Fran (Sonya Wood) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
forsakenwood) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
towerofanimus2012-05-15 11:29 am
forsakenwood) wrote in towerofanimus2012-05-15 11:29 am
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Characters: Fran, open!
Setting: Various.
Format: Action or prose, I am cool with either.
Summary: Fran goes cruisin' for her partner in crime.
Warnings: None atm!
Around the dormitories
It was like Archades, this tower -- at least, these floors -- densely populated, naught but a faint irritant to her senses. Her ears and nose had acclimatized to so great an increase in population years ago already.
Dulled, Jote had said. Reluctantly, Fran had to agree.
Her heels click against the flooring, cautious, but unafraid. As with all infrastructures made with humes in mind, she must dip through doorways to avoid clipping her ears against the frame. No matter. She was long accustomed to that, too.
Behind her thick ponytail rests the Fomalhault, unloaded, easily accessible. If trouble stirred, magick would be her first choice. Fran does not care for the sound of a gunshot in a small, enclosed area. It made her ears ring.
To those with idle hands, she asks, "Have you seen a man in a golden vest? He fancies himself the leading man, and would introduce himself as such."
Floor 20/21
She moves past the restaurant, intending to return to it later. Now, she stands on the stone ramp, assessing the area. Grey fog surrounds the tower, a suffocating presence, denser than any mist she had ever seen. For a fleeting second, anxiety pierces her heart. This isolation, this lack of mist -- for the first time in her life, Fran feels truly alone.
Her hair shifts lazily with the breeze, and she calms. Balthier's scent had yet to turn up and she knew that he would not be wasting his time out here. Fran turns around and makes her way back to the restaurant.
Floor 1
Fran is walking through the kitchen, surveying the stocked goods with a lifted brow. She flicks her long nails at a few canned goods, as if to test their authenticity. She casts a glance over to those eating their meals, a subtle resignation in their shoulders, even if they did not outwardly appear defeated.
Balthier had not been here, either.
It is entirely possible that he had not survived the Bahamut's fall. While Fran is willing to accept this, she would not do so prematurely. Each floor demands her attention before a verdict was made.
Her stomach, too, demands attention. She ignores it for now. Oatmeal is not high on her list of desirable edibles, though she has survived on worse.
Setting: Various.
Format: Action or prose, I am cool with either.
Summary: Fran goes cruisin' for her partner in crime.
Warnings: None atm!
Around the dormitories
It was like Archades, this tower -- at least, these floors -- densely populated, naught but a faint irritant to her senses. Her ears and nose had acclimatized to so great an increase in population years ago already.
Dulled, Jote had said. Reluctantly, Fran had to agree.
Her heels click against the flooring, cautious, but unafraid. As with all infrastructures made with humes in mind, she must dip through doorways to avoid clipping her ears against the frame. No matter. She was long accustomed to that, too.
Behind her thick ponytail rests the Fomalhault, unloaded, easily accessible. If trouble stirred, magick would be her first choice. Fran does not care for the sound of a gunshot in a small, enclosed area. It made her ears ring.
To those with idle hands, she asks, "Have you seen a man in a golden vest? He fancies himself the leading man, and would introduce himself as such."
Floor 20/21
She moves past the restaurant, intending to return to it later. Now, she stands on the stone ramp, assessing the area. Grey fog surrounds the tower, a suffocating presence, denser than any mist she had ever seen. For a fleeting second, anxiety pierces her heart. This isolation, this lack of mist -- for the first time in her life, Fran feels truly alone.
Her hair shifts lazily with the breeze, and she calms. Balthier's scent had yet to turn up and she knew that he would not be wasting his time out here. Fran turns around and makes her way back to the restaurant.
Floor 1
Fran is walking through the kitchen, surveying the stocked goods with a lifted brow. She flicks her long nails at a few canned goods, as if to test their authenticity. She casts a glance over to those eating their meals, a subtle resignation in their shoulders, even if they did not outwardly appear defeated.
Balthier had not been here, either.
It is entirely possible that he had not survived the Bahamut's fall. While Fran is willing to accept this, she would not do so prematurely. Each floor demands her attention before a verdict was made.
Her stomach, too, demands attention. She ignores it for now. Oatmeal is not high on her list of desirable edibles, though she has survived on worse.
Dormitories 8)
It was all so unfair.
"You!" He strode forward faster at the retreating form of the something up ahead. "I demand audience with whomever has taken my imprisonment upon them, by the hand of my father or that incompetent Other!" Loki was certain it could not be humans holding him here. Those mutants aside they were all weaklings and dullards.
He was wearing his own clothing and horned helmet rather than the ridiculous thing he had woken up in, but that violet collar was around his neck and Loki tugged on it with a growl in the back of his throat. At seeing the shape and form of this being his anger turned to confusion and then amusement, and he stopped in place and began laughing. "What are you?"
