Honoria Crabb (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pointofhonoria) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
come_sailaway2023-01-21 01:15 am
pointofhonoria) wrote in come_sailaway2023-01-21 01:15 am
There's gotta be a reason that I'm here on Earth [OPEN]
Who: Honoria Crabb & you!
What: Crabb's goin' through it but aren't we all
When: January
Where: Many places on the ship
Warnings: Nothing really to start off, added as we go
Notes: Feel free to flip me to brackets I am comfortable with either style.
1. The changing of the seasons never changed my hurt [calgona gym]
It's not the first time Crabb's fallen back on Calgona to try and work out some of the pure restless energy and the directionless anger that plagues her, in times of stress, but it's been a while since she could be found going at the punching bag quite so viciously. This is, perhaps, that for once the anger isn't entirely directionless; it's aimed inward, worming its way deeper into her chest and muddying her thoughts. The wrapping on her fists isn't as well-done as it usually would be, but even the dull stinging as the force threatens to tear at her knuckles doesn't stop her.
It's this, or... or she doesn't know what. So, this it is.
Though in moments where she's not quite so caught up in her head, you might find her figuring out how to use the martial arts training dummy that she had the pleasure of having to drag up here herself from sundries earlier this month. It's not the first time she's used something like it, but Bastrop only showed her how to once or twice and that was months ago. It occupies her mind in a different way, she has to think more than just mindlessly wailing on the bag, and she can't deny that's a help.
2. So what's it worth? What's it worth? [library]
The fancy, infinite notebook is, really, meant to be where she works on her attempts to properly document the story of Lavender Jack and various other cases that she and Ferrier have worked on over the last couple years she was at home. And it's not that she's not working on that, in dribs and drabs when she can find the will to bother, but it's clearly not what she's doing most days this month. Not going by the way she's scribbling random notes in some personal shorthand, mumbling to herself, all the while frustrated.
More often than not, everything new she's scribbled down doesn't last long. She tears the pages out, balls them up and throws them aimlessly across the room. They end up all over the place. Maybe one hits you as you're walking by, or standing obliviously in a different aisle where she can't even see you. Not that her seeing you makes much of a difference, she probably isn't going to notice to apologise anyway if you don't say something.
3. Worth another shot of whiskey and another sip of gin [tauva]
The fact of the matter is, Crabb feels like shit. It just doesn't feel like she has a damned thing to contribute, anymore. What good is a brawler with nothing to fight, and who wouldn't stand a chance against those with abilities far above her own even if she did? What good is a detective who has no experience with either the modern world most people recognise, or the magic that controls every aspect of their lives and keeps them bound here in the first place?
Coming up on nine months aboard and she's died twice, been possessed once, and has done, frankly, nothing of use. She can only blame circumstances knocking her off her game for so long before she has to wonder if she's not so much knocked off her game as no longer has any game to climb back on.
Even in situations that should bring her as close to her element as she can get, like investigating the murders or the trial, she finds herself with nothing to show for it but a Goddamn migraine. She can't even protect the people she cares about. Either she's too late, or she's not there, and yes she knows it's Goddamned ridiculous to blame herself for the month she spent possessed but it's hard not to. She should have been there and she wasn't, all because she couldn't defend herself against some magic-y bastard.
All she has going for her is her 'doggedness' and let's be honest, what good is that with no direction to aim it at all? And as unlike her as it is... she just doesn't know what the Hell she's going to do to change that. She feels utterly impotent, lost and out of her depth and there's no easy way out.
So she goes through the motions. She goes through every day in a shallow mimicry of her routine, and then she finds herself time to sit alone in Tauva, nursing glasses of cheap whiskey that reminds her of simpler times when just picking a direction and kicking through anything in her way was enough. And unfortunately for her and her desire to keep this from anyone else, she looks about as miserable as she feels.
4. Another drop of poison that is slowly sinkin' in [wildcard]
Find me at![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
bluecitrine or at artisticblueteam#5757/in the discord.
