sixthiterationlogs

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"A wooden bridge is a viable choice as well, but it will depend on if we have anything like pitch or turpentine. Wood will rot with too much weather exposure without proper treatment, which I don't know that I can guarantee. There is also the fact that I have minimal data for the stream flow."

Which was always an issue. Rock would be sturdier, hold carts better over a long span of a river, and need less replacement of damaged areas. All of it would come down to the matter of location of course. One thing may prove more viable than another.

She'd never really had to consider weather effects or erosion before -- armour was maintained between battles, it was cleaned and oiled and never left to sit and rust in the rain. So Brigitte clucked her tongue thoughtfully, conceding the point. "That makes sense," she said. She was intrigued by the problem -- but knew that it wouldn't exactly be up to her to solve it, as much as she wanted to contribute. Her specialties lay elsewhere.

And one of them, in fact---

"You know, you still haven't gone to refill your water or get food," she pointed out mildly, amused. Again: so very much like her father. At this rate, she'd have to bodily drag the man downstairs.

"And I'm Brigitte, by the way! Your new neighbour too, probably."

"Reeve Tuesti," he smiled, turning to offer Brigitte his hand. It would be rude for him not to. It was just polite in society where he was from. Which of course meant he knew a lot of people who didn't. "And I promise that if you'll back away from my seat enough to let me stand, I will head downstairs to eat and drink."

But there was a sort of smile that curled his lips as she looked at him with amusement. She knew someone who did this same thing, didn't she? Well, he can't say he doesn't understand that amusement then, because he imagined he got a bit trying. He was just lucky that the Cait Sith units could cook for him.

"It was easier to remember when I had robots to literally steal my pencils and hide them under the couch when I didn't eat."

"That was their purpose? We had-- robots for a lot of things, too. Some were servants." It didn't go well; had backfired utterly, had led to death and disaster and war-ravaged continents. But it wasn't a can of worms to open with this polite stranger yet, so instead she just took mental note of that, like a little mental pin in the board: robots! He had experience with robots.

But true to her word, Brigitte backed away -- and went straight across the hall, cracking the opposite door open, enough to fling her backpack on the bed. "There. Claimed. Want to go get some food?" She was starting to feel peckish, too, so it wasn't just for his benefit.

"Well, the Cait Sith units were," Reeve smiled. "I made them. Small things, about two feet tall, patterned as an anthropomophic tuxedo cat. Based on an old folk legend my mother loved."

The Cait Siths were delightful works of machinery and magic, and he had been proud of them. But that was a conversatoin for when he wasn't hungry.

"Food would be lovely, Brigitte. And you can tell me what your father, or mother, or grandparent who you chivvied into eating meals regularly was like."

He knew the type.

god jul.

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yours to close?

Thank you for the thread <3