riverviewlogs | { OPEN } it is a truth universally acknowledged

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{ OPEN } it is a truth universally acknowledged

who: Cecelia and OPEN!
what: out and about in the inhabited area
when: March 13-18
where: downtown inhabited area
warnings: n/a

{ at work; march 13th-16th }

Cecelia is fortunate she has some talent that is useful in this place. A young lady's skills were meant to attract a husband and little else, and through unconventional means, she had already obtained that once. The occupation of musician isn't really considered proper for a woman of her station, but her "station" doesn't seem to exist here anyway, so what harm is there in it? It provides her with an income and she enjoys doing it. With so many options for food in Riverview Quarantine, the establishments compete to bring in the customers and one way to do that is through live music. While many young ladies learned the pianoforte, Cecelia's talents lie in the harp. She doesn't have her own here, but her employers provide the instruments for her. The harps are large, pedal harps that she tunes manually before each performance. At restaurants, she is usually seated on a small, raised platform so the diners can see her, where she performs slow, relaxing music, but at the cafes, she is tucked away in a corner or near a large window. It is also in the cafes where she can easily converse with the patrons while playing jolly tunes with a faster pace. Whenever her shift is done and she's leaving the restaurants, she then has time to talk.

{ out shopping; march 17th }

It must be a comical sight, this woman in her Regency dress staring with alarm at a silver sequined mini skirt on a mannequin. She's utterly baffled as to why anyone would wear such a thing. Not only is it far too revealing, but it doesn't even look comfortable. Curiously, she reaches out and touches a sequin, frowning at the texture. It feels terrible! She already knows of a tailor who will make her whatever she requests, but her collection of clothes will be slow to grow as she waits for her next paycheck. Personally tailored clothes cost more than this ready made selection, after all. And so she's just looking to see if anything here can work for her. Perhaps a dressing gown and nightdress? Slippers? Oh, is that a perfume bottle? She wanders over to a perfume counter with testers and picks up a bottle, lifting off the cap and turning it over with a confused look that's becoming standard for her. How is she meant to apply this if the cap is hollow, and not tapered glass to apply the perfumed oil to her wrist? Someone please save her before she sprays perfume into her eye.

{ floor 2; during a power outage; march 18th }

While the loss of electricity may be a big deal to some, for a woman who grew up in a time before electricity or gas lighting, Cecelia is perfectly at ease. Candles provide more than enough light for her, and she's delighted that they smell so pleasant! In her time, candles for the elite were made of beeswax and tallow for the lower classes. She recalls heading downstairs to speak with the head of the household maids and the smell of beef in the air. With the random loss of electric light, Cecelia has stocked up on a plethora of scented candles and has them lit throughout the communal floor, though she's tried to use ones that smell nice together. The kitchen has peaches, the living area an ocean breeze, and the bathroom is sweet pea. She sits next to a window, using what natural light is left in the day plus those blue ocean candles on a nearby table to read a book from the library. She has a lot of history to catch up on, but she's happy to set down the book and chat with whomever comes through.

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Scott's an electrical engineer. Without electricity he's got, uh, nothing!

Still, he's got some downtime between shifts at the power plant trying to get systems back online (there was a big thing about sewage that he did not want to get into in any way, shape, or form), so he's pillaging the second floor kitchen, because the one on the sixth is completely out of peanut butter, which is a damn crime.

He's got a jar of the good stuff--chunky, of course--and is heading back up when he spots her. Huh.

"You...uh, some kind of historical re-enactor or something?" Like those Williamsburg people, in those funny knee britches and wigs?

Edited 2017-03-15 02:52 (UTC)

Cecelia looks up from her book at the voice, though truth be told, she was already aware someone was there. Werewolf senses and all that. But it's not polite to stare, so she was willing to let him go about his business. Since he's addressing her, however, she lowers the book and closes it.

