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Gallows
training yard
The feeling of a sudden restriction, of new limitations isn't unfamiliar to her. After all, she'd been blind for a good few months prior to her falling through the Rift. And for a brief time before that, she'd manage to rupture her inner ear, making flight impossible. The drawback here was that she didn't have the loose collective of the Justice League. She missed them nearly as much as she missed her sisters.
She especially misses the ease of finding a sparring partner she can reliably measure her strengths against without fearing for each others safety. For now, in the early days of exploring where her strength is at, she practices off to the side with the training dummies. It looks a bit silly from an outside perspective, a woman punching a training dummy with a sharply focused look.
the library
Her time is split equally between the training grounds and the library. The library at least is simpler matter. There's others there frequently, surrounded by their own piles of books. Diana's not remotely above approaching her fellow patrons when the librarians seem busy.
"I beg your pardon, do you speak Orlesian?"
the ramparts
Then there is the matter of the lasso. It hangs from her waist most days, the only companion more constant are the silver bracelets at her wrists. She knows it's different, clearly as changed from its tumble through the rift as she herself. It's golden sheen remains, the glow fainter than usual. It doesn't pull so ruthlessly at the truth of any given matter, regardless of how small.
But it's there. Diana can feel the delicate golden thread of it, like a physical thing she can reach out and trace. She keeps her practice of meditation with it, finding a private alcove to sit and bind her arm. It requires bare skin and more concentration than it has in the past. And it leaves her drained, which is odd. Another thing to learn about. It distracts her enough that she won't notice another person's approach.
training yard
The feeling of a sudden restriction, of new limitations isn't unfamiliar to her. After all, she'd been blind for a good few months prior to her falling through the Rift. And for a brief time before that, she'd manage to rupture her inner ear, making flight impossible. The drawback here was that she didn't have the loose collective of the Justice League. She missed them nearly as much as she missed her sisters.
She especially misses the ease of finding a sparring partner she can reliably measure her strengths against without fearing for each others safety. For now, in the early days of exploring where her strength is at, she practices off to the side with the training dummies. It looks a bit silly from an outside perspective, a woman punching a training dummy with a sharply focused look.
the library
Her time is split equally between the training grounds and the library. The library at least is simpler matter. There's others there frequently, surrounded by their own piles of books. Diana's not remotely above approaching her fellow patrons when the librarians seem busy.
"I beg your pardon, do you speak Orlesian?"
the ramparts
Then there is the matter of the lasso. It hangs from her waist most days, the only companion more constant are the silver bracelets at her wrists. She knows it's different, clearly as changed from its tumble through the rift as she herself. It's golden sheen remains, the glow fainter than usual. It doesn't pull so ruthlessly at the truth of any given matter, regardless of how small.
But it's there. Diana can feel the delicate golden thread of it, like a physical thing she can reach out and trace. She keeps her practice of meditation with it, finding a private alcove to sit and bind her arm. It requires bare skin and more concentration than it has in the past. And it leaves her drained, which is odd. Another thing to learn about. It distracts her enough that she won't notice another person's approach.
Gallows
i. sleeping arrangements
Not sleeping is turning out to be more unsustainable than Sawbones- who is of perfectly sound mind and body, thank you very much- had initially estimated. However, sleeping in her cot seems risky, since that is where the whole dreaming business happened. And closets don't hold quite the same sort of comfort.
She switches to another old standby, sliding under beds and curling up under chairs. A perfectly sound strategy, except when someone else happens to sit on the chair or bed. Or worse still, move it. It inevitably ends with the sudden appearance of Sawbones from under the furniture, sleepy and belligerent.
"Oi. Shove off or shut up, some of us're trying to sleep around here."
i. sleeping arrangements
Not sleeping is turning out to be more unsustainable than Sawbones- who is of perfectly sound mind and body, thank you very much- had initially estimated. However, sleeping in her cot seems risky, since that is where the whole dreaming business happened. And closets don't hold quite the same sort of comfort.