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"Most would say a viera," she answered, turning around to face him. A faint lift of her brow was the only acknowledgement she made of his outfit. The Judges wore worse.
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"I see you are a prisoner also. What realm do you hail from?"
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"Ivalice," she said, resting a hand on her hip.
You've probably never heard of it."And you?"no subject
"Loki," he said, tilting his head back slightly. "Of Asgard." This was stated profoundly as if anyone who was anyone would immediately know how important he was.
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"If it means of escape you want, Loki of Asgard, then I cannot help. Like you, I have been here less than a day's time." She could guess as much, considering his demands, fresh in anger.
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What Loki did not appreciate was her not showing him near enough respect.
"What is your name?"
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"Fran," she said, shifting her weight once more, and with it, the topic of conversation. "I don't suppose you've seen a man in a golden vest, have you?"
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A lie born of spite, of assumptions, of frustration? It was not hers to discern.
"Well then, Loki of Asgard. May the Gods provide to us the fortune we currently lack," she said, then turned to walk in the direction he'd given. Fran believed not in Gods or their fortunes, for it was an individual's task to weave their own, but it was a cordial, if not just a bit sassy, farewell.
Because she might as well meet the roommate
Tara has seen no one matching that description at all, although she hasn't really been paying attention herself to anyone she's passed by. Even so, he sounds distinctive.
She realizes a few seconds too late that she's staring at Fran's ears, and deliberately ticks her gaze back to her face.
"N-No. S-Sorry. But I, I-I just got here. Sorry."
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"A pity," she remarks, of both her arrival and her answer. She shifts her weight, placing a hand on her hip. "Your name is on the door of room two-oh-seven, is it not? I am Fran."
The scent of this woman had been in there.
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...maybe she was a psychic bunny girl? Tara wondered if she could cast a spell to put up a barrier around her mind without being too terribly obvious about it. Or, of course, she realizes belatedly that Fran might have just noticed that Tara had left her trunk open.
In the meantime, she hesitantly offers her hand to shake. "T-Tara. I'm Tara. It's, it's really nice to meet you, Fran."
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"Where are you from, Tara?" There's something off about her -- something lacking...
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Well, yes, it's a sensible enough question, isn't it? Bunny girls...at least in such a literal form...aren't terribly common in Tara's world. It's fair to say that someone like her might not be terribly common in Fran's, wherever it is.
"Um...Earth. I-I don't know how to describe it, though." How do you describe what's all around you? "It's...n-not really a good sort of world, though. N-Not in great shape. L-Lots of things keep, well, trying to destroy it."
At least Tara had never fallen that far.
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And then, she had called it a world.
Fran still doesn't believe that Ivalice had been destroyed, but it had never crossed her mind that there might be other worlds. Planes of existence, yes, but -- worlds?
"That would explain it," she says aloud, understanding why Tara felt different. "You do not have the mist within you."
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She hadn't quite processed the letter, yet. She didn't believe that her world had been destroyed, either, but only because it felt like no time at all had passed between the cave and here. Tara had sat through a couple of apocalypses thus far, and they generally took a bit more time than that.
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She wonders what sort. She wonders what it does. She wonders if she could...
...and then Tara realizes that she's eyeing Fran like a junkie after her next fix, and draws sharply back as though she'd been smacked.
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She isn't sure why she was surprised. Perhaps she was just looking for something a bit less big and impossible to be surprised at. Or perhaps bunny girls were a concept slightly harder to grasp than she'd thought.
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"Why?"
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"It's just...n-not many people can use magic, back home. Not...really. S-Sometimes they can fake it, but it's supposed to be s-something you're born with. A-And it's mostly humans. Demons d-don't really have it. I guess they...don't really need it."
It doesn't occur to her to say anything other than "demon". Nonhuman things that aren't vampires are demons. They might have their own specific names, but they all share the same umbrella.
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A world in which magick was restricted... Would it be safer? No. Humes were incredibly creative in their inventions of new ways to wage war against another.
And of humes, she had her partner of one to find, if he was in the tower at all.
Fran rolls her shoulders, then says, "I must continue searching for my companion. I will speak with you later, Tara."
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It wasn't exactly a pleasant reunion, but Tara at least has a friend from home in the tower. She can at least hope the same for everyone else.
Tara gives Fran a little wave and continues on down the hallway in the opposite direction.
Floor 21
"Hey-- are you OK?"
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Hadn't noticed him? She must have been more troubled than she thought.
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"I mean-- I don't want to pry or anything." He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "You just seemed kind of down."
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Her 'own' being anyone -- or anything -- from Ivalice, in this case. Hume, bangaa, nu mou -- monsters, even -- nothing of Mist, of something she had not realized could be so void of her surroundings until now.
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"I don't know anything about that stuff myself...this place is kind of isolated, in a weird way. I don't know if everything's really gone, or they've just kind of severed the connection but..." Nevertheless, he shrugged and smiled a bit. "Wherever they are, I'm sure they're fine."