Browsing books for obsessive research, either at a bookshop or library or some abandoned stash in the wilderness. She gravitates towards nonfiction and technical manuals, but will also pick up a torrid romance and frown at it, skeptical.
Using her magic to heal combatants at the Dome after their bouts for a few extra joolies.
Parked out at the edge of diffusion zone, sitting on the hood of her truck and staring pensively up at the cube as it floats overhead; or perhaps there’s some mysterious and beautiful aurora at night, drawing her eye, a little wistful.
Browsing job listings and help wanted ads. She also stops and stares at the flower cart which pops up in Panorama, its offerings fresh and cheerful and florid; Lune, on the other hand, looks a little more stricken and unhappy at the sight than someone probably should.
Collecting and studying the cryptic religious pamphlets from the Matriarchs, with their eagerness about the cube. (“What do you think they mean, ‘the time for ascension is near’?”)
Wildcards welcome, and feel free to hmu @ quadrille or my CR/intro comment to discuss anything! Will match format for tag-ins; also happy to do bespoke starters for folks.
[Of all the unexpected signs to see out in the fringes TRAVELER CAFE - PAY FOR YOUR MEAL, GET A FREE BOOK, ranks high on the list. It is a giant billboard of a thing that has sprung as unorganically from the ground as the rest of what finds out in the wilderness, although it gets points for a cheerful yellow sign that is more inviting than threatening in Alucard's opinion.
The basement is where the books are and the basement is where Alucard has been for the past hour, receipt for a cup of coffee and something called eggs benedict tucked into the coat of his pocket. The receipt is required for the free book, and one can spend as much time in the basement picking out said free book. It is a cozy enough space smelling of lightly aged paperback books and slightly sturdier hardcovers with a few leather bound older books tucked in for good measure.
Unfortunately, the only measure of order imposed upon the labyrinth of shelves is the use of alphabetical order by an author's last name. No genre areas, no call numbers like in a library, only surnames. Which means that finding something specific is impossible.
Alucard's been in the same spot for an hour now, slowly crouching further and further down the shelves to figure out if anything in the R section actually is relevant to his interests. He moves only when he's practically being stepped on.]
[ Part of the reason he didn’t hear her coming is this: Lune was floating.
There’s no real reason for her to do it indoors right now, she’s not avoiding any puddles or undergrowth or danger; but she’s been absorbed and distracted in browsing the books and it meant slipping back into muscle-memory, unconsciously drifting up and off the floor. Once she almost collides with this exceedingly pale man with long flowing hair crouched on the floor, however, she suddenly drops. Black boots hit the creaking floorboards as she lands. ]
No, my apologies, I didn’t see you there —
[ She’d been on the lookout for informative nonfiction, but wandering over from the S section, she’s now carrying Richard Scarry’s Cars and Trucks and Things That Go. The other book she’d just picked up (with an incredulous expression) has a vibrant blue-and-black cover, featuring a swooning woman in a gauzy white nightgown, being dipped by a man with toothy fangs and who’s wearing just, like, so much leather. Hmmm. ]
You could truly get lost down here; I’ve been trying my best not to knock over the stacks of books. [ Lune adds, critical, ] I think their organisation system needs some work.
[ This place is a marvel and she already loves it, but, well, she has notes for improvement. ]
[Alucard lets out a soft noise, more amused than offended. The drop says everything, and he's careful to offer a hand back up.]
Peril of the ability, I know.
[No harm has really been done, although Alucard can't help but notice the sharp contrast between the two books in Lune's arms. Are those fangs on the cover? Is someone else finding trashy supernatural romances?]
From what I can tell, it is entirely running by an author's last name. Everything else is irrelevant. One has to just go where the more popular letters for surnames are and hope.
[S, for example, is good. Common, but perhaps too common at this point.]
