#bastrps

>> Laughter and light spills into the street from the open bar door, and moments later you follow suit. You step backwards through the door, your attention elsewhere as you laugh at some joke, hands up and resting on the back of your head, fingers knit. Unabashedly, you make noise, take up space- Rare, for you, but you do have alcohol in your system.

>> Tir took you and Haylle out for celebratory drinks, since you're officially fully recovered. The three of you filter out into the sidwalk as Haylle points an accusatory finger at you, continuing your conversation from inside- Her voice carrying somewhat down the street. "--If the water turns the frogs gay, why the hell are there still frogs?? There needs to be-"

"Frog orgies, obviously," Tir cuts her off as he shuts the bar door behind you, throwing you all into relative darkness- There's plenty of light from the moons, stars, and city streetlamps. Haylle pulls a face trying to make sense of that and you snort with laughter, shaking your head- And as you do, you catch a glimpse of something out of the corner of your eye, and throw a glance down the sidewalk, your smile fading.

> Case file in hand, you stride up to Glasya’s office.

> The Investigations branch and, by extension, the Archives office have been moved to a less damaged part of the building. You know you’ve been holed up in your new office for the last few perigees- Recovering, providing support and direction for those still around, overseeing your little part of Gaia as it’s put back together.

> You walk with a limp still. Magic got you back on your feet quicker, but there’s still a long road to full recovery.

> You knock in a little rhythm on Glas’ door.

>> You hobble down the street, putting one paw in front of the other. Trolls stare at your mutant blood, but no one dares touch you. The teal blood around your mouth speaks to the last one who tried. Your shoulder stands a few feet taller than most trolls, after all.

>> A job gone wrong. Happens sometimes. If the fucker hadn't managed to shoot your phone in your jacket pocket, you'd have called for help instead of this.

>> You're not even sure you'll make it back. But you have to try. She's waiting for you. Step by step, drop by drop, you make your way home.

>> Your leg gives. You allow yourself to collapse and lie in the street.

>> You look at the address you hastily scrawled on a napkin, and then up at the building in front of you. Yeah, that looks like some kind of aquatic research facility to you. You honestly don't even remember what the hell this place was about and only vaguely remember the job listing. Something about being a handler. You're guessing it means a lot of heavy lifting or something, if they picked you of all trolls. Or maybe they just didn't remember what you looked like.

>> Honestly you're expecting them to just tell you why they're not actually hiring you and sending you on your way. You've lost count of how many other businesses have done that, or just never contacted you.

>> Walking in, you're painfully aware of how out of place you are in a sterile box like this. Still, with some asking around you get directed to the place you need to get to.

>> Hm. Uh oh.

>> Your boss dragged you out for a stroll to have you as arm candy, and then got distracted and disappeared into the crowd without your notice. Really, that guy...

>> ...Your annoyance is dulled by the fact that any one of these trolls could turn and decide to cull you. You're definitely catching a lot of looks and you're trying not to look too nervous. Just act confident, Arjana. Like you belong here.

>> Though someone jostles you, perhaps intentionally, rather harshly into someone else, causing you to stumble and nearly fall since you're rather light and easy to knock around.

"Ah-! Ngh, sorry..."

-> The pitch darkness of a cave yawns in the cliff face, half hidden by trees.

"xMan, I can't stop grinning like a fuckin' idiot.x"

>> You stand before an unmarked, sodden cardboard box. Inside are four shivering kittens, damp with the night's rain. They look to be a few weeks old.

>> How strangely cruel.

>> You crouch, and pluck a kitten from the box. It mewls pathetically at you.

>> You tuck it into one of the inner pockets of your jacket. You don't run very warm, but your pocket is warmer and more dry than the cold air.

>> You're... Not quite certain what to do with these. They're likely to get eaten by the new shop wyrmling, or else cause trouble and get kicked out by the shop.