"No, I am not." She doesn't even really know what that is, but from the words themselves, she can guess it has to do with re-enacting history. Perhaps like that History Channel Derek spoke of. "I come from a place and time where my style of dress is as you see." She rises from her chair to give the man a curtsy.

"Mrs Cecelia Wynn. A pleasure to meet you, sir."

Yeah, sorry--downside of sharing an apartment with a couple of ex-cons. The ideas of personal time and personal space kind of got stuck somewhere back in San Quentin.

"Oh." Yeah, well, ask a stupid question, right? "Well, I mean, it looks good on you." Scott Lang--great talking to the opposite sex!

"Uh, Scott. Lang. Ant-Man." Is he supposed to do that curtsy thing, too? Nah, he'll do that thing he'd do if it was tea with Cassie: a sketchy bow. Thought that counts, right?

"Mr Lang," she repeats, though her brow furrows at the rest. "Ant-Man? Forgive me, I do not quite follow." That's not a title she's accustomed to hearing. Is he like a rat man -- a rat catcher -- only he removes ants?

"You can call me Scott." Not Scottie, though. Man's gotta draw the line somewhere!!

He gives a sigh, switching the stolen peanut butter from hand to hand. "Yeah, I mean, I'm not one of the big heroes, like Iron Man or Captain America, or anything. I can shrink. A lot." Wow, that sounds lame out loud. "And I can control ants." Better?

"I am afraid I do not know anything about that." Her tone sounds confused and a wrinkle appears between her brows. Heroes called Iron Man and Captain America?

"Why does America only have a captain? I thought it had generals as well." All right, hold on -- control ants? Is this something that traveling circus performers do? "How do you control them?"

"Yeah, I mean, I guess that makes sense. With you being from, uh, whenever you're from." Slow on the draw, but he gets there! Eventually.

"You know, I never asked why he was a Captain. He just, you know, was. There was a comic book and stuff about him, and everything." Just nothing that explained the rank. "I guess it's better than Private America." Which just sounds like some really boring Netflix documentary on Big Data.

"How?" Oh, he actually has an answer for that! Kind of. "You just sort of think at them, with emotion. They're actually pretty cool. Not great at conversation." As all the babbling he's doing here might hint.

Things Taako is probably going to do: burn the allowance he was given upon arrival entirely on clothes because everything is very shiny and he has no self control, like some sort of shitty magpie building a nest.

He's eyeing that sequin skirt, but is briefly distracted by Cecelia in her dress (kind of a weird fashion choice, but you do you) struggling with the perfume bottle, and decides to take a little pity on her.

"You spray it, like--" He makes a gesture to demonstrate how it works, as if pressing his finger down on an invisible nozzle, "It's gonna come out that little hole near the top, try to point it away from, uh, from your eyes. Unless you wanna get perfume in your eyes, I can't tell you what to do."

Cecelia glances over at the voice and takes note of his bending finger. She examines the bottle and sees the hole, so she turns it away from her. Why he would think she would want to get perfume in her eye is beyond her, but she certainly does not.

Placing her finger on top, she presses down and a spray of perfume shoots out, surprising her.

"Oh!" she exclaims, quickly setting the bottle and cap back on the counter. "Good heavens. Is that supposed to happen?"

"I told you it's a spray," That's a yes on the fact it's supposed to work that way, "Are you used to perfume oil?"

It's not so much a guess based on time period - what's a Regency era? He doesn't know - but an assumption that maybe she's rich and used to the kind of expensive perfumes that only need like a single drop to last all day, rather than the less concentrated sprays.

"Oh, yes, I see." Look, 'spray' isn't a common word in her time. It's pretty much only used for fountains because they don't have garden hoses or spray bottles.

"I am, yes." Her gaze lifts to look at the man again, and what she at first mistook for part of a hat, she now sees are actually his ears. Her eyes widen in surprise, and her lips part to say something about their shape before she thinks better of it and closes her mouth once more. It would be utterly rude to speak of his ears in such a way, despite how curious she is as to how they got that way.

