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
Do you live for the love you've found? Some sad slow song to lay you down and still your weary worried heart.
I used to love the rain, she thinks to herself as she looks out from the winding staircase out toward the mist below. Rusty, unnatural drops fall occasionally from the plate above her, falling for what feels like an eternity toward the squalor below.
The scent of fresh rain as it meets the dry earth is a distant memory. The green of new crops rejuvenated by the spring showers like a faded watercolor in the back of her mind. It is instead replaced with violent waves crushing through ill-structured homes, standing water cluttered with rubble, and the push and shove of unwashed bodies in the Drench.
Naivety had cost Willow much. Headstrong as always, she marched from the farms where she was raised to the big city. Many back home warned her of the political unrest, the divide between poor and rich, but she had been starry-eyed and youthful. Hopeful to a fault. Be sure to write, her mother said, misty-eyed but knowing. There was no point in telling Willow to stay when she had made up her mind. She needed training, assistance - something that the rolling hills and endless fields could not offer her. The logic was sound, but the planning and the foresight? Well, that was about as solid as the first apartment she had moved into in the Drench.
It was gone now, and so to was her path.
An unfortunate puddle near the top of the stairs rips her attention back to the present. "Shit," she whispers under her breath as she shakes her shoe, the canvas stained grey and soaked through from the mixture of rain and city refuse. At least the floods had stopped, but that did not make the forsaken water disappear. There was no time to stop her ascent, though; she was already running late for work.
Misplaced frustration drives her through the crowd of people flocking about the Edge as she reaches the top of the stairs. The bustle of people similar to that of the Drench below, but with a few unfamiliar faces about. Likely, the rich come to gawk at the poor. Maybe taking some brief vacation to slum it with the other half. Their clothes are too clean and not well worn. Their faces have freckles and a hint of tan. They look like poorly cast actors in a lavish play. They stand out like a sore thumb, but money must buy delusion. Willow smirks to herself as she dips into the Grease Trap.
A charming name for a cafe, to be sure. Humor seems to be the salve of the Drenchers.
The Trap itself is little more than a hole in the wall. The glass doors and windows look out to the busy plaza. Inside, the walls are decorated with a hodgepodge of different scrap metals probably retrieved from the wreckage of apartments during the flood seasons. The tables have wrought iron bases attached to wide, naturally shaped driftwood that has been lovingly smoothed out and polished. Willow suspects the Bear has made them himself. Altogether, there is probably enough seating for six patrons. A large, stainless steel bar juts through the center of the place. It has clearly been smoothed over in the many years the establishment has been open. Behind, a haphazard collection of mugs sit upon floating shelves. The bar has a modest espresso maker and several coffee presses. Next to the bar is also a glass case filled with out-of-place, delicately made sweets and pastries - courtesy of the Bear's wife.
"Sorry I'm late," she pleads as the bells above the door announce her arrival. Quick, dainty hands wrap a black apron around her waist, cutting her white blouse off at her mid-line. She also quickly swings her hair up into a rough ponytail that she clips in place with a spare pen in her denim pockets. The manager looks up from behind the counter and gives her just a brief grunt. He was a man of few words, but Willow likes that. She calls him the Bear due to his large, hairy, and grim appearance. His heart seems soft, but she does not know him well enough to say. She offers a timid smile instead and makes her way behind the counter, grabbing her notepad and tray, before turning her eyes out toward the tables.
Swiftly, she makes her way to the closest occupied table. Her face lights up with a smile that doesn't penetrate past the surface. "Welcome to the Grease Trap. My name is Willow; what can I get you?"
He is one of those that sticks out like a sore thumb, clothes too clean, pressed well, streamlined with greys, blacks, and the navy blue of his noble house colors. It also doesn’t help that he’s tried to hide exactly who and what he is, a very noticeable hood pulled over his head, the bit of dark brown hair appearing over his forehead, curling with the humidity and water from the rain outside.
