[After no small consideration, and but two attempts to marshal her thoughts into order:] So is it that we live with fewer secrets here, or do we just find better ways to keep them? [Everyone has secrets; she'd not insult through insinuation otherwise. Rather she thinks of Nyx looking silently at a photograph, and then a van driving toward her vantage, slowly. Secrets.] If it's a matter of forgetting the important details, I'd want a head start on the training.
[Prompt D]
[One solid tap from the dart gun of a stranger is enough to convince Crowe to go about similarly armed. Not that she makes a habit of firing these things at just anyone. Circumstances as they are, though, the hiss-click of darts fired leaves her jumpy and irritated, and then even more bothered that it's gotten to her and it shows. As she can't see the spread of deep blue paint across the back of one shoulder, the distrust and suspicion seems to grow on its own, chasing her with the smell of ash in the air and faint, blooming scorch marks along the walls she passes.
Approaching a corner, Crowe hefts the dart gun in one hand (all right, it hasn't much heft, but there are words you use for this sort of thing) and stops, listening. Someone is there, she's certain. Probably someone come to shoot her. It ought to seem like harmless fun, the first hit certainly didn't hurt much, yet the longer she waits and strains her ears the more grounded her conviction that an ambush awaits her and it will be grisly.
Which means she's going to turn that corner, aim, and shoot whoever-it-is first. It's no knife and definitely no working spell, but it will have to do.]
[Prompt E - a]
There sure is a lot of firepower around here. [Says Crowe to no one special, snorting and shaking her head at her audience of vibrant flowers. The torch in her hand doesn't hold a candle to what she could do just days ago, but idleness hardly becomes a Glaive, and the others are around helping somewhere. She thinks it a shame to put so much beauty to fiery rest, all on the word of someone else that it's too dangerous to keep.
But a job's a job. As she walks the perimeter of a meadow, one foot brushing petals and pollen and the other leaving no track in a firebreak, her boots grow dusky with dirt and ash. That, at least, is familiar enough. The mask over her nose and mouth hide both curiosity and frustration; she pulls down her makeshift hood against the heat of small blazes. Crowe works the torch and path with practiced motions, periodically grabbing the water buckets left nearby to stop anything from spreading too quickly. Wouldn't want the whole place to go up at once, spread into town, turn the home into a hearth. Around her are what she can only call mages, who need no buckets or no torches or both, sometimes.
The wrenching in her gut over that, the echo of memory and pain with it, are less than they have been. Hard to believe it dimmed after such a tiny span of days.]
At least this scent beats a city's burning. [Ash it may be, but it carries no smoked meat and no screams. She thinks nothing of the mask's improper fit, nor of her own knocking it askew to wipe her face. Soon enough she's grinning as she works, and then laughing, not taking any care at all with whether the flames that spring up where her torch brushes the leaves stay contained or run rampant. If anything, her strange joined bubble of elation and ire only feeds the local blaze, adding breeze to stir its fervor up a bit.]
[Wildcard]
[Do your worst?]
[[Please forgive some delays in response in these first few days, as I am out of town and borrowing computer space to poke around here a bit!]]
Crowe Altius | FFXV: Kingsglaive
[After no small consideration, and but two attempts to marshal her thoughts into order:] So is it that we live with fewer secrets here, or do we just find better ways to keep them? [Everyone has secrets; she'd not insult through insinuation otherwise. Rather she thinks of Nyx looking silently at a photograph, and then a van driving toward her vantage, slowly. Secrets.] If it's a matter of forgetting the important details, I'd want a head start on the training.
[Prompt D]
[One solid tap from the dart gun of a stranger is enough to convince Crowe to go about similarly armed. Not that she makes a habit of firing these things at just anyone. Circumstances as they are, though, the hiss-click of darts fired leaves her jumpy and irritated, and then even more bothered that it's gotten to her and it shows. As she can't see the spread of deep blue paint across the back of one shoulder, the distrust and suspicion seems to grow on its own, chasing her with the smell of ash in the air and faint, blooming scorch marks along the walls she passes.
Approaching a corner, Crowe hefts the dart gun in one hand (all right, it hasn't much heft, but there are words you use for this sort of thing) and stops, listening. Someone is there, she's certain. Probably someone come to shoot her. It ought to seem like harmless fun, the first hit certainly didn't hurt much, yet the longer she waits and strains her ears the more grounded her conviction that an ambush awaits her and it will be grisly.
Which means she's going to turn that corner, aim, and shoot whoever-it-is first. It's no knife and definitely no working spell, but it will have to do.]
[Prompt E - a]
There sure is a lot of firepower around here. [Says Crowe to no one special, snorting and shaking her head at her audience of vibrant flowers. The torch in her hand doesn't hold a candle to what she could do just days ago, but idleness hardly becomes a Glaive, and the others are around helping somewhere. She thinks it a shame to put so much beauty to fiery rest, all on the word of someone else that it's too dangerous to keep.
But a job's a job. As she walks the perimeter of a meadow, one foot brushing petals and pollen and the other leaving no track in a firebreak, her boots grow dusky with dirt and ash. That, at least, is familiar enough. The mask over her nose and mouth hide both curiosity and frustration; she pulls down her makeshift hood against the heat of small blazes. Crowe works the torch and path with practiced motions, periodically grabbing the water buckets left nearby to stop anything from spreading too quickly. Wouldn't want the whole place to go up at once, spread into town, turn the home into a hearth. Around her are what she can only call mages, who need no buckets or no torches or both, sometimes.
The wrenching in her gut over that, the echo of memory and pain with it, are less than they have been. Hard to believe it dimmed after such a tiny span of days.]
At least this scent beats a city's burning. [Ash it may be, but it carries no smoked meat and no screams. She thinks nothing of the mask's improper fit, nor of her own knocking it askew to wipe her face. Soon enough she's grinning as she works, and then laughing, not taking any care at all with whether the flames that spring up where her torch brushes the leaves stay contained or run rampant. If anything, her strange joined bubble of elation and ire only feeds the local blaze, adding breeze to stir its fervor up a bit.]
[Wildcard]
[Do your worst?]
[[Please forgive some delays in response in these first few days, as I am out of town and borrowing computer space to poke around here a bit!]]