Gretel (_gretel) wrote in helladjacent, @ 2016-01-08 14:02:00 |
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Entry tags: | !jumps: jump 3, character: aidan waite, character: dean winchester, character: gretel, character: sam winchester |
Who: Gretel and Aidan (and an eavesdropping pair of Winchesters)
What: Newest resident meets oldest resident. Then some bad first impressions.
Where: The Lounge
When: After this conversation
Warnings: Sneaky Winchesters. A little blood-letting. Statue-attack.
Status: Closed/Ongoing
Business as usual. Right on schedule, the bells had chimed and the Fog swallowed the Hotel for another few days of weird. As soon as they'd made the jump, she made sure to don her thick leathers in anticipation of whatever the hotel would throw at them this time. Her trusty boned bodice was much thicker than most of the paper-thin clothing many of the new residents showed up wearing- that plus the heavy canvas trousers and metal lined riding boots kept her more protected against anything that slashed or broke bones. It was a precaution, though Gretel had seen worse, no doubt in hell about that, but being repeatedly sliced by a sentient (and malicious) copy of Old Man and the Sea wasn't exactly fun, either. Now that book was little more than a shell cover and black cinders in the library fireplace, to be regenerated in a few days time- likely without the murderous intent, and she'd managed to maneuver her way through the hallways without being attacked by anything else.
With the behemoth crossbow strapped dutifully on her back as usual, gauntlet fingerless gloves in place over the bunches of a well-worn linen ladie's frock shirt that sorely needed replacing, she'd made her way to the lounge while trying to keep as much blood off the material as possible. The book had gotten her a few times on the face, her collarbone once, but mostly on her fingers. A few thin threads of red- hardly life threatening, but they stung like fuck anyway. The new guest wasn't there yet when she made it to the open marble cathedral that housed the hotel's alcohol. She went right for the top shelf vodka in the mean time, clapping it over a fresh-looking cloth to dab on the micro-cuts and hiss at the bite.
All while keeping an eye on the statue of a fat-cheeked winged cherub in the corner that had never been there before.