.
A polite nod was given by him, a wave of one gun by her. Then the girl from Oxford and the man from London went their separate ways, each of them silently hoping to never have to deal with the other one again.
[OOC: NDPD post for both Dorian and Lyra timed to earlier this afternoon! Catch either of them heading down the path. Lyra's paintball guns look roughly like this one, and she's got a huge bag on her back full of bags of paintballs and maintenance tools. ST/LT welcome!]
A sweaty, flushed mess of overworked limbs, Lyra crouched down in front of a rich cedar trunk seemingly abandoned in the midst of a patch of berry bushes. Out for her daily run, she'd spotted something gleaming promisingly amidst the jungle foliage only a short ways off the path that led from the Compound all the way to the signpost. A ray of sunlight caught its gilded accents just so, and as she ran her fingers along one sharp edge, Lyra was absolutely awash with glee.
"Pan," she grinned, her mind racing with a thousand different possibilities as her daemon climbed up onto the lid and began batting at the golden padlock that kept them from running off with its contents, "It's a treasure chest," she decided, her eyes wide with greedy excitement. "It has to be. You don't store anything boring in something this nice, do you?"
But it's not your treasure chest, he would have said. Lyra could almost hear her daemon's cautioning words as Pan twitched his whiskers at her in warning. "Unless... it's a trap." Lyra's brow crinkled then. "Maybe somebody wants this Dorian Gray fellow dead," she gave an anxious lick of her lips. "You may not store anything boring in something this nice, but an explosion wouldn't be any kind of boring, now would it."
The prospect was far more exciting than the reality of the situation, in her opinion. Another gift from the island, most likely, but one could never be too sure about these things.
In a sudden move filled with a great sense of purpose, Lyra hopped back up onto her feet and twisted one corner of her mouth up in thought. "Well, that's it then, isn't it, Pan? We've got to examine it for him, don't we? Been a while since we've had to pick a lock..." said as she reached up into her messy ponytail and plucked a hairpin free, "But if it's to save this Dorian Gray's life, then we'll be glad to do it, won't we?"
"Sorry?" someone suddenly called.
Lyra looked up, one hand still in her hair, the other poised with said hairpin pinched between her fingers. There was a man staring at her from the path, handsome and intensely English. Wealthy, no doubt. Lyra stared blankly back.
"Pardon the intrusion," he ventured when it became clear that she had absolutely nothing to say to him, "But as silly as this might sound... I do think I've just heard my name?" he smiled, an air of pleasant apology following him as he took a few uncertain, but determined steps towards her. "I could be wrong, of course. But you see," Dorian gave a non-descript gesture designed to help explain why he'd taken an abrupt, and possibly unappreciated, detour towards a girl who seemed hellbent on spiting her decidedly good looks with her atrocious fashion choices, "It was the context in which my name was used that I find... alarming."
Still, Lyra stared, though perhaps with a bit of disappointment now.
"... are you quite all right?" Dorian went on, "You look as though..." he paused when he saw first the trunk with his name scrawled neatly along an attached tag, and the little rodent perched protectively upon the lid.
"It's for you, I suppose," Lyra finally sighed.
"Ah," Dorian nodded, confused and not a little bit suspicious. "For me."
"It's not dangerous, if that's what you're thinking. At least, I don't think it's dangerous. Sometimes gifts just show up for people."
Dorian continued to consider the trunk, and the little animal, with only mild interest. In his opinion, it was of a hideous design. The island should have done better. "Ah, yes. So I've heard."
"Well, if you don't want it..." Lyra all but rolled her eyes, scooping Pan up into her arms.
"No, no," Dorian quickly protested, seemingly puzzling his way through some distant thought that Lyra couldn't be bothered to ask about. Not now that he'd all but ruined her fun. "Ah, so this is what the key is for... although I haven't the slightest idea what those pistols are about. Right. And if this is for me then... but how peculiar? Well, I suppose I ought to find her then, hm."
"... what are you talking about?" Lyra asked, disgruntled. She had very little patience where listening to someone think out loud at her was concerned, and it showed. "Find who?"
"You'll have to excuse me. I imagine I must be looking for a woman called Lyra Belacqua. Perhaps she'll be of the law-enforcing sort? Or military," he blithely explained. "You do seem to know the island well enough."
At that, Lyra visibly brightened. "Pistols? For me? That's brilliant!" she laughed and smeared a trail of sweat from her neck with the back of one hand.
Dorian's brow rose. He stood surprised, and not a little bit disconcerted, before recovering enough to offer, "My dear girl, is it really?"
--
Nearly a half an hour of trunk-hauling, gift-exchanging, and neutral banter later saw Dorian politely returning Lyra to the stretch of path where he'd found her, a lit cigarette in his hand and two twin paintball guns in hers. On her back was a hefty pack nearly as tall as she was complete with all the trappings of a paintball set tucked away inside.
A polite nod was given by him, a wave of one gun by her. Then the girl from Oxford and the man from London went their separate ways, each of them silently hoping to never have to deal with the other one again.
[OOC: NDPD post for both Dorian and Lyra timed to earlier this afternoon! Catch either of them heading down the path. Lyra's paintball guns look roughly like this one, and she's got a huge bag on her back full of bags of paintballs and maintenance tools. ST/LT welcome!]
