風向轉變時,有人築牆,有人造風車

Procella grumbled from where she sat on the flat roof rubbing her left shoulder, which had taken most of the impact from the collision. She looked around for the person who had spoken and fell quiet as she spotted them. Whoever this person was, they seemed to have taken the brunt of their collision - coupled with their smaller size, it had indeed almost knocked the poor sod off the rooftop. 

Procella let out a curse, tightening her legs around the chimney as the other’s weight threatened to pull them both down. They were heavier than they looked, that was for certain. She scrabbled for a grip with her left hand, latching on to the edge of the roof to steady herself. Her other arm grabbed on tighter to the person hanging down, their pointy gloves creating little pinpricks of pain that only added to the burn of her muscles.

For a moment, everything was still.

“Well then. Fancy meeting you here, stranger.” Her voice had a slight edge of hysteria to it, but she couldn’t help it. “I think introductions will have to wait a minute. For now, can you brace your feet against anything? I’m going to try and pull you up.” She carefully rearranged her feet to give her more support, but the lift would still be mostly on her arms and back. Time to see if all that time spent beating people up had payed off. “I’m going to pull on three, okay? Do try and help pull yourself up. One… two… Three!”

It occurred to them at the moment that falling off Spite would a stupid way to go. (And further thought, no, they don’t blame the woman. They haven’t been paying attention, after all.)

Ignus gulped in breath, looking down at their hands. One was latched onto the woman’s own, and the other finding purchase in a little crack between tiles. All that shooting had built up their arms, but the panic was making it hard for them to think.

The silence eventually made way to sound. 

While Procella bordered on hysteria, Ignus’s tone was soft and wavered. Their eyes are wide and smeary. “Hah… ha yes… Not the greatest place for introductions.” Sweat dotted their brow as they pulled up a leg at her prompting, trying to kick at… something. D–m, wasn’t there something down there? “Yes, being pulled up… very nice.”

Their slippers caught on something just as Procella began her countdown; their arm tensed, the leaned forwards-

“-Three!”

-they kicked and pulled. They felt their foot leave that small catch. They are dragged. And-

“Introductions, was it? I’m Procella Eansa, and also very sorry for almost knocking you off the flit.”

The woman lets out a laugh, enough to startle them back. They turn to look at her as she stood, brushing off her dirtied dress. Was that their blood...ahhh.

A somewhat scuffed up hand was in their face. They wince at the damage these gauntlets had caused, unable to hide their expression as they shook their head, trying to get up by themself. Didn’t want to make that worse.

“A little late for introductions.” Procella’s smile was contagious. A little quirk was on their own thin lips as they gently pat at their dress, taking care to keep the points of their gauntlets from snagging. “And it’s just as much my fault. I haven’t been paying attention... the Flit isn’t really the place for daydreaming, isn’t it? You have nothing to be sorry about... you’ve helped me up, and that is more than I can ask for.”

Procella grumbled from where she sat on the flat roof rubbing her left shoulder, which had taken most of the impact from the collision. She looked around for the person who had spoken and fell quiet as she spotted them. Whoever this person was, they seemed to have taken the brunt of their collision - coupled with their smaller size, it had indeed almost knocked the poor sod off the rooftop. 

Procella let out a curse, tightening her legs around the chimney as the other’s weight threatened to pull them both down. They were heavier than they looked, that was for certain. She scrabbled for a grip with her left hand, latching on to the edge of the roof to steady herself. Her other arm grabbed on tighter to the person hanging down, their pointy gloves creating little pinpricks of pain that only added to the burn of her muscles.

For a moment, everything was still.

“Well then. Fancy meeting you here, stranger.” Her voice had a slight edge of hysteria to it, but she couldn’t help it. “I think introductions will have to wait a minute. For now, can you brace your feet against anything? I’m going to try and pull you up.” She carefully rearranged her feet to give her more support, but the lift would still be mostly on her arms and back. Time to see if all that time spent beating people up had payed off. “I’m going to pull on three, okay? Do try and help pull yourself up. One… two… Three!”

It occurred to them at the moment that falling off Spite would a stupid way to go. (And further thought, no, they don’t blame the woman. They haven’t been paying attention, after all.)

Ignus gulped in breath, looking down at their hands. One was latched onto the woman’s own, and the other finding purchase in a little crack between tiles. All that shooting had built up their arms, but the panic was making it hard for them to think.

The silence eventually made way to sound. 

While Procella bordered on hysteria, Ignus’s tone was soft and wavered. Their eyes are wide and smeary. “Hah... ha yes... Not the greatest place for introductions.” Sweat dotted their brow as they pulled up a leg at her prompting, trying to kick at... something. D--m, wasn’t there something down there? “Yes, being pulled up... very nice.”