The jacket is zipped up to his collar, hiding any other specific designations beneath it, but his sleeves are pushed up, fingers flipping through the pages of a book whose edges are slightly damp. It’s a book that’s relatively unimportant, nothing full of plate secrets, but an old book full of stories of the times before the Last Days. A little hint into what life was like before and all Sunjata can read are the notable similarities between now and then, a thought that makes him uncomfortable enough to flip the pen around between his fingers, marking a paragraph that he specifically has questions about, around the time that Willow arrives at his table.
Steel eyes are immediately drawn to the woman, returning the smile. Instead of one that doesn’t reach his eyes, this one is a gentle, quiet smile before he speaks, conveying a sense of easy going-ness that the rest of the Platers likely wouldn’t do. But he’s given away alongside his clean and pressed clothing by the thick smattering of freckles along his cheeks and nose, the hint of tan, sun kissed skin that disappears into the shadows of his clothes. “Hello Willow,” he begins, his voice accented so closely to the Arbiter’s own that he almost wishes he’s bit the tone back. “Could I start with a plate of lotus rolls and… hm. Maybe a tall glass of beer?”
Do you live for the love you've found? Some sad slow song to lay you down and still your weary worried heart.
Clean, freshly pressed linen alerts Willow to the fact this person is a blue bottom before his accent. His voice is rich and oddly authoritative. Maybe all of the blue bottoms speak this way. Hearing her name in that tone of voice, though, she cannot help but think of the broadcasted announcement of the lockdown from the Arbiter. Odd, but she highly doubts someone of that station would be here in the POSE.
Her bright eyes watch with false interest and care as she listens to his order. Had she not been in such a rush from being late, she might have noticed he was hooded before now. A hint of tan and freckles disappear under the dark of his hood. "Certainly," she replies, quickly scribbling the order on the sheaf of paper from her notepad. "One moment."
As she approaches the bar, she notices that the Bear has already pulled out a chilled, tall glass. Willow thinks this is strange for a couple of reasons. Normally, the Bear would not go out of his way to work on an order. Secondly, it hints toward the fact that he was listening intently to the stranger sitting at the table. The woman gives the Bear an odd glance as she makes her way toward the pastry case. He locks eyes with her but says nothing. Willow pulls out four intricately decorated, plump pastries shaped like small buns. Their contents are given away by the lotus design on the top. Lillian really has outdone herself with these, Willow thinks to herself as she arranges them on a humble stone plate.
As she stands back up she glances once more on the hooded man at the table, noticing a book in his hands for the first time. Books were not common in the Drench. Many were destroyed in the floods, so what few existed usually built to those who were well off enough to build upward. Willow's literacy started on the farm, where her parents owned a modest bookshelf mostly with salvaged texts. Modern books were much too expensive for her family.
Willow pondered silently who this man was, and more importantly, why he was here in the Grease Trap of all places. Picking up the freshly poured beer from tap, she adds it to her tray along with the plate of lotus rolls and walks briskly back toward the table. Scanning the cafe, the rest of the patrons seem to have been taken care of already.
"Here you go." She swiftly places the plate of lotus rolls in front of the blue bottom and next sets a napkin on the table before gently placing the glass of beer on top. She tears off the paper receipt and sets in near the middle of the table. "You can settle up at the bar whenever you are ready." Willow almost turns to go, but lingers by the table - after all, no other patrons need her immediate attention.
"If you don't mind my asking, where did you get the book? I can never find them in the thrift shops here." The Bear is clearly put on edge by the arrival of this stranger, but he is not willing (or perhaps not naive enough) to put his nose into business that's not his. The question is innocent enough, and Willow is a portrait of innocence herself. However, the intent behind the question is more pointed. She would rather be asking: "what the hell is a blue bottom doing in this shit hole?"; this approach will probably be more successful.
“Thank you.” Comes the swift response as she takes his order, his gaze lingering on her a few moments longer when she steps away, casually eyeing the gruff man at the counter that pulls out a chilled glass. But she disappears quickly after that and his attention returns to the book, the pen flipping back and forth between his fingers like some kind of nervous, stressed tick.
