bakerstreet | caught in the rain

caught in the rain

caught in the rain (click?)

It started out quietly, and then, quite suddenly, you're caught in a storm. Time to find cover. Nothing much to do but to wait it out.

Scenarios listed below for those who want 'em.

i WHERE:
001 PLAYGROUND - Well, you can try to hide under the slide or maybe in the jungle gym... at least you're some place fun?
002 PARK - Always happens, caught outside trying to take advantage of the weather... and it ends up pulling a fast one on you.
003 STORE FRONT - Better hope they have an awning you can take advantage of
004 THE BEACH - Not exactly the best place to be during a rainstorm, however it is possible to get caught in a sudden storm
005 WILD CARD - Anyway you want it

ii HOW:
001 TREE - Not the best cover, but it'll have to do, stay close to the roots and you won't get too wet.
002 UMBRELLA - Most conventional... Kinda boring. But it works.
003 NEWSPAPER - Not permanent, but it'll have to do. Good luck
004 BAG - Well... y'gotta do what you gotta do.
005 NONE - You know what. You're a rebel. You don't need cover. Screw convention
006 WILD CARD - that's the way you need it

iii WHY:
001 REJECTED - Welp. Rejection sucks. And no one will see you crying in the rain.
002 WAITING - For the bus? For someone else? For some revelation? What are you waiting for.
003 MELANCHOLY - Sometimes the best place to feel a bit down is out in the rain.
004 HAPPINESS - Is everything going your way? Are you singing a refrain while walking down the lane? Just singin. Singin' in the rain.
005 ANGER - WELL YOU KNOW WHAT. SCREW YOU TOO RAIN.
006 WILD CARD - Anyway you want it.

>> POST with your character
>> TAG others, use RNG if you need to, or just make up your own scenario if you want!
>> HAVE FUN.

(copied from

pancaked)

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She's never seen anything like it, never experienced anything like it. She's standing in the rain, soaked to the skin, looking up at the clouds with a huge smile on her face. She holds her palms up, and opens her mouth to catch the rain drops on her tongue. Have you ever met a grown woman who's never seen rain before?

A spotted horse gallops on the road that winds along the empty rocky beach and is pulled to a halt. Pulling out a spyglass, a cloaked man looks out at the water seeing the strange sight. Slowly the horse, with a large hound on its heels, descends the bank to draw closer to this woman out in the middle of nowhere.

The baritone that calls out is well educated and crisp, "Are you well, m'lady?" Two coats of arms are embroidered on the oiled wool cloak; the first, laurel leaves and the second, a large green raindrop.

[ooc: Choice of modern world or fantasy medieval setting.]

Edited (p.s.) 2014-01-09 04:36 (UTC)

[I'll take modern option, please, making this AU human Dejah, the painter from Brooklyn. Which will alter this premise slightly, as she's probably seen rain before. That fact doesn't necessarily prevent her acting like a loon, on occasion.]

It's just a spring downpour, nothing that suggests one should run out and build an ark. But she's apparently utterly delighted to be caught out in it. Dejah spins in a circle, her arms extended, her palms up, laughing. She'd only thrown on a man's long-sleeved shirt over her saffron-coloured sundress, and she isn't wearing any shoes.

As he calls out, she realizes she isn't alone anymore, and it's as if reality rushed back in. She curled her hands around herself, rubbing her upper arms and shivering.

"I'm fine!" She waves, still grinning like a madwoman. "Isn't it beautiful?"

The blond horse, or at least the front end is blond, the hindquarters are chocolate brown with white spots the size of a hand pressed randomly, picks its was carefully through the sand. As he draws closer, the hood slips off as the man tips his head back, eyes closing to the downpour. Sunbrown skin, tightly french braided dark mahogany hair is pulled back severely from his face.

"It is beautiful." He sighs contentedly, an unexpressed smile playing on his cheeks. "The only thing that would improve the storm would be a small sailing ship and standing on the prow as it dances in the waves."

The hound takes the opportunity to shake violently, spraying water everywhere, not they everything isn't already drenched. "What brings you out to the tip of Long Island? Surely not to dance as a Nereid in the remains of a spent hurricane."

[ooc: setting at Orient, New York then.]

"What do you think?" she asks, still grinning. The dog shakes and she giggles again, holding her hands up to ineffectively defend herself against the spatter of mud and water. That done, she bends over and clicks her tongue, clapping her hands together, calling the hound over for a scritch if it so desires.

"No, seriously, I'm lost. I went for a walk from my friend's beach house, and I got turned around. I think I may have walked passed the house. But," she says, standing, looking up at him on his perch atop his mouth, "I thought dancing like Nereid was the next best thing to wandering around like a lost kitten. I'm Dejah." She holds a hand over her eyes, squinting up at him.

"It is nice to meet you, Dejah who is not a piccola gattina [Italian: little kitten] but who is the first Nereid I have ever had the pleasure to meet. I am Ferox. That," gesturing at the hound who was quite friendly and loved having behind his ears rubbed, if the happy grunting was any indication, "is Horse, and the horse is Meteoroid."