[ Lune accepts the helmet (safety first!) and holds it cradled between her palms, looking down at it: unfamiliar moulded plastic and padding, more sleek and modern than the early, basic, rather dinky all-leather helmets that Lumière had trialed for some of their vehicles. (One of the Expeditions had attempted cars; there were a few reports somewhere considering the merits of motocyclettes for their enhanced mobility.) ]
I saw these at the scrapyard, but I decided not to buy one. They looked like a death-trap.
[ which of course makes it typical that both of her partymates opted for the bikes but, well, what can ya do ]
Are you good at driving it?
[ She perhaps sounds a little dubious, a little fretful, but Sciel is already seated; and so Lune gamely puts on the helmet, wiggles it into place, and then swings herself onto the back of the bike, boots braced against a protruding edge. There’s a brief moment where she’s unsure where to put her hands, palms floating politely aloof, before she accepts that she has to shimmy closer and lace her grip around Sciel’s midriff in order to hold on. It’s closer than they’ve gotten in a while; in a way it’s nice, having the pragmatic excuse for some human contact. She doesn’t want to fall off, so. ]
Could be. [ Sciel replies gravely. ] Mine was positively spewing horrible smoke within a few hours of my getting it. Fortunately, someone thought to flag me down and help before I went up in smoke, too.
[ Said perfectly blasé, naturally. But it does make her curious, and she cants her head a little as she looks back at her fellow Expeditioner. ]
What did you end up choosing, then? [ Something practical, surely. It's easy to imagine that Lune spent hours at the Scrapyard, picking through their offerings with a keen eye and a lot of questions. She'd probably driven out of their with the best possible option.
The motorcycle beneath Sciel sputters a few times. ]
"Good?" [ Her face splits into a grin, nearly sheepish in the way it upturns her lips. ] Lune, I've never driven anything like this. But I haven't gotten into any accidents, or hit anyone, so...good track record so far. [ She's going to continue on, to help convince Lune that she can be trusted to transport them (relatively) safely, but Lune manages to surprise her by hopping on. There's a brief moment of surprise and another pleased smile as Sciel adjusts herself in the seat, waiting as Lune gets herself settled and wraps her hands around the driver.
There's no other choice. For safety. And other people had done the same, so it's really the only option available to them. There's surely nothing to the way that it just barely prickles at the back of her neck. ]
Hold on. [ She says, low, as if it bears repeating with them both already situated. And then she's off, taking it as slow as she can for Lune's sake, making their way to the dingy motel in which she's taken up temporary residence. ]
[ One thing that Aglaea will have learned fairly quickly about Lune: the woman often winds up fidgety and restless if they’re doing nothing but socialising. It’s better when she has something to do with her hands or keep her busy or multi-task, like plucking away at the guitar; or the dance lessons she takes from Aglaea herself, a tactile skill to be learned, a tangible activity for them to engage in. Whereas if there’s only conversation or the mere pleasure of someone else’s company, Lune’s emotions start buzzing with the guilty sense of not being productive enough, the creeping worry that she should be doing something more with herself.
(It’s easier if there’s some game attached to the hangout: something she can get competitive about, a board game, a card game, bowling. Ideally anything with complicated rules, tests of skill, and/or tracking points.)
Tonight, though, they’re trying their luck with drinks. Lune comes hurrying in out of the rain, to the wine bar they’d selected. It’s rundown, creaky wood floors and creaky furniture, and yet still a little pricier than the Panorama dive bars which only serve beer and questionable liquor. She wrestles with her umbrella at the entrance, shakes off the rain, spots Aglaea, and bustles over to pull up a chair and join the other woman. ]
Hello. You said you had some news?
[ No extra pleasantries or social niceties, no dilly-dallying with how are you or how’s the weather out there or how was your drive— this, too, is her version of friendly. She’s not trying to be rude. Just efficient and respectful of both their time. ]
[ A cut to the chase. It's really something Aglaea can appreciate, although she herself can on occasionally ramble through pleasantries. With the threads at her disposal, things like "how are you doing" can go without saying if she is in a rush. So she smiles, as Lune closes the distance, and shares her greeting. Aglaea is not in a rush today. In fact... her life in Panorama rarely put her in a rush, although the excitement (mild though it is) of her news did keep her more busy than normally. ]
Go ahead and order your drink first, [ she says as her hand gestures toward the bar and its tender.