Which, wouldn’t be entirely wrong given the fact that the times he doesn’t have off he’s spent it entirely in the Drench, in a uniform he doesn’t believe in, under orders he equally finds fault with but cannot utter, certainly not to his father. Regardless, he flips a page and marks another paragraph with a question mark by the time Willow’s returned with his food and beer and the young Bratena straightens up to give her his full attention.
One of which he hopes isn’t as commandeering as other enforcers. “Thank you again.” He murmurs, clicking the pen and shoving it in his place before he closes it, the leather bound edges worn as if from a library. He reaches for the beer then to take a sip as her questions aired, brows rising slightly as he looks up at her, swallowing it quick to answer.
“Ah, this one came from the Core.” There’s a small smile that’s almost somewhat embarrassed by the answer, knowing it’s a place those on the Edge are very unlikely to go to. “If you have something in mind, though, perhaps I could get it for you.” The offer is there, Sunjata sitting back enough that the hood starts to slip, the shaved gavel symbol in the side of his head suddenly visible for those that care enough to look at him hard.
And unfortunately, the perfect direction for the Bear to see it, as well as Willow.
Do you live for the love you've found? Some sad slow song to lay you down and still your weary worried heart.
"You are welcome," she replies congenially, a reserved but polite smile accompanying the thoughtless nicety. Maybe if it was not so reflexive, she would have thought to reply differently. For, after all, it has not been determined if he is welcomed here yet. Most of the actors taking turns interacting with the Drenchers usually end up being unwelcomed though inevitably tolerated.
From beneath the dark of his hood, bright blue eyes peak out from raised eyebrows at her question. Willow thinks they look soft, especially for a blue bottom. Within them she does not see the same contempt or judgment that usually sits, thinly veiled, on the faces of the visiting aristocrats.
His response confirms the suspicions Willow had, but still does not answer the question of why he has come here. She nods in response to his answer. The Core had many shops that were, frankly, out of the budget of any Drencher through normal means. His offer to retrieve her a book catches her by surprise.
Willow is not skilled enough to hide such an emotion from her face, especially when it is so genuinely felt. Her eyebrows rise and her large, blue eyes widen like a child being handed a brand new toy. In her mind, she thinks about the book of poems that she would read at home. Many nights she spent memorizing the lines, turning them into song, and entertaining her family during holidays. She can see her younger sister laying in bed, gently drifting off to sleep as she recited them. Fleeting, liminal, and brief are these visions of her past.
The surprise on her face is short-lived, and quickly she regains her sense of time and place. She almost laughs at the suggestion, but is not naive enough to believe something that valuable would be given away for free. "I can't afford something from the Core," she says calmly, none of the disappointment and resentment felt in her heart revealed from her tone. After all, it's not this blue bottom's fault that she left home, is it?
The man sits back enough to reveal the gavel on his head previously hidden by his hood. Instinctively, Willow's posture tightens. Suddenly, the Bear's interest in the man makes sense; he must have recognized the man from the start. Enforcers only brought misfortune and harder times. Her hands clasp the tray against her torso firmly, like a makeshift shield against the unexpected realization. Despite her best judgment, she lets one ragged question slip from her mouth: "Are you on shift or something?"
The question sounds more like an accusation than she would have liked, especially given the apparent kindness of this stranger.
Admitting why he’s here is a harder comment to make — it’s difficult to sit there and say that while he’s not exactly welcome here, he isn’t welcome back home either, and so it’s the lesser of two evils that Sunjata decides between. It leads him here for the first time, pleasantly surprised by the uniqueness of the space, intrigued by the people that mill about.
There’s that same soft smile gracing his face that shifts to something almost embarrassed for having suggested such an idea, before he rolls a shoulder on as casual of a motion as he can. “Of course. We could… Trade for it, perhaps? Not lasti but something else.” Of course, he doesn’t know what but something about her seems to suggest he could learn a thing or two about the drenchers. And perhaps in exchange for those expensive books within the Core, all she’d have to do is share her own stories.
Of what it’s like, what could be different, what change would she among the others like to see.
