god jul.

[whipshots]

WHO: Brigitte Lindholm
WHERE: The fountain; the inn; the smithy
WHEN: Morning of Dec 24, then the next few days. SHE & I HAVE AWFUL TIMING, I KNOW, sorry sorry
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: nope

---

Fountain arrival, Dec 24 (now locked to Anne)
The 23rd was lilla julafton, and thus a small breather before the Lindholm family’s main occasion tomorrow. Eight grown-up children were all home for the holidays, some of them carting spouses and children of their own, which meant the house was crammed to the rafters: Brigitte kept bumping into nieces and nephews in the hallways, the kitchen was a flurry of cooking and baking, and she occasionally had to go drag their father out of his workshop, where he’d taken refuge with his latest turret design. It was nonstop chaos until she finally fell into bed (which was a spare mattress on the floor of her mother’s sewing room, because being the youngest and a singleton meant losing all right to a real bed). She burrowed under the covers with a satisfied sigh, ready for Christmas Eve tomorrow and expecting to wake up with one of her nieces barreling into the room, all knobbly elbows and knees.

But when she next opened her eyes, she was drowning.

Brigitte floundered in a nightmare, except it was freezing, and too damned real. She came clawing her way up to the surface, gasping, limbs shutting down from sheer cold before someone’s arm reached in from the side, catching her and yanking her out to the edge. Her entire body contorted in on itself, shivering convulsively even as a blanket was thrown around her shoulders.

“Vad fan?”

Merry Christmas, Brigitte.

At the inn (OTA)
She’d spent the previous night on a good Samaritan’s sofa (it was, after all, the holidays), but in terms of a more permanent place to live, Brigitte gravitated to the inn as others had. In fact, she instinctively wanted the comfort of crowds rather than the privacy of an empty house: still reeling from the shock of arrival, she wanted the full hallways, the communal meals, the low buzz of voices in adjoining rooms.

There were only a few spare rooms left, though, so choosing one was a problem. She knocked on one door, then when there wasn’t a response, opened it — and jolted once she realised someone was already inside. “Oh, shit, I’m so sorry, I thought this was empty—”

[ She can also be encountered eating in the inn, or rummaging the communal supplies! ]

At the smithy (OTA)
A couple days later, as soon as she learned there was a smithy, Brigitte roamed through the village until she found it. Not that it was that hard: it was one of the few larger buildings, and it had a pillar of smoke winding up into the cold sky, which was a reassuring sight — it reminded her of the forge back home. She watched it for a long time.

She could have just walked right up to it and pounded on the door right off the bat, but she sat in the park for an uncomfortably long while, thinking and considering, before she finally rubbed her cold hands against each other and approached, and knocked.

Comments

The Fountain

[can_fight_ugly]

"Don't worry, I've got you." Anne wasn't familiar with the language this young woman had uttered, and that could prove tricky over time, but she hoped she understood the universal language of warmth; she presses the blanket tight around the other woman's shoulders, checks to make sure the backpack was in tow, and then motioned to the inn as she started to shuffle in that direction.

"Let's get you to the inn. There's warm food and a healthy fire." Whatever this place was, however they were all here, Anne is increasingly frustrated with the way these poor people wound up frozen and drowning as a welcome.

As they walk alomg, she tugs a knitted cap off of her head and tugs it onto the other woman.

[whipshots]

Her mind is just awake enough to process that the blonde is speaking English — okay, English, she can work with that—

Brigitte’s numb fingers instinctively catch the edge of the cap and tug it down around her ears, then find the corners of the blanket and grip them vise-tight around herself. Her teeth are already chattering and she’s biting down hard on the movement, jaw gritted to get out a hazy, “How?”

She’s jumped into icy waters in December before, but always in a swimsuit and on the heels of a gloriously hot sauna. This time her clothes are sodden and clinging to her. When the two women barge through the inn doors, they leave a dripping trail of water on their way to the roaring fire — which Brig leans towards gratefully, more focused on warmth than any other question yet. There’s the watch rota at the bunker these days, but a few still slip through sometimes.

