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Startled from within her thoughts, Esma's cheeks took on a deep pink hue as she started at the sudden commotion, shoulders jumping as a hand raced to finger her chest, as if covering her heart. "Oh, goodness!" She exclaimed, breathing a heavy sigh of relief at coming face-to-face with the other. Head spinning, she did her best to follow the words falling from their lips. "I-" She sputtered, blinking rapidly as she attempted to force words from her own. "Are you...Asking me for a drink? Of my beverage?"

( @devostarters ) diner 54.

PRECARIOUSLY staggering along, skates affixed firm against feet - carn's confidence both lifted up and in jeopardy due to their pre - shift smokies in back of trusty gedde brothers van - they eventually collapse into a free - sided booth, more stumble than intentional; intentional all the same. "christ," they breathe out - smiling all the same, adjusting themselves with the slight knocking of table, pushed forward towards the patron whose booth they've just taken storm of, "feel like i'm in a roller - derby right now - just, knocking people out, left and right. got a line - up in the bathroom, dutiful fucking, um - soldiers getting bandaged up. think i'd name myself carnivorous carneil - sounds better than carnivorous carnelian, too - wordy, i think, right?" pauses - if only to gulp down more air, eyes falling upon the other's drink. "you know - i live by this, um - motto, right - it's uh - sharing is caring, i'm - really big on it, and i'm also really fucking thirsty right no -"

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The library had long been one of Fable's most favorite places and most sacred of spaces. While some sought the divine in connection with the soul, Fable sought words. Always had. Merely being close to a library or bookshop had an indescribable yet nearly palpable effect on the woman, and she'd long ago learned not to fight the feeling. The time spent within these spaces was generally just as sacred as the place itself, though today's worship was prematurely ended by what sounded oddly like a command landing upon her. "Excuse you?" Fable blurted immediately, not bothering to think of anything more eloquent. "I most certainly will not give you anything, shoulders included. Especially without knowing exactly what you're planning to put on them, or use them for."

( @devostarters ) shrike point library.

HAVING abandoned their dutiful position at front desk - they'll forgive her, surely, for the misdeed - the trailing fragrance of a funeral home ( powdery and a little sweet - too much so, the kind that lays flat and parallel with indigestible grief ) betrays tamsin's whereabouts, three aisles away. her eyes swept upwards, frown firm upon her lips as chin points farther and farther up - books encased behind glass, iron key clasped between gloved fingers; can still feel the heat amassing, slow but sure - like a hand hovering over stove, waiting for the burn. the slightest sigh, still heavy in her chest, the only indication she isn't living statue - turns to the only other in the aisle, movement almost jarring, frown louder than before, "give me your shoulders." more demand, than request - key turned between fingers and pointing near - accusatory towards them.

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Shops weren't generally places Esma frequented- she much preferred living from the land, within her means, and ensuring she remained connected to the roots of the Earth- her own roots. Still, occasionally she enjoyed venturing into the shopping districts. The hustle and bustle had long fascinated her, the buzzing of conversation encased in an energy near unmatched elsewhere. And the colors, the smells....Esma could hardly come to grips with it all. Looking for nothing in particular she wandered into yet another shop, though her entrance was met in a far more interesting manner than those she had encountered up to that point. The clutching of her arm drew a quick gasp, and she turned abruptly to face the speaker. "I...Beg your pardon?" She asked, head tilting as she worked to understand. "I'm...Not sure why, but I don't seem to be able to follow what it is you're saying. What's a great talking piece?"

( @devostarters ) oracle & oddysey.

HOPELESSLY bored - tragically so; cheek planted firm against countertop, two petrified eyeballs spinning 'round each other in a disconcerting beyblade battle - wound up by own fingers, fairuz is dying. absolutely, positively dying, dead not once, but twice - a tragic tale they'll be sure to retell once their spectral form takes hold beneath the moonlight. they hope it'll be beneath moonlight; shimmering like the pale pecs of a tragic, perpetually horny 109 years old vam - ding. body flies up, pushing self off of counter as the door opens; practically hauls self over, clambering to feet only to grasp at the patron's arm. "thank fuck - you want to buy my wares soo fucking badly -" not their wares - really doesn't know who even owns the joint, just plucked flier off of town bulletin board and made way. "- we just got in this cursed blade of llewy - fuck whoever - very chic, great talking piece -"

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Since Darrian's birth the sea had been a source of many near-indescribable things- home, mystery, intrigue, possibility, and freedom. It was a location he frequented regularly, something he built his schedules and many days around. Even one afternoon or evening without visiting, without immersing his body in the saltwater that seemed to give him the very life coursing through his veins, felt like the darkest of eternities. Despite his frequent visits, Darrian had chosen to approach from a different path this particular afternoon, having been preoccupied with a previous meeting. He'd seen the figure perched on the edge of the dock, though he'd initially paid the other no mind, believing firmly in minding his own business until he was prompted or forced not to.

The voice of the other broke through the silence, prompting Darrian into somewhat of a conversation. Small-talk hadn't ever been (nor would it ever be) a strong suit for him, regardless of how attached to it it seemed everyone else was. An eyebrow raised as he shifted his gaze slowly to the other. "A swim?" He parroted. "Not at all. In fact, I thought I might look for that taco truck everyone seems to be all about recently." Sarcasm dripped from his tone, and after a few moments of silence, he shook his head. "Yes. I am. I pray my doing so does not disturb you."

baz, ft. open | @devostarters

the waves are calm today, knocking his boat against the dock with a quiet tap-tap-tap. baz sits, legs dangling over the edge of the wooden surface and skimming the top of the water as he gazes out over the ocean's blue-green-grey surface. hands absentmindedly work a ball of twine into something serviceable as both a cat's cradle and a fishing net, as ears strain for the faint hum from far away. like the buzzing of wasps, or the shitty crt tv perched on the cd cabinet in his dilapidated weatherboard home. a promise — we will come home, when our feet tire of wandering, they say, though if they are anything like their grandfather that will not be for some time.

in the here-and-now, footsteps on the dock are nothing unusual, though their wearer is not whom he would expect. he turns, nonchalant, hands ever-moving, calls out with a laugh ( for what reason, he shall not say, the sea's ever-loyal secret-keeper ) , “ going for a swim ? ”