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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
What Loki did not appreciate was her not showing him near enough respect.
"What is your name?"
no subject
"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?"
no subject
no subject
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.