"I suppose I will have to add this to the ever-growing list of new things I am being exposed to here." Again she lifts the bottle and this time holds out a wrist to spray. She wrinkles her nose as her shot lands mostly on her sleeve. Her aim isn't very good, but to be fair, she's not used to the act of spraying.

"Yeah, tell me about it," His world doesn't work like a typical fantasy world; he knows what a robot is, but was clueless in the face of a gun, so there have been a few learning experiences here or there.

(He doesn't miss her look at his ears, but decides to see if she's bold enough to say something.)

But when she sprays her wrist, his nose wrinkles a little, "It won't last as long as oil, just so you know. They dilute that shit to make it cheaper."

He has expensive taste for someone who's broke like half the time.

Cecelia's face turns pink at the man's use of bad language. Why, she hardly knows where to look! She's clearly uncomfortable and sets the bottle back to clasp her hands together as she tries to think of something to say. Does she point out his behavior, or say nothing of it? If she says nothing, it's like giving him license to continue, is it not? Then again, she can't expect others to follow her social customs. Allowances must be made. That's really been the most difficult part of all this: navigating the waters of society in a place with a mish mash of peoples.

"Well," she begins slowly, "Perhaps they also sell perfume oil somewhere here."

He doesn't miss her reaction, but he genuinely has no idea what the issue could be, when cursing is just second nature and everyone does it.

"I know I'm real handsome, pumpkin, but no need to get so flustered!" He's doubtful that's actually what she's upset about, but he's not going to let something like the truth get in the way of either his ego. Plus he's kind of curious to know what's actually bothering her, and this is the best way to find out.

The very idea! Cecelia looks shocked, and a hand comes up to clutch at her chest like her heart is trying to escape.

"That is not the cause of my discomposure!" Really, this is too much for her delicate sensibilities. At least she's not prone to fainting. "Your language was very crude and where I am from, we do not say such things in polite company." She pauses to take a breath and regain her wits. "Now I know I am not at home, and if it is different in your world, I can understand that. But when one is taken by surprise, one tends to show it."

Ohhhhhhh.

Well there's that little mystery solved, and Taako laughs, though it's amused rather than mocking, just at how silly this whole place is, with all these people who get hung up on the weirdest shit. Like swearing, or magic, or elves. He's so used to weird stuff that he's immune to almost anything, at this point, but that doesn't hold true for everyone, apparently.

"I gotta say, I'm the absolute opposite of polite company, so jot that down, but I'll try my best to cut down on the swears," This will last all of five minutes, probably, but at least he'll make the attempt.

"I would appreciate it if you did," she replies, the color slowly returning to her face. Really, the shape of his ears concerns her less that the way he speaks to a woman such as herself. It suggests that she's a person used to harsh language, like a fisherman's wife or some such thing.

"Mrs Cecelia Wynn," she adds, giving a slight curtsy to him.

Nine times out of ten he forgets the whole 'introductions' thing and just steamrolls through, but if Cecelia is going for it he probably should too, even if he's not much for standing on ceremony. Still, he echoes her curtsy (he knows how to bow he just doesn't want to), just to be polite.

"Taako, of New Elfington," His last name is probably fake as hell so there's no point giving it and telling her where he comes from might just be a little bit teasing, since she seems like the type of posh person who does that sort of thing.

He's a jerk.

It doesn't matter to her, really. Obviously he should know she wouldn't recognize where he's from, but if that's how he styles himself, so be it. It's not like people in England refer to others by their estate name. Taako will have to do.

"Thank you for the help with the perfume."

Truth be told, the sound of harp music had drawn him to the cafe in the first place -- not that he objected to the food, of course, but given the choice of places to eat he preferred the one with music that reminded him of his proper home world, where minstrels and bards often performed at taverns. And the harp was sufficiently distanced from the chosen instrument of one particular bard that it brought back no memories, good or bad.

