The full seasonal event can be read here! Below are the main seasonal items for quick reference:
1. A thread reacting to the season's weather in some ways.
2. A thread in the part of the city your character doesn't live in!
3. A thread relating to your vocation.
Of The Season
Quote
"Tell Dr. Nate that Gale sent you, and he still owes me for the mushrooms. Except that it takes you a while to reach the clinic, and by the time you do your fever is spiking, and so instead of the requisite message you instead tell the poor soul who greets you that 'A gale'a m'shrooms sent me cus'a my hands.'" - Zephyr in Oh help me, please doctor, I'm damaged
In the space between thought and wonder
Memory cannot pull you under
It keeps going south.
Sure, he fucking fixed his housing situation—he's now residing in a better part of the Drench, he's on a manageable budget, and no one in the city knows of the barely-upper-class Levina family from bumfuck nowhere, Undunli, so as far as his family's ~precious reputation~ goes, the only ones suffering are his parents, as they can't boast about their son getting landed in the Drench like some common scum. Morrocaw hates it even more than the Plate hotel, though. He's still got fifty thousand things on his mind to worry about. The savant he's studying with, while clearly knowledgeable and a reasonably good tutor, is a cunt.
A lot of these words had not been in the mild Isanti's vocabulary a few weeks ago. Now, every other saints-damned word in his thoughts is a curse, and he feels close to snapping somebody's neck.
Except he wouldn't.
Isanti is skittish and fearful, only violent in his daydreams, unable to stand up for himself.
Anyway—
Said cunt of a savant had insisted on Isanti staying VERY late for something, something while interesting wouldn't have killed anyone if it had waited until the morning, and because the savant was expensive as shit (and his reputation already dragged enough through the mud, if some people half the country away were to be believed) he couldn't have protested, and then Morrocaw picked up on his anxiety and was way worse than usual and had a meltdown about the trams and that took like.. an hour? Or something? Long story short he had had to carry her (she's heavy) onto the tram and spend most of the journey still holding her and then she didn't want to go home and kept spooking and trying to chase shadows and—
He can't blame her but the end result is that they're sort of helplessly dashing through the winding, confusing alleys and streets of the Drench as the shadows deepen and curfew hour comes and goes and sure, he's got his papers in fucking order but he's still out too late and it's all giving him way too much anxiety and he can feel the hot burn of tears behind his eyelids.
Fuck. This. City.
And he's definitely somewhat lost.
In the moment between breath and dying
You’re free, fearless, you’re flying
you want a revelation, you wanna get it right but it's a conversation I can't have tonight
Footer:Fuck Declan. Fuck him with a wooden strapon so hard he can’t sit for a blessed week. May his cock catch the rot ‘n turn black n’ fall off just as he’s about to cum. Fuck him and his junior artists always close up. First in - last out bullshit. And that’s just a few of the punishments Kala’s spinning in her head as she stomps haphazardly through the shadows of the alleys, face as dark as a thundercloud when it peaks out into the occasional light. Her feet aren’t nearly as heavy as a Forcie’s boot, but the indignant anger is so strong in this one that she doesn’t take much care to be as quiet and quick as she ought to be.
Though if you asked Kala, she’d laugh and say something to suggest that curfews are for those who fear getting caught.
People who look like Kala don’t often fear getting caught.
But y’know what fucking sucks about curfew? Her favorite noodle shop is already closed. A sharp, shrill shriek of frustration echoes down the mostly-empty street as Kala dramatically pivots and starts to head towards home, crossing her arms tightly across her chest and clenching her jaw, projecting all of her anger into her face and tension-taught body. Even the sound of her favorite singer nts-ing from a radio isn’t enough to ease her sudden fury. Fully in the grips of hanger, she whips around a corner without much thought and finds herself suddenly stopped, no - stumbling backwards, catching only a glimpse of tall, whitness before she’s snarling, “Watch it!”
In the space between thought and wonder
Memory cannot pull you under
He's running on desperation and fear, anger a thin veneer, a helpless attempt to cushion his fragile mind—it feels like spun glass, already shattered, a million sharp and brittle pieces just waiting to fall apart. The burning in his eyes spreads to his throat, the world taking on a blurry sheen, and—
Yeah. How they don't collide harder is beyond him, seeing as she just shows up out of nowhere, but somehow they just kind of .. bounce apart. He stumbles to some sort of stop, ready to apologize, to run on, to try and fucking find his way, but.. She kinda ruins that by snarling at him.
