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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"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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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!]

Edited 2018-12-28 03:05 (UTC)

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.

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.

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.

“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?”

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?"

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.”

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?”

"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."

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?"

"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.

“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.

“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.”

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.

The moment the woman turned to go, Reeve returned his attention to his desk, grabbing up his water and his latest piece of work, pinned to a piece of cardboard with sewing pins. Best to get water. But then the young woman asked a question and when it came to it, Reeve could talk about his work at length.

"Ah, I'm an architect. These flat tables are atrocious for drafting, of course, but there are some structures we're in sore need of and I intend to assist in creating them. A barn, an additional bridge for easier access to the mines, replacing a house that burned down."

At the moment people have only offered those the first two problems so they are his initial focus.

"In addition I have some work over here with mapping of the South Village so I know what land I have to work with, what sorts of elevation change there is so I can consider if the ground needs packed down firmly for the animals. Observations on the structures of a number of houses and their basements to let me do preliminary plans for any digging that may need done. Some initial observations on electrical situations and thoughts on how to double the mill as a water mill generator if I can get the materials."

So many projects. Clearly the man kept a full plate. And with his attention so animatedly on his work he's already lost the question about the eating. Brigitte would not be wrong to compare Reeve to Reinhardt, because he got quite lost in his work. Sleep and eating didn't happen as often as they should. Drinking water tended to only because he'd reach for his mug, find it empty, and then head downstairs to refill it. If a meal happened to be going on, well, he'd eat.

"Yeah, he is. He lives with his girlfriend across the way." But they'll work on getting him out and about more, once the cane is finished and Matt gets some confidence with moving about.

"I'm Foggy. Franklin, but everyone calls me Foggy." He offers out a hand to her. "And feel free to sit down, I won't chase you off until you've finished eating, at least."

Much nicer inside, though when things grew too oppressive in there it was always nice to open the doors and let some fresh winter air in to cool the place off. Seifer could only imagine that summer was going to be a different story. One involving humidity and oppressive heat. For now he'd enjoy relatively easy to control weather.

Likely she'd be quite a bit of help. He was, genuinely, a new hand at this. Still learning the basics. At her suggestion he gestured toward the wall where, as it was aptly named, the Wall of Scrawl existed. A section of which was dedicated to the forge rules:

Any weapon or weaponish tool must be registered to enforce the no shank rule- with the implication that weapons need to be run by tony
no gunpowder or guns
do not expect a coherent forgemaster before his third cup of tea
Gunblade is a banned word

"With limited resources I don't think we're gonna be goin' all out on armor just yet. And weapons are a case-by-case basis, vetted by the boss. Still tryin' to prove myself enough to get my hands on a sword." It was a work in progress. Not especially necessary at the moment, despite the claims of danger they were nothing compared to what he was accustomed to.

She shoots him a thankful smile -- it's almost-but-not-quite like her mother forcing her to sit down and eat properly rather than wolfing down her dinner and running, so for a moment, she feels a flicker of hominess. "Brigitte," she says, shaking his hand with the one that isn't clutching the bowl. There's a tell-tale Scandinavian roll to her R and the way she pronounces her name. "But you can call me Brig, too. Nice to meet you, Foggy."

She settles on one of the nearby stools, elbows propped against the worn kitchen table. "I feel a little bad always eating the inn's food when I haven't done anything to catch it. Do you know if there's a way I can, I don't know, contribute to the preparations or something?"

(She was actually a dreadful cook -- being the youngest, she'd never really had to learn -- but her desperate sense of civic-mindedness meant she still wanted to try.)

It was almost exactly like when her father started chattering away about his own mechanisms and projects, and Brigitte could recognise the sound and feel of a rambling tangent -- could pinpoint the exact moment when his attention strayed and he forgot about the food again, too. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. (So damned far from home, but there were small touches of it, still, sometimes.)

And she'd stepped back into the room, leaning up on tiptoe to peer over his shoulder and at the schematics and maps. (Perhaps a little rude, yes, but she'd done this so many times as a child.) "Oh, wow, these look super useful. And... mines! I didn't even know there were mines. What's in them?"

"Brig, good to meet you, though I'm sorry about the circumstance." Being here. This place.

Foggy hums. "Well, there's groups go out hunting, if you want to help like that. And there's farming done as well. In the school house, there's a census of what people can do and help with and who you should go to to ask about helping out.

"I sort of just wandered over to the butcher's shop and volunteered, because it's something I know. It's about all I know of any use here, unless there's a market for chatting and hugs as needed."

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god jul.

The Fountain

At The Inn - Rm 12

Smithy

At the Inn: Kitchen

At the Inn - Supplies

Smithy

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the dojo, a few days after christmas [danny]

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