(outside)

[its_possible]

It's a quiet evening outside by the lake, a perfect evening for a little post-training stroll. Uther Doul likes quiet. It reminds him of his homeland.

And so does the terrain here--oh, it's not nearly as mountainous or as forbidding as the haunting grounds of his youth, but it's much further inland than he's been in a long time, and some of the trees look similar. If he doesn't pay much attention, he can imagine he's there.

But right now he's remembering, not imagining--remembering a snowfall on another night, in the months before he'd left his home. The undead aristocracy prefer to conduct the harvest on the zombie-farms before first frost, to spare them the expense of heating so many cages over the long, cold winter; but that year, winter came early, so they'd had to hire some of the boys from the Liveside ghetto to help wrangle the harvest. He had been one.

They may be raised in cages, but they have some idea of what's about to happen to them, and some of them always try to run. That year, some succeeded, and the livemen had had to track them down. It's very easy, in the snow. Snow just like this.

A man can get used to anything.

Botherable, if you don't mind awkward silences.

[tinytag: uther doul] [open until it scrolls!]

Comments

[electro_kinetic]

The snow doesn't particularly both Noriko; she grew up in Japan, where it does snow a fair bit.

As such, she's taking a run around the lake, bright blue hair flipping in the cold breeze, and her silvery steel-alloy gauntlets flashing in the weak sun. She's a good runner, with a long stride and an easy rhythm until she comes up on Uther.

"...You must be new."

[its_possible]

He gives a polite nod by way of greeting.

"What makes you say that?"

Not that it's not true, but if there's some way of blending in better, not standing out--short of meeting everyone, but that would make him not-new in other ways.

[electro_kinetic]

"It's January in a Scotland-like climate and you're voluntarily walking in it," she says. "Most people here who're more or less human don't."

Clearly, there are some exceptions, given she's out here voluntarily--in her defense, however, she is not walking. Or wasn't.

[its_possible]

"Fresh air is healthy," he says. "I thought I'd have a walk around the lake before I go back in. Not used to so much being indoors."

At least, not indoors on land. And even being belowdecks on the Grand Easterly isn't the same as, for instance, being in a landside hotel. Completely aside from the simple fact of the ground not moving.

[electro_kinetic]

"So is not getting frostbite," she counters, raising a brow.

She doesn't offer a handshake--even if she has her black and yellow long armwarmers on, to make the transition slightly less shocking--but does rock back on her heels to study Uther. "I'm Noriko. Where do you come from?" The 'and-what's-your-name' part usually gets answered without asking.

[its_possible]

"I'm not cold," he says.

Leather armor, and a normally somewhat-high temperature, will do that.

"Uther Doul. I come here from Armada."

Not where he's originally from, but there's no reason to get into that right now.

[electro_kinetic]

"Interesting name," she says, not voicing the thought that it's also creepy, in the same way as the name 'Captain Hook' is also creepy to a six-year-old. "It's been a while since I took a history course seriously, but isn't it usually an armada? Like, group of ships?" She's not used to hearing that as a proper name without 'Spanish' in front of it.

[its_possible]

"Normally," he says with a light shrug. "But ours isn't an armada. It's Armada. A city made of ships."

If you listen carefully, he does pronounce it with a capital A. Somehow.

"Maybe a thousand of them, all linked together."

[electro_kinetic]

"...Can it still float that way?" She's envisioning maybe a harbor that's been filled, made into a new city that's effectively an extension of land.

[its_possible]

"Of course," he says. "We sail all over the world. We do sometimes lose a ship or two in a storm, if the weather's bad enough, but we gain more than we lose."

In a year they lose maybe a handful of boats or small ships, the older and weaker ones, and gain a dozen, maybe two.

[electro_kinetic]

"What, you accept applications or something?"

[its_possible]

"Not exactly," he says.

A pause.

"Some people do come voluntarily, and bring their ships along. But most are commandeered. They come to like our city, though."

Or they spend their days in the asylum, until they do. Or until they can fake it.

[electro_kinetic]

"And that actually works?" she asks, dubious. "They just...what, randomly decide to like people that have kidnapped them and presumably derailed their lives?"

Yeah, that sounds familiar.

[its_possible]

"...well, there's nowhere else for them to go," he says. "If you're in the center of the ocean and don't want to be there--I suppose they could swim for it if they wanted to. But it's a little far."

[electro_kinetic]

"None of them have found a way to cut through whatever's holding the ships together, and take off with one?"

[its_possible]

"No," he says.

Very few people ever even try to escape--the officials are quite good at filtering out people who'd be likely to try, and they get sent to the asylum. Most of those who do try, aren't competent enough to get a boat free; and the few who do, aren't generally experienced sailors. Life in Armada, or dying in a rowboat in the middle of the ocean? Not a tough decision.

"But we have a lot to offer. It's quite pleasant."

[electro_kinetic]

"I bet it is, aside from that kidnapping part," she says. "So what do you do there?"

[its_possible]

"Whatever my captains tell me to," he says with a faint smile. "I'm their bodyguard, primarily. But I do other things as I'm needed."

