wickedchouette | (no subject)

[It's Callisto's second day in Norfinbury. She has roughly 5% of an idea of what's going on, and even that 5% is colored by misconceptions and incorrect assumptions (this is a snowy corner of Tartarus, right?), none of which are helped by the fact that she hasn't quite figured out the network yet. So far, she's screamed for attention from Hades and Ares, and received nothing from either of them. She's wandered around a bit in the snow, trying and failing to get her bearings. She's gathered up some warmer clothes (because leather armor really isn't warm). And she's gotten into a scuffle over supplies and murdered a man. As you do.

She doesn't know his name. They'd tumbled into the house at the same time, half an hour or so before lockdown, and had the bad luck of zeroing in on the same puffy down jacket that just happened to be folded neatly on the living room sofa. Neither of them had been polite or selfless enough to step back and let the other have it. Both of them had wanted it badly enough to try and fight for it. But only one of them, as it turned out, had had the stomach to deliver a killing blow.

Her plan is to drag his body outside and dump it before the doors lock, because while spending the night locked up with a corpse is doable, it's not really preferable. Those plans are waylaid, however, by the front door opening and another woman tramping in. Kneeling at the head of the body, table-lamp-turned-murder-weapon lying on its side next to her, Callisto blinks in surprise at her unfamiliar appearance (is she some sort of dryad?). But she doesn't seem that perturbed, and she certainly doesn't seem guilty.]

Was he with you?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[The newcomer, who only wishes she were indeed a dryad, hasn't been in Norfinbury much longer than the woman before her.

Her body is still trying to adapt to being snapped into the cold, her skin a paler shade of green than it should be and the leaves in her red hair left wilted. Her Norfinbury-issued green coat, dress slacks, and hiking boots are a mish-mash of colors, styles, and sizes. They're barely enough to keep her from freezing.

Her arms are wrapped around herself and even with the door immediately shut behind her, the cold still bothers her more than the bloody scene before her ever could. Her eyes follow from the blonde woman to the dead man. The indifference is palpable.]

No. [She replies dryly.] But I'm sure he would want me to have his clothes. To make up for whatever life he surely squandered.

[She tries hard to maintain whatever dignity that her voice will allow versus her undeniable discomfort. She hasn't even caught sight of the jacket on the sofa yet, but to someone who has had to slowly upgrade from a skimpy one-piece suit made from leaves, a pair of good gloves is surely enough of a luxury.]

I'm the one who killed him.

[Callisto is quick to point out.]

Anything that's his is mine for the plundering, unless you want to fight me for it, too.

[But on the other hand... she gives his clothes a brief look-over, and quickly decides that she has no interest in his pants or shirt, or the thinner, more threadbare jacket that he's already shed. She already wears snowpants and a knit sweater over her armor, and while they're not ideal, they've kept her alive better than anything of his could.]

The coat on the chair is mine. And so are his boots.

[They'll be too big for her, but she can line them with rags, and they'll be warmer and more waterproof than her armored boots.]

But you can have the rest, if you want them.

[Some consideration reads on Ivy's face for that brief moment. Would she fight this woman? Sure, but it's not ideal. Ivy has always preferred her wits and... other wiles to hand-to-hand combat. Luckily, a compromise is presented before she's forced to make that decision.]

Fair enough.

[She circles around to the opposite side of the body and kneels to very unceremoniously rip off the deceased's gloves. She shoves her hands into the pair and gets to work on removing his jacket and shirt to add some extra layers to her thrown-together ensemble. She's focused fully on the task, but does address the other woman as she collects the items.]

The doors will lock soon. Do you plan on disposing of this meatpile?

[Normally, it'd be a waste of potential mulch to her, but she's a long way from gardening with all this frozen earth. She wastes no time in opening her coat once she gets the dead man's torso bare, and pushes off her covering to reveal an uncomfortable amount of green skin and a less green leafy top. The man's shirt and jacket are thrown on herself, her own jacket going back over them when she's done. It's not downy, but it'll do. She'll let her company take her own spoils as she moves down to the pants to do the same.]

They always lock?

[Callisto says, with a note of surprise in her tone. She'd experienced lockdown the night before, of course, but had assumed it was a special feature of that particular building rather than any sort of regular event. A quick perusal of the network would have cleared all that up, of course - but she hasn't even bothered to register her tablet, opting instead for continued attempts at disposing of it that never actually stick. Right now it's submerged in a toilet bowl upstairs, still impotently chirping away.

But yes. This meatpile. She bends to strip off the man's boots and socks, then waits for Ivy to get off everything she wants. When she appears to be done, Callisto grabs him by his ankles and starts dragging him towards the door.]

You are a dryad, aren't you.

As far as I've gathered.

[From both her personal experience and what she's been able to surmise from the network. It's immensely helpful to be technologically literate in this place, who would have guessed?

She watches the other woman begin to move the body. Ivy's not exactly what she'd consider to be a helpful person herself, but there is a reason that spurs her on to hook her own arms beneath the man's underarms and lift from the other end.]

This'll go faster.

[She's not unusually strong but between the two of them, they should make short work of it.]

I imagine the creation of a dryad to be more divinely wrought. My rebirth into what you see is more of a... happy accident.

As if gods never make happy accidents.

[Callisto snorts, with a definite sardonic twist to the word happy. Together, they get him out the door and onto the stoop, and Callisto slams the door on him. There. Done. Maybe wolves will come and eat him.

(She really, really has no real idea of what's going on here.)

Moving over to the couch with the intention of claiming her coat, she asks over her shoulder:]

So what happened, then?