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The Semblance of Unity rolled 3 4-sided dice:
3, 2, 2
Total: 7 (3-12)
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 Posted: Sun Nov 06, 2016 8:48 pm
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Quote: 3. I scrounged up enough cash to secure a rented room. (Hotel/rented room) 2. I found a clothesline. (Stolen off a clothesline; low-class or poorly meshing) 2. Busking! I'm good at it! (Low income)
Preacher blinked. She'd expected to tumble out onto the ground a la Sunday's place, and her feet had bumbled over themselves in anticipation of that, but it was more like stepping through an open doorway than making any kind of long journey. Instead of an endless fall, she was simply here, in Ashdown's square, across from city hall. And everything was the same, but it wasn't. She frowned. Someone's memories were here, sort of. Maybe. She hadn't quite understood what was up, but for someone who usually went in swinging, Preacher supposed she had enough. However, she didn't see a single soul from Sunday's place here, and it was frankly a little concerning.
An old timey car rattled across the street and she frowned, pulling her jacket closer about herself. Well, first things ********' first, she thought. Preacher jogged over to some boy hawking newspapers (did people still even do that?) and held out some change in her palm, the coins clinking. Her pockets were always a mess of change; Preacher wasn't a purse girl, she was a wallet and pockets kind. Sometimes, this meant her pants were in danger of being too weighed down, even dangerously so. Casting a blue-eyed glance down at her (even he, shitlord child that he was, was taller than her - unfair!), he plucked a penny out and handed her a paper; his eyes clearly wondering what the hell she was doing. But, dismissing her as a nut, he turned and yelled out the headlines again.
She flipped the paper right-side up and let out a low whistle. November 1st, 1922. ********. What the s**t. Well, no wonder Preacher felt as though she stuck out like a sore thumb, she was one. There was almost a hundred years between her and this place. Scratching at the base of her neck, she chewed her lip. Okay, time travel, cool; she could deal with it. Blend or something. Sunday hadn't said how long they'd be here - presumably until everything was fixed and Sunny was back to Sunny and her dirty damn Uggs and not Sunny and her Plot to End the World. She couldn't keep a promise to Sunny if Sunny wasn't around. First though, here, she needed a base of operations and it was cold enough that sleeping in the park was a no. Shelter, clothes (no one else was walking around in an orange shirt emblazoned with a skull), maybe a way to skim money off the top of the barrel? Preacher pulled out a piece of paper and began to comp through the newspaper for ideas.
After some time, she was satisfied. There had been a couple ads for rooms and she knew some of her money could be passable, but not much. There were clotheslines for clothing, and well, she'd always wanted to scam shitty people out of money on the street. Preacher had done it a bit in the past, before she got caught by one of her fosterers and forbidden it. Couldn't cup-n-ball very easily with a broken arm. Standing up, she tucked her scrap of paper back into her pocket and ducked down a residential lane. At this time of day, it should be safe enough, provided that the housewives were too busy to notice a chick mucking about in their yards. Climbing the roofs was rejected - too nosy, houses too far apart in places.
After about an hour of skulking and a few close calls, Preacher emerged a new person. With her hair stuffed up under her hat and boy's clothing on, she knew she could pass. She'd done it before and it was probably the only time her height did her any good. She'd also 'acquired' a folding wooden box, a bit of thin light wood for a sign and three small marbles. The cups could come later. Her old clothing had been stuffed into a knapsack - it'd make a good pillow. With a sigh, she strolled down the road. Preacher hoped beyond hope they, she wouldn't be here long. She'd spent her whole life being uprooted until coming to Ashdown and this was another uproot. Think of it as a vacation, she told herself. A vacation with a purpose. Rolling her eyes, she headed towards the address listed for the first room for rent. It didn't matter where, she could scrounge up enough to live anywhere, but her palms itched with inaction. Maybe, if only because trouble with the law didn't matter here, just maybe... she'd get into a bit of trouble.
Just a bit. Just enough. She grinned.
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Posted: Thu Nov 10, 2016 6:19 pm
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The Semblance of Unity rolled 1 4-sided dice:
3
Total: 3 (1-4)
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Posted: Mon Nov 21, 2016 3:17 am
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Posted: Sun Dec 18, 2016 7:33 pm
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Quote: Preacher Maria
She bared her teeth at Renard. "Deadbeat dad, huh." But there really was no time for witty (or non-witty) banter. They had to, for lack of a better expression, 'git 'er done'. When magic and time weren't a-wasting that was the time to ask questions. While Preacher was often inclined to distrust everyone on sight, she also wondered why everyone called him 'the enemy'. Enemy of what - how, what the ******** did he do? No one had answers and that irritated her, made her skin itch. The sigil called to her so she mentally flipped everyone the bird and knelt down. Preacher had refused Temperance's knife, knowing she had blood of her own to offer. It was kind of gross and thick, but it would work. Should work. Any blood was good, any blood was real and held intent and the essence of self needed. She closed her eyes and thought back, feeling it squish between her fingers. "Blood makes things take hold," he told Preacher, "whether it is your own or someone else's. If you want to make sure it works? You use blood. It's a very potent conductor." The tree was a connector, magic, all encompassing from root to tip. It sheltered, motherhood. Preacher supposed it could count as a shield, even. She smeared her hand across its trunk. There was irony in this. The knot at the base - while it could be viewed as a tangle, as things looping in on themselves instead of gaining outward nourishment... it was supposed to be the power, the root both literally and metaphorically. She'd made her peace with its place. The keys seemed to sparkle. They were the branches, etched out in black with wet smears on them. Choices. Open doors, or something. Preacher just wanted things fixed, and Sunny safe, and everything changed so they couldn't end up like this again. Sunny deserved a home. She'd become convinced of this. The way Sunny had mentioned homes seemed strange to Preacher and she was sure Sunny needed one in the way Preacher did not. She reached with her mind (this was how rainy bullshit magic worked, right?) and focused on the rock. It looked almost alive and powerful and she didn't want Sunny to be the core of this. Preacher wasn't sure how to do this, so she simply sat and bled and thought and pushed. Quote: The Fourth: magic rock thing Mission statement: Repair the damage done and allow Sunny to live as she should. |
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