But she straightens up immediately, like she’s seen some kind of ghost and Sunjata’s gaze shifts down to the plate, one hand rising to tug the hood back over his head, taking a moment to work his jaw and hopefully appear far less imposing than everything in his life makes him out to be. And her accusation only has him reaching for the beer again, taking a sip to take the pointed words off of his mind, to create a barrier between it and himself. “No. I’m actually off today. I’m not stationed up here on the plates.” And perhaps that’s the worst admission to make, given everything.
The fact he doesn’t get to patrol the street places where nothing happens. He gets tossed down in the thick of it, enforcing the stupid lockdown his father has insisted upon.
Sunjata doesn’t expect to get any further nice treatment, however. Perhaps it’s evident in the way he keeps his gaze lowered, reaching for one of the lotus rolls to take a bite out of, to follow it with another sip of the beer, hoping that the fuzziness the alcohol can bring can burn away the internal struggle of that constant feeling of being unwanted.
Do you live for the love you've found? Some sad slow song to lay you down and still your weary worried heart.
A trade.
The phrasing is similar to something that Willow has heard before but without the wolf-like intonation of her would-be landlord. She thinks, instead, that this is an innocent offer, if not horribly phrased. This time, she does let slip a small laugh, like the ringing of a bell. She covers her mouth quickly and before giving way to the first genuine smile of the encounter. "I don't have much to offer in exchange, I'm afraid," she says.
This is all before the sudden shift in mood, of course, with the realization of her patron being an Enforcer casting a dark pall on the request for a trade now. As she is tensely waiting for the reply from the guest, her mind begins to race. What would he have asked her to trade? Likely information - names of Revolutionaries, gossip about unrest, plans to try to change the status quo - she's been asked these things by Enforcers before. She's never shared any secrets they wanted. There is a strong cultural bias to avoid snitching among the Drenchers, unless sufficient coin can be passed into less scrupulous hands.
The change is noticed immediately, and the man before her shamefully tugs on his hood to once again hide the insignia shaved into the side of his head. While it's not permanent, Willow cannot help but think it's a little to reminiscent to the branding farmers back home would give their cattle to differentiate the livestock mingling together in the rolling hills. Ironic, considering many Enforcers consider the Drenchers to be subhumans.
After his statement, Willow turns toward the Bear, still inconspicuously watching them while wiping down a small portion of the bar. "You can stop burning a hole in the counter, Myron. He's not here for work." The manager grunts in response and dips back into the kitchen, the double door swinging behind him.
A patron flags down Willow, so she gladly takes the opportunity to escape the awkward situation. She turns curtly away from the off-duty officer and takes some Lasti from the hands of a woman in modest garb. The waitress makes quick work of tidying the table before dipping back to drop off money to the register. It is around then she notices the man taking a bite out of his lotus roll, looking like a dejected pup.
Guilt begins to well-up in the girl's chest. Damn it, she thinks to herself, eyes rolling up toward the ceiling. Had she not been raised so good-natured, she likely would have ignored the Enforcer completely, but alas, the humble roots and ingrained sense of hospitality was coming to bite her in the ass. After all, he had been nothing more than kind to her since his arrival. He wasn't here for work. He clearly was not wanting to announce his position - blue bottom or Enforcer. Around him, there also rests a fog of loneliness too strong to ignore. She won't say that she finds herself pitying him, but it certainly is hard to watch.
Willow comes over to the table again. Silently, almost resentfully, she pulls out a chair and sits down across from him. "I'm sorry for jumping to conclusions," she says, her voice sincere but ever-so-slightly defensive. "But why are you here, if not for work?"
Willow
Throw light upon your darkest dark.
(This post was last modified: 10-09-2022, 06:04 PM by Willow.)
“That’s alright.” Truthfully it’s entirely up to her how much she’s willing to trade for it. Even for nothing, if he’s being honest. He finds it a shame that the Core is so restricted and expensive that the items within are nearly lucrative unless you had the means to get them.
