Jo Harvelle runs on 100 proof attitude power (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tobeclosetohim) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2016-12-12 08:08 pm
tobeclosetohim) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2016-12-12 08:08 pm
Entry tags:
{ crack the windows and take the shutters down
WHO: Jo Harvelle
WHERE: Home, and The Inn/Around The Village
WHEN: Week of Return
OPEN TO:Everyone, Except the First
WARNINGS: It's Jo Harvelle, okay?
STATUS: Open
The Night of The Return
[ House #8 Only ]
The last thing Jo is expecting is to be told that shortly after she left a box came for her. Her. The person who scoffed and itched at all the others, who hadn't ever envied the others their boxes nor longed for one herself, and still it's there, waiting in the living room when they get home from the meeting, after telling everyone about the Hunt and the Wendigo and The Watching Station.
She's suspect of the whole thing and exhausted enough it barely shows. She picks it up and drops it on the couch, dropping herself on it next, and opens it, starting to pull things out. Thick fabrics and all of it black, black, black.
"They send me warm clothes now?" Jo scoffs, holding up the next pieces, a well made black long johns set, that would have served her a lot better in the middle of nowhere on that trek, with the wind and ice trying to blow through her. "Seriously?"
~*~
The Following Week
[ Everyone! ]
Jo won't call it home, and she won't call it normal, but things return to ... how they are. She sleeps like the dead the first night, and the second, but after those it's back to its constant and barely helpful, too. Waking early, in the darkness, for both, and making her way to the Inn. Writing more details that come in clips and snaps to her mind in the shorthand she's made, about where they went, how. Everything.
Pouring over Kate's notes in the light of a low early fire, hours before dawn, until she can talk to Kate herself about these things. What happened with the village in the last two weeks, about the meeting written about, and the number of provisionments against the bitter winter. (Not to have missed Allison's admission about her family and werewolves.)
Pondering how rude it would be, in light of their tacit growing agreements and work together, to comment on Kate's hand writing and spelling errors, that she edits through. Not to fault Kate, but more, because Jo's gotten so used to helping Thorfinn with Everything The English Language, and one more wouldn't be so hard.
When Jo's not at the books, playing both marathon memory and two weeks odd catch up, she takes shifts wherever a body's needed: patrolling with Steve's people, in the kitchen for Kate, doing odds jobs for Helen's creations, at least once checking on the two in from the forest.
~*~
Unexpected Surprises
[ Everyone! ]
Midweek another box appears for her. This one, though, not at her house, but at The Inn.
When she makes the trek one pre-dawn morning she finds it instead on top of the table that she works at, before clearing off to make room for Kate's breakfast. It's another large brown box, the same script of her name, and though less filled, it's heavier than the one that had been waiting at her house, and its contents leave her staring at them longer than the black winter clothes she's been wearing ever since.
Three journals, with real paper, lined and blank and graphed.
Two sets of real pencils, one normal and another full colored set.
Jo feels the needle of it. This head tip of some statement of what she's doing, giving her better than curtain pieces and borrowed paper, and even more, that colorful flame insignia embossed in the center of the black leather covers, staring back at her. Acknowledgment of knowledge and yet no help to them before.
Still, eventually, she gets to work, starting a process of moving five months of shorthand into them.
WHERE: Home, and The Inn/Around The Village
WHEN: Week of Return
OPEN TO:Everyone, Except the First
WARNINGS: It's Jo Harvelle, okay?
STATUS: Open
[ House #8 Only ]
The last thing Jo is expecting is to be told that shortly after she left a box came for her. Her. The person who scoffed and itched at all the others, who hadn't ever envied the others their boxes nor longed for one herself, and still it's there, waiting in the living room when they get home from the meeting, after telling everyone about the Hunt and the Wendigo and The Watching Station.
She's suspect of the whole thing and exhausted enough it barely shows. She picks it up and drops it on the couch, dropping herself on it next, and opens it, starting to pull things out. Thick fabrics and all of it black, black, black.
"They send me warm clothes now?" Jo scoffs, holding up the next pieces, a well made black long johns set, that would have served her a lot better in the middle of nowhere on that trek, with the wind and ice trying to blow through her. "Seriously?"
[ Everyone! ]
Jo won't call it home, and she won't call it normal, but things return to ... how they are. She sleeps like the dead the first night, and the second, but after those it's back to its constant and barely helpful, too. Waking early, in the darkness, for both, and making her way to the Inn. Writing more details that come in clips and snaps to her mind in the shorthand she's made, about where they went, how. Everything.
Pouring over Kate's notes in the light of a low early fire, hours before dawn, until she can talk to Kate herself about these things. What happened with the village in the last two weeks, about the meeting written about, and the number of provisionments against the bitter winter. (Not to have missed Allison's admission about her family and werewolves.)
Pondering how rude it would be, in light of their tacit growing agreements and work together, to comment on Kate's hand writing and spelling errors, that she edits through. Not to fault Kate, but more, because Jo's gotten so used to helping Thorfinn with Everything The English Language, and one more wouldn't be so hard.
When Jo's not at the books, playing both marathon memory and two weeks odd catch up, she takes shifts wherever a body's needed: patrolling with Steve's people, in the kitchen for Kate, doing odds jobs for Helen's creations, at least once checking on the two in from the forest.
