you took our wills with the truth you stole Who: Damia Ravin & (Loch, Cian, Lionel, Lan) What: The corsair without a ship goes sniffing around. Where: Here and there. When: Today! Rating: Who even knows, assume PG-13. Status: In prog
THE WAREHOUSE DISTRICT | 10AM. It wasn't even noon, and her face was already bleeding. The altercation had come unprovoked: a simple delivery gone wrong that had ended with new and suspicious security guards trying to take her out in fear of her delivering, what, an explosive? If she'd been wanting to blow up the warehouse, surely she wouldn't have been stupid enough to go in through the back doors that were always being watched.
Damia left with blood dripping from her nose and kneed a guard in the jewels for good measure, departing from the warehouse feeling unnecessarily violated and angry.
THE AERODROME | 1PM. The captain she'd come to see had been receptive, at least. He'd been friends with her father before his death, and remembered her by name even after not seeing her for years. She was much bigger than the nineteen-year-old he'd last seen, before his travels took him elsewhere, but, in his own words, just as bloody sarcastic.
His information had been easy to relay, considering how little he had of it— the little rat Rossul was still trying to get Lareine back bit by bit, but hadn't yet succeeded. The ship herself was only two towns over, from what he'd heard, but had yet to return to Emillion. Communication with her current captain was scarce, but she felt she could trust the man. Evidently, things were still all fucking wrong.
After offering her thanks, Damia meandered toward the hangar where she and the others had fought the mimics, eyeing the remaining damage as it was worked on from above. Just a mess, like everything else.
THE GREASY SPOON | BAZAAR | 6PM. For a place called The Greasy Spoon, it was unsurprising how many lowlifes spent their days drinking away their sorrows. At this time of the day, it wasn't uncommon to see people already tipping back their drinks despite it not even being dinner time. While this wasn't The Blue Bear, sometimes it really did feel like such a shithole.
Her next order of business was a former crewmate of her father's, a man whose leg she'd once clung to as a girl, but unlike her earlier companion, this one didn't recognize her immediately. Once the pleasantries had been exchanged, Damia got to the point, taking care not to reveal too much. Her father had once trusted this man, and so she'd try the same, but it was difficult with so many assholes running around.
They parted ways amiably after she'd retrieved her information (Rossul in debt, needed money; trusted sources said he'd make for Emillion in Pisces, if the odds were in his favour) but remained in the dive, slinking up to the bar to get a refill of her drink.
An annoying start to the day, but evidently things were looking up.
THE TENEMENTS | 9PM. Damia knew she was being followed after two blocks, but didn't slow her pace. After turning into an alleyway, she waited, expecting company and staring into the face of a man she assumed she didn't know but soon recognized. One of Rossul's crewmen. Current or former? It didn't matter, because he was moving to split, having been caught in the act, but her hand snagged the back of his shirt and made every attempt to slam him into the wall, knowing he wouldn't do anything stupid.
Or so she thought until his hand caught her in the face (Faram fuck, the second time in a day). The fight was short-lived as he took off in a run, leaving her leaning into a brick wall, but she was too tired to give chase, and fucking hell, she'd had enough for one day.
She spat blood into the snow and slammed her foot into the nearest garbage can, its contents clattering and spilling over the ground.