The following is detailing interactions between Mish'Cael and Lerida.
Their respective thoughts, actions and words are differentiated by his in blue and Leri's in red.
Red tape overgrown on the dossier for Nyx by now. Can't learn much and what I see, don't want to know. Not the same I done met nights' previous. Whole side of that mountain I ain't about to scale.
Marban. Outskirts'd be a compliment, this place. Couple days' hump and sleep in a ditch on the other side'a her house. Can just tell it's hers. Can smell it. Can feel it.
Ain't plan on shortin' her in the beginnin', and ain't gonna do it now. Cold lump pressin' against my chest. Ain't the cancer neither. Got the twin boomdowns slung low today. On account'a her piece in a chest pocket'a the jacket Morgan gave me last Christ'sDay.
Wait 'til snuff and watch her blow. Most likely up to the Dragon, meet up with her man. Wonder if Morgan ever been there. Hafta ask her later. No time for thinking. Drop off the Ceramic and kick back to the West End. Business ain't gonna handle itself.
Window opens easy enough. No guard dog. No wonder got ransacked so easily. Would've done the job myself for the right price. Easy money.
Ceramic feels comfortable, even in one of my horrible hands. Fit hers like a dream, reckon. Compact .22. Retrofitted and bored out. Ceramic parts through and through. Can't be picked up by metal detectors.
Perfect for West End, Stars End, anywhere in the Nexus. Lighter than metal. No need for oiling. Parts're hard to come by, but they ain't the type to break but once a decade. No jamming after I fiddled with 'em long enough. Comp'd her a box'a hundred bites. Handpressed from the gunforge O'Corrs built me. Each one stamped on the bottom, round the pin's target.
"Derringer's Worst Nightmare."
Outside.....
the swing swung back and forth on that rustwind, and a heel hit dead grass, stamping out the orange embers. She glowered herself; hair a torrent in the air behind her, eyes slit, in her hand only her lighter; little Kabooie Number Nine. She flicked the wheel one a two a three with a firmly set jaw, eyes and shoulders facing the hill as she propped herself towards the track and off the road.
The Inn had been mostly dead and all she had there were For Sale signs for all the old property. So this new one was still a mess, dusty and boarded up at its back door, and no doubt had had teenagers wallowing through its muck before her arrival. And even in it, looks like she had a guest.
She had her energies; dig" Enchantress here.
A fling inside and she sent those tendrils probing as she quietly knicked her feet of her heels and showered free-toes outwards from the entry towards her bedroom. She moved quick and light, a doe.
"Come out", she hushed in the quiet with her cardigan held tight at her front. It was a measure of Appearing So. She had muscle and skills no one knew. Not even herself; in this her real skin and skein.
"One, two..."
A look over small shoulder to the pantry, a blue shadow wrinkling the dour ochre of its curtains.
Gunless, she'd have to learn to speak her song in blood, once again, it seemed. It was on the wind, in the clouds, that familiar charm of the Violent spring. With its waters and that knowledge lapping in her core, she stepped into it, face to face with none other than a son of a gun of none.
She grinned. What in all heaven was he doin' in here"!
We'll set the stage;
Wheeling through the door in his happy-go-lucky fiasco of paws and of its own accord laphappy tongue came Bob, round each corner till his Lerida was in sight and there he was to growl, backing onto haunches and setting fierce to flame his foppish usual.
"Bob", she looked back over that shoulder to calm the critter with the sad black eyes, but he'd have none of it, and shifted closer, a paw by her bare big toe, standing in defence.
The wind is sounding of foot steps on distant sand and metal squeak as the leather band that was the swing's seat came to a slow, that same wind sending dustbunnies outwards from the track, hustling wayward creatures into hole and crevice and sending sheets of sunset sunlight into the already dry fields.
Such was Marban, when the wrong kind set stake to its tension; pulling back on E minor sending eerie moodiness to crease the white paper and fill in the blanks.
Dewy sunlight in her house all brown-dark at this hour sheltered the sound, the weight of shadow, and the Blue Bastard's was heavy, it dripped across, commanding a resistance. This, according to her energies basking at her fingertips as they fell to her side, as she tilted her neck to eye him some better.
"Hello..."
A smile, to burn the stars, though she was not quite sure it'd reach any in his eyes, if any at all
"Quaint digs. Af'er tha invasion an' all. Was a good choice. Subtle."
A short walk to the west and she leant back against that wall, a hand coming across to the door to her room, swung open, and she winced some as the wood creaked sharply and bare feet padded across it and its practical old sturdiness to the derringer curled with its barrel to the corner of the table. Crimson nails brush across it, reverently.
"Thanks Mish"
Sockets moist from the bright streams of marigold crossing the window pane and falling to her chest catch her off guard. She makes a smile, a the promise of shelter in her eyes, reserved for one. One and only. But right now her wiles had to work.
"So, you have a liking for quiet entrances and exits. If you want anything, by all means, take it...."
