come_sailaway | And I'm tryin' my best to believe in the best left in me [OPEN]

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And I'm tryin' my best to believe in the best left in me [OPEN]

Who: Honoria Crabb & you!
What: Mostly memshare
When: March
Where: Memories & the Serena Eterna
Warnings: Nothing really to start off, added as we go
Notes: Feel free to flip me to brackets I am comfortable with either style. The only prompt with any particularly notable risk of death is Prosperity Bridge, and only if things get screwed up majorly.

1. Oh your cryin's a test of the veins, of my fluid beliefs [4v1 fight, day she met Tom Broadfoot]

Gallery, in the dead of winter. New South Gallery Orphanage, or, more accurately the burned down husk of the old orphanage next door. The ground is covered in a thick layer of snow and there are children playing in places they shouldn't be, but none have strayed within the fenced off perimeter that Crabb is currently exploring.

She doesn't notice the arrival of four other adults until they're already there with her, two coming from the same gap in the fence she did and two more coming from behind her. The two men behind her are nondescript thugs she doesn't recognise, but the ginger woman and tall man are a different story.

"Y'know, I'm actually glad to see you two. Felt like I left a job half-done back at the bulletin—"

"Ooh, sounds like fun," the ginger woman taunts, "but I was thinking instead that Cork and the fellas here could go ahead and stomp you into something a little more lumpy. Something to show your boss at City Hall he needs to keep his beak out. And for me?" She pulls out a knife, holding it up like a demonstration. Crabb grits her teeth, already squaring up for a fight that only seems inevitable. "Well, see, I met this Lady back in the pen, and she's paying out large to anybody who can put another scar on that big face of yours. And I'm saving up for a new flat."

It's then that the four legbreakers move, and Crabb has to think fast to avoid getting killed right here and now.

2. When people burn bridges, the rivers, they don't seem to mind [Prosperity Bridge, the night it collapses]

Prosperity Bridge. Eight minutes to nine o'clock.

Prosperity is a hub for the rich socialites of Gallery. Fine dining, high-end shopping, a place to show off and be shown off to; a place for the upper crust to socialise and hold themselves separate from the rest of the city around them. A place that is mere minutes away from crumbling out from under their feet.

Unbeknownst to anyone here tonight, there is already a fight for their lives ongoing in the clock tower. A fight that will ultimately only end partially in their favour, preventing the bridge from collapsing quite as quickly as the Black Note intends.

Well. One person outside that clock-tower knows. Crabb arrives in a skidding frenzy, automobile coming to a screeching stop across from the tower and in front of an employee. She clambers out of the car, looking up toward the tower.

"E-Excuse me! Ma'am you cannot park your automobile here—" The poor employee protests, only for her to shut the door. "Ma'am! I said—"

But Crabb's distracted, listening to a strange, high-pitched eeeeeeeeeee sound coming from above, "Wait. Shut up. I know that sound—" Right then, a spiderweb crack appears between the 7 and 8 marks on the clock, and without a second more to waste Crabb turns and grabs the guy by his collar. "Listen to me. You gotta take me to your manager's office right bleedin' now. 'Cause there's a real good chance this bridge's minutes are numbered."

3. There's a violence I've found, in the regular things left behind [Margrave Ballroom Fundraiser, date with Tom]

The Margrave Building Ballroom. Extravagant and lustrous and filled with members of Gallerian High Society milling around discussing the latest theories about Lavender Jack, the Black Note and frankly paying very little attention to the supposed point of the evening: fundraising for the South Gallery Orphanage.

Honoria Crabb and Tom Broadfoot stand out like a sore thumb, sat where they are at the bar, dressed in police dress-blues and a cheap suit that don't match up to the glamour of those around them. Both even look like they feel out of place, sticking by each other and generally keeping out of the way rather than mingling.

"Cute," Crabb sneers, watching the politicians on stage. "Not every day you see a wolf making nice with a bear."

"Plenty of livestock to go around, I guess," Tom sighs, and Crabb snorts a grim laugh.

4. And I'm tryin' my best to believe in the best left in me [Bastrop Manor] (Sols will hop in to play Ducky, unless someone has any objections to a 3-way!)

It's two in the morning, and Crabb and Ducky are waiting for Bastrop to return from a mission, of sorts. Crabb seems fairly comfortable, here, with her police uniform's jacket shed, her tie tossed aside, and her sleeves rolled up where she and Ducky have been playing chess between cups of coffee. Speculative chatter about parts of the case has been most of the fare tonight, though Crabb's found herself drifting more and more into more mundane topics the more tired she gets.