[ Everyone! ]
Midweek another box appears for her. This one, though, not at her house, but at The Inn.
When she makes the trek one pre-dawn morning she finds it instead on top of the table that she works at, before clearing off to make room for Kate's breakfast. It's another large brown box, the same script of her name, and though less filled, it's heavier than the one that had been waiting at her house, and its contents leave her staring at them longer than the black winter clothes she's been wearing ever since.
Three journals, with real paper, lined and blank and graphed.
Two sets of real pencils, one normal and another full colored set.
Jo feels the needle of it. This head tip of some statement of what she's doing, giving her better than curtain pieces and borrowed paper, and even more, that colorful flame insignia embossed in the center of the black leather covers, staring back at her. Acknowledgment of knowledge and yet no help to them before.
Still, eventually, she gets to work, starting a process of moving five months of shorthand into them.
no subject
So a few days after her return, he makes a point of sticking around the inn and waiting for Jo to appear. He'd come to a decision recently after a conversation he'd had with Nerys and wanted to run some of those by Jo. Bounce them off someone before just going through with it. It was undeniable that Jo was one of the unofficial leaders around here or, at the very least, people turned to her in times of crisis. Besides, if anyone could use a break it was Jo and his talk was going to serve as a sort of double duty.
After Jo had been working on the books for a bit he made his approach, "Hey. You look like you could use a break." He held up the playing cards he'd received in a box awhile back, "Interested in a game?" He then added, in case Jo was about to turn him down with some excuse about needing to catch up on work, "I also have some ideas I want to run by you."
no subject
Sam is one of the ones she truly does think she's see good in as often as can be around here. His compass always in a certain direction, which could be said of a lot of people, and sometimes couldn't even be said of her. But. She liked him, and the second part definitely interested her, "Sounds good."
no subject
He continued to shuffle, bridging and arcing the cards because he figured no matter what they decided on the cards needed a good shuffle. "How've you been? Looks like you all dragged back a pretty big beast." He asked only to test the waters, see how Jo was holding up, though he had a feeling that even if she wasn't she was the type of person to be able to hide it.
no subject
Most of the scars she'd had when they showed up that day have faded into her skin, leaving nothing behind. Only the deepest of bruises lingering. Things she hardly gives much credit or thought to at this point. She's torn between gratitude for the low-grade pain being almost gone all these months, and for her healing being so far decreased, even still so far above normal.
It's been months since she's seen anyone at cards, or with them, not that she keeps any eye out for that. Not in this kind of place. It tugs at other memories, from other times and other places. (Home.) Her head tilted, pausing to watch his hands a long beat, two, before asking, "Do you play poker?"
no subject
"Texas Hold'em or some other variation?" he asked instead of following the conversation on monsters, he figured talking cards would be better. He would get the game started and see where it went. If it was Texas Hold'em he'd probably be fine. Five card draw was the only one he knew well enough to play -- though he knew there were probably other types of poker out there.
no subject
"How were things around here while we were gone?" It's a general enough question, too, and one she had detail notes on, but notes in a book didn't really tell you the whole story or the details of one. Just the facts. "Everyone seems to have stayed alive, and it looks like we've got a few new faces again."
no subject
"Other than that nothing too mysterious to report, a few new arrivals aside," he said. Although at this point new arrivals was hardly something to be considered "mysterious" aside from the fact that there was never a big arrival like the time they'd all first gotten here and the one time the fountain had been drained. "The only one I've really spoken to is Credence -- seems kind of jumpy," which was putting it a bit mildly. He hadn't had a chance to really interact with many of the other new faces--probably one of the disadvantages to not living in the inn.
"You're move first, I dealt."
House 8
He's in a chair in the living room, feet propped at the edge of the table as she scoffs and huffs about the box and the timing and everything about it. He doesn't have anything to say about it. It's about right of them, their Captors, to send her something just out of reach of the time when she'd need it most. The irony, he thinks They like it a lot, honestly. Kol doesn't care about the box or its contents, though, his eyes are on her. The gash on her cheek, the battered state of her clothes. He doesn't have to ask. She was right in the middle of it all, he has no doubt about it, not even for a second.
"Least you're alive to use 'em now, yeah?" His voice is a little tighter than he wants it to be, but only barely, only if you paid enough attention. Otherwise, it's light, teasing, nonchalant even. He desperately wants to not care, but he spent so much time back in Lawrence learning how to and it's hard to turn it off again now. Not that he'll admit it, ever. His jaw clenches a little with the sheer determined nature of that thought altogether.
no subject
Which, okay, maybe that part is a small bit surprising.
Like he was waiting for the right time to tell her she'd somehow managed to not end up dead. Accidentally.
Because wasn't that the point of hunters, to bash themselves on the rocks until it finally decided to take eventually.
That he actually decides to respond slightly surprises her, and she looks over her shoulder, something uncertain of how it was put, more than that it was, when her eyes find his. But she has to be reading into it, doesn't she? She's been gone for nearly three weeks, and not even heard him talking during it. Right. "How helpful, now that I'm in a place with beds and blankets, and mostly-more-than-not working heaters."
no subject
His eyes sweep carefully over her again, subtle, hardly noticeable at all, but the tiniest giveaway of his concern all the same. "Got anything worse'n that?" He taps his cheek once, to indicate her own. Somehow, he manages to only sound genuinely curious, rather than anything like worried.