February 4 - 11:36pm

The street near the Hotel

@malachileclair

She was holding one shoe in her hand, hobbling down the street, unable to stop or the guards by her side would just pull her along instead. It was a miracle that she’d been given long enough to change and put the one shoe on at all. So instead, she had to shrug her jacket on as she walked down the street, stumbling slightly as they walked.

In between the steps, she tried to slip the second shoe on, tripped, was caught by one of the guards. Nearly said thank you, but instead they only dragged her forwards, and the words were cut off in her mouth.

Still she tried to keep her head up, and somehow spotted Malachi near the entrance of the hotel. She flashed him a smile and shrugged off the arms that still held her shoulders.

"You’ll need to keep still for this." He gives into what’s left of the bar as he kneels in front of the cut he cleans, glass crunching under his feet, blood near them. (The ghost of it on his knuckles, bruised.) (None of it his own, but when did he have to say this?)

(He's stitched skin back together in worse places, with more blood; his hands won't tremble. Instead, what grips to the mind, to skin, is something of history, is the effects of man, of mobs, of who will be chased. He knows. It leaves an anger, it leaves a grief that howls in only silent ways, lingering ways. A grief that’s now a year old. He treats patients with the old careful hand, but the cuts are still present. Hasn’t even yet brought his mind to Metzger, other worries, other duties, but he doesn’t run to check on the man either, doesn’t care to treat that blood.)

Hands are almost posed in question, how much pain the other is in for Malachi to inspect the cut. "Is there anywhere else you're in pain?"

LOCATION: COSTUME CAR

STATUS: OPEN

She can hear the rattling of movement outside her door, busy people doing absolutely nothing with far more noise than they have any right to be making. She rolls her eyes and passes another stitch through, field of pink balsamine blooming on black silk. Soft fabrics and flowing darkness edge around her, muffling the sound into a weak rustle as they move on down the hallway. Her record player drowns them out soon enough, scratching violin whimpering through the air. Laurel finishes a flower and bites off the thread, tying a deft knot in the back.

She smooths out the fabric, practiced fingers over the perfect stitches, all shiny in a row. Perfection. Then, there’s the sound of the car door sliding open, the sudden crackle of noise bursting into her exquisitely quiet space, disrupting. The scowl comes easy to her face and she looks up, disdain and incredulity clear in her voice. “Yes? Why are you bothering me?” She works on threading her needle again, never looking at it.

“Metzger is full of shit,” Shahrzad spat, her favorite English curse shooting off of her tongue like a bullet. A lot of big talk, coming from a small girl familiar with cages. But Shahrzad had always felt more rage where others felt fear or nervousness, and sometimes that worked in her favor. Sometimes. “Didn’t you hear him just now? He’s never sounded so unhinged! We have him rattled. This can succeed, but only if we all stand our ground together.” Her passion and conviction was inspired, but whether it could carry a whole revolution remained to be seen.

Aladdin was dead. He was gone. Permanently. Fingers curling tighter around the glass in her possession, Nerissa tried to use the object to steady herself, shying away from the blunt truth. Silly girl...you didn’t think he...escaped? Her doubt sounded an awfully lot like Metzger’s voice, the characteristic taunts she had spent her life listening to. But a part of her had hoped. Because if Aladdin could...then perhaps she could too? Silly girl. With silly dreams. There was that voice again. 

Inhaling sharply, shrouded in the corner of the cart (out of sight, out of mind), Nerissa raised the glass to her lips, a thousand memories of Aladdin washing over her. An encouraging hand as she soared for the very first time. A willful laughter after training. The heat of show lights. The fizz of lemonade. A steady smile. The past was all that was left of him now. “To Aladdin.” She stated simply, toasting to all he had been. “Rest in peace.”

if you want one of these just reply to this post!

i. doubt that the sun doth move

this night has felt too long. ceydran was jolted awake from where he had finally, mercifully dozed off to find himself locked in his sleeper car. great. he stares out his window and tries not to think about how far away the ocean is, and how long it will take for someone to get him out. he’s not sure he wants someone to.

ii. perchance to dream

when he finally gets out, he finds himself wishing he hadn’t. everyone is on edge, and he can feel his scales flickering in waves across his skin. when he finds out what happened, he almost feels... betrayed? why didn’t anyone ask him to be a part of this, he’s no metzger sympathizer, surely they know that... maybe they think he’s a coward. he has his suspicions who did it, and he’s not sure whether to be hurt or relieved that they don’t trust him.

(closed to rebel members only)

iii. what is this quintessence of dust?

it was too much, inside. darkness, fear, tension all swirling together in an ugly hurricane. he decides that, since metzger said they have to remain “on the train,” not in it, it’s fine that he’s climbed out this window and sat on the top of his sleeper car. not that he would care what metzger things is okay anyways. he’s cleaning his metal prosthetic hand, taking it apart and rubbing the rust off with an oiled cloth, just to have something to do while he stares out at the dusty sunset. just when he finds himself aching so badly with loneliness he’s considering actually going back inside, he hears footsteps on the roof.

iv. where be your gibes now?

Catalina was hoping by now the power would be back, however that didn’t seem to be the cause. She found a granola bar for breakfast that she already ate half of, knowing it’d be in her best interest to give away the other half but that would mean letting down more people. She instead lingered into the dining cart, noticing the much more tense energy. It was one thing when it happened overnight, but now people would start to get anxious. This made her think that perhaps going invisible was the better option right now, in case someone decided to use her as a punching bag. She didn’t because what good would that do right now? 

She made her way in, looking at an empty seat next to someone. Well, what else could she do? “Is this seat taken?” She asks tentatively, in case they were in a fighting mood today.

Please like this post/reply if you want to discuss closed, personalized starter so I know to message you on discord.