⚜ savannah, a freaking brave idiot. (shadowbinder) wrote in invol_rpg, @ 2012-11-09 13:16:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! plot: horror, savannah bordeaux, yael shafir, ~ horror: seaside village |
LOG.
WHO: Yael Shafir [ISRAEL] & Savannah Bordeaux [USA].
WHAT: Savannah is cornered in the village pub. Fortunately, badass Yael steps in to save her.
WHEN: Day 1.
WHERE: Seaside Village.
WARNINGS: Violence, extreme sexual harassment.
STATUS: Complete.
SAVANNAH: Savannah had reassured Chelsea that nothing but honey was pouring out of her mouth, though she was trashing up a storm about the villagers on her phone. She wasn’t sure how much that had gotten through to the others, but the truth was, Southerners had perfected the art of being mean while still being nice, and Savannah was a devoted student of her subculture’s twisted brand of manners. Which was why she was sitting down at the bar amidst a line of crusty old people, all of whom seemed to either eye her with something akin to one of three states of mind: suspicion, glee, or--worst of all--some kind of hunger. She couldn’t help watching with detached fascination as they lifted their tankards to their lips, mentally taking note of who had half their teeth, and who was just gumming at the rims. Good Lord. Typically, she’d not be so judgmental about people’s appearances, but in this case, the effect really just worsened the general feeling of unease Savannah felt about this place. Ever the entertainer, the rather unconventional Southern belle smiled disarmingly as she turned to the crone on her right. “I was thinkin’ about orderin’ that,” she remarked, nodding to the woman’s glass of whatever-the-hell. “How’s it taste?” The woman eyed her narrowly for a moment, then tilted her head back and downed the rest of her whatsit in a lusty slurp. Well, Savannah thought somewhat huffily, raising her eyebrows. The image of a turtle stretching out its shapeless neck came to mind. A glance down the line past the woman suggested that these people weren’t very likely to pay attention to her, either--they hadn’t even looked up, though she thought she could see a few stolen, sullen glares. Oh, well. The people on her left, however, were eyeing her plain enough. So she rose, picking up her glass of water, and strode over to a knot of gnarly old fisherman, leaning one hip against an empty place on the bar. “Hey,” she greeted brightly. “Any of y’all feel like updatin’ a girl on this here storm?” she waved her hand vaguely toward the bar’s exit, where all the windows were clouded by the dull gray of the sky outdoors. “I’ve been fresh outta newspapers lately, and I was wonderin’ if somebody could help me out?” The helpless damsel act generally had one of two outcomes--people taking pity on her, and people attempting to eat her alive. She’d find out what kind of people these were in about two seconds, and truth be told, she would have been downright flummoxed if these people were the helpful kind. YAEL: Across the room, Yael was far from at ease. It made sense that she should be here along with Savannah, investigating what was arguably the most dangerous scenario out of all the options they'd agreed to explore: more people meant more threats, more chances for them to be attacked. More distractions. More things that required her to keep an eye out, in case even one among the many decided to move on them. Scanning the faces of the people around them, she detected only hostility or a complete lack of interest. These people were undoubtedly not going to be of any help. So: best that they leave. She understood the value of information-gathering, and sometimes simply sitting in the corner observing could lend them more accurate knowledge than they might have gathered from even talking to people, but it was obvious to her that they were on their guard. No one was going to let things slip in front of them. She felt claustrophobic in the room, as though she stood in the middle of a death trap, and no amount of measured, steady breathing could shake the pressure that her instincts applied on her nerves. Picking her way through the tables, she avoided so much as brushing against anyone, zeroing in on the redhead attempting optimistically to engage a fisherman in friendly conversation. Savannah was charming, affable -- even direct Yael with her complete disregard for coy manipulations could judge that she was approachable -- but the man wasn't looking at her with curiosity or a smile. His cracked lips and craggy features were undoubtedly twisted in a leering smirk. She felt a spark of annoyance, hidden deep beneath her silent impassivity. Though her hands had been carefully shoved into her pockets since entering the room, she eased them out now and let them hang at her sides, flexing her fingers. As frustrating as it was to know that her power wouldn't quit, that for whatever reason it was refusing to deactivate, at this moment, she felt reassured to know that her finger was already on the metaphorical trigger. SAVANNAH: Savannah saw him after Yael did, which wasn’t terribly surprising. Yael was specifically trained to root