[ hello hello. lucien is sprawled on one of the chairs in the observation room, staring out into ... literal space.
the clothes are relatively simple, a linen shirt with a deep-vee because some things never fucking change, a black coat with bits of hardened leather in vulnerable places, and simple black trousers and boots. everything looks extremely worn, like that look clothes get when they've been repeatedly put through hell and then washed. all his all stuff is at his feet - including his second outfit, which seems to mostly consist of a large fur-lined coat. apparently he's not planning on staying in his room much.
this is fine. he won't look up until after a long second, like he's having trouble pulling his attention away from the view. ]
[ there's a terseness to her tone, as she appraises him just casually lounging. first of all: respect to the v-neck, from someone else who likes to have their chest out at all times. that aside, she's a little bit on edge, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword.
but she's also a safe enough distance away that she isn't going to jump him, and he's out of of blade range. ]
[ he drums his nails against the back of the chair, considering - it's not subtle. it's like he's deciding whether or not to lie. ]
... The Run is a piss-stink town that's as awash with blood as it is with mud. It's got four seasons: Winter, Wet Winter, Bit o' Spring and Pigshite. There's no laws, but plenty of rules, and it eats anyone who dares to step into range of its dagger-sharp teeth. It loves chewing up orphans and drunks and endebted gamblers and especially those who think they're too clever to get taken in by its great lie: here, you can be anything. You can't. You'll always just be a streetrat from the Run.
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the clothes are relatively simple, a linen shirt with a deep-vee because some things never fucking change, a black coat with bits of hardened leather in vulnerable places, and simple black trousers and boots. everything looks extremely worn, like that look clothes get when they've been repeatedly put through hell and then washed. all his all stuff is at his feet - including his second outfit, which seems to mostly consist of a large fur-lined coat. apparently he's not planning on staying in his room much.
this is fine. he won't look up until after a long second, like he's having trouble pulling his attention away from the view. ]
Don't believe we've met yet.
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[ there's a terseness to her tone, as she appraises him just casually lounging. first of all: respect to the v-neck, from someone else who likes to have their chest out at all times. that aside, she's a little bit on edge, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword.
but she's also a safe enough distance away that she isn't going to jump him, and he's out of of blade range. ]
You got a name?
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A few. Which one do you want to know?
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Simple one.
[ it was going to be "whatever you want to be called" but she stopped herself from opening that door at the last second. ]
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Lucien. Yourself?
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[ she doesn't have reservations about giving her name but like, this is the first person who has asked. wild. ]
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[ wow I can't believe lucien was the first polite person here. what is happening. ]
And where do you hail from?
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The Colony. But I get the feelin' you don't know anything about that.
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Happy to see the back of it or clawing to return?
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[ he drums his nails against the back of the chair, considering - it's not subtle. it's like he's deciding whether or not to lie. ]
... The Run is a piss-stink town that's as awash with blood as it is with mud. It's got four seasons: Winter, Wet Winter, Bit o' Spring and Pigshite. There's no laws, but plenty of rules, and it eats anyone who dares to step into range of its dagger-sharp teeth. It loves chewing up orphans and drunks and endebted gamblers and especially those who think they're too clever to get taken in by its great lie: here, you can be anything. You can't. You'll always just be a streetrat from the Run.
So of course, thank the gods I wasn't born there.
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[ if she had even an inkling of a sense of humor she could run with this, alas. she is dead serious. ]
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[ honestly mildly amused she is Refusing to acknowledge this. ]
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You don't have to feed me a bullshit answer. Coulda just said no.
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[ he just has that vibe. ]