He's not sure what he wants to do. Scream? Murder? Apologize? Cry? All at once? Throttle the life out of her while begging for forgiveness? He imagines himself as inhumanely strong, snapping her bones like toothpicks.
The air in his throat feels hot and uncomfortable. Morrocaw stands at the end of her leash, scowling.
The words fight each other on his tongue, so he says nothing. Just tries to pull his aching thoughts together, to figure out where to go, when to go—after how long of awkward staring is it socially acceptable to just run away again?
In the moment between breath and dying
You’re free, fearless, you’re flying
you want a revelation, you wanna get it right but it's a conversation I can't have tonight
Upright for a hot second after the collision, Kala stumbles backwards and then slips on a loose bit of sidewalk. Like a skinny pinwheel, her arms flail backwards with a startled yelp, but she manages to catch herself before she fully hits the ground; maybe it’s the rolling, salty bitterness that fills her belly right now instead of food that has her so off-kilter. Kala ain’t a dancer, but she’s usually more graceful than this. Disgust floods her face, hot and heavy, as she finds herself bracing on one hand, in a half-crab position, the perpetrator looming like a specter in the corner of her gaze.
And, yep - that’s definitely something mushy and warm squelching out from beneath her hand. Something undoubtedly unpleasant, something that she’ll need to scrub her skin raw to erase, something that stinks and something that - well, her snarling face is about to take a look and see if it’s throwable when she notices the cat. No, not a cat. A big cat. A cheetah. On a leash.
On second thought - maybe she won’t throw whatever vileness she half-landed in. And maybe she won’t get some teeth in her face. It’s too pretty to risk that sort of thing.
“Fucks’ sake,” she mutters with a fraction less vitriol, heaving herself up from her half-bridge / improvised yoga position. Very careful not to wipe said filthy hand on her clothes, she can’t help but notice that the person is still there. Watching. Like a fucking idiot Topsider. “Oh no,” Kala seethes aloud, sarcasm dripping off every word like rotten honey. “Please, don’t bother to help me up, I’m just fine.”
In the space between thought and wonder
Memory cannot pull you under
And—
Well.
If something's going shittily and then for a moment seems it'll go somewhat less shittily, don't trust it. Time seems to slow, his free hand reaching out as if through cold, heavy water, and she's descending towards the hard street.
He wishes he could stop her—catch her—prevent that looming, painful, unhygienic collision.
But he can't. He can just stand there like an idiot, staring at her as she falls, trying to marshal his racing thoughts, his anxious heart, but he's all over the place—birdshot, shattered glass, hunger and tears.
At least she doesn't break her wrists, or crack her skull open on the pavement. That's something, right?
(Tho soon he might kinda wish she had)
What does it matter if he thinks she got off lucky? She starts to heave herself upright, and he just kind of stays where he is, hand still outstretched as if he could catch her but slowly falling back to his side. He wants to say something, ask if she's alright, apologize, anything, but between his brain and his mouth is a desolate, dangerous wasteland full of other words and emotions and unmet needs. So, she beats him to it, and it's annoying.
"What, do you want me to push you back down so you can stew in your bitterness instead?" he spits out at her, his dazed, panicked expression overtaken by a scowl. He's surprised by the words, but like, really. Fuck you too.
In the moment between breath and dying
You’re free, fearless, you’re flying
you want a revelation, you wanna get it right but it's a conversation I can't have tonight
Oh. Oh, okay. That’s how it’s going to be, is it?
“I don’t want dogshit from you,” she hisses back, eyes narrowing into something almost cat-like. Certainly disdainful, much more like the feline at his side, given the wide angles of Kala’s face. Sharpened, flinty gaze flickers quickly up and down again, taking in everything glinting in the streetlight - the shinies on the cheetah’s collar, the stranger’s quality of clothing.
She makes assumptions, and whether they’re valid or not, the artist is still hangry and pissed and being called out on her attitude is just the icing on the cake today. And like Isanti, she is Over. It. Turning to go on her bitter way, Kala makes no attempt to hide what she thinks. “Fuckin’ slicks,” bites into the murky air, and with a flick of her wrist, she ends up sending any nasty drips that remain on her hand towards him.