Mostly, he is visible. Armadans fear him, and are less likely to cause any trouble.

[electro_kinetic]

"So you're a beat cop," she says, simplifying it. "How's that work out on a floating city? Space must be at a pretty big premium, so are jails really an option?"

[its_possible]

"How do you mean?" he asks. "In general, with regard to crime, or just as far as people unhappy with their new surroundings? We don't banish anyone, and we don't normally have the death sentence either. But we come from the naval tradition; we have imprisonment, and flogging."

[electro_kinetic]

"All of the above," she answers. "Do you let the ones unhappy with being there leave, at least? Presumably you have supplies brought to you by other ships."

She's steadfastly ignoring the idea of flogging. (It's possible her gauntlets may be crackling at her fingertips anyway with blue-white lightning, but you can ignore that, can't you, Uther?) Imprisonment she can handle the concept of; being beaten with something while you can't fight back, not so much.

[its_possible]

"If people come there voluntarily," he says, "then they're free to leave. But those whose ships are commandeered, they have to stay. We're a city, with men, women, children, the elderly--and there are other sea powers who would love to find and destroy us. We can't take that chance."

He shrugs slightly. "But you must understand, we're more free than other cities. There's an equality there."

[electro_kinetic]

"Correction--you won't take that chance. As a governing body you have the capability, or else you're simply an atrocious collection of authorities," she says, blithe tony belying the iron-hard conviction underneath.

"General tip for conversations; when you admit to abducting people and forcing them to stay within your boundaries, don't follow it up with but we're more free."

[its_possible]

"Your opinions make it no less true," he says. "I've been other places, and I know. We're a closed system; we have to rely on each other more than people in other places. So our leaders care."

...well, some do. Some are more interested in playing politics and gaining power. But he's not paid to have opinions.

[electro_kinetic]

"Not an opinion," she says.

[mogget_cat]

There are eyes out there in the the snow-quietened dusk, catching the light and reflecting it back, green as new leaves in spring.

Watching.

[its_possible]

Well, it's a good evening for it.

Being outside, enjoying the fresh air and quiet, exploring the surroundings... and being seen.

Not that he's doing much of interest, just walking, but he may be of interest all the same.

[mogget_cat]

He is new; that is interesting enough to be going on with. Only further investigation will tell whether he is interesting enough to be a diversion for a time.

A white cat*, a bit on the small side for a full-grown housecat, pads through the snow silently, approaches the wandering pirate by a circuitous route of its own devising. Taking its time. Shaking the snow off a paw when necessary.

"Mrrt?" it looks up at him.

*or what looks like a white cat

[its_possible]

There are cats in his city; he doesn't keep any, but there are at least two he knows of just on his ship. To keep the rat population down, since they're better at that than the monkeys are.

Still, he's been through enough to know that things (and people, and animals) aren't always what they seem.

So he leans down, and offers a hand. Cautious.

[mogget_cat]

The cat eyes the hand for a moment before leaning forward to sniff at it.

Deeming it acceptable, if somewhat in need of washing, the cat bumps its head against the calloused fingers, offering in return an encouraging purr.

[its_possible]

He's got totally normal hands (though the right has metal bumps embedded in the palm).

"There must be good hunting out here," he says quietly, as he offers a bit of scritching.

Forests like this are full of all sorts of small animals, some of them quite tasty.

[mogget_cat]

The cat purrs contentedly, half-closing those bright green eyes in pleasure. He is certainly well-fed, having taken his fill (and more) from the demon rabbits that lurk in the forest. They are slow and sluggish this time of year, conserving energy until there is more available food, and not expecting a predator willing to infiltrate their warren.

Most of the blood has been cleaned from his fur already, leaving him white as the fresh-fallen snow (if not nearly as pure). Except for a small splash on the side of his neck that he has overlooked. It is dry now, but isn't all too old.

[its_possible]

"You have been busy," he continues, touching lightly at the spot of blood, more by way of notification than trying to clean it off--well, it could be the cat's own blood, in which case poking at it wouldn't be a good idea. It doesn't look like an injury, but things can be deceiving.

"I remember a forest like this one. They had creatures like rats, but much bigger--a man could make a proper meal from just one, they were that big. But they didn't taste like much."

[mogget_cat]

The cat, its attention drawn to the spot, makes quick if fastidious work of cleaning the blood from its fur. It has the similarly irritated air of one who has been alerted that they missed a spot while shaving. It does look up occasionally as the man speaks about the large rats, curiosity mildly piqued, at least until the remark on their lack of flavor. Oh well.

There is scar-tissue upon the cat's neck that might be felt under the thick, white fur. Signs of a collar worn too tight for too long. There is no collar now, though, and obviously freedom suits this cat well.

[its_possible]

"Later, in the desert, we'd wish we had those rats, bland as they were."

But they managed. Determination counts for a lot, in situations like that.

"The food here is much better, so much variety--and I imagine I'm not alone in liking the freedom. It's nice, not to be under orders for a while."

Even if he does like having the freedom to choose whose orders he follows.