07-18-2018, 10:29 AM
Vandal has been rather quiet and pensive since her entrance ritual. Something about seeing the love of her life fade beyond her eyes for a second time in a single lifetime - it's not something she thought would happen, she thought the grief would end, but it's back and stronger than ever, leading her thoughts astray with uttered memories of a life she could've had - if she only had the strength to pursue it. It would have been a good life, a happy life, a simple life, a life she can no longer have. It slipped away from her grasp the moment her own claws slipped across her throat.
She winces - she shouldn't dwell on it - it had been a hallucination and nothing more, and Vandal doesn't exactly believe that her spirit is lingering on Midgard. It's impossible, perhaps even beyond the realm of impossibility and already into something more concrete. It's a fact. It's a fact, she tells herself, a fact that she's dead and gone and never coming back because you killed her -
The mutated wolf shakes her head, rubbing the back of her talons across her eyes as she pads into the Capricorn Tavern. She's been living in one of the room upstairs because she hasn't found the time to search for a place of her own, and heads for the stairs before deciding that she'd like some sort of drink to ease her into another deep, restless sleep (as if she hasn't had enough of that in the past season or so). The barmaid is quick to set her up with a pint of something, she doesn't exactly care anymore, and then the wolf is on the lookout for a place to sit.
Is it Friday? She doesn't know, she can't remember, there are too many people and too few available seats save one tucked into the far high-corner and holding only one patron - Pinch? Vandal shakes her head, rubbing at her face with her free talon, before squinting again. Yes. Yes, it is Pinch, nursing his own drink and looking rather worse for wear, not that Vandal's looking any different. Maybe they can bond over how shit life is and forget everything they said in the morning.
Without a word, she approaches her brother's table and unceremoniously plops herself down, barely managing to the contents of her tankard from sloshing around and spilling anywhere. "You look like shit," comes Vandal's greeting. Her voice lulls into a low, thoughtful hum, and then she adds, "So do I." That's better. The wolf takes a swig of her watered-down - oh, it's ale, like that's new - drink, but a swig turns into two, three, four, and she's requesting for another pint from a passing barhand all over again. "A penny for your thoughts?"
/oof this isn't the best response but my muse is like 00000%
She winces - she shouldn't dwell on it - it had been a hallucination and nothing more, and Vandal doesn't exactly believe that her spirit is lingering on Midgard. It's impossible, perhaps even beyond the realm of impossibility and already into something more concrete. It's a fact. It's a fact, she tells herself, a fact that she's dead and gone and never coming back because you killed her -
The mutated wolf shakes her head, rubbing the back of her talons across her eyes as she pads into the Capricorn Tavern. She's been living in one of the room upstairs because she hasn't found the time to search for a place of her own, and heads for the stairs before deciding that she'd like some sort of drink to ease her into another deep, restless sleep (as if she hasn't had enough of that in the past season or so). The barmaid is quick to set her up with a pint of something, she doesn't exactly care anymore, and then the wolf is on the lookout for a place to sit.
Is it Friday? She doesn't know, she can't remember, there are too many people and too few available seats save one tucked into the far high-corner and holding only one patron - Pinch? Vandal shakes her head, rubbing at her face with her free talon, before squinting again. Yes. Yes, it is Pinch, nursing his own drink and looking rather worse for wear, not that Vandal's looking any different. Maybe they can bond over how shit life is and forget everything they said in the morning.
Without a word, she approaches her brother's table and unceremoniously plops herself down, barely managing to the contents of her tankard from sloshing around and spilling anywhere. "You look like shit," comes Vandal's greeting. Her voice lulls into a low, thoughtful hum, and then she adds, "So do I." That's better. The wolf takes a swig of her watered-down - oh, it's ale, like that's new - drink, but a swig turns into two, three, four, and she's requesting for another pint from a passing barhand all over again. "A penny for your thoughts?"
/oof this isn't the best response but my muse is like 00000%
TAGS • VANDAL ROUX OF THE TYPHOON