Perhaps not as bustling as the crowds that Waterdeep houses, but a London railway station is nothing to scoff at. It's a grey and smog-filled day, as it often is. The open-air, arched ceiling of the station lets in silver shafts of light which fall upon the dampened ground — last night was one of heavy rain.
Either way, should a certain someone disembark, another certain someone is surely waiting for them amid this crowd. Somewhere.
dozens upon dozens of men and women embarking, disembarking. a woman steps down, clad in striking plummy skirts and embroidered coat; a small blonde carries her briefcase and wears a riding skirt. another woman dressed in a pale sunny skirt which would easily stain, a nun, a woman in widow's weeds. some move with confidence to their next car, or to leave into the greater London area, and others hesitate. look for their loved ones to greet them.
[Heavens, no, one doesn't expect to see a tiefling, per se. Imagine the panic that would bring, to spy someone touting a devil's horns and tail amid a crowd of oblivious Victorians. It would incite a panic.
Which would admittedly make said tiefling easier to find, but perhaps not the ideal outcome.
No, if there is a detective in the throng of this crowd, seeking someone out, he is seeking out more than just "looks like a tiefling." He is looking for particulars: a certain height, a certain gait. Mannerisms that he would recognize. The awed look, perhaps, of someone not in a world of their own, but trying to pretend otherwise.
[ a detecting detective might, perhaps, note that the nun walks with a hesitant, uneven gait. the woman hauling the briefcase is looking for someone, her gaze darting around the station while she tries to hold everything in her arms. the woman in the golden skirt has stopped moving and stands amid the crowd, face lifted towards the grey sky while the crowd moves about her. ]
A certain detective chooses to approach the woman in the golden skirt!
However, a certain detective is also in disguise (bottom, Mrs. Minicle), hunched over like a (rather tall) old woman, curled wig and all, little old ladies' patchwork gown, thick glasses, and a weathered, wrinkly smile courtesy of plenty of stage make-up.
Creaky-voice:] Why, hello dearie! Might you spare a minute for an old lady?
[The "little" old lady leans in, squinting through her thick glasses. A moment passes, one of assessment and... something else, before her face cracks into a grin once more.]
Ohh, I see, I see. Freshly disembarked and seeking someone, are you? First time in London? Maybe I can help you look, dearie. [Pointing to her, again, very thick glasses.] I've the vision of an eagle!
Is that so? [ with a heavy accent and dark hair piled up at her nape in a manner not quite befitting the times, she supposes it would be obvious that she isn't from London. this polluted, dreary, drizzling, incredible place. ] And what did you need?
[A thousand little tells, perhaps, that maybe most wouldn't see. But the little old lady chuckles airily and replies with a wave of her hand, gesturing nearby, where a large wooden suitcase sits mere feet away.]
Just a lovely walking companion—and a strong, vigorous one, too!—to carry my luggage and walk me to my hansom along the street. It's so difficult with this old back of mine. You don't mind, do you?
[A new day dawns in the city of London, just as it has time and time again during Sprezzatura’s stay in this world. But there’s something strange about the emergence of this one: it feels as though waking from a heavy dream — or, perhaps, falling into one. A thick fog enveloping the mind, something shifting in the surrounding reality, before that curtain pulls back to allow clarity to seep back in.
And when it does… Sprezzatura might find herself, bafflingly, standing amid the sidewalk of a lovely street in London, lined with townhouses. Whether she has her human disguise or not depends on how mean you want to be to her; but otherwise, no one seems to bustle along the street in her direction for now.
[She will find that anything she had on her person before this strange displacement still remains; if she had her ring tucked away somewhere? Lucky her! If not? Well. Good luck navigating a random London street as a tiefling.
It seems to be early enough in the morning that the usual crowd has not yet spilled from their townhouses and into the street, though there is movement here and there in the windows as the daily routine begins to stir properly. And a faint clop clop clop echoing from down the way sounds as though it draws nearer. The slow but steady approach of a horse and carriage.]