Their slippers caught on something just as Procella began her countdown; their arm tensed, the leaned forwards-

“-Three!”

-they kicked and pulled. They felt their foot leave that small catch. They are dragged. And-

Ignus finds themselves narrowly avoiding a collision. They where just on their way back from Mahogany Hall, conversing softly with Balthazar from his usual perch, when the lady lands on the cobblestones. 

It wasn’t as though such happenings where uncommon down here. You see it happening all the time. It just never happened this close.

Procella grumbled from where she sat on the flat roof rubbing her left shoulder, which had taken most of the impact from the collision. She looked around for the person who had spoken and fell quiet as she spotted them. Whoever this person was, they seemed to have taken the brunt of their collision - coupled with their smaller size, it had indeed almost knocked the poor sod off the rooftop. 

But that really hurt. Whoever hit them clipped them with their shoulder, and yet  that almost flung them some ways right down to Spite. Well, if that rope wasn’t there. Little miracles, honestly.

This is what Procella would see. Spiderchitin gauntlets hooked into claws, wrapped around rope securely. The journalist swinging a little, resolutely staring up and breaths harsh. The grey gown they wore flutters with each oscillation, and the bonnet throws shades on their face. It made them look like the sulkiest bat.

d o w n

“Merp.” Went Ignus, grip tightening on the ropes. It was a mix of fear and the reaction to danger that got the blood to rush through, and their head felt like it was in the middle of a storm. They tended to avoid the Flit whenever they could, and there where reasons why. (Mostly, the examples of those who fel-)

They quickly attached a hand to Procella’s offered, trying not to nick her with the sharp little clicks on the gauntlet. The rope made some strange popping sounds as they tugged at it with that action, having to propel themselves up with some effort. “Thank yo-”

The rope swung once before there was a snap.

Procella grumbled from where she sat on the flat roof rubbing her left shoulder, which had taken most of the impact from the collision. She looked around for the person who had spoken and fell quiet as she spotted them. Whoever this person was, they seemed to have taken the brunt of their collision - coupled with their smaller size, it had indeed almost knocked the poor sod off the rooftop. 

But that really hurt. Whoever hit them clipped them with their shoulder, and yet  that almost flung them some ways right down to Spite. Well, if that rope wasn’t there. Little miracles, honestly.

This is what Procella would see. Spiderchitin gauntlets hooked into claws, wrapped around rope securely. The journalist swinging a little, resolutely staring up and breaths harsh. The grey gown they wore flutters with each oscillation, and the bonnet throws shades on their face. It made them look like the sulkiest bat.

Ever since they started their stint in journalism, Ignus had been receiving some rather unflattering letters. In a slightly more flattering amount, if they where trying to be vain.

Bats tended to demand crickets, though, and they where already running low.

If they had been the type, they would simply bind them together and chuck the lot into the flames, and cackle away on a new article as the d–mned things burnt as merrily as they would laugh. Well, they would dump the letters into the fire (sans laughing manically). But the last time they did that, it ended a little poorly.

Best to get with reading it. Who was it this time? 

He most certainly did not, as it said, “need only to flash a bit of thigh and spend some secrets to be welcomed to the Parlor of Virtue like a trusted regular”. Why, he was only an occasional visitor at best!

Stamping his way to the unfortunately shared office office, he shoos away a dazed (drunk?) acquaintance with the insistence that he has “vital, life-or-death work to do”. He sets to work with a vengeance, his pen sweeping the page, fierce as a rapier.

“To Whom it May Concern…

…”

He lays the insults on thickly and expertly, calling into question the virtue of the author, the publisher, the publisher’s mother, the snapper of the (certainly forged) photographs. He puts the paper itself and it’s credibility on full blast, sparing nothing – not the grammar, not the header, not the spacing of the paragraphs. He dots his i’s fiercely, not-so-lightly hinting at dragging the names of those involved through the proverbial mud, and at last finishing it with a curt challenge to the recipient:

The letter was indeed very angry. Between reading it and pausing, it feels like the words themselves where trying to snap jaws at their face. 

Ignus gently placed the letter onto the table, before leaning heavily on an elbow, massaging the ache that grew between their eyes the further they read. It was easy to dismiss the insults written to their virtue, and those simply to their person, and oh-their mother (which was….who… They haven’t had to think about it in a long while, but there was a sharp laughter that just intensified that headache). Not quite so easy to shrug off when it came to their writing.

There wasn’t very many things they where as proud of as they where of their words, even if they had to occasionally reach for the wine to write the same convoluted drivel every single time ever since they’ve been ousted from Court. (Not to mention their ‘fellow’ editors. Frankly, they’ve taken to stop reading parts of the news by now.) A lady this this. A man did that. Figures of mysterious and indistinct genders dancing in a flurry of reds and wrong leads.