“Ohmygod thank you, I’m sorry, I don’t— I don’t know where I am, I’m not—“ Teeth chattering again. Bite down, again.

[can_fight_ugly]

Oh, good. She speaks English. "We'll worry about the how's and why's when you're warmer." Anne leads her over to the fire and gets her situated and trying to find that balance between warm and too much warm

She chafes Briggitte's arms to try and encourage circulation and keep her focused. "No need to apologize; I know this wasn't your doing. We're all in this together. I'm going to go get you some tea, okay? Hold tight, I'll be right back."

With brisk movements, Anne tries to get the task done as quick as she can so she's not leaving the woman without support for too long. "Here you go, careful, how're you feeling now?"

[whipshots]

The blanket and the fire both help, and the mug of tea that Anne presses into her hands soon helps even more. Brigitte sips at the hot liquid, letting it flow through her and start warming her from the inside-out, palms laced around the cup. She's finally able to concentrate a bit better, now, and start looking around and taking in their surroundings in puzzlement.

"Better," Brigitte says. "God, that was fucking cold. Where-- where are we? This place looks..."

Her first thought was a hunting lodge. She'd visited a few of those with Reinhardt during their travels, but as she looks closer at the building, she notices how old it looks. More like something out of a vintage museum. "This is, um. Rustic."

Polite, even when she's freezing and baffled and disoriented.

At The Inn - Rm 12

[plate_builder]

There were plenty of reasons why Reeve didn't answer the door when it was knocked upon. Ultimately they boiled down to was the fact that Reeve, as ever, was busy on one of his projects. The man, when put to a task that intrigued him, was talented at monofocusing. Which meant he didn't really notice the woman until the door opened and she spoke.

Then he turned and looked at the woman, clearly as shocked as she was.

"Is there something I can assist you with, Miss?"

It was a comment punctuated by his stomach growling. Whoops, meant he skipped a meal again.

[whipshots]

Embarrassment had shot through her, cheeks warming in a blush (an automatic habit that, much to her annoyance, she’d never been able to shake herself out of). At least she hadn’t walked in on someone changing or in an even more compromised position. Instead it’s an older man surrounded by paper, deeply absorbed in his work — a sight she knew well.

“I’m looking for a spare room. I’ve heard there are a few on this floor, but I’m not sure which ones, apparently they keep changing as people move in and out too—“

Then, that tell-tale growl from his stomach. Brigitte tilted her head. “There is communal food downstairs, you know.” Despite the words, her voice wasn’t snide, nor teasing — just informative, as if worried he genuinely didn’t know.

[plate_builder]

"Uh, well... yes, I am aware of the food downstairs," Reeve says as he turns further in his seat and gives the woman his full attention. "I just... get lost in my work."

A lot. Frequently. Which was why he had missed food. But hey, he had water. Only... his water glass was empty. Whoops.

"I think... Room eleven, across from mine, is open. As are four and one."

[whipshots]

“Oh, thank you, then I think I’ll take the one across the hall. I must have gotten turned around.” She’s shouldered her backpack with its meagre supplies, and she looks ready to politely leave and start staking her claim as his neighbour. She should leave the man alone.

But at the last moment, Brigitte pauses. Glances back, at the piles of paper and scribbled text and diagrams. The inevitable curiosity: “What are you working on? And, sorry, but do you want to go grab a bite? My father always gets absorbed in his workshop too; he often would forget to eat unless I brought him something, so, well, I just know it’s important not to skip meals. You can’t brain on no food. I should know, my own designs turn to garbage when I haven’t had dinner yet.”

Some people got cranky without sleep especially, but Brigitte was one of those who got hangry.

Smithy

[firacrux]

Not being one to sit on his laurels no matter how available the option might be, Seifer had been hard at work at the smithy whenever he could. He was eager to learn and eager to do his part for their little community, even if he didn't exactly have the most welcoming or friendly demeanor.