Aglaea arrived not too long ago, but enough that she's already comfortable in her spot at the bar. Her coat with the subtly-mismatched blacks lays strewn across her lap and her long, plaid skirt drapes over warm leggings. She didn't have much by way of jewelry yet, but the months she's been here, she's starting to look more and more like a fashionable, modern woman and less like a Greek goddess. For the best – she really hated sticking out at the start of her "retirement."
While Lune orders, Aglaea pulls out her phone – a slightly nicer one than she had before with a colored screen, arguing to herself it was necessary for her success – and eventually leans forward to reveal a series of photos: the under construction interior of the bathhouse, its entry area which is marred with chalk outlines and crumbling walls. Most are ugly, yet strangely well framed, as if Aglaea doesn't know how to do anything without some beauty. Mixed into the photos is a charming, gray cat with blue eyes that might have been there to burglar Aglaea's lunch that afternoon. ]
[ Lune isn’t the only person with this idea, clearly. Often the healers at the Dome are the equivalent of field medics or nurses, delivering quick triage, the basics: patching up the variously concussed and sprained and broken combatants just enough that they’ll be able to come back next week and fight again. When your livelihood depends on combat, you probably can’t wait around for a femur to heal the old-fashioned way.
It’s not a particularly glamorous gig, and it doesn’t feel necessary the way that Lune’s old work did, but: joolies are joolies. And rent takes an aggravatingly large chunk out of her regular paycheck, and her truckette required a few additional repairs recently (she just bought it, how could this be the case?), and so: here she is in the backstage area of the Dome, waiting for each bout to end, making an occasional beeline for a wounded fighter as they return from the pit.
When the other dark-haired woman had walked past to her own fighter, Lune initially hadn’t paid it any mind— until the lashing movement of a scaled tail made her do a double-take. She tries not to stare, but she keeps sneaking a look over at where Aria’s working. The sudden glow of unfamiliar magic snaps her attention even more fully —
It’s a distraction. Her attention lapsed, she accidentally presses a little too hard on her patient’s arm, and he yelps in aggrieved pain. Lune jolts, ] Oh, don’t be a baby, [ and soon her palms are glowing with a comforting green light, the ugly laceration on his forearm sealing up.
When she wipes his arm with a wet cloth, it comes away smeared with watery red, but the skin is clear and clean and unmarred beneath the blood. She tuts, businesslike — There, done — and tosses the stained cloth into a bucket in the corner before accepting his joolies.
She could try to track down another potential patient now, but instead she finds herself watching the other woman work, her curiosity piqued. She stares a little too openly, craning her head, trying to watch her magical technique. ]
This wouldn’t ordinarily be a problem, except that Lune’s antique Citroën is finicky and temperamental; and so, in the early evening when she’s supposed to be driving home from work, tonight she finds herself abandoning the car and marching along the pavement instead.
It’ll be a long walk home, slogging through the rain, but she’s never flinched from the prospect of a hike. It’s also not long enough that she wants to call someone for help; she’s too stubbornly independent at times.
The rain isn’t overpowering, but it’s dogged and persistent, and she’s eventually drenched as she presses onward through the neon-soaked night. She occasionally levitates over an especially deep puddle, but is otherwise hunched into her jacket like a particularly unhappy pigeon, regretting her lack of an umbrella. She’s not accustomed to the concept of a “taxi”, and so the thought hadn’t even occurred to her that a professional service exists for this sort of thing. When a car slows down beside her and gives an insistent honk, she glances up, wary and mistrustful—
Sometimes you meet people who simply want to help. Other times they’ll probably rob you at the roadside. Mostly, you have to roll the dice to find out which one they are.