And a duel of words? At the Square? It’s been a while since their last. 

“You should just let loose a barrage of screams onto this poor sap.” Balthazar squawked right into their ear on his new perch (the shoulder). It said something when Ignus didn’t just shove the bloody bastard off. “Y’know, all these poncy, acid words are annoying as anything. And the bottles are all gathering dust. Like all this damn brass.” The journalist turned a half eye to the dark creature. “Not as if that wouldn’t be entertaining.” They grumble. “But this person should at least have their…invitation honored. Not like you of all things would care.”

“But of course, I do not have to. I’m a bloody bird.”

With a sigh, Ignus reached out a groping hand. There wasn’t a date or time inscribed, so they could only assume the sender expected something in return, at the least. It was tempting to pretend they did not see it, but no. “In any case, a writer needs to listen to….” A glance at the thing that started it all “….critique.”

The word critique was uttered sourly as they begin to write, much more eagerly then they would let on.

“Dear valued reader, 

I accept your call. 

Two days later, under the glow of the first light. I will be there.

Regards,

“I was honey-mazed all night and woke up on your fainting-couch, I don’t know you.”

It wasn’t every so often Ignus finds themselves entertaining a guest. And this ‘every so often’ usually didn’t include one who was honey-mazed. In blunter words, body bereft of mind.

The Journalist sat, resisting the urge to chew the nib with a grumble. With a strange diligence they watched the man they’d convinced themselves to drag back to their little gambling den, if only out of a moment of kindness (certainly not because they might have shared a dream. no, really. their visit was all business. they’ll be tired of honey for a while). The man almost got run over by a hansom cab, forgive them for being just a tad worried.

Driskill’s little blunder has Ignus hide a small quick smile behind the cup, and they drink it away before he could see. They really did pity him; the man most certainly felt poorly, and perhaps wouldn’t appreciate being found amusing. Well, knowingly at least. “You should leave that to when you’ve gotten your bearings.” They set down their cup for a free hand, a few stubborn drops that clinged pooling to the bottom. “And it’s Ignus Englehart. Wouldn’t say it’s been a pleasure to meet you just yet. Perhaps under a different circumstance.”

There was a tinge of mirth that leaked in their tone.

“I was honey-mazed all night and woke up on your fainting-couch, I don’t know you.”

It wasn’t every so often Ignus finds themselves entertaining a guest. And this ‘every so often’ usually didn’t include one who was honey-mazed. In blunter words, body bereft of mind.

The Journalist sat, resisting the urge to chew the nib with a grumble. With a strange diligence they watched the man they’d convinced themselves to drag back to their little gambling den, if only out of a moment of kindness (certainly not because they might have shared a dream. no, really. their visit was all business. they’ll be tired of honey for a while). The man almost got run over by a hansom cab, forgive them for being just a tad worried.

Culled, clipped, compiled from the deliciousfriends RP chat, a bouquet of starters for your RP blog. Reblog as an askbox meme, so someone can send out a number and start a scene, or simply lift the prompt of your choosing to write and start a scene of your own. Be creative, be clever, be canny. (Or … uncanny). 

“My bat delivered the wrong message to the wrong person and that person is you. You haven’t read it, have you?”

“You nearly knocked me off the Flit!”

“We met in a honey-dream. Why are you climbing that Parabolan tree? That’s mine.”

“You outbid me at an auction of proscribed and seized literature.”

“You tried to pickpocket me, and now I’m giving chase.”

“Your newspaper wrote an unflattering article, and I’m writing a strong letter.”

“You invited me to your house for dinner, but is this pork? It tastes odd. Where did you get this meat.”

“I was honey-mazed all night and woke up on your fainting-couch, I don’t know you.”

“Somebody hired me as a private investigator, and you’re the prime suspect.”

“I have fallen off/out of my vehicle of choice, and you’re either helping me, or laughing your ass off.”

“I think I saw you perform at Mahogany Hall, can I have your autograph? (That may not have actually been you.)”

“You insulted my ship and I can’t let you get away with that.”

“Yes, hello, stranger, could you please let me into your house, I swear I don’t have constables on my trail or anything.”

“An elderly tomb colonist is drunk and challenging you to a fist fight over me.  What the hell.”

“Why do you keep showing off your tattoo?  It’s making high society people faint from the shock of skin.”

“You have an orange.  From the Surface.  And you keep trying to defend it from everyone who wants to steal it.  (And I’m just trying to get you to share because it’s been so long.)”

“We’re both at the Empress’s court and holy crap am I bored.”

“I’ve got no tickets at Mrs Plenty’s Carnival, you saw me eyeing the attractions, and gave me yours.“

“I’m challenging you to a duel. Not that kind of duel. Meet me first lamp-light in the Square of Lofty Words.”