Who: regionseizer, sandrocker When: March 30th, morning Where: the library Format: action What: Prussia and Quatre bump into each other! Friendship ensues? Warnings: n/a
[ prussia, unfortunately has a tendency to be not a clumsy oaf-- certainly not, he wouldn't have made it past the Crusades-- but, careless? something like that. it's a side effect of the swagger, even more so when he walks backwards at the same time. and if he's multitasking? you're just asking for disaster, there.
it's a couple russian texts they want him to translate (not something he picked out himself-- hell no, if it were up to him, he'd be doing German all the time), the looping cyrrilic of some personal journal. he checked the dates, 1917, 1921-- more communism, just wonderful. it's thin and musty, and he flips through the pages as he backs through the double door, mouthing the words, first in Russian, then German, then into Common, envelope of ivories from his last commission tucked haphazardly between two fingers.
a slow turn, still not looking up (you people should watch where you are going anyway...) and--
oh. a collision. there goes his pay. and the books-- he is not paying for damages, fuck no-- is that a muffin on
( ... )
[quatre is so awesome not only does he knock into someone, but the collision causes him to trip on a step and fall over. steps are painful, for the record. one meets the right side of his pelvis and another, his upper torso. not that worst thing that has ever happened to him. but it still hurts!]
A-ah, sorry. I should be more careful...
[he shifts, slowly moving to sit on his knees. he rubs his torso, too. gingerly. because that really hurt, ok!]
[ oh, sorry man, that's sorta what you get for colliding with a person who was once, and maybe still is, more earth and industry than actual flesh and blood. he crouches to stuff his dropped books and money into his messenger bag, something that would have been a good idea in the first place. ]
Sorry 'bout that, kid. Nothing's broken, yeah?
[ here quatre, he's offering a hand to help pull you up. and... he has no idea you're the zombie kid. ]
No... Probably just bruising. [he takes the offer hand. while still rubbing his side.] Thank you.
[prussia's voice is vaguely familiar. quatre doesn't have a face to put it to, though! ...or even a name. he's not quite thinking about that. his breakfast is gone. sigh. maybe he should have gotten two!]
Comments 18
it's a couple russian texts they want him to translate (not something he picked out himself-- hell no, if it were up to him, he'd be doing German all the time), the looping cyrrilic of some personal journal. he checked the dates, 1917, 1921-- more communism, just wonderful. it's thin and musty, and he flips through the pages as he backs through the double door, mouthing the words, first in Russian, then German, then into Common, envelope of ivories from his last commission tucked haphazardly between two fingers.
a slow turn, still not looking up (you people should watch where you are going anyway...) and--
oh. a collision. there goes his pay. and the books-- he is not paying for damages, fuck no-- is that a muffin on ( ... )
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A-ah, sorry. I should be more careful...
[he shifts, slowly moving to sit on his knees. he rubs his torso, too. gingerly. because that really hurt, ok!]
Reply
Sorry 'bout that, kid. Nothing's broken, yeah?
[ here quatre, he's offering a hand to help pull you up. and... he has no idea you're the zombie kid. ]
Reply
[prussia's voice is vaguely familiar. quatre doesn't have a face to put it to, though! ...or even a name. he's not quite thinking about that. his breakfast is gone. sigh. maybe he should have gotten two!]
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