#miles 01

when: Sunday, late afternoon

status: closed | @miles-easton

It was a good day, Seamus had woke up at the crack of noon to a very hungry and needy ginger named Pouncival digging their claws into his chest. After feeding them and starting the day off finishing off the rest of his substance supply. There was only one pill left and it wasn’t even the good kind. This meant they needed to go out much quicker than his normal pace. In quick fashion, he changed out of last night’s clothes while he had a conversation with his cat. Showering was not an option so in lieu of that he pulled on some clean-ish clothes from the floor and doused himself in cologne or perfume. They couldn’t tell what bottle they grabbed but it smelled fantastic and that was all that mattered.

First, before anything, he needed to get food. There was never anything but cat food and condiments at his place. While he thought about it, he remembered Lyons’ was showing the futbol game and he wouldn’t mind catching at least a few minutes of it while he waited for a heaping box of fried potatoes. He entered the pub and put his order in with the front hostess, eyes glued on the screen. They made their way up to the counter to reach over for his drink and bumped into the man already standing ahead of him. “Oh! Oh, ouch, bad vibe.” He went to apologize to Miles when he recognized him, but was thrown off by the ripping pain usually associated with a transformation going through his body. But, that wasn’t right. He didn’t do that, why would he do that? And how was it so fast? He worked his face while he tried to figure out what happened and looked back over to the now same height witch he’d just touched. Then to the ground where a shed of skin sat. 

“Um, hello?”

Kay wanders around this office... it’s mostly deserted save for a light on in the back. It’s late at night, after all; she was lucky to find even one person still awake.

Honestly, she’s not sure where she is. She knows what a courthouse is; they have all sorts of records and files. Her thought process is that maybe someone here might be able to figure out what she’s doing here, and how she can get home.

She pokes her head through the door with the light on, watching the man behind the desk do paperwork. She can’t read his nameplate from here, but with a get-up like that, he must be important. So she knocks, standing on her tiptoes to see over the man’s tall desk.