They are the only people in this entire manor, hidden away in the canopy with a giant telescope and Bastrop's tools. The mansion is expansive and silent.

Until, of course, you arrive.

5. Oh this world is a mess [Blue Horsehoe Pub, mundane day]

In this memory, Crabb looks the closest to the Crabb that everyone knows from the boat. No police uniform, no skirts, just her go-to white button down, brown trousers with suspenders and her trenchcoat draped over the stool underneath her. Her tie is loosened a little and she's at ease, at the bar, wielding a glass of mid-tier whiskey and chatting occasionally with the tall, muscular blonde man who serves as the place's bartender.

It's a matter of business, more than it really is about relaxation; Ducky isn't here to come and gather information that Masters has picked up anymore, so while Johnny continues to run the high-society end of things, Crabb's taken to coming down to the Blue Horseshoe to see if there's anything they need to know.

It is, however, still one of the few things she does that comes close to taking any time off, during this stretch of her life. And there's space at the bar beside her.

6. But it's prettier, than what lies beneath [Serena Eterna]

Crabb is trying her best to hide the fact that this 'reality breaking apart at the seams' thing is actually shaking her up more than she'd be proud to admit. There's a part of her that can't help but wonder if this is her doing, at least in part, what with Friday MIA thanks to her actions and after she smudged the sigils in the first place. Sure, there's the whole feeding a corpse to a ghost thing, and who knows what else, but...

So, she's doing what she does best. Bury it in other work. She tries to keep track of memories she's been into or had entered, she tries to see if there's any sort of pattern (not as far as she can see), she even tries to dip back into her project writing up the story of Lavender Jack, but she's still a bit all over the place no matter what she does.

Find her in any of her usual spots around the ship, places like Windjammer or the Drunken Sailor, Tauva, the Library, the gym and sports deck, or just around.

7. Oh where do I go from here [wildcard]

Find me at

bluecitrine or at artisticblueteam#5757/in the discord.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Well..." Erin draws it out, swirling her finger around the rim of her glass. It sings, a bright and clear note that rings steadily. "I suppose that depends on you, Crabb. We can have a nice night in here, drink, talk, and you can send me on my way with maybe some tips on where to find work. We could blow this joint and find a dance hall, maybe tour the town - Gallery's a new one on me. Or..."

The song stops, because Erin has placed that finger on the rim of Crabb's glass. "If you like the taste of my conversation I might be so bold as to ask if I could save the frantic scrabble for cash tonight and go to your place for coffee and darken your couch for the night."

(Oh thank GOD you didn't just blatantly offer to rail her into oblivion.)

Give us some credit, me.

Quietly, under her breath, Crabb curses, "Jeezus Christ..." because some things never change, and she drags her hand over her face as if that does anything to discourage the colour still steeping it.

None of this is proper, none of this is a dance she knows how to even fumble her way through. The idea of wasting time with some attractive, flirtatious stranger shouldn't be something appealing enough to even spend this much time considering. She doesn't even understand how this is happening, the only person who's ever looked at her close to this way was 'Tom' and— and look where that got her.

There's too many people in the bar, and there's too many people in any dance hall that may be open, and there's almost too many people out on the streets that know her name and her face. Ferrier and Marguerite will likely be turning in for the night before long, but bringing someone home? Even 'Tom' never came as far as her building...

She lowers her hand and breathes. "...well, we've both got drinks to finish regardless of anythin' else. Then— I dunno, I could show you a bit of the area. I live eight floors up this very building, so I ain't wanna be going far this late."

"Perfect," Erin agrees, still with that cat-like look of pleasure. She sips her whiskey and ice, and then swirls the glass while she continues. "I'd promise to behave but it's a bit late for that. You got work in the morning to be up for?"

Surface question: how late can you be out?

Deeper question for detective and bartender ears only: how late can I keep you up?

"...I keep my own schedule. Private detective," Crabb says, after a moment's pause, lifting her own glass again and taking a slow drink. "Worked through more than one night before. Not much different."

Technically she has a case active right now, they always do, but it's nothing that can't wait and nothing Ferrier will rush her on. Hell, Ferrier's been trying to get her to take a break for a while, but... God, what is she doing? She hardly even knows.

"You're only making yourself more kissable." Erin knocks back the rest of her drink in one go, savoring the burn and offering an unspoken invitation: let's blow this joint.

Crabb damn near chokes on her own whiskey, thumping her chest and giving Masters a very pointed look before she recovers enough to actually down the rest of the glass anyway. Masters doesn't say a word, just takes their glasses and nods at her.

She does at least trust Masters not to spread anyone in the League's personal business, but God. This could absolutely make it back up to Summer upstairs...