It was with that very same less than friendly demeanor he answered the knocking, greeting the stranger with a scowl and a soot smudge on his face. "Hey. You here for Tony?" He assumed, since this was usually the place to find Tony, that anyone who came to the smithy was looking for him. Seemed reasonable enough.

[whipshots]

The brunette on the doorstep — cheeks pink with cold, hat pulled down over her ears, hands folded into her coat pockets, blinked in mild surprise at his question. “Oh, um. No. Who’s Tony?”

A few days’ brand-new and practically still dripping from the fountain, she’d heard about the smithy but hadn’t nosed around long enough to gather the full details about its administration. Simply knowing it existed had been enough for her to make up her mind, had practically set a neon arrow in the sky pointing Brigitte to the building, a hunting hound haring towards its prey.

“This is the forge, right? I would like to work here, if I can. I have practical experience, I was an armourer back home.” It was almost like she’d shown up for a job interview, earnest with cap in hand and resume tucked in her pocket.

[firacrux]

"Oh, figured you already knew him," Seifer, being rather new himself couldn't presume to know everyone who already lived in their little town. New people came out of the woodwork daily, and it wasn't like he was so social he went out of his way to find out who were already there. Figured he'd meet them or he wouldn't, no skin off his nose. He shrugged. "Man in charge." Was the only answer he offered, stepping aside for her to come in. Much warmer inside the smithy where the forge was going hot.

"Ain't my call, but I don't see why not. Maybe you can teach me a thing or two?" He smirked. Truth be told he barely knew what he was doing, but Tony had put him on nails, gears, and drawing wire. The latter was the most interesting one yet, Seifer found he quite enjoyed fiddly work that took a steady hand and concentration.

[whipshots]

Brigitte followed him into the soothing warmth of the forge, which immediately set sweat prickling the back of her neck (a too-familiar sensation, and therefore more comforting than anything she’d experienced in this village so far). She tugged the knit hat off her head before she could heat up too much, though, and shoved it into her coat pocket.

“Since you’re already working here, I don’t know how much I could—” But a glance at the in-progress project showed that he was currently hacking away at some repetitive basics. Still important, but not the kind of custom, tailor-made work she’d taken on. So. This blond was another kind of new, too. She amended her answer: “Gladly. I’m not even sure what’s most needed here, the man in charge would have a better idea, but I can make protective clothing for people. Maybe fortifications, too. Or some weapons.”

She’d heard there were dangers outside the terraformed zone, outside the confines of their village, and the rationale had ticked over in her head: if she could armour a hulking 7’4” man, surely she could armour a watchtower or a fence.

At the Inn: Kitchen

[clouded_heart]

Foggy is currently living int he kitchen because it is one of the warmest rooms in the house and his clothing is still not really what it should be for going out for long periods of time.

A little more oddly, he's not cooking. He's using a fairly fine woodworking file to carefully smooth a long, slender stick. He's mostly focusing on the slightly thicker end right now.

"Hey. There's a pot of stew going if you're hungry, it had fresh meat added only a few hours ago."

[whipshots]

“I am, actually, thank you so much!” It’s an instinctive politeness, the kind parroted off by the youngest in a family that had no end of siblings to rap her knuckles and get her to behave, to respect her elders. Brigitte tiptoes around the man and to the pot, leaning up to peer in and stir it up for a bit before serving herself a dollop into a bowl. Not her mother’s Christmas leftovers, but she’s just going to have to make do.

She’s been intent on not disturbing his work, but then curiosity gets the worst of her. (Brig has never been able to keep her nose out of others’ business; it’s part of what led to picking up her father’s craft, after constantly materialising by his side with a Whatcha working on?)

So: “What are you making?”

[clouded_heart]

It's hot and filling and it doesn't taste bad. There's several people making sure the taste stays good. Or at least, tempting for the hungry.

He gives her a smile as she asks, looking up at her. He has a warm smile. "It's a sight cane, for the blind. Or I hope it will be. My best friend is blind and too stubborn to admit that a cane would be useful. Brand new?"