He looks at her curiously, "Would you like a ride back? If you do not see the house, you may call from Highever...my parents -" correcting himself, Ferox frowns, but the lines across his forehead are marred and blurred by an ugly scar. "- my brother's farm."

She spends another moment murmuring meaningless friendly noises to the dog, before looking up at him. She grins, rolling her jaw, one eye closed, taking him in. Yeah, this is nuts.

"Does it matter that I've never sat a horse in my life?"

She'll mention later that she has no idea what the number is. If it comes to that.

"No. Not at all." Swinging a leg over, he hops to the beach, sturdy laced leather boots hitting the ground. Jeans are dry and there is a flash of a peacock blue shirt under the dark cloak. "Come on, I'll even let you ride up front so you can see better."

Grinning, Ferox holds out his hand, a ring winking on his pinky, "None of us bite. Well, none of us will bite you. Horse only bites me when he thinks I'm being foolish." The hound was wiggling and dancing as if to encourage her to join them.

She takes his hand and stands, awkwardly close, wiping the raindrops out of her eyes.

"Okay, but you're seriously going to have to show me how this works. I'm not kidding when I said never."

He looks at her, rain falling on his turned up face. She is a few inches taller than him, probably more than a few given that she is barefoot and he is not. And the woolen cloak makes him look bulkier than he is. "Meteoroid is a patient sort and teaches children how to ride on a regular basis. I assure you that he will not move unexpectedly and will let you take your time to get comfortable. Now, I am going to give you a boost and you are going to awkwardly flail about until you get yourself into the saddle. I will not laugh, but I cannot say the same for the hound."

Ferox squeezed her hand before letting go to weave his fingers together, "Hitch up your skirt a little, step into my hands, use my shoulder for balance, and grabbing the saddle, swing your other leg over his back. It sounds simple and never works out that way the first time, trust me."

She does as she's been instructed, laughing under her breath as she hitches up her skirt and uses him as a step. She seems to have no self-consciousness about making an idiot of herself, and she is strong enough to haul herself over the saddle. Well, almost.

She ends up on her stomach and it takes a bit of wriggling to get into the appropriate riding position (which is no, not backwards, though that gives her an image which draws another bout of giggles from her).

"Sorry, sorry! You didn't say I couldn't laugh," she says, finally settled into the saddle. She's starting to shiver involuntarily now. "I think I'm really glad you came along when you did," she says, her teeth starting to chatter a bit.

Hand on the saddle, there's an awkward hop and Ferox pulls himself up to sit behind her, chest at her back. The excess woolen material is wrapped around her as he reaches for the reins, keeping his hands covered. This close, he smells like cloves and rum, bay leaf, with a metallic bite. The oiled wool repeals the rain which, while it won't do anything to dry her off, keeps the bit of wind that is kicking up the waves from chilling her further and his chest is warm even through the wet fabric of her dress.

"Come on boys, let's get home and see if we can't find this Nereid safe harbor. She's beginning to look like a very sad piccola gattina despite her protests," his voice rumbles at her back, amused. Voice lowering slightly at the horse turns back to the pathway, "Squeeze with your knees to hold on or grip the front of the saddle, if you like. Meteoroid just going to walk, there is no hurry and no danger of you falling. You are safe, Dejah."

"Call me a drowned kitten again, and I'll find some way to make you regret it."

The mock-indignant threat covers the soft indulgent sigh as he wraps his cloak and arms around her. She tugs it closer around her, and when she can hold both sides with one hand, she drops the other to hold onto the saddlehorn.

He'll find she's a lithe thing, not exactly muscular, but neither is she soft. She sits the horse with a loose, easy grace, not the terrified rigidity of someone who is afraid of falling.

She turns her head to peer at him with one blue eye. "And if I wanted to be safe, I never would have come out in the storm in the first place. Much less agreed to be absconded with by a complete stranger."

Ferox shifts behind her, long lean muscles flexing. "We have been introduced, so neither of us is a complete stranger to the other," a snicker in his voice. "As you can see I am liked by animals and, they being good judges of character, indicate that I am not a terrible danger." The horse turns for the dirt road along the beach, ambling easily up the rocky breakwater. "As we head back to the farm, sing out if you see your friend's house. If not, you can call, dry off, and share a potato tortilla I was letting cool on the counter. Either the storm will pass and I will see you back or you will be retrieved."

Detritus has been washed up onto the shoreline. Locals will be out after the heavy rains to clean up the beaches. The south shores must be covered with it as they are more exposed to the Atlantic and the brunt of the hurricane that is nearly spent.

Edited (tmi) 2014-01-12 00:59 (UTC)

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather just -- bring me home with you? I mean, have you ever found anything quite so intriguing in all your times beachcombing?"

She rests her head back against his shoulder, still enjoying the patter of rain on her face, and the smell of bay rum tickling her nose.

"Ho ho, hear that, Horse? This Nereid believes we've never found anything more interesting than her." Ferox snickers when the hound boofs twice, "He's right you know, shells and driftwood aren't half as interesting."

