Re: Winter Comes to the Desert (Altamira)
OoC: Excuse my rustiness. I feel like over half this post makes no sense. XP
IC:
A cool breeze blew by a vendor of sunglasses on Bazaar Street, sending old, brittle wind chimes tinkling with metallic melodies. Cool breezes were almost as rare as honest citizens in Rubato; the sweating man stopped a moment and closed his eyes to savor the cool sensation. When he opened them again, he noticed that he was one two-hundred zecca, designer pair short, without a single shifty-looking kid around to blame, and cursed between clenched teeth. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed and considered moving his stall elsewhere, as he often did, but then he remembered how half of his stock came from, well...his dim-witted neighbor's stock...and thought better of it.
Like he said, honest citizens were in short supply.
The wind continued on down an alley with a purpose, tipping over police motorcycles and blowing away parking tickets with a strength far beyond what a natural "breeze" should have--and then it materialized in the form of two black, ankle-length boots on the pavement, landing with a gentle thud like a cardboard box being knocked over onto the cobblestones. The wind--that is, Arietta--ran a hand through her hair as it took solid form, slipped on the stolen sunglasses, and smiled. She had been able to use Harmony to borrow "Silhouette of Stealth"; that meant her sister or someone bonded to her was somewhere around. She wouldn't be going to this meeting entirely alone.
Her face now hidden by both a cloak and her sunglasses, she hurried back out onto the street, whereupon she was shocked to find how very green the world looked through the lenses, and tripped over one of her own bootlaces. She collided against something with a soft thump.
"Oi, Seņorita!"
Arietta opened her eyes to see the lithe figure of Marcel Vargas leaning over her. In stark contrast to the boy's uncle, Marcel was actually clean. His hazel eyes twinkled at her as she dusted herself off and got up with the aid of his proffered hand.
"Where are you going dressed like that, Seņorita?"
"Hush, Marcel--it's me!"
The boy squinted at the figure underneath all the fabric and oversized glasses. "Me...?"
Cadenza had always said that Marcel was more normal than his uncle--but then she would snicker, and mumble something about that not saying much. The boy was a good kid, rather close to the blacksmith (although luckily for him his uncle didn't have a hand in naming him--otherwise he might have been something like "Magnesium Vargas", as 'denza often also said), but like his uncle, he was a touch on the simple side when things didn't fall into his specialized realm.
For Marcel, like most nineteen year-old boys, his specialized field of interest was girls.
"Arietta Madrigal," the gypsy barked back, with as much bark as could be put into a whisper.
"Ohhh," he said, in the tones of dawning recognition everywhere. "What're you doing dressed like that, Ari--"
"--not important, not important! Just...do me a favor, hm? Nip along to this address," she paused to slip him a wadded-up note from one of her cloak pockets, "and see who the person listed under that name there is. Give me all the description you can--and be on the lookout for," she paused again, glanced around conspiratorially, and then whispered, "...people."
"People...?"
"You know--cops, or bounty hunters, or...people who look like they're from the Dome. Especially people who look like they're from the Dome. Include any descriptions of those types too. Understand?"
Marcel nodded emptily. "I think so."
"Good, good. I'll come along and wait at the corner by the restaurant. In...an alley or something. Something inconspicuous. You report to me as soon as you can, and...try to make sure no one notices you either, okay?"
"Si Seņorita," Marcel mumbled. Some girl was coming out of the police station down the street, and, well...he didn't have the guts to tell Arietta that the whole last part of her directions had been nothing but background noise to the love song playing in his head.
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"S-sure," Tracey said, turning down the street. Her keen eyes caught a glimpse of a cloaked figure speaking to a young man back the other way towards where Rosa Lane crossed Bazaar Street, but the rasp of Monroe's breath on the receiver brought her mind back to the present. "You sound...tired. How are you?"
The man coughed as he tried to answer. The sound only made Tracey wince even more--how badly injured was he?
"Listen," she said, with a strength she was surprised she had found, "just get yourself to the 'Windy Gulch' tavern. It shouldn't be too far from where you are. Granted, cops don't do well around bars here...but, we're not going in anyhow, and...you sound like you need to stop and rest as soon as you can. I'll find myself a bike or something and get there soon, all right?" The last words were tinged with a hint of concern that Tracey was embarrassed to show--Monroe was a fighter, and...he wouldn't want her worrying over every little bruise, right? I can't help it, she sighed. He'd better be okay...