But the mood changes and Sunjata works his jaw, only glancing up once when she informs the man at the bar that he isn’t on duty, and from there she whisks herself away to take care of the rest of the patrons. It gives him time to try and focus on how to word things better (a fault he’s nearly known for at this point).
So he dives into the lotus rolls with all the care of an Aristocrat, who’s been taught time and time again a proper way to eat when he partially wants nothing more than to devour it all as quickly as he can. So he takes some bites, some sips from his beer, and tries to avoid any eyes on him with one hand remaining on the hood to keep it hidden.
Surprise does lace his features when she pulls up a chair, though, the muted grey of his gaze finding her as she asks her question. He doesn’t think she needs to stick around him if it’ll give her trouble, but he can be honest with the answer he gives. “It’s alright.” Most people don’t apologize anyway. “I’m not allowed to go to the Drench when I’m not stationed there.” He begins, pausing to sit up a little and try to appear less like a rejected dog. “I like it, though. The people, the food, the lights.” A shoulder rises and falls in a shrug.
“This is the closest I can get.” Without getting into trouble, that is.
But he doesn’t want this conversation to be all about him, so he tilts his head slightly, appraising her for a moment before he asks his question. “Have you worked here long?”
Do you live for the love you've found? Some sad slow song to lay you down and still your weary worried heart.
His surprise is apparent as she sits down.
Willow guesses that it is not every day that a prole would willingly sit across the table from an Enforcer. It is hard to pin down why she felt comfortable doing so, though it is probably due to his unexpected sincerity.
An air of confusion sets in around her when the man states that he is not allowed to go to the Drench. This implies that he would like to be in the Drench, which is laughable. Willow thinks about the water logged streets, crowded homes, and dilapidated spires of apartments winding upward, desperate to escape the floods. He sits up slightly, claiming to like the Drench, and she refrains from laughing. The words seem delusional, as if his view of her world is one full of whimsy and adventure.
What a cruel joke, she thinks to herself. Many from her neighborhood are just doing everything in their power to keep food in their bellies and the heat on in their homes. Meanwhile, this blue bottom fancies himself imprisoned - but, by what? His wealth? Power? If he thinks joining the Drench is the way to freedom, he is terribly mistaken.
"I see," she responds emptily to his admission. Her mind is clearly having difficulty wrapping around the possibility that a blue bottom wants to be here. Her eyes drift back to his face when he asks about her.
She is surprised. Usually his kind does not care to get to know you, once they have ascertained you have nothing they can gain. More evidence showing that he is unlike the rest of the aristocrats that find themselves here. She is not sure what to make of any of it so far.
"Maybe a year or two," she says, looking around the shop. Her eyes land upon the back table with a couple of old regulars, drinking and idly playing a board game of sorts. The only patrons left save the unusual one in front of her. "It's hard to remember exactly when I got to the city. Days sort of blend together, you know?"
Maybe he doesn't know.
"I used to live on the same block as Myron when I moved here, before the floods destroyed my place. He and his wife helped me get the job," she says. That feels like a lifetime ago.
She doesn’t ask him further questions on it and he’s quietly thankful, knowing how it comes off. But there’s something about the sense of community within the Drench, for those that are a part of it, that Sunjata craves. Sure, he loves up on the Plates, surrounded by people, wealth, sunlight. But for all the world it’s a lonely existence, one full of wolves in fancy clothing, waiting for the second they can tear you down just because they could.
He’s glad when she answers his question, though, nodding as she explains further what’s brought her to working here. “Mm, yeah.” He doesn’t know from personal experience how the days blur together when he only spends nights within the Drench, but he can imagine. “That’s kind of them.” He offers, reaching over to take another sip of the beer. If this were the Plates, a noble family, there would be no helping out. No offers given. Simply a smug should’ve been prepared, I don’t know what to tell you. But that’s just another difference between the Drench and the Plates.
“The floods were especially bad this past season. Have you fared okay since that one?” He doesn’t say fared well because rarely those within the Drench did. But he does hope that it hasn’t been home destroying this past year for her, unable to imagine what it’s like to lose everything year after year, again and again.
