#perditos

sure, there are monuments the winter soldier recognizes, bellying up into membrane squeezing sore holes in it's brain. it knows the direction it's heading, and it knows some of these craggy old paths, route 350 cutting through virginia up toward new york. but when the way spills out into the interstate, the soldier is lost--they've nothing to consult, no memory or knowledge of the area--and their trajectory unintentionally shifts until they find a stretch of semi-rural road, forking off in three directions.

the soldier realizes they are hungry, and survivalism sinks it's claws into them. they have to eat something, have to hunt or make a few bucks to afford a meal or scrounge through a dumpster the way they had a few nights ago. it detested the humiliation the act wrought, but there was no other option; it couldn't shoot at birds perched on wires, couldn't snare a squirrel in a city, and the produce it'd stolen had finally ran it's pack empty. now, they only carried a change of clothes, their obscured weaponry, a half-empty bottle of water, a stolen pack of cigarettes. the soldier has learned these are easy to trade for favors and food, and fingering a carton from a gas station before it'd abandoned the vehicle it'd stolen had benefited it more than it had anticipated.

it follows the swollen glare of a neon diner sign until it's standing in the modest parking lot, staring up at the rickety metal and bright tubes spelling out armstrong's kitchen. with a low, resigned exhale, they shoulder through the door, taking a moment to visually sweep the perimeter. there's a middle aged man behind the counter, an elderly couple in the corner, a woman pivoting between tables, and a very large blond man tucked near the front window, alone. sometimes, the elderly took pity on them, but... the scent of old smoke immediately burns at their nares, something sickly familiar about it all. their mouth crooks.

' excuse me. ' the winter soldier's tone is deceptively low, soft, and steady. they approach him, noting the whorl of dense hairs, thick muscle. this man looked like an ex serviceman, if not for the long hair.

something about them was mechanically cold beneath the calm yet vulnerable veneer; their prosthetic arm shifts, chromatic hand obscured by a ratty brown leather glove. the soldier quickly learned how off putting it was to an average civilian. ' i've been on the road a few days and i've ran out of food, and i don't have any money left. do you smoke? i have cigarettes i'd trade for a meal. '

Between Halsin and Nabs :3

Send me a ♡ plus a ship and I'll tell you... || Open!

single questions like this are also fine and appreciated :P

Halsin by default since he only needs four hours of meditation tops, but, then again, he will probably do said meditation before Nabooru can properly fall asleep, even if she wants to. Still, she will eventually fall asleep after he's finished meditating, likely.

Since waking up on the Nautiloid, Duri had felt lost- like a string cut loose from a larger tapestry that she could no longer identify for find her way back to. The tiefling refugees in the grove and the other victims of the tadpole had given the sorcerer a purpose for her innate magical talents. Still, on nights like this when the campfires lowered and everyone disappeared to their beds, Duri experienced a sort of emptiness. While her friends had memories, both good and bad, to ruminate on, Duri had nothing. Only a sharp pain in her skull when she tried too hard to resurrect her past self and a red mist that crept into her consciousness if she let herself relax too much.

At least she had a nice view while on watch duty tonight.

The group descended into the Underdark earlier that day. It had been a prospect none of them looked forward to, but once they crawled out of the ruins of the old Selunite temple they discovered the surrounding landscape possessed a peculiar sort of beauty. From their camp site on  a cliff edge, Duri could see rock formations jutting up from the ground and  spread out for miles, lit up by the various species of mushrooms and glowed through the gloom. She found it charming at least.

Duri leaned back on her boulder perch and turned her face towards the distant surface above. Nothing but pitch back; just like her mind. Her sigh was faintly visible in the air, the cool air of the Underdark contrasting with a tiefling’s natural warmth. She thought she was alone until a low voice, scarcely audible, cut through the silence of the unending night.  The tiefling slid down from her position and kept her steps soft as she followed the speaker’s voice, growing increasingly exasperated and it simultaneously gained volume.  Just before Duri turned a corner, she recognized the voice - Astarion.

The vampire spawn was standing alone in the darkness. Duri did not find this particularly unusual given his previous proclivities, but the fact he was shirtless and muttering in displeasure was odd. Astarion usually stayed covered - barring one intimate instance after they defeated the goblins- that still brought an awkward warmth to her already pink cheeks.  Duri had seen his scars then - the secret he had seemed to guard even more than his vampirism.

