Samantha Patchowski (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
10_20_15_5_50) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kismet_loop_logs2014-12-10 07:11 pm
10_20_15_5_50) wrote in kismet_loop_logs2014-12-10 07:11 pm
of all odds and ends
Who: Dirge and Sam
What: Two recent arrivals run into each other while wandering the Warehouse
Where: The Warehouse
When: ‘Bout a week since these guys arrived
Warnings: Dirge. Dirge, and possibly language.
Lemons, a horseshoe, a feather from a rooster which could no longer crow. A bottle (glass, which was important) with a bit of cork to serve as a stopper, supplied by a restaurant within the Hub---like the little marker, so startlingly a Sharpie.
Scrabble tiles. Would wood blocks work?
White wax. Struck from the list---not that there was one written---over an hour ago, when Sam had stumbled across shelves (upon shelves!) of ‘standard’ emergency supplies. Flashlights, foiled blankets, flares, and blessedly (!) right to the left of the last, candles. She’d pocketed four before spotting one which was queerly coiled, but had shrugged to herself, pulled the candle from its stand, and slipped it onto an arm. With the wax, she had almost everything.
But the book---
The book would be a while. Which it was didn’t matter, as long as it was an epistolary novel, but in English alone there were stacks to search through---paperbacks and hardbound books, pamphlets and periodicals. Finding a title which would work would be the work of an afternoon, at best. At worst…
“Weeks.” The word was a low talking-to-myself mutter, though what followed was a little louder, aimed at the comm drone hovering a few feet from the adept’s elbow.“If anything I’m after is in here.”
What: Two recent arrivals run into each other while wandering the Warehouse
Where: The Warehouse
When: ‘Bout a week since these guys arrived
Warnings: Dirge. Dirge, and possibly language.
Lemons, a horseshoe, a feather from a rooster which could no longer crow. A bottle (glass, which was important) with a bit of cork to serve as a stopper, supplied by a restaurant within the Hub---like the little marker, so startlingly a Sharpie.
Scrabble tiles. Would wood blocks work?
White wax. Struck from the list---not that there was one written---over an hour ago, when Sam had stumbled across shelves (upon shelves!) of ‘standard’ emergency supplies. Flashlights, foiled blankets, flares, and blessedly (!) right to the left of the last, candles. She’d pocketed four before spotting one which was queerly coiled, but had shrugged to herself, pulled the candle from its stand, and slipped it onto an arm. With the wax, she had almost everything.
But the book---
The book would be a while. Which it was didn’t matter, as long as it was an epistolary novel, but in English alone there were stacks to search through---paperbacks and hardbound books, pamphlets and periodicals. Finding a title which would work would be the work of an afternoon, at best. At worst…
“Weeks.” The word was a low talking-to-myself mutter, though what followed was a little louder, aimed at the comm drone hovering a few feet from the adept’s elbow.“If anything I’m after is in here.”
no subject
"I'll trade you for yours. It's Dirge." The jet glanced back at her, having mostly finished restoring the items to the shelves.
no subject
“Sam. Nice meeting you properly.” The words didn’t follow from force of habit---as her first face-to-face meeting with the avaricious seeker improved upon all expectations, she spoke sincerely even as she again began to walk away. “Have fun treasure-hunting.”
no subject
"Oh, I will," he purred.