Mhavos Dalat, a pleasure. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
murderbaby) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
faderift2021-02-18 06:25 pm
murderbaby) wrote in faderift2021-02-18 06:25 pm
Entry tags:
The very few times in his life that Mhavos has relied on luck, he has been lucky. Accordingly, he tries to push his luck as little as possible, saving it for when he will most be in need of it. Inevitably, it fails now.
Darkness is a very nice thing, especially when it allows you to use shortcuts you wouldn't usually. Coming back from a long discussion with Gwenaëlle means getting back as unnoticed as he left. There are cuts, in the rafters of the Gallows, and a lucky thing, then, that almost no one ever looks up. Luckier still that it is dark, even as a storm kicks in. Flashes of brightness would give away his slow climb through an office, down a corridor, above the stairs. Yet, so far, he has been lucky.
And then he is not.
Lightening crashes from the harbor, and one of many nooks and corners of the Gallows is bathed breifly in pale light. For the quick or clever, it illuminates Mhavos' quiet climb through a passageway between rooms, up high in the rafters. And how terribly lucky would Mhavos be, if he wasn't sure Commander Flint-- carrying some books from some place to another, reports, he was hardly paying attention-- had his eyes just in the right place to destroy Mhavos' vaunted stealth.
Darkness is a very nice thing, especially when it allows you to use shortcuts you wouldn't usually. Coming back from a long discussion with Gwenaëlle means getting back as unnoticed as he left. There are cuts, in the rafters of the Gallows, and a lucky thing, then, that almost no one ever looks up. Luckier still that it is dark, even as a storm kicks in. Flashes of brightness would give away his slow climb through an office, down a corridor, above the stairs. Yet, so far, he has been lucky.
And then he is not.
Lightening crashes from the harbor, and one of many nooks and corners of the Gallows is bathed breifly in pale light. For the quick or clever, it illuminates Mhavos' quiet climb through a passageway between rooms, up high in the rafters. And how terribly lucky would Mhavos be, if he wasn't sure Commander Flint-- carrying some books from some place to another, reports, he was hardly paying attention-- had his eyes just in the right place to destroy Mhavos' vaunted stealth.
The pachinko machine... isn't finished. It's pretty close, though. Tony's scrap supply has been a big help, even if it's not a big enough help to compensate for the constant stream of chaotic bullshit that seems to creep in every corner of the Gallows. Not even your fucking dreams are safe.
Amos is not a painter, but he is exact. Carefully taping off sections so he can paint a clear, straight arrow through a sea of (soon to come) nails and pins to hinder the ball is nice, quiet work. Or it would be, if Tony wasn't the chatty type.
Luckily, the shit he says mostly isn't completely useless. Amos listens passively. "Pass me that brush," has been his major contribution in the last twenty minutes.
Amos is not a painter, but he is exact. Carefully taping off sections so he can paint a clear, straight arrow through a sea of (soon to come) nails and pins to hinder the ball is nice, quiet work. Or it would be, if Tony wasn't the chatty type.
Luckily, the shit he says mostly isn't completely useless. Amos listens passively. "Pass me that brush," has been his major contribution in the last twenty minutes.
Jone is at the training yard. She is all the time, it's kind of her job, or about as close to one as she gets. Impossible to miss, she's the six-foot redhead with a poleaxe.
She doesn't make it a point to welcome all the new recruits-- who can keep track? But she does keep an eye on the unusual. A woman nearly as tall as her is something to keep eyes on. "You avvar?" First words out of her mouth, naturally.
She doesn't make it a point to welcome all the new recruits-- who can keep track? But she does keep an eye on the unusual. A woman nearly as tall as her is something to keep eyes on. "You avvar?" First words out of her mouth, naturally.
A few days, but not many, after the Rifter with the grav injuries in her came in, Amos pokes his head in the infirmary. Naomi nearly died, but intervention in the form of fucking magic prevailed somehow. Broken bones, an over-stressed heart, low muscle density, low bone density, how the fuck do you survive that when your society hasn't invented steroids yet, much less Osteo X and ten different kinds of medi-gel.
He questions the first person he finds- "hey," he says to the... elf, apparently. "You were here when the belter came in? The, uh, lady, tall but skinny as an elf? ...No offense."
He's real subtle.