The driver’s window rolls down, the glass slick with trails of water, and she squints through the rain, wondering what they want. ]
Yes? [ Lune asks, arch, a little withering. The sort of ice-cold rebuff which might make someone think twice if they’re planning on catcalling or being a pain. ]
[ Roughly an hour after their brief text exchange, Kimiko pulls up outside of Lune's motel. Her SUV idles with nary more than a purr. People mill about; a cluster of youth, the oldest no more than fourteen, hack at a vending machine with their blunt machetes. She watches a woman tug a man eagerly inside a room, watches the curtains twitch closed a second later, before pulling out her phone. ]
I'm here. Outside.
[ True to her word, there's a bag of snacks in the backseat. Bottles of water, little bags of cheese and crackers, fruit slices in plastic cups, and some chocolate pudding packs if they feel particularly bold later.
As soon as she sees Lune's silhouette fall across the passenger window, she reaches over and unlocks the door.
A wave, a sign — ] Hello! [ It's very important. ]
[ It’s always a calculation and a risk assessment, how many cars to take. On the one hand, carpooling means one less vehicle, one less redundancy in case something breaks down or goes wrong out in the wastes; on the other hand, it saves on gas, plus wear-and-tear. Lune isn’t entirely sure she trusts her truckette to survive too many extra trips like this, and Kimiko’s SUV is much sturdier, and it’s better to share some conversation instead of just driving along in silence like a convoy, so— a roadtrip it is.
Her backpack’s got some food in it, though. There, she’ll err towards redundancy.
She flashes a hello back with her free hand as she opens the door and clambers in. Locks it behind her. Shoots Kimiko a smile, and an admission: ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
open.
Wildcards welcome, and feel free to hmu @
Book browsing in the wilderness
The basement is where the books are and the basement is where Alucard has been for the past hour, receipt for a cup of coffee and something called eggs benedict tucked into the coat of his pocket. The receipt is required for the free book, and one can spend as much time in the basement picking out said free book. It is a cozy enough space smelling of lightly aged paperback books and slightly sturdier hardcovers with a few leather bound older books tucked in for good measure.
Unfortunately, the only measure of order imposed upon the labyrinth of shelves is the use of alphabetical order by an author's last name. No genre areas, no call numbers like in a library, only surnames. Which means that finding something specific is impossible.
Alucard's been in the same spot for an hour now, slowly crouching further and further down the shelves to figure out if anything in the R section actually is relevant to his interests. He moves only when he's practically being stepped on.]
--Apologies, I didn't hear you approach.
no subject
There’s no real reason for her to do it indoors right now, she’s not avoiding any puddles or undergrowth or danger; but she’s been absorbed and distracted in browsing the books and it meant slipping back into muscle-memory, unconsciously drifting up and off the floor. Once she almost collides with this exceedingly pale man with long flowing hair crouched on the floor, however, she suddenly drops. Black boots hit the creaking floorboards as she lands. ]
No, my apologies, I didn’t see you there —
[ She’d been on the lookout for informative nonfiction, but wandering over from the S section, she’s now carrying Richard Scarry’s Cars and Trucks and Things That Go. The other book she’d just picked up (with an incredulous expression) has a vibrant blue-and-black cover, featuring a swooning woman in a gauzy white nightgown, being dipped by a man with toothy fangs and who’s wearing just, like, so much leather. Hmmm. ]
You could truly get lost down here; I’ve been trying my best not to knock over the stacks of books. [ Lune adds, critical, ] I think their organisation system needs some work.
[ This place is a marvel and she already loves it, but, well, she has notes for improvement. ]
no subject
Peril of the ability, I know.
[No harm has really been done, although Alucard can't help but notice the sharp contrast between the two books in Lune's arms. Are those fangs on the cover? Is someone else finding trashy supernatural romances?]
From what I can tell, it is entirely running by an author's last name. Everything else is irrelevant. One has to just go where the more popular letters for surnames are and hope.
[S, for example, is good. Common, but perhaps too common at this point.]
sciel.
continued from.