[ she was sleeping! she is in her nightclothes, her ring on a nightstand nowhere nearby! barefoot, feeling the night's chill seeping from the cobblestones. the mist drifts lazily through the streets and alleys—a cold sun rises.
she can't be out here. nothing else registers beyond the sound of hooves and carriage wheels; Sprezzatura takes off at a sprint towards the nearest alleyway. ]
[Probably the wisest route. The alleyway runs parallel to the side of a particularly large townhouse — the carriage appears to have slowed to stop at its front, though Sprezzatura will have slipped out of sight by the time it manages.
We all know her perception is not great, but perhaps, even in her panic, it is just good enough to notice rustling and movement in the 2nd story window above. There is what appears to be a lanky young man trying... crawl out of it? Unaware of the blue woman below.]
[ oh, she notices—pressing her back to sooty, cold stone, shiveringly hiding in the slivers of steadily-decreasing shadow, she hears the rustle. sees the motion in the corner of her vision, up there...
Because that young man, all long limbs, scuttles out of the window with the practiced ease of someone who's defenestrated themselves before, with no issue. But it's the easing himself down that's the tricky part, having to rely on the downspout of the rooftop gutters to eventually shimmy himself to ground level.
He missteps, said downspout creaks angrily, and the young blond man hisses a curse out, clinging to the sill of the window-]
Blast!
[He hasn't noticed Sprezzatura below, but she might recognize the voice.]
[ a voice she would never—not even in her eldest, most addled years—forget. that slight rasp, the clear tone. and, if she needed any further confirmation, the sight of him, long-limbed and limber, trying to shuffle down the downspout.
her heart practically seizes in her chest. it takes all her willpower not to hurry to stand beneath. ]
[ Sholmes plummets too fast for any magic Sprezzatura might use to catch him. there's something in his expression, too, which stills her hand. as brief as it is, nothing sinks in but his fall.
when he hits the ground, he hits part of her, too, she having lurched forward almost without realizing. ]
[How kind of her to unwittingly break his fall! It’s a blessing that, for both of their sakes, he’s missed her horns, though landing on whatever part of her he does is still…
Uncomfortable.
The crash to the ground is a jolt down to his very skeleton, but he cannot help but feel her elbow in his side the most pointedly of all.]
Good god…! What are you-
[As if he’s not the one who fell. Sholmes tries his best to untangle himself from her, sitting up with a wince as soon as he can manage it.]
What in the blazes is this?!
[BLUE WOMAN??? THEATER TROUPE ESCAPEE?? BENEATH HIS WINDOWSILL??]
[ she's a strong woman, but a small one; to be crushed beneath a fully grown man still takes her to the ground and still crumples her limbs in ways that distinctly and truly hurt—joints that crack and bend wrong and bruises that spring up everywhere she touches the ground or he touches her.
but then he pushes himself up, speaks in harsh tones, and she opens her watering eyes to a face much younger than she knows. as though time itself has been shaved away. eyes that lack their spark. a furrowed brow. it's Herlock—she knows this is Herlock. but it's not right. he never looked at her like this.
confusion and pain—both physical and not—in her own expression. she pushes herself back from him on wobbly elbows. isn't she still asleep? ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
retroductions) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
finalflight2024-09-12 10:58 am
descends
akjsf that was fast
Perhaps not as bustling as the crowds that Waterdeep houses, but a London railway station is nothing to scoff at. It's a grey and smog-filled day, as it often is. The open-air, arched ceiling of the station lets in silver shafts of light which fall upon the dampened ground — last night was one of heavy rain.
Either way, should a certain someone disembark, another certain someone is surely waiting for them amid this crowd. Somewhere.
Right?]
no subject
dozens upon dozens of men and women embarking, disembarking. a woman steps down, clad in striking plummy skirts and embroidered coat; a small blonde carries her briefcase and wears a riding skirt. another woman dressed in a pale sunny skirt which would easily stain, a nun, a woman in widow's weeds. some move with confidence to their next car, or to leave into the greater London area, and others hesitate. look for their loved ones to greet them.
there is no tiefling. ]
no subject
Which would admittedly make said tiefling easier to find, but perhaps not the ideal outcome.
No, if there is a detective in the throng of this crowd, seeking someone out, he is seeking out more than just "looks like a tiefling." He is looking for particulars: a certain height, a certain gait. Mannerisms that he would recognize. The awed look, perhaps, of someone not in a world of their own, but trying to pretend otherwise.