The morning she woke up in the woods and saw them  under the full light of the sun, Astarion had not wanted to discuss the markings at all when Duri brought them up. Although, it seemed that her inquiries then had piqued his curiosity about them. For a few moments Duri watched as fingers, usually dextrous and skilled, failed to trace and identify the raised lines.

“I F- or is it an E? Is it even a letter?” Astarion dropped his hands in defeat, forming them into fists at his sides. “What damned language is this?”

Duri knew. She had recognized the language of the hells immediately, but did not have a chance to tell him since he had nonchalantly brushed off any postcoital discussion…and also since Duri had been uncertain how to face him without bursting into flames from awkward shyness. Now though, she was given an opportunity to help. A purpose again. Something only she could offer as the only tiefling in their party who had seen the markings.

If this was another harsh lesson, he was tired of learning from it.

No matter the stage of his life: a child, a desperate young man, still a desperate man, Essex always seemed to worm his way back in somehow. Again, he felt the situation he was in was due to a lack of choice; either submit or be trapped as that...thing...for god knows how long. Remy didn't even want to call the procedure he had performed a cure, he could still feel the wicked blood in his veins and dark roots firmly planted in the recesses of his mind. He could say, at least for now, that he had some semblance of control over his own body.

As with anything involving Essex, he never offered his services for free. Yet again, Remy found himself in the geneticist's debt. This time though, the questions he had failed to ask as a pup were some of the first words that came out of his mouth when he was asked to reclaim a facility on his behalf. His partner for the job? None other than Victor Creed.

He was the butt of God's jokes lately, huh? He could have sworn he felt the scar under his suit flare up in memory.

Remy never would have anticipated that he'd be spending his day being smuggled into a genetics facility in the back of a cargo truck with Sabretooth. The trip was long and uncomfortable, and not because of the confined space. He always had that heinous, fang-brimmed smile on his face.

@perditos asked: 1. For our muses to be making latkes

Charles would like to bond with his son

Hanukkah Starters

   “I’m surprised y’ wanna help me with this, dad,” David says, grinning as he pulls a bowl and a colander out of the kitchen cupboards. “Delighted, but surprised.”

   He’d just got back from the shops a few minutes ago with everything he needed to make a large batch of latkes. David was planning to share them with Kitty and Bobby and yes, the amount of potato he’s planning to grate might be too much for the three of them, so perhaps he can be convinced to share them with more than that. It’s partially a nostalgia thing that drives him to make a big batch, because he’s following his mother’s recipe.

   David was contemplating the potatoes when his father wheeled into the kitchen, eager to involve himself in his son’s activities. Charles isn’t Jewish and David doubts he’d ever consider converting, nor would David ever even ask, but he does feel a warmth in his chest over it. A joy that his father wants to understand his culture.

Nabooru lowered herself onto the rock next to Astarion, only just hiding the wince as a sharp pain radiated from her side. She could not recall when or what landed such a blow on her, adrenaline and the rapid cadence of the days events dulling the pain from the injuries she incurred. Most were small, along side the rewarding ache in her feet from a long day's journey, but now she could not deny that the injury blossoming beneath her fingertips might be more serious than she thought. A bruise, certainly, a cracked rib a viable possibility.

" Our healers have had a long day, too. I can't imagine they have much fire left for dealing with what is likely a minor bruise. " Gold eyes roved between each of them: Shadowheart and Basil seeming to be deep in prayer to their respective gods before their tents, Halsin busy with chopping more firewood at the edge of their camp. Gratefully too busy to pay her much mind, and she apparently fooled them well enough to keep them from prodding. Or, at least, Halsin and Basil from prodding; Shadowheart didn't pay her much mind thus far, and Nabooru could not say she particularly trusted her to heal her anyway.

What she did not mention was that she would prefer to take a break from magic, wound-mending or otherwise. Though her negative reaction to it lessened with enough exposure to it, the balance of it used in aid rather than harm to her tipped gratuitously toward the former, the spaces between each battle or healing session or other reason someone (Gale) decided magic would serve them best allowed her a moment to breathe. To re-stabilize her mental state.

His suggestion did raise her eyebrow, but considering she could not assess the wound herself, the Gerudo dropped her hand from her side. " That's exactly what a lech would say, " she joked, lifting the arm closest to him to keep it from obstructing his view. A few minor lacerations dribbled blood on the exposed skin around a bruise the size of a small plate discolored the flesh near the lower portion of her ribcage. Easy to miss unless observed at close proximity.

" Well, healer Astarion? What's your diagnosis? "