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exsiliumlogs2013-05-03 11:49 am
solitaire) wrote in exsiliumlogs2013-05-03 11:49 am
diamonds will always look like stones; ( open )
Date & Time: vaguely this week
Location: around the city and hold
Characters: remy lebeau & open;
Summary: a week in the life. many options, pick one and let's roll.
Warnings: tba
( a ) When you live dangerously, there is often a price to pay. He's been spending off nights exploring every inch of the city, from the tunnels to the ruins to the inhabited places. Sometimes, those escapades end in fights, sometimes he acquires injuries incidentally. He's been shot, by a fellow Transport, more than once. Such is his life, and he's used to it.
But he's far from stupid. He knows he has to take care of himself, if only to the slimmest extent. That means that tonight, just before night gives way to morning, he's shuffling around in the Transport Clinic. He doesn't want actual care, doesn't want anyone to see him. He's just taking what he needs, and then he'll be on his way. He rummages around for bandages, blood seeping through a not-yet-healed wound on his leg. He bites down on his lower lip, drops a bottle of something and winces as it clatters to the ground and it rolls away. Damn.
( b ) Some nights are better. Those are the nights he spends at his favorite tavern in the crumbling city, sitting at a back table and playing cards. He's taught the locals some of his games, learned many of their own in return. He laughs, they all drink, and the natives are blissfully unaware that he's slowly sucking them dry. He doesn't keep the money for himself, however, and really has no use for it anyway. Those coins find themselves in the pockets of those who need it most, going back into the establishments he frequents and the hands of children on the street.
Tonight the laughter is loud and the drinks are ordered readily. Remy's always up for a game, or a talk, with a fellow Transport, and if he sees one enter the tavern he'll wave them over with a hand still holding half the deck.
( c ) He doesn't like spending time around the Hold, truth be told. It's too militaristic, for his tastes, and when he can get away from that imagery it still tastes like a prison. But he can only get away with existing in the city alone for so long, and eventually during the day he circles back to the Transports' assigned quarters. He doesn't care much for the training rooms, either, but he can appreciate their functionality. So this afternoon, he slips into one of the less occupied rooms and gets to work. He keeps his skills sharp in various ways--boxing, sparring, target practice. He's not wearing his coat, keeps reaching up to brush his auburn hair off his forehead. After awhile, a comfortable layer of sweat on his brow and melting ache between his shoulders, he pulls out his deck of cards.
He shuffles once, twice, and then a third time. Each time, one card appears on top--the Queen of Hearts, the weapon he'd chosen for himself here. He hasn't done much with her, yet, not wanting to risk the consequences of her disappearing entirely if she blew up.
Today, he's bored, and idle. He flicks the card up between his index and middle fingers, examines it slowly. It flares, briefly, with the signature pink light of his powers. Experimentally, he tosses the card towards the nearest wall. He expects it to burst, bounce back. What he doesn't expect is for a deafening boom to sound, taking out the majority of the wall.
And, amongst the rubble? The Queen of Hearts, still in-tact.
( d ) And, if none of the above suit your fancy? This fellow can be found in all manner of places at all manner of times: out on the rooftops, in the outlands, in various places in the city. He's never still, and trouble seems to follow him as a rule.
Location: around the city and hold
Characters: remy lebeau & open;
Summary: a week in the life. many options, pick one and let's roll.
Warnings: tba
( a ) When you live dangerously, there is often a price to pay. He's been spending off nights exploring every inch of the city, from the tunnels to the ruins to the inhabited places. Sometimes, those escapades end in fights, sometimes he acquires injuries incidentally. He's been shot, by a fellow Transport, more than once. Such is his life, and he's used to it.
But he's far from stupid. He knows he has to take care of himself, if only to the slimmest extent. That means that tonight, just before night gives way to morning, he's shuffling around in the Transport Clinic. He doesn't want actual care, doesn't want anyone to see him. He's just taking what he needs, and then he'll be on his way. He rummages around for bandages, blood seeping through a not-yet-healed wound on his leg. He bites down on his lower lip, drops a bottle of something and winces as it clatters to the ground and it rolls away. Damn.