She switches to another old standby, sliding under beds and curling up under chairs. A perfectly sound strategy, except when someone else happens to sit on the chair or bed. Or worse still, move it. It inevitably ends with the sudden appearance of Sawbones from under the furniture, sleepy and belligerent.
"Oi. Shove off or shut up, some of us're trying to sleep around here."
"No," comes the answer, on the heels of John closing the book in his hand with a soft snap. It's returned to the shelf, apparently discarded as John turns his attention to the conversation at hand.
"But we do have a handful of Orlesians in our company who might be of use, if they're in a generous mood."
All the Orlesians that come to mind off hand aren't exactly what John would deem as generous off hand, but who knows. One of them might be so inclined to be helpful if asked at the right moment.
"But we do have a handful of Orlesians in our company who might be of use, if they're in a generous mood."
All the Orlesians that come to mind off hand aren't exactly what John would deem as generous off hand, but who knows. One of them might be so inclined to be helpful if asked at the right moment.
"Am I interrupting something, Sister."
Brother Gideon was in the process of flipping a mattress in the infirmary when he discovered the bed was occupied, albeit not in the usual way.
He peers at the dwarf through the slats of the bedframe, exasperated and bewildered.
Brother Gideon was in the process of flipping a mattress in the infirmary when he discovered the bed was occupied, albeit not in the usual way.
He peers at the dwarf through the slats of the bedframe, exasperated and bewildered.
"I'll have to ask more broadly. The only one I know at the moment is Serah Dalat and I would hate to interrupt his work more than I already have." She smiles warmly at him, tucking the book she'd been carrying under her arm. "But I believe I recognize your voice. Would you be John Silver?"
She snorts, a slip of genuine humor breaking up her usual stern expression. "They won't be thinking about the beds at all, Brother. They'll be thinking whatever it was you were thinking when you interrupted my nap."
She rolls out from under the cot and onto her feet in a neat little motion and stretches.
She rolls out from under the cot and onto her feet in a neat little motion and stretches.
She's more confident in herself and where her body is at when she does reach out to Erik. And frankly she's missed sparring with comrades. She's nearly bursting with energy to have a good fight, her smile bright and warm when she sees him approaching.
"Hello. Would you be Mister Stevens?"
"Hello. Would you be Mister Stevens?"
It wasn't much of a question to start with. "I can be more careful about where I do things if it's fussiness." She's done enough communal living with surfacers to know some are just fussy and there's no helping that. She continues, "But if this is about who we are-" She indicates his ears and her brand with a small gesture, "I'd prefer to know."
Finally, he catches her meaning. It dawns slowly on his face, first as confusion, then mild affront, finally tempering down to quiet incredulity.
"Where we come from is meaningless in the eyes of the Maker," he says slowly, "our actions define us. As people of the cloth, I want us to be worthy of respect and trust."
"Where we come from is meaningless in the eyes of the Maker," he says slowly, "our actions define us. As people of the cloth, I want us to be worthy of respect and trust."
That answers that.
"In the eyes of the Maker, that's true," she says, "But it's not only the Maker who watches us. Those eyes can watch all they want. I don't have time for people who're too worried about the cleanliness of the clothe to get down in the mud and do the work that needs doing to take care of people."
"In the eyes of the Maker, that's true," she says, "But it's not only the Maker who watches us. Those eyes can watch all they want. I don't have time for people who're too worried about the cleanliness of the clothe to get down in the mud and do the work that needs doing to take care of people."
"Well."
That's one way to put it.
"I hardly think of sleeping on the floor as getting down in the mud. Your efforts will be better bolstered by comfortable sleep, Sister."
There may be a touch of compassion involved here, but he'd hate for anyone to make note of it.
"Shall I mix you a draught?"
That's one way to put it.
"I hardly think of sleeping on the floor as getting down in the mud. Your efforts will be better bolstered by comfortable sleep, Sister."
There may be a touch of compassion involved here, but he'd hate for anyone to make note of it.
"Shall I mix you a draught?"
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