So he took a seat close by, not interrupting when she played but offering sincere applause between songs where appropriate. And at the end, when she at last rose from the instrument, he shifted slightly closer in his seat. "If you were a singer I'd buy you a drink to soothe your throat, but I honestly have no idea what the equivalent offer would be for a harpist..."

"Oh, thank you, sir." She dips a polite curtsy. "I do not believe there is such a thing for a harpist, but it was a kind thought." At least there's nothing she can think of at a cafe, but it's not like she needs her fingertips soothed. They're perfectly fine after years of playing this instrument.

"Well, I'm certainly willing to buy you a drink anyway, and call it a tip." Roy frowned slightly, not directing it at her at all. "I have no idea how one is supposed to tip here otherwise, given the way money works, but after all that entertainment I'd like to provide a token of appreciation somehow."

What was so wrong about tossing a silver, or even a gold coin, into a bucket? He'd heard explanations about moving to fiat money and virtual credit a number of times and it still didn't make sense. What the heck did dragons sleep on, if all that was true? That was only the beginning of his objections.

"While I appreciate the gesture, I do not think it would be appropriate," she replies calmly. Cecelia is well aware that the societal norms of 1815 England don't apply here, and no one would be bound by them anyway, but it's what she's used to, and if she abandons them wholesale, she's not sure she'd be comfortable. She's relented slightly when several people have insisted she call them by their first names, but that isn't something she thinks would make others look down on her. Accepting a drink from a man not of her acquaintance out in public seems a little too familiar. She has money, and can pay from her own things.

"Your compliment is all the appreciation I could want, truly, Mr...?"

"Oh, I apologize. I hadn't meant to overstep propriety." Her world must be a rather depressing one, thought Roy, if one couldn't extend a token of appreciation to a bard outside of the purely monetary, but social customs could vary and perhaps there was a very good reason for it. It wasn't his place to judge.

"Roy Greenhilt," he said, rising as was polite and offering her a hand.

"Mrs Cecelia Wynn," she replies, placing her hand in his and curtsying to him. Belatedly, she remembers that many men here shake women's hands instead of kissing them, so she slides her hand into a better position for that and shakes. Her grip is rather firm without her meaning for it to be. It's a bit of her enhanced werewolf strength coming through. At times it's hard to gauge how much is too much.

"It is quite all right, I assure you. My home's rules of society are not something I wish to simply toss aside, but I do know others here cannot be expected to follow those rules."

Roy's own handshake was that very precise grip of one who has incredible strength and exercised very precise control over it. Some days he wondered if he should take off the Belt of Giant Strength while he was off duty -- but on the other hand, he was still incredibly strong even without it, and the day he didn't wear it would end up being the day he regretted not wearing it, practically as a guarantee.

"Well, it's very nice to meet you nonetheless, Mrs. Wynn," he said, operating under the assumption that she would prefer the more formal address. "Are you a bard, or just a musician?"

Proof that Roy was learning: he didn't ask if she just had ranks in Perform. (Proof that Roy still had a lot to learn: he still didn't realize that she would not interpret his question as, 'Do you have levels in bard?'.)

"A bard? Goodness, no, I am merely doing this to support myself. In that way, I suppose I am a musician, though it was never my intent to become one." She was luckily set up quite nicely as a widow with no children in a comfortable house that she inherited on her husband's death with money to be made off the land. Not every widow would be so lucky and would have to rush to marry again.

"When I arrived, I was asked what skills I possess, and it was suggested I be a musician for places like this. I perform at other venues as well."

"Well, they sure placed you correctly," Roy said with a grin. His loss that she wasn't in fact an adventurer -- he was starting to miss the occasional bardsong buff -- but as regards her skill itself, no one could complain. Besides, pure harp music sounded... well, homelike, compared to some of the other things he'd heard here. Yikes. "Where else do you perform? And do you use other instruments?"

"No, no, it is only the harp for me." She then lists off several restaurants and cafes where she performs, as well as when she performs. She doesn't want to make it sound like she's worked to the bone, and explains how some places are only once a week gigs.

"It is refreshing to have a change in location so often."