Anything like that?]
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A certain detective chooses to approach the woman in the golden skirt!
However, a certain detective is also in disguise (bottom, Mrs. Minicle), hunched over like a (rather tall) old woman, curled wig and all, little old ladies' patchwork gown, thick glasses, and a weathered, wrinkly smile courtesy of plenty of stage make-up.
Creaky-voice:] Why, hello dearie! Might you spare a minute for an old lady?
no subject
I am busy at this moment. My apologies.
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Ohh, I see, I see. Freshly disembarked and seeking someone, are you? First time in London? Maybe I can help you look, dearie. [Pointing to her, again, very thick glasses.] I've the vision of an eagle!
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Just a lovely walking companion—and a strong, vigorous one, too!—to carry my luggage and walk me to my hansom along the street. It's so difficult with this old back of mine. You don't mind, do you?
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Ah...
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The woman adjusts her glasses by the rim.]
Hmm?
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no subject
And when it does… Sprezzatura might find herself, bafflingly, standing amid the sidewalk of a lovely street in London, lined with townhouses. Whether she has her human disguise or not depends on how mean you want to be to her; but otherwise, no one seems to bustle along the street in her direction for now.
What to do!]
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freeze.
what is this? how did she end up outside? and where is her ring?
STARTS PATTING HERSELF DOWN WITH ONE HAND. the other laughably shields her face from an empty street. ]
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It seems to be early enough in the morning that the usual crowd has not yet spilled from their townhouses and into the street, though there is movement here and there in the windows as the daily routine begins to stir properly. And a faint clop clop clop echoing from down the way sounds as though it draws nearer. The slow but steady approach of a horse and carriage.]
no subject
[ she was sleeping! she is in her nightclothes, her ring on a nightstand nowhere nearby! barefoot, feeling the night's chill seeping from the cobblestones. the mist drifts lazily through the streets and alleys—a cold sun rises.
she can't be out here. nothing else registers beyond the sound of hooves and carriage wheels; Sprezzatura takes off at a sprint towards the nearest alleyway. ]
no subject
We all know her perception is not great, but perhaps, even in her panic, it is just good enough to notice rustling and movement in the 2nd story window above. There is what appears to be a lanky young man trying... crawl out of it? Unaware of the blue woman below.]
no subject
takes another breath. holds it.
fuck! she's fucked! ]
no subject
Because that young man, all long limbs, scuttles out of the window with the practiced ease of someone who's defenestrated themselves before, with no issue. But it's the easing himself down that's the tricky part, having to rely on the downspout of the rooftop gutters to eventually shimmy himself to ground level.
He missteps, said downspout creaks angrily, and the young blond man hisses a curse out, clinging to the sill of the window-]
Blast!
[He hasn't noticed Sprezzatura below, but she might recognize the voice.]
no subject
her heart practically seizes in her chest. it takes all her willpower not to hurry to stand beneath. ]
Herlock? What are you—?
no subject
But then he hears his name, an impossibility surely, since hers is not a voice he recognizes, and he glances down to spot—]
Who-
[A blue… horned woman?
His grip and feet both slip, and without warning, the visage of a younger Sholmes than Sprezzatura remembers… tumbles down.]
Ahh—!
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when he hits the ground, he hits part of her, too, she having lurched forward almost without realizing. ]
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Uncomfortable.
The crash to the ground is a jolt down to his very skeleton, but he cannot help but feel her elbow in his side the most pointedly of all.]
Good god…! What are you-
[As if he’s not the one who fell. Sholmes tries his best to untangle himself from her, sitting up with a wince as soon as he can manage it.]
What in the blazes is this?!
[BLUE WOMAN??? THEATER TROUPE ESCAPEE?? BENEATH HIS WINDOWSILL??]
no subject
but then he pushes himself up, speaks in harsh tones, and she opens her watering eyes to a face much younger than she knows. as though time itself has been shaved away. eyes that lack their spark. a furrowed brow. it's Herlock—she knows this is Herlock. but it's not right. he never looked at her like this.
confusion and pain—both physical and not—in her own expression. she pushes herself back from him on wobbly elbows. isn't she still asleep? ]
Don't shout.
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