out threats; Savannah was self-trained to read social cues. What she read from the approaching fisherman’s abhorrently-twisted features and creaking body language was lechery, pure and simple. Unable to completely stop herself from staring, her gaze zeroed in on--was that a missing eye? Before she could excuse herself and walk back to rejoin Yael, he opened his mouth, and she found herself stuck in her own shoes, feeling a chill of automatic revulsion roll down her spine at his rank, sour breath. “If yer worried about the storm,” he rasped, from his uncomfortably close position of a couple feet away, leering at her with a face that didn’t have all its teeth, “I can offer ye some shelter. Fer a price.” He grinned at her and blatantly swept his one-eyed gaze down past her shoulders, clearly implying that that shelter would probably be his nasty, grimy bed. If these people even slept in beds. Savannah withdrew reflexively, feeling as violated as if he’d actually touched her. “No,” she managed, her stomach queasy. “I already got a place to stay, and nobody pays for me,” she returned, a hand going to her hip in an attempt to regain some sass, some control, in a situation that was clearly inappropriate. The difference between dealing with this kind of harassment here, and the kind of harassment in New Orleans, was that people were noticing here--and they didn’t care. Rather, the people flanking them seemed to be looming in as much as he was, and Savannah was suddenly cognizant of the part of the bar that was digging into her back. She was backed up against the surface, and she’d be trapped, if she didn’t physically force herself out of the situation. “You know what?” she gave up all pretenses of innocence and helplessness. It wasn’t a game anymore if she felt legitimately threatened. “I think I’m takin’ myself back there right now.” She lifted her chin defiantly, attempting not to show her unease. “Get outta my way, please.” It was a sharp, commanding tone that had worked in the past on B&B guests and bar people alike. Whether because of the tone itself or her somewhat intimidating height, people tended to listen. Most people. Sane people. Not this group. They were calling her bluff; that she had nothing to hurt them with. “Didn’t say nuthin’ bout money,” he practically purred, moving to the left to block what was probably the last few inches she could have used to force an escape. “Maybe we can work out sumthin’ else. I’ll even chuck in some heat for yer deal, free.” His leer was positively revolting at this point, and Savannah felt her stomach turning. “No,” she snapped, looking to her side to see if she could find something--a knife, or even a fork. “I said, I’m goin’ home. And I can’t believe y’all are just standin’ there,” she addressed the onlookers, feeling growing indignance, “just lettin’ this happen. Are y’all serious? You just let any creep hit on a lady here, and it’s funny to y’all?” She reached over and yanked a fork away from an abandoned plate, holding it up for him to see just how funny she found him. It was a weak gesture, and she knew it. It was more than likely she’d have to use her shadows, and then they’d all be in trouble. Chivalry was so very, very dead here. “Now get out of my way, or I’m gonna push past all y’all, and it’s not gonna be on me if y’all break a few hips,” she warned, feeling angry now as well as threatened. That drove off some of the onlookers, who decided they could watch from a safer distance, but the man himself didn’t budge. He stepped even closer, the rotten gap in his teeth more glaring than ever. He wasn’t smiling anymore, she noted, feeling bile rising up from somewhere in her lower abdomen. He was menacing. “What’re ye waitin’ fer?” he breathed, the hot air forcing itself down her nostrils. “Skinny bitches like you don’t never stab too hard.” YAEL: That was enough. That was more than enough. Yael had been waiting for the other girl to remove herself from the conversation, as she seemed on the precipice of doing, but the fisherman suddenly closed in, clearly blocking Savannah's exit. Men like that disgusted her. She'd known plenty of them, the ones who treated women as though they must secretly all yearn to be objectified and who played the game with the heavy-handed confidence of someone who knows no consequences. They thought they had all the power. Worse, they took some sick amusement in their own jokes, the pathetic innuendo and acting as though being female and attractive was the same as laying their sexuality out for all to see. Or take. All pretenses of equality aside, the military always held some unfortunate schmucks whose heads were so far up their own asses that they couldn't see her or her fellow female soldiers as anything more than chicks in uniform. She'd never missed an opportunity to set them straight. At least with them, a little public humiliation and a jab at the guilty consciences that their Jewish mothers had no doubt instilled in each and every little boy grown into an overconfident prick of a man typically did the trick. Here, she had the distinct sense that the people in the pub -- the ones not