Roy, nonetheless, whistled admiringly at the list. "When they told you you could make a living working here, you took it to heart, huh?" That bumped her up a further notch in his estimation. Hard work was, after all, a virtue.

There's the (not-so-)friendly pitter patter of (not-so-)little feet up the stairs as Clementine pokes her head up into the second floor block. She doesn't spend much time in the communal housing area anymore, but she still stops by sometimes because the bed is technically still hers and there are sometimes good supplies to be had. (There's also the issue of baths. The water in her new house isn't running yet.)

She's used to places not having power too, though for different reasons than Cecelia. Sometimes you'd come across a community with a generator or two running, but those were few and far between.

It's the scent that's drawn her up here, and she wrinkles her nose as she looks over at the young woman.

"You can smell all this downstairs, you know. Are scented candles all they had?"

Edited 2017-03-16 00:24 (UTC)

Cecelia sets down her book and smiles at the young girl. Has she been brought via the Portal too? How strange that she should wind up here. Was her world not a good place that she wished to leave and find another?

"Indeed, it carries that far? I do apologize if the smell is unpleasant. I did try to pick nice scents." And seeing how she has enhanced senses, she bought the ones that made her sneeze the least. She's used to them now that they've been burning awhile.

"There were unscented, but those were only tiny tea lights or tapers for candlesticks. I much prefer these big ones in the jars. They will last longer."

"They might last longer, but I think I'd get a headache if I had to sit in front of them." She doesn't even know what they're burning, aside from wax. Is it really good to be breathing all of that in? She wouldn't know, but they are just candles.

Still, candles are useful. "Do you have any of those others still? The ones you didn't like?"

Her house doesn't have electricity yet either, so she's been going through alternative light sources. If she needs to, she can make larger candles from several smaller ones. She's done things like conserve wax in the past, making her own crappy candles when she needed to.

In Cecelia's day, they did nothing but breathe in candle smoke all evening. She can't fathom that it might be bad, since everyone does it.

"They are all scented, I am afraid." she says, though she does stand up and moves over to where she's left a shopping bag on a table. "Would you care to look through them? There may be one you find you like."

Edited 2017-03-16 18:27 (UTC)

"Uhh... Nah, I'm good." She would have accepted if she was still in the world she'd come from, and she's still tempted to accept now. When you need light it doesn't matter what sort of candle you're burning. To leave them behind would be a waste. But this isn't that world, and she doesn't need her home to smell like wild berries. "Thanks, though."

She'd find some regular candles elsewhere. There would be stores that sold them around town, she was sure.

"Is the power out for the whole block or just this building?"

"The last I heard, it was just here, but there seems to be some problems all over. I daresay when the power returns here, it will go away someplace else." She gives a delicate shrug, lifting a hand in the air at her side.

"But I am not bothered. I come from a place without these luxuries, and can certainly make do until they see fit to return."

"... Of course it will." Weird things going on, huh? Hopefully it was power being sacrificed to keep the grid running. The last thing they need is monsters getting into the city with people like this living here. Non-combatants, that is. She might be small herself, but at least she knows how to use a gun. She'd rather they not have a situation like that here.

"Yeah I'm used to doing without it too. Doesn't mean it isn't nice." She hadn't wanted to start taking anything here for granted. This is a reminder to set her home up so she can function well in it even without power.

"It does have its benefits," she admits. Faster cook times, more convenience with hygiene, etc. Though she does worry that technology has made things too fast.

"And what is your name? Mine is Mrs Cecelia Wynn."

"Clementine." She's not used to people introducing themselves with a title before their name. Never in a million years would she go around calling herself 'Miss Clementine,' especially not without the appropriate southern belle accent to go with it.

Mrs. Wynn here is just going to have to forgive her lack of unnecessary manners.

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{ OPEN } it is a truth universally acknowledged

power outage==forgive scott he's an idiot

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shopping

quick question: are his ears uncovered?

lets go with yes!

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At work

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power outage

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