Ocean on the one side, grand houses on the other broken up by small beach cottages. Horse bounded ahead, stopping to sniff he was passed time and time again, only to catch up.

She laughs along with them, her voice rich and bright. It's a beautiful view. She takes in the view, and the easy swaying rhythm of their mount, the warmth of his body. "It's not that I don't appreciate your chivalry, you understand. I just came looking for an adventure, and you are absolutely the most interesting thing I've run into out here on the edge of Neverneverland."

"I live in the city, and I thought this is all a bit," she wrinkles her nose, "picturesque, before the storm." She hums under her breath, an appreciative, sensual sound. "The storm, though, that was magnificent."

"Storms are one of the best reasons to come out here," voice humming somehow harmonizing with the clop of hooves, the waves crashing on the beach, the sound of rain in the shrubs along the path, even the sound of their breathing and heartbeats. "The music is easier to hear outside of the city. Or perhaps I shouldn't say easier, it is a very different sound. The splashing of cars, plunking drops on concrete and plinking against metal, the gurgling of drains without the roar of the ocean, is also musical. Here the sound is nearly wild, allowed to flow. In the city the water is more confined, but there are more surfaces causing reverberations."

"Oh you're a musician, then? A drummer, perhaps?"

Again, she shifts against him, trying to look into his face and having to make due with only his profile.

"I'm a painter. Where you hear music, I see symphonies of shade and hue. Organic structures and lines instead of artifice and construction. Currents and waves instead of right angles and stasis."

"Singer," the way he said it implied more than just someone who sang, as if it were a title, not just a description. "I play anything with strings that can be plucked, guitar, mandolin..."

A citron curl of ink on his brown skin reaches up out of his collar, coiled under his left ear. Beckoning, the bit of color promises more, if it were followed down the line of his neck.

"The rain is already rhythm as are the waves striking the beach, no additional drums are needed, there are many melodies around me as well. What is needed is the harmony that blends everything together, strengthening the whole...at least, that's what I hear."

The ink is a siren's call to her, a question that begs to be answered, a story she must hear the end of.

"A harmony," she hums, and he can hear the smile in her voice. "Anything interesting come to mind?"

Maybe she leans back against him a bit more, snuggling close for warmth. Maybe she has her own ideas about music and art and alchemy.

Still naming what he hears, and not even getting close to naming everything at all, "The pulse of blood, the sound of breath in the lungs, wind in the grass, the chirps of birds hiding in the shrubbery or the trees."

Allowing Meteoroid his head, to amble home, Ferox breathes, settling into the sounds around him and begins to hum low in his chest. A song without words, it tugs at the threads of the body, veins, nerves, muscles, hair, it pulls at what is alive, and even what is not, is incorporated, until all of the individual pieces are brought together into one Song. It's not easy to gather together so much, takes energy to do so, and the concentration that such a large Song needs is draining. Usually he works with small things, a bit of fabric to embroider, an injury, a single life thread that is followed from beginning to end, watching how it disappears and reappears in the tapestry. There is tension in the body behind her, because that would only be another thread to be plucked. His voice fluctuates to match the changing sound of the slackening rain to weave the lighter notes of it splattering leaves, rocks, the horse and hound's hide. It is not perfect as nature makes its own alterations, but because he holds the threads, he know where it is going.

She seems content to lean her head back against his shoulder, swaying with the movement of the horse's careful steps. Her eyes close as she listens to his voice, and a gentle smile transforms her features.

Her own voice is a deep contralto, and she only speaks, she does not sing. "He ne'er is crown'd With immortality, who fears to follow Where airy voices lead."

The boy whose mind and soul has fled may have known Keats, but Cyni, the deadman now inhabiting the body, does not. By the music of Allan Parsons, he does, but has not made the leap yet. Unable to keep the threads of sound together for long, a sheen breaks out on his forehead with the strain, and as he stops humming, all of the parts fly out of his hands. It was too big to hold, Cyni hasn't tried anything that large without years of preparation, a runed circle, and being the Zama of a city. These days his work is small pieces that can be worn to protect.

Does she know of his curse? It is impossible, yet the impossible has already occurred. Careful, uncertain what else she might know of him, if anything at all, the rumbling notes are not chased from his own voice, "I had not heard that said before. But I have learned that not all voices should be listened to, some make loud promises and bring only sorrow and pain. Others more quiet and less clamorous tend to be truer."

As she does not sing out that she recognizes any of the places they pass, soon the horse leaves the road crossing a verge. Ferox slips out from underneath the cloak from behind, the hood covers her head and the weight of the damp material lands on her shoulders. Swinging down, he opens a series of gates, his jeans growing dark as they become soaked, the peacock blue shirt brilliant for a moment before it too deepens its shade. Hair long and neatly braided down the back of his head, its mahogany lights dim to a dark brown as he leads the horse through the heavy rain through the long wet grass of the pasture to the the barn beyond. The hound bolts ahead, sleek like an otter, parting a path which they follow.

Edited 2014-01-24 06:20 (UTC)

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caught in the rain

Dejah Thoris || John Carter || F/M

Re: Dejah Thoris || John Carter || F/M

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