( b ) Some nights are better. Those are the nights he spends at his favorite tavern in the crumbling city, sitting at a back table and playing cards. He's taught the locals some of his games, learned many of their own in return. He laughs, they all drink, and the natives are blissfully unaware that he's slowly sucking them dry. He doesn't keep the money for himself, however, and really has no use for it anyway. Those coins find themselves in the pockets of those who need it most, going back into the establishments he frequents and the hands of children on the street.
Tonight the laughter is loud and the drinks are ordered readily. Remy's always up for a game, or a talk, with a fellow Transport, and if he sees one enter the tavern he'll wave them over with a hand still holding half the deck.
( c ) He doesn't like spending time around the Hold, truth be told. It's too militaristic, for his tastes, and when he can get away from that imagery it still tastes like a prison. But he can only get away with existing in the city alone for so long, and eventually during the day he circles back to the Transports' assigned quarters. He doesn't care much for the training rooms, either, but he can appreciate their functionality. So this afternoon, he slips into one of the less occupied rooms and gets to work. He keeps his skills sharp in various ways--boxing, sparring, target practice. He's not wearing his coat, keeps reaching up to brush his auburn hair off his forehead. After awhile, a comfortable layer of sweat on his brow and melting ache between his shoulders, he pulls out his deck of cards.
He shuffles once, twice, and then a third time. Each time, one card appears on top--the Queen of Hearts, the weapon he'd chosen for himself here. He hasn't done much with her, yet, not wanting to risk the consequences of her disappearing entirely if she blew up.
Today, he's bored, and idle. He flicks the card up between his index and middle fingers, examines it slowly. It flares, briefly, with the signature pink light of his powers. Experimentally, he tosses the card towards the nearest wall. He expects it to burst, bounce back. What he doesn't expect is for a deafening boom to sound, taking out the majority of the wall.
And, amongst the rubble? The Queen of Hearts, still in-tact.
( d ) And, if none of the above suit your fancy? This fellow can be found in all manner of places at all manner of times: out on the rooftops, in the outlands, in various places in the city. He's never still, and trouble seems to follow him as a rule.
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The "Out, mam'selle" has her raising her eyebrow in turn. The accent alone makes her curious, but that really amps it up. She takes out the other headphone and wraps the cord around her music player several times to keep it out of the way.
"Were you not expecting such a big explosion?" Although, it's a playing card, and she wouldn't expect that type of explosion either.
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"You sound like you deal with explosions on the regular. Are explosives a normal thing for you, mister?"
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He pulls a different card from up his sleeve, rips it in half and throws the pieces in the air. They burst into tiny, harmless explosions, like bright pink fireworks.
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"That is awesome! I suppose the bigger explosions will come in handy at some point, though, and hopefully not in a building with either of us nearby."
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"Likewise, Mr. Remy. How long have you been in Exsilium?"
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"And has anyone you've known appeared here during that time?"
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He doesn't count Cable. Cable sucks.
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BoysMen and their fighting, sigh.She looks over at the rubble for a moment, tapping her cheek with her finger. "Maybe training in another room might be good, unless you might try that card again..."
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"Might be kinda risky, though."
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Whoops, she let a bit of her bluntness seep through. At least it isn't aimed at Remy.
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That seems correct, to him. Since they didn't seem to accomplish anything, ever.
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She looks up at him, finger still tapping her cheek. "Are using playing cards for weaponry a normal thing for you, or something you picked up here?"
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Were you a magician in a past life or something? That's amazing!!
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( He says that in a faux-bashful way, like he's actually very pleased she's impressed. )
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You've just gotta practice.
Plus, it's easier than swinging some sword around, no?
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Anyway, I think I've bothered you enough with my questions. [ She concentrates for a moment and then creates an ice ramp over the rubble before lifting her hand up to wave. ] Have a good practice & day, Mr. Remy! [ And over the ice ramp she goes~ ]