[ Lune accepts the helmet (safety first!) and holds it cradled between her palms, looking down at it: unfamiliar moulded plastic and padding, more sleek and modern than the early, basic, rather dinky all-leather helmets that Lumière had trialed for some of their vehicles. (One of the Expeditions had attempted cars; there were a few reports somewhere considering the merits of motocyclettes for their enhanced mobility.) ]
I saw these at the scrapyard, but I decided not to buy one. They looked like a death-trap.
[ which of course makes it typical that both of her partymates opted for the bikes but, well, what can ya do ]
Are you good at driving it?
[ She perhaps sounds a little dubious, a little fretful, but Sciel is already seated; and so Lune gamely puts on the helmet, wiggles it into place, and then swings herself onto the back of the bike, boots braced against a protruding edge. There’s a brief moment where she’s unsure where to put her hands, palms floating politely aloof, before she accepts that she has to shimmy closer and lace her grip around Sciel’s midriff in order to hold on. It’s closer than they’ve gotten in a while; in a way it’s nice, having the pragmatic excuse for some human contact. She doesn’t want to fall off, so. ]
no subject
[ Said perfectly blasé, naturally. But it does make her curious, and she cants her head a little as she looks back at her fellow Expeditioner. ]
What did you end up choosing, then? [ Something practical, surely. It's easy to imagine that Lune spent hours at the Scrapyard, picking through their offerings with a keen eye and a lot of questions. She'd probably driven out of their with the best possible option.
The motorcycle beneath Sciel sputters a few times. ]
"Good?" [ Her face splits into a grin, nearly sheepish in the way it upturns her lips. ] Lune, I've never driven anything like this. But I haven't gotten into any accidents, or hit anyone, so...good track record so far. [ She's going to continue on, to help convince Lune that she can be trusted to transport them (relatively) safely, but Lune manages to surprise her by hopping on. There's a brief moment of surprise and another pleased smile as Sciel adjusts herself in the seat, waiting as Lune gets herself settled and wraps her hands around the driver.
There's no other choice. For safety. And other people had done the same, so it's really the only option available to them. There's surely nothing to the way that it just barely prickles at the back of her neck. ]
Hold on. [ She says, low, as if it bears repeating with them both already situated. And then she's off, taking it as slow as she can for Lune's sake, making their way to the dingy motel in which she's taken up temporary residence. ]
aglaea.
(It’s easier if there’s some game attached to the hangout: something she can get competitive about, a board game, a card game, bowling. Ideally anything with complicated rules, tests of skill, and/or tracking points.)
Tonight, though, they’re trying their luck with drinks. Lune comes hurrying in out of the rain, to the wine bar they’d selected. It’s rundown, creaky wood floors and creaky furniture, and yet still a little pricier than the Panorama dive bars which only serve beer and questionable liquor. She wrestles with her umbrella at the entrance, shakes off the rain, spots Aglaea, and bustles over to pull up a chair and join the other woman. ]
Hello. You said you had some news?
[ No extra pleasantries or social niceties, no dilly-dallying with how are you or how’s the weather out there or how was your drive— this, too, is her version of friendly. She’s not trying to be rude. Just efficient and respectful of both their time. ]
no subject
[ A cut to the chase. It's really something Aglaea can appreciate, although she herself can on occasionally ramble through pleasantries. With the threads at her disposal, things like "how are you doing" can go without saying if she is in a rush. So she smiles, as Lune closes the distance, and shares her greeting. Aglaea is not in a rush today. In fact... her life in Panorama rarely put her in a rush, although the excitement (mild though it is) of her news did keep her more busy than normally. ]
Go ahead and order your drink first, [ she says as her hand gestures toward the bar and its tender.
Aglaea arrived not too long ago, but enough that she's already comfortable in her spot at the bar. Her coat with the subtly-mismatched blacks lays strewn across her lap and her long, plaid skirt drapes over warm leggings. She didn't have much by way of jewelry yet, but the months she's been here, she's starting to look more and more like a fashionable, modern woman and less like a Greek goddess. For the best – she really hated sticking out at the start of her "retirement."