[whipshots]

“Yes, just been here a couple days,” Brig says, sheepishly. She’s wearing that newness like a skin of its own; you can tell just by looking at her, the way she’s still sizing up everything around her and still looks ill-at-ease in the space. While Foggy talks, though, she starts eating standing up (she’s accustomed to quick meals grabbed on-the-go) and tries to imagine being blind in a new and apparently dangerous place like this.

“Is your best friend here, in the village? And they’re blind? Gosh. That must be hard. This place isn’t… well, it’s not easy.”

At the Inn - Supplies

[relentlessness]

It's less about acquiring things and more about needing to be sure that when the time came, Jacob has what he needs. Today though it's less about weaponry, real or bent to his needs for weapons, and more about the desire for clothes that he feels more comfortable in.

He's scavanged enough to have a hoodie to keep him from feeling entirely oddly naked, but even with the peacoat provided when he arrived, there's still layers missing. Layers that let him hide things and feel more protected. Not to mention true trousers, as the thing green ones he was wearing when he arrived do little both against the cold or anything else he might encounter.

So in heavy jacket, hood up over his head, he heads into the storeroom, assuming he might well be alone though there's no reason he might believe that. Not with so many new people coming out of the fountain and tubes.

[whipshots]

And he isn’t alone — as he steps in, the brunette currently rummaging through the supplies jolts and looks up, clutching a baffling pair of opera glasses. “Oh, hi, sorry!” Seeing the way he’s dressed, the edge of green scrubs just visible beneath the hoodie, Brigitte’s mouth quirks into a self-conscious smile. She’s dressed much the same: the peacoat somewhat salvages the whole outfit, but otherwise their attire marks them both painfully as new arrivals, not long-term citizens with hardy wardrobes assembled over months, if not years.

“I see we’re, um, stuck in the same boat. But there’s more than enough for us both to go through, if you want?” She slides to the side, allowing Jacob access to join her at the boxes full of clothes and brick-a-brack. She’s still turning the glasses end-over-end in her hands, perplexed, before picking up then quickly setting aside a coffee mug labeled I ❤️ America.

“There is a lot of junk here.”

[relentlessness]

"You would think the least they'd do is let us keep our clothing," he says, rubbing at his left forearm. Okay, so likely even if he had his trousers and waistcoat and all, he still wouldn't have his bracers, but he really wishes he had something.

His nose wrinkles at the mug. "Do people really heart America? Or is that just propaganda?" He's betting the latter.

"Junk all depends on what you can make of it. Looking just for clothes, or something else?"

Smithy

[assemble_the_lovbacken]

Thor's been steadily learning more and more under Tony's guidance. He still enjoys the pure destruction of melting down metal into glowing, red hot piles of molten liquid, but he's beginning to appreciate the dedication, strength, patience, and time it takes to actually make things from that molten liquid. He finds that he looks forward to going each morning, and that it gives him something to do. Or, really, it gives him a purpose, something he needs in order to not go absolutely insane.

He's getting himself set up for the day's tasks of creating more nails for the village projects when he hears a knock at the door. Wiping his hands off on his bright, yellow scrub pants (he chooses to wear these while at the forge instead of the Midgardian clothes Peggy gave to him when he'd first arrived as he doesn't want to risk damaging or burning them), he approaches and opens it.

Seeing a face he doesn't recognize, he smiles brightly and invitingly.

"Hello!" His tone is as boisterous as a Golden Retriever. "I don't think I've seen you before! Are you new?"

[OOC: Since Brigitte is Swedish, feel free to have her recognize/not recognize Thor as being a Norse God! It's totally up to you! :) I know Thor will be very happy to talk to a Scandinavian!]

[whipshots]

[ OOC: yessss she’s gonna be SO STARSTRUCK when she realises who this is, omg. also, help, their combined sunniness is already adorably blinding!! ]

“I am!” She’s taken aback at first, but then answers his cheeriness with her own, like a flower automatically craning its head towards the sun. People in the village have been awfully friendly, but there’s still a certain starved part of her that misses a massively tall, boisterous German man who tends to shout everything he says in booming capslock. So even for just a brief moment, if Brigitte crosses her eyes and squints at this chiseled blond, she could even imagine a younger version of Reinhardt Wilhelm. Sort of.