What: Crabb's goin' through it but aren't we all
When: January
Where: Many places on the ship
Warnings: Nothing really to start off, added as we go
Notes: Feel free to flip me to brackets I am comfortable with either style.
1. The changing of the seasons never changed my hurt [calgona gym]
It's not the first time Crabb's fallen back on Calgona to try and work out some of the pure restless energy and the directionless anger that plagues her, in times of stress, but it's been a while since she could be found going at the punching bag quite so viciously. This is, perhaps, that for once the anger isn't entirely directionless; it's aimed inward, worming its way deeper into her chest and muddying her thoughts. The wrapping on her fists isn't as well-done as it usually would be, but even the dull stinging as the force threatens to tear at her knuckles doesn't stop her.
It's this, or... or she doesn't know what. So, this it is.
Though in moments where she's not quite so caught up in her head, you might find her figuring out how to use the martial arts training dummy that she had the pleasure of having to drag up here herself from sundries earlier this month. It's not the first time she's used something like it, but Bastrop only showed her how to once or twice and that was months ago. It occupies her mind in a different way, she has to think more than just mindlessly wailing on the bag, and she can't deny that's a help.
2. So what's it worth? What's it worth? [library]
The fancy, infinite notebook is, really, meant to be where she works on her attempts to properly document the story of Lavender Jack and various other cases that she and Ferrier have worked on over the last couple years she was at home. And it's not that she's not working on that, in dribs and drabs when she can find the will to bother, but it's clearly not what she's doing most days this month. Not going by the way she's scribbling random notes in some personal shorthand, mumbling to herself, all the while frustrated.
More often than not, everything new she's scribbled down doesn't last long. She tears the pages out, balls them up and throws them aimlessly across the room. They end up all over the place. Maybe one hits you as you're walking by, or standing obliviously in a different aisle where she can't even see you. Not that her seeing you makes much of a difference, she probably isn't going to notice to apologise anyway if you don't say something.
3. Worth another shot of whiskey and another sip of gin [tauva]
The fact of the matter is, Crabb feels like shit. It just doesn't feel like she has a damned thing to contribute, anymore. What good is a brawler with nothing to fight, and who wouldn't stand a chance against those with abilities far above her own even if she did? What good is a detective who has no experience with either the modern world most people recognise, or the magic that controls every aspect of their lives and keeps them bound here in the first place?
Coming up on nine months aboard and she's died twice, been possessed once, and has done, frankly, nothing of use. She can only blame circumstances knocking her off her game for so long before she has to wonder if she's not so much knocked off her game as no longer has any game to climb back on.
Even in situations that should bring her as close to her element as she can get, like investigating the murders or the trial, she finds herself with nothing to show for it but a Goddamn migraine. She can't even protect the people she cares about. Either she's too late, or she's not there, and yes she knows it's Goddamned ridiculous to blame herself for the month she spent possessed but it's hard not to. She should have been there and she wasn't, all because she couldn't defend herself against some magic-y bastard.
All she has going for her is her 'doggedness' and let's be honest, what good is that with no direction to aim it at all? And as unlike her as it is... she just doesn't know what the Hell she's going to do to change that. She feels utterly impotent, lost and out of her depth and there's no easy way out.
So she goes through the motions. She goes through every day in a shallow mimicry of her routine, and then she finds herself time to sit alone in Tauva, nursing glasses of cheap whiskey that reminds her of simpler times when just picking a direction and kicking through anything in her way was enough. And unfortunately for her and her desire to keep this from anyone else, she looks about as miserable as she feels.
4. Another drop of poison that is slowly sinkin' in [wildcard]
Find me at
no subject
no subject
"Ain't that the truth. Didn't take a full day off in two years before this place, and not many before that. I ain't built for this much downtime."
You know because it's totally healthy never to stop working and she totally wasn't using work to run away from her messy emotions on recent traumas. Totally fine.
no subject
no subject
Crabb huffs a laugh. "Maybe. Sure is one way to make a person stop whether they want to or not."