He questions the first person he finds- "hey," he says to the... elf, apparently. "You were here when the belter came in? The, uh, lady, tall but skinny as an elf? ...No offense."
He's real subtle.
Edited 2021-02-19 00:49 (UTC)
They both stand out and admittedly, Diana had hoped for a chance to talk to the woman. Not the least because every inch of her screamed warrior in a way that was comfortingly familiar.
"Themysciran," she corrects automatically, then smiles, "Or Rifter, for intents and purposes. Though I prefer to be called Diana."
"Themysciran," she corrects automatically, then smiles, "Or Rifter, for intents and purposes. Though I prefer to be called Diana."
Maybe the healer Amos knows best worked on Naomi, but when Amos thinks of Sawbones, he thinks doctor, and when Amos thinks of the people who probably saved Naomi's life, he thinks miracle worker. Healer is probably the catch-all term. Wandering through the infirmary, Amos looks for someone who might fit the description, and he remembers Derrica. There are worse places to start.
"Hey," he says, waving Derrica down. She doesn't look like she's doing anything too urgent, but if she is, he trusts her to let him know. "You work on a gal named Naomi Nagata?"
Derrica just seems like the sort of person who would know patient's names and remember them. Don't ask him why; it just is.
"Hey," he says, waving Derrica down. She doesn't look like she's doing anything too urgent, but if she is, he trusts her to let him know. "You work on a gal named Naomi Nagata?"
Derrica just seems like the sort of person who would know patient's names and remember them. Don't ask him why; it just is.
Hey, that was easier than he figured it would be. "So, how'd you do it?"
"'Cos birds're in short supply on the field, 'specially the tall sort, so most of us end up coming to our own styles to suit." She picks up her poleaxe, balances the heft in her hand from memory more than reason. "Swords'n shields're just everybody with the right number of arms, though."
"Yeah, that makes sense..." Amos chews it over, wondering if the guy has anything else of interest on him. "So what'd you do?"
It takes her a moment to parse the slang, but when she does: "Do you not have women armies here?"
They weren't terribly prevalent in Diana's world either, but still. A small dwindling part hopes that some version of Themyscira exists in this world.
They weren't terribly prevalent in Diana's world either, but still. A small dwindling part hopes that some version of Themyscira exists in this world.
Amos scratches his head. "I mean, yeah, if that's all you got."
"Tips on how to keep her the fuck alive?"
This Medieval Times as the weirdest waiters.
This Medieval Times as the weirdest waiters.
The Brother looks startled by Amos' turn of phrase-- perhaps it escalated more quickly than he thought.
"Well," he muses, his gaze turning inward for a moment, "I imagine the mages will have better advice for you, but ensuring she gets plenty of rest and consumes a lot of fluids can't hurt. Does she have any, er..."
He has to think on how best to phrase this.
"...special considerations? Chronic illnesses, reasons she might not heal normally?"
"Well," he muses, his gaze turning inward for a moment, "I imagine the mages will have better advice for you, but ensuring she gets plenty of rest and consumes a lot of fluids can't hurt. Does she have any, er..."
He has to think on how best to phrase this.
"...special considerations? Chronic illnesses, reasons she might not heal normally?"
Amos doesn't notice how he's been rubbing at his face until he stops. It doesn't make this any easier.
"Yeah, you could fucking say that," he sighs. "Last time it was like this, she almost bit the big one."
"Yeah, you could fucking say that," he sighs. "Last time it was like this, she almost bit the big one."
That's Jone's job, ennit. Eroding the hope that makes people take unnecessary risks. At least, when she's feeling poetic (when she's feeling the urge to self-justify), that's what she comes up with.
"I prefer to win," she says, "you're new, like? This war's been going on for five bloody years."
"I prefer to win," she says, "you're new, like? This war's been going on for five bloody years."
"Such is the nature of war at times," says Diana. Ares would be pleased is a thought that comes with distant unease. "I was given to understand there were several other ongoing conflicts before Corypheus' rise. I imagine shifting the focus to a single and more unified force took some time."
She has never considered herself the sort of leader who could command armies for that reason. Even when she was helping stage a rebellion, she'd preferred her small crew over joining a larger force.
She has never considered herself the sort of leader who could command armies for that reason. Even when she was helping stage a rebellion, she'd preferred her small crew over joining a larger force.
Page 1 of 3