sixthiterationlogs

Entry tags:

god jul.

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.

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"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?"

"Since there's no America here so far as I can tell, it doesn't even make any sense anymore." She's practically talking through her thoughts aloud, half her focus on the conversation, the other half on sifting through the boxes. At the man's question, though, Brigitte looks up at him and considers.

"Ideally I would find a toolkit or a shield, but since I don't think I'll be that lucky—" The next thing she pulls out is... a jar of hair pomade? Okay. Back in it goes. "I'm mostly looking for clothes, maybe some sewing needles and thread so I can start knitting some more myself. The coat is okay, but these scrubs aren't warm enough at all. Do you have anything you're looking for, too? I can keep an eye out."

"Someone wanted to feel connected to home?" His nose wrinkles though, not even sure what to think of that. The things he wants from home would help him here, not be a mug.

"There's a few sewing kits..." He turns, looking at one of the shelves. "I've used them, but people move a lot of things. As for me, mostly looking for a better pair of trousers. I've pieced together a lot to help me, but these pants seem so useless. I'm not even sure what the point of them is."

"I guess they cover your modesty," she says with a flash of a smile, "but pretty much nothing more beyond that." The scrubs aren't durable, won't hold up in battle, and are fairly useless against the elements. Also: wildly unfashionable. Brigitte enjoys a nice bright pop of colour, but the light grey things she's dressed in make her think of ash.

Finally reaching the bottom of this one box, she suddenly comes across an oversized pair of trousers and tosses it triumphantly in his direction, almost hitting Jacob in the face. Not a perfect fit, but what else can you hope for?

"We're all going to look like homeless people, but at least it's better than going cold? I'm Brigitte, by the way."

"They're fairly useless to do anything but that. I suppose they work for sleepwear? That's about it," he says, shaking his head and not the least bit impressed by them, or their use.

The trousers smack him in the chest, making him laugh as he moves to shake them out, giving them a look. "Hmmm, those might work. I could get them to work, perhaps."

Smiling though, giving a nod. "Why thank you, then," he says, glad for them even if they will be big. "Jacob," he says, folding the pants neatly. "Others say it will turn cold this winter, but I'm not sure how many have actually been here to know."

"Me either," Brigitte admits. "Most of the people I have met are also fairly new -- I don't know if it's because I live here at the inn, and spend a bit of my time looking for new arrivals in the main room -- you can usually tell -- or if the old hands just have their homes set up and routines that don't take them here, or..."

Most likely, a mix of all the above.

"When did you get here?"

It's become one of those go-to small-talk questions, like the kind she might have asked in her own world. What d'you do for a living, how long have you lived in Gothenburg, and so on.

"I know of one person that has been here a couple of years at least," he admits, considering that. "But other than her, most have only been here a few months that I can tell. Some don't even stay that long," he admits, still stinging from the missing assassins, including his sister.

"Nearly a month ago," he admits, knowing he's one of those that are fairly new. "You?"

It's easy to talk about the little thing, without getting into the bigger ones. When did you get kidnapped? Did you nearly drown too? They're all things running in the back of his mind though.

"Just a few days ago. So if there's any very wise advice you'd like to share, from your month here..." Brigitte says wryly. Despite their conversation continuing, she's still paying a small bit of attention to rummaging through the piles -- and, noticing a pair of knitting needles and some yarn, finally seizes on them with a triumphant aha!, then tucks them close to her chest.

Then, she circles back, notes an interesting piece of information from what Jacob had said. "What do you mean, 'don't stay'? Have people been able to get out?" She's been learning as much about this place as possible from the people willing to stop and explain, but from all indication, there's no escape and no way off the island. Even them trying to go back the way they came, through the bunker or the fountain, hadn't worked.

He peers over her shoulder, seeing her treasures. "Do you know how to make things with those?" He sounds almost hopeful. "I admit, never was the one to get an education in them. Neither did my sister, but that's my father's issues because the ladies would be scandalized she never learned."

Still not quite catching up on how backwards many of his views could be, if only because of the time period he's from. Though an assassin upbringing helped with most of that so it isn't horrible. That and a twin sister who is smart and deadly.

"We don't know." All of the bright cheerfulness in his tones is gone in an instant. "People vanish. One day there, the next moment gone. I went to bed, my sister in her room, the next day she was gone. Most seem to assume they've gone home," he says, sighing. "But if you want advice? Watch your back. Those in the village may be safe, or so again most believe, but two I know have vanished and they are not the type to be overtaken easily. And at least one of them wouldn't have left with the rest of us here."

"I do -- I'm not terrific at it, but if you need anything made, let me know? The woman who picked me out of the fountain, she runs a knitting circle or something, so I'm hoping I can get better with practice."

But then Jacob mentions what he's lost, and Brigitte blinks, startled, that victorious mood ebbing between them. "Your sister? And you just got here —" As shitty as her own arrival had been, at least the rug hadn't been yanked out from under her a second time. She hadn't been handed the promise of companionship only for it to turn around and bite her in the ass. "Crap. I'm so sorry. I saw people posting on the network about others vanishing, but I was not sure if it only happened after a long time, or..."

He nods, his expression tight and solemn. "Merely weeks after we had arrived, and she here about a week more than that. Others speak of being here months and even years. I suspect she, and Connor, wondered onto something they shouldn't have."

In his mind it's the only thing that makes sense. Especially with Evie.

"I appreciate that, so thank you. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to the arrivals and departures, so I can only imagine that it's a case of what they've seen or found out, rather than somehow timing out in this place."

Or the harder thing he has to think of. That they've been killed one way or another.

"Ugh. That seems like it would encourage just staying in bed and never investigating anything." But it's evident by her skeptical tone of voice that Brigitte doesn't consider that a real option. She wants to get out there, to get her hands dirty, to understand more about this world she's been thrust into.

She'll just do it a bit more carefully, now.

"Well, Jacob, you have me to bother now, if you like," she offers. "We newbies have to stick together, right?" It's not quite 'I think you're lonely', but it's something similar. The reason she can recognise that sense of loss, flickering across his expression and voice when he speaks of his sister, is because she's suffering the same.

[ OOC: Possibly yours to close? <3 I DEFINITELY want to toss these two at each other some more, but I figure we can wrap it up since it's over 5 comments and ahhhh how is it OMS time alreadyyy ]

Never having been alone in his life, Jacob is indeed lonely in a way he's never considered before. He just never thought of a time in his life like this.

"Trust me, I considered that, but that would mean building a fire and making the bed, and that felt like work," he says, playing it all off that way than in the way he is hurt by his loss. "And of course. How else will we get through this?"

Smiling as he backs up a step. "Do try and stay out of trouble," he says, holding up the trousers. "And thank you for the fine. I'm sure I'll see you soon," he says, heading back for a room, and a window to the roof.

[Sorry for being so slow.]

[ OOC: pfff no problem I've been a huge slowpoke thanks to the event too. :* ty for the scene!! ]

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god jul.

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