While Lune orders, Aglaea pulls out her phone – a slightly nicer one than she had before with a colored screen, arguing to herself it was necessary for her success – and eventually leans forward to reveal a series of photos: the under construction interior of the bathhouse, its entry area which is marred with chalk outlines and crumbling walls. Most are ugly, yet strangely well framed, as if Aglaea doesn't know how to do anything without some beauty. Mixed into the photos is a charming, gray cat with blue eyes that might have been there to burglar Aglaea's lunch that afternoon. ]
Things are going apace.
aria.
It’s not a particularly glamorous gig, and it doesn’t feel necessary the way that Lune’s old work did, but: joolies are joolies. And rent takes an aggravatingly large chunk out of her regular paycheck, and her truckette required a few additional repairs recently (she just bought it, how could this be the case?), and so: here she is in the backstage area of the Dome, waiting for each bout to end, making an occasional beeline for a wounded fighter as they return from the pit.
When the other dark-haired woman had walked past to her own fighter, Lune initially hadn’t paid it any mind— until the lashing movement of a scaled tail made her do a double-take. She tries not to stare, but she keeps sneaking a look over at where Aria’s working. The sudden glow of unfamiliar magic snaps her attention even more fully —
It’s a distraction. Her attention lapsed, she accidentally presses a little too hard on her patient’s arm, and he yelps in aggrieved pain. Lune jolts, ] Oh, don’t be a baby, [ and soon her palms are glowing with a comforting green light, the ugly laceration on his forearm sealing up.
When she wipes his arm with a wet cloth, it comes away smeared with watery red, but the skin is clear and clean and unmarred beneath the blood. She tuts, businesslike — There, done — and tosses the stained cloth into a bucket in the corner before accepting his joolies.
She could try to track down another potential patient now, but instead she finds herself watching the other woman work, her curiosity piqued. She stares a little too openly, craning her head, trying to watch her magical technique. ]
̶m̶a̶r̶c̶ jake.
This wouldn’t ordinarily be a problem, except that Lune’s antique Citroën is finicky and temperamental; and so, in the early evening when she’s supposed to be driving home from work, tonight she finds herself abandoning the car and marching along the pavement instead.
It’ll be a long walk home, slogging through the rain, but she’s never flinched from the prospect of a hike. It’s also not long enough that she wants to call someone for help; she’s too stubbornly independent at times.
The rain isn’t overpowering, but it’s dogged and persistent, and she’s eventually drenched as she presses onward through the neon-soaked night. She occasionally levitates over an especially deep puddle, but is otherwise hunched into her jacket like a particularly unhappy pigeon, regretting her lack of an umbrella. She’s not accustomed to the concept of a “taxi”, and so the thought hadn’t even occurred to her that a professional service exists for this sort of thing. When a car slows down beside her and gives an insistent honk, she glances up, wary and mistrustful—
Sometimes you meet people who simply want to help. Other times they’ll probably rob you at the roadside. Mostly, you have to roll the dice to find out which one they are.
The driver’s window rolls down, the glass slick with trails of water, and she squints through the rain, wondering what they want. ]
Yes? [ Lune asks, arch, a little withering. The sort of ice-cold rebuff which might make someone think twice if they’re planning on catcalling or being a pain. ]
kimiko; road trip.
I'm here.
Outside.
[ True to her word, there's a bag of snacks in the backseat. Bottles of water, little bags of cheese and crackers, fruit slices in plastic cups, and some chocolate pudding packs if they feel particularly bold later.
As soon as she sees Lune's silhouette fall across the passenger window, she reaches over and unlocks the door.
A wave, a sign — ] Hello! [ It's very important. ]
no subject
Her backpack’s got some food in it, though. There, she’ll err towards redundancy.
She flashes a hello back with her free hand as she opens the door and clambers in. Locks it behind her. Shoots Kimiko a smile, and an admission: ]
This is my first recreational road trip. I think.