“I’m still getting my bearings, but I would like to start helping out here, in whatever way I can. It’s probably the place I would be of the most assistance, anyway. I met Seifer the other day, do you know him? You’re not Tony, are you?”

Considering those light grey scrubs, it’s almost to be expected that she’d come nosing around looking for a way to help.

[assemble_the_lovbacken]

OOC: Endless apologies for my delay; I was out of the country! And yes!!! They're so :D :D :D :D :D it's adorable!

The accent is what Thor notices first. It's one he's heard many times throughout his life, one he's heard replicated when hearing stories of times long since passed, when the Asgardians befriended and learnt Midgardian ways from the Vikings. It isn't exactly the same, of course, as the Vikings have not been on Midgard for thousands of years, but it isn't too far of a stone's throw to connect them together. As though he wasn't already beaming, despite the soot and sweat covering his face and brow, his grin grows even wider.

Thor shakes his head, wiping his hands on his trousers. They leave behind finger-shaped streaks of dirt and dust. He extends a slightly cleaner hand out towards her.

"No, if I were Tony, I would've started our conversation by announcing that I was the great and genius Tony Stark," Thor chides playfully. He loves his friends dearly, Tony being one of them. "I am Thor." A brief pause before quietly mumbling, "Son of Odin, God of Thunder and Lightning .." because old habits die hard.

the dojo, a few days after christmas [danny]

[whipshots]

Brigitte has been slowly settling in. As much as one can, at least, when you’ve been ripped away from the warmth and comfort of your entire family, at a time of year when family means more to her than anything. There’s been more than a few despairing, despondent mornings at the inn, burying her face in the pillow and listening for the distant buzz of voices and feeling hopelessly, hopelessly alone. Getting up and facing the day has been hard.

Which is why she decides to start going to the dojo.

She’s accustomed to morning workouts at her local gym, but mostly dragged herself to it because she had to, with her mentor nagging her, or with the reward of a donut or piece of homemade pie waiting for her at the end of it. But now, in the absence of anyone kicking her ass into gear, Brig finds herself actually yearning for it — for some semblance of normalcy, a routine, a schedule. Endorphins.

So, this morning she knocks politely at the dojo door for the very first time, then pokes her head in. It’s still obnoxiously early, but she couldn’t get back to sleep. “Helloooo? Anyone here yet?”

the dojo, a few days after christmas [danny]

[theimmortalweapon]

The Dojo didn't open until sunrise and it was at sunrise that Danny was downstairs. His shirt was always looped over the railing that lead upstairs as he shifted through his own morning routine. He missed the loud thundering music that he used to play during his training but there was something to be said about silence as well. It calmed him and cleared the traumatic thoughts that often slipped into his focus.

He exhaled and shifting his stance, listening to the soft coo at the door. "It's open." He called as he shifted into another stance and then another. His rhythm quicken in order to get through the full routine before bringing it to a close.

Danny exhaled and finally turned towards the door a few minutes after her call. "Are you looking for someone or just here to train." He reached for a bottle of water he had placed on the steps and took a long swig as light misty green eyes landed on the young woman at at the Dojo's main entrance. He tried not to judge people by their appearances but he figured she was hear as a student.

[whipshots]

The man's matter-of-factness was reassuring, and in a way, it was exactly the sort of thing she'd come here for. Structure. "Not anyone in particular. I'm here to train," Brigitte said, her fingers instinctively curling in her palm, flexing. She'd managed to scrounge together (or borrow) some clothes better-suited for working out, so that she didn't just sweat through her only pair of scrubs.

"I mostly did strength training and boxing back home, but I will take anything, honestly -- I just need to get active again." She bit back the real reason: I need more things to distract me. Staying fit was close enough and relevant enough, at least. "Are you one of the teachers here?"