[SEMI-OPEN]

[acreage]

WHO: Amos Burton, James Holden, Wysteria, Ellis, and YOU
WHAT: Two spacemen fall out of a rift, later explore scenic Kirkwall
WHEN: Nnnnowish? Waves hands
WHERE: The Wounded Coast, then Kirkwall
NOTES: A closed arrival thread, plus open individual threads for meeting Amos and/or Jim after their quarantine period.

Comments

[innerharbor]

"Yeah," Amos says, turning in place to stare at Kirkwall proper. He squints through the mist to look at the hulking city watching over them. "It's even on a hill. Whoever wrote this stuff wasn't really stretching himself."

[acreage]

"Hightown, Lowtown, Darktown. Which do you think came first, the names or the parts of town?"

Not that it changes anything. As if reconsidering something, he uncrosses his arms, and leans down to start unlacing his boots.

"How's the water temp?"

[innerharbor]

"Whoever made the maps," Amos said. "Didn't come first, but made it stick."

That's how all this urban planning shit always works out.

At Holden's question, something like a smile passes Amos' face. It doesn't reach his eyes the right way, but there's still an echo of something there. Who knows what of, but it's genuine. "It's cool."

With all the sun, he figured it'd be lukewarm.

[acreage]

Holden hums his agreement as he finishes unlacing one boot, then the other. It's a good point, and as much of an answer as they're likely to get.

"Really? In this weather?"

He straightens only once he's done, pushing up his sleeves, and can't help the slow spread of a smile across his face as the sand slipping beneath his feet gets more and more damp.

[innerharbor]

"Wonder how far you go 'til there's fish."

Living fish. Real, living fish in the ocean, not luxury hatcheries.

"I could learn to fish. Or hunt. If we stay here for the long haul, I don't wanna have to rely on these people."

And the long haul is looking more and more likely.

[acreage]

It's tempting to bristle at the idea of the long haul, but then he wades out far enough that the water starts lapping at his feet, and it's impossible to hold onto that irritation.

Instead, he says, light, "I never imagined you as a fisherman."

Real, living fish in the ocean, existing in nature for no other reason than because they do, legal and free for anyone to fish.

[innerharbor]

"Four hundred years ago," Amos says, "that's what everybody in Baltimore did."

Or so he was told, once or twice. It's probably a myth, but that doesn't matter. They're somewhere completely different, now. They gotta learn the new reals.

[acreage]

"Four hundred years ago," he muses, wading through the shallows aimlessly.

It might or might not be true, but fuck if he knows either way.

"You would've been a fisherman, and I would've been a farmer."

[innerharbor]

"Nah," Amos says, still walking out further, until his feet hit rocks and the soft whisper of seaweed, "You'd've been a cowboy."

[acreage]

That surprises a laugh out of him.

"A cowboy. You think so?"

[innerharbor]

"Yeah. You'd last a few days on the farm before you thought some cow needed justice."

[acreage]

He's definitely not going to mention channeling some old cowboy movies, just a little, with Murtry. Especially at the end there.

"I don't think cows are in too much danger of injustice," thoughtfully. "Except maybe the ones with shitty owners."

[innerharbor]

"See? You're already doing it." He raises a finger to point accusingly.

[acreage]

You know what, he concedes the point: holding his hands up with a smile.