Their respective thoughts, actions and words are differentiated by his in blue and Leri's in red.
Red tape overgrown on the dossier for Nyx by now. Can't learn much and what I see, don't want to know. Not the same I done met nights' previous. Whole side of that mountain I ain't about to scale.
Marban. Outskirts'd be a compliment, this place. Couple days' hump and sleep in a ditch on the other side'a her house. Can just tell it's hers. Can smell it. Can feel it.
Ain't plan on shortin' her in the beginnin', and ain't gonna do it now. Cold lump pressin' against my chest. Ain't the cancer neither. Got the twin boomdowns slung low today. On account'a her piece in a chest pocket'a the jacket Morgan gave me last Christ'sDay.
Wait 'til snuff and watch her blow. Most likely up to the Dragon, meet up with her man. Wonder if Morgan ever been there. Hafta ask her later. No time for thinking. Drop off the Ceramic and kick back to the West End. Business ain't gonna handle itself.
Window opens easy enough. No guard dog. No wonder got ransacked so easily. Would've done the job myself for the right price. Easy money.
Ceramic feels comfortable, even in one of my horrible hands. Fit hers like a dream, reckon. Compact .22. Retrofitted and bored out. Ceramic parts through and through. Can't be picked up by metal detectors.
Perfect for West End, Stars End, anywhere in the Nexus. Lighter than metal. No need for oiling. Parts're hard to come by, but they ain't the type to break but once a decade. No jamming after I fiddled with 'em long enough. Comp'd her a box'a hundred bites. Handpressed from the gunforge O'Corrs built me. Each one stamped on the bottom, round the pin's target.
"Derringer's Worst Nightmare."
Outside.....
the swing swung back and forth on that rustwind, and a heel hit dead grass, stamping out the orange embers. She glowered herself; hair a torrent in the air behind her, eyes slit, in her hand only her lighter; little Kabooie Number Nine. She flicked the wheel one a two a three with a firmly set jaw, eyes and shoulders facing the hill as she propped herself towards the track and off the road.
The Inn had been mostly dead and all she had there were For Sale signs for all the old property. So this new one was still a mess, dusty and boarded up at its back door, and no doubt had had teenagers wallowing through its muck before her arrival. And even in it, looks like she had a guest.
She had her energies; dig" Enchantress here.
A fling inside and she sent those tendrils probing as she quietly knicked her feet of her heels and showered free-toes outwards from the entry towards her bedroom. She moved quick and light, a doe.
"Come out", she hushed in the quiet with her cardigan held tight at her front. It was a measure of Appearing So. She had muscle and skills no one knew. Not even herself; in this her real skin and skein.
"One, two..."
A look over small shoulder to the pantry, a blue shadow wrinkling the dour ochre of its curtains.
Gunless, she'd have to learn to speak her song in blood, once again, it seemed. It was on the wind, in the clouds, that familiar charm of the Violent spring. With its waters and that knowledge lapping in her core, she stepped into it, face to face with none other than a son of a gun of none.
She grinned. What in all heaven was he doin' in here"!
We'll set the stage;
Wheeling through the door in his happy-go-lucky fiasco of paws and of its own accord laphappy tongue came Bob, round each corner till his Lerida was in sight and there he was to growl, backing onto haunches and setting fierce to flame his foppish usual.
"Bob", she looked back over that shoulder to calm the critter with the sad black eyes, but he'd have none of it, and shifted closer, a paw by her bare big toe, standing in defence.
The wind is sounding of foot steps on distant sand and metal squeak as the leather band that was the swing's seat came to a slow, that same wind sending dustbunnies outwards from the track, hustling wayward creatures into hole and crevice and sending sheets of sunset sunlight into the already dry fields.
Such was Marban, when the wrong kind set stake to its tension; pulling back on E minor sending eerie moodiness to crease the white paper and fill in the blanks.
Dewy sunlight in her house all brown-dark at this hour sheltered the sound, the weight of shadow, and the Blue Bastard's was heavy, it dripped across, commanding a resistance. This, according to her energies basking at her fingertips as they fell to her side, as she tilted her neck to eye him some better.
"Hello..."
A smile, to burn the stars, though she was not quite sure it'd reach any in his eyes, if any at all
"Quaint digs. Af'er tha invasion an' all. Was a good choice. Subtle."
A short walk to the west and she leant back against that wall, a hand coming across to the door to her room, swung open, and she winced some as the wood creaked sharply and bare feet padded across it and its practical old sturdiness to the derringer curled with its barrel to the corner of the table. Crimson nails brush across it, reverently.
"Thanks Mish"
Sockets moist from the bright streams of marigold crossing the window pane and falling to her chest catch her off guard. She makes a smile, a the promise of shelter in her eyes, reserved for one. One and only. But right now her wiles had to work.
"So, you have a liking for quiet entrances and exits. If you want anything, by all means, take it...."