distinctly ignoring the situation -- weren't going to pick their side. This lecherous old fisherman was in his element. They weren't going to receive any support. "Is that so?" Yael asked from behind him, mildly. Ah, yes. The age-old reminder that uncooperative girls were bitches, and weak bitches at that. She assessed the fisherman swiftly as he half-turned away from his intended target to see who was addressing him, his knotted brow raising skeptically at the young woman of average height and sandy coloring behind him: he looked maybe sixty or more, but she knew that the rank stench of fish meant he was likely weathered by the harsh wind of the sea beyond his actual years and probably strong enough to handle a ship still, even with hands that must be arthritic by now. Missing an eye -- good, that was a weakness. He was taller, but hunched, and probably no more familiar with combat than a few bar fights in his younger days. She didn't need to be stronger than him to disable him or even kill him. All she needed to do was be faster. The conversation had already progressed the point of giving him a warning. At the beginning, she could have stepped in to give Savannah a chance to exit before it could come to violence, but deflecting his attention wasn't going to spare them any more nonsense. Yael had no desire left to simply let him go. "Perhaps what you say is true," she cut in before he could respond to her rhetorical question, "but we have other ways." Reaching out with the speed of a striking snake, she caught the blind side of his face in her hand, palm pressed directly to his leathery skin. She could feel her power triggering, strong enough to leave her light-headed as she stroked the nerves available to her, letting it burn through him and stab him all over, a billion tiny little points of torture -- He laughed. That one filmy eye widened, and then his mouth curled into a bark of derision. He laughed, and so did the woman behind the bar suddenly, their raucous sounds of amusement echoing through the room as it was picked up by others. Yael pushed harder -- something wasn't right, he should be writhing in agony, shitting himself, losing all control -- and her eyes caught Savannah's. "We're leaving." Her voice brooked no room for argument as she jerked her hand back. She didn't step away, however, until Savannah was no longer pinned against the bar. If he was going to focus his retaliation on anyone, it would be Yael, not the other girl. But he wasn't lashing out at her. He was just laughing. SAVANNAH: The matter didn’t need to be brought up twice. Wide-eyed, Savannah reached a hand out and shouldered her way bodily past her would-be assailant, an opening which existed thanks to Yael whether her powers worked or not. Wordlessly, she tossed the fork she'd been holding aside, not bothering to look where it had clattered to a landing, and stepped back outside into the dreary gray afternoon. Truth be told, the Louisianan was genuinely shaken by her brush with the town's callous treatment of women. She could have easily disregarded the landlady's unpleasant assertion as to her alleged sexual promiscuity, but she'd been about to be cornered at best, grabbed by a man with questionable intentions at worst--and they'd all simply stood there, and watched. Eagerly, even. Savannah had weathered her first taste of the village atmosphere, and it had been a mouthful of rancid rot. YAEL: She nearly bent down to pick up the fork before they left, but let it lie. She'd already slipped a knife from one of the tables into her back pocket, before the nonsense had even begun; she wasn't about to spend another second inside the pub that they didn't have to. Casting a last steely glance at the fisherman, she followed Savannah out of the building, slamming the door behind them. Then she took a deep breath. Shaking her fingers out at her sides, as though somehow she might be able to rid herself of some of the man's disgusting lechery, she moved to Savannah's side. Her gaze swept briefly over the girl's body. "Are you going to be okay?" SAVANNAH: Savannah’s body language was telling, her arms wrapped around her torso in a self-hug. Still, at Yael’s question, she managed a nod, and even a wry, bitter sort of smile. “Yeah,” she murmured. “But I’m glad I had you with me. At least one of us knows how to handle people--men,” she conceded, “like that.” There was the slightest edge of sour to match the hardness in her smile, an indication that she envied Yael. She might have been brought up to be well-behaved, but there had been a small handful of times, very recently, when she wished she hadn’t been expected to be so docile. Not when she didn’t have a gun in her hand. This was the first time in her recent memory that she’d been reminded so acutely that her culture had done her wrong, however. She did look up, however, choosing to move on rather than to mention her thoughts. Now was a time for movement, not stopping for a chat, no matter how much she wished she could voice her insecurities to the former soldier. “We’re not gonna get anythin’ out of anyone here. Let’s go find the others.” |