(closed) These violent delights have violent ends

[armd]

WHO: Abby & Ellie
WHAT: Two girls one mission
WHEN: they least expect it (October)
WHERE: Wounded Coast
NOTES: Violence, mention of old trauma and past violence/torture/murder

The Wounded Coast is colder than she thought it would be. There's a southerly blowing up off the top of the water that sets Abby's horse stamping in place, shifting restlessly when she tethers him up near the sparse tree-line. She presses her palm gratefully against his cheek, and offers him a bruised apple from her pocket; the later is the real treat. She leaves him munching, and descends down the track to the beach to get a better scope of the area, hands dropping to her hips as she breathes in.

Scouting wants people out to mark new enemy supply lines up the coast, and thinks they could run into a bit of hassle along the way. It's why she's here and working with somebody out of her usual division: she's the muscle, as per usual. She doesn't mind. Means she gets to do a bit of exploring by herself while she's at it, and it's nice to be away from the Gallows, out in the salt air.

Abby just hopes she hasn't been paired with somebody quiet, or boring, god fucking forbid. Guess she'll have to wait and see.

She's waiting on them to arrive, after managing to worm her way out of getting on the back of a griffon. Yeah it would have been faster, but some how Abby doesn't think it'd work out so good for her. She's trying to make a good first impression here. Sorry, Lev. She'll get back to facing her fears... later. Promise.

Comments

[notathreat]

The Wounded Coast is a craggy, rocky place, with cliffs that strike up into the skies, creating plenty of blind coves and small, rocky fingers that appear and disappear with the tide. There are twists and turns and plenty of caves, and a thousand places to hide.

It's thick with bandits and sometimes even a pirate ship or two, or an illegal black market vessel.

It's a wet, cloudy sort of day, the smell of the sea thick and cold, and Ellie bends down over Artichoke's warm back as he flaps his powerful wings, and settles down into the descent. Ellie's got on a thick cloak, her hood pulled up over her hair and face, gloves on to keep warm. Her bow's strung across her back, easily at the ready.

It'll be a simple, straightforward enough mission, she thinks. She figures they'll put her Ellis, or someone else she's worked with from Forces, and tries to ignore the strange feeling of foreboding when she draws closer and closer to the designated meeting spot.

Ellie sees the armor at a distance, and wonders if it's Jone, clings to the idea that it's her, but why would they put Jone on a small mission like this-?

Later, she'll reflect that she knew even before she spotted Abby's braid.

Buttoning up her mouth, narrowing her eyes, Ellie pulls Artichoke around, circling once to be sure of no obvious threats before easing him down. He galumphs onto the sand with a shake of his feathers, tossing his tail and trotting to a stop before digging his huge claws into the beach.

Ellie rides him as easily as she would a horse, staying in her saddle as the huge griffon paces closer, and reaches up to pull her hood off.

For a second, she doesn't know what to say. There doesn't seem like there's anything to say, and there's no one that either of them can be upset at. They both knew this day had been coming.

It was just a matter of time.

"Supply lines?" she asks, finally.

[armd]

This is the first time somebody else has been in the baths at this time of night. Abby isn't a stranger to picking some horrible hour at which to visit them, more out of convenience than any shyness or reluctance to bathe with her fellows. She's up at this time of night more frequently than other people, that's all. Finds it difficult to sleep.

Warm water helps with sore, cramped muscles.

She undoes her braid in the changing room, combing through thick hair with her fingers, a soothing ritual. Loose, it almost reaches the small of her back, would meet it easily if her hair were straight (it curls upwards, hangs in slow, golden waves).

Her reflection looks tired. She only checks it to gauge how well her neck is healing, and it looks fine save for bruising, a yellow tint lining the scabbed scratches. Doesn't look infected. She'd wondered (who the fuck knows where those demons had their claws before they had them in her), but the person who briefly saw her in the infirmary hadn't been worried.

She skims her palm over her throat, and grabs her towel.

It's dim inside. One candle, lighting a silhouette; somebody half-asleep or ignoring her even when Abby clears her throat to indicate that she's there. Whatever. Fine with her.

She drops her things by the lip of the bath and wades in, scrunching her nose at the heat as she finds a spot to sit, and stretch out her legs with a sigh. Water's nice. It's going to wear her out. Thirty minutes to soak her muscles, and she'll turn in for the night.