Crabb slides off her stool before she can change her mind and pulls her coat back on, but not bothering to do it up.

Erin gives Crabb a theatrical bow before offering a hand out. "Care to show me the sights, Detective? Something tells me a lass who beats the streets knows a different set than the ones from the high towers - and where to find the street food that won't kill you, for that matter."

Crabb glances at the hand, casts a wary eye around the rest of the bar, and hopes Erin won't take offence at her not taking it right here and now with all those eyes around. Not really, anyhow, just long enough to coax Erin up from the bow and towards the bar's exit before she lets go again.

"I've walked more of this city on foot than some politicians have seen from dirigibles, yeah. Not as many street food places open by this time, but I know the ones that are." And they know her. God.

"Well then, Detective Crabb," Erin teases in a sing-song voice, clasping her hands behind her back and leaning towards Crabb playfully. "Where does one take a beautiful lady in Gallery?"

A little tease, a little pressure, a little reminder: we're flirting.

You must remember, Erin: Crabb doesn't have a Goddamned clue how to flirt at this point, for however much she can be said to in the future. But a familiar reaction does occur, her face getting a fresh infusion of colour, her back straightening up, and she at least bumps Erin with a shoulder before nodding her head in a direction.

"Well I ain't ever had to impress someone quite so striking as you," God, Christ, Shit, "but the river cuts through not too far from here. And there's a decent little place over that way to grab a bite from."

"Striking eh? Must be the sword, lasses love 'em." Erin makes a grand Lead The Way kind of gesture, content to walk near Crabb with a playful air; sometimes ahead, sometimes behind, always taking in the view of the city with open wonder.

"They do, huh?"

It really is a beautiful city, and Crabb knows it just as well as she's always implied she does. She's Gallerian to the core; she's spent most of her life walking these streets and she knows every nook and cranny worth knowing about, and plenty that aren't. This is her turf. Her comfort zone. Her home.

She points out just as many things that most people wouldn't pay mind to as she does actual landmarks or things with grand historical histories. And she does keep looking to Erin, half her time spent trying to figure this strange woman out and half of it just appreciating the unusual company.

It's a little Turkish-Gallerian family-owned place she leads Erin to, at one point, so they can grab that bite to eat before going right to the railed off edge of the river.

Erin is so ready for Turkish street food. She's beyond ready. She's visibly excited, with a childlike glee. Not having any money does sting her pride - she's doing the wooing, she should be doing the paying, it's The Rules - but the company is worth it entirely. It's...

...Like getting to fall in love all over again, except without the preceding midlife crisis.

She rests her head on Crabb's shoulder and quite literally bats her lashes. With exaggerating begging: "Order for me?"

If the timelines caused by these memories persisted beyond the visitor's time here, Crabb would absolutely find herself skipping over this place for a few weeks after this until she thought they'd forget about this entire display. In the moment, she just flushes in the face and focuses on not stuttering when she orders.

"Think you puttin' faith in me ordering something you'll like this fast is even weirder than everythin' else about this evening," she jokes, before she actually orders.

They do know her. There's a little bit of chatter and perhaps a nosy look or two from an older woman serving. And Crabb pays more than she strictly has to, because she can afford to, now, with Johnny Summer bankrolling her.

"My secret is, I've been around and I already know the Turks make good food." Erin still rewards Crabb's humor with a little kiss on the cheek and a warm smile.

She needs to see how this Crabb reacts to that before doing anything else; there's time, while the food is made.

Besides the no doubt expected warming of her face, there is a shot of surprised tension up her spine, straightening her up another notch both from that alone and from her awareness of the eyes on them. None of this makes sense, this woman makes no sense, but that's at least in part what's keeping her here.

Crabb never has been able to let a mystery go.

"You travel a lot, then."

That gets a playful shrug. "Used to, once upon a bye. I've darkened doorsteps all across North and South America, in England, France - Paris is a letdown, incidentally, don't bother - Germany, went to Australia for awhile, Japan for like a month, Hong Kong, which, whoo boy." Erin stares off into the middle distance. "Not going back there again. You pick some things up, with the dust on your boots."

Crabb snorts faintly, stuffing her hands in her pockets. "Well considerin' the war goin' on, I wouldn't be travellin' out to any of them right now even if I wanted to. Got friends out there, doing all that, but..."

She shrugs one shoulder. Gallery is it for her, and she's alright with that.

"Yeahhh...Europe does always get antsy if it hasn't killed Europeans lately. Can't be losing their world championship title in that, don't'cha know." Erin tilts her head up from where it's leaning on Crabb's shoulder. "I'm surprised I've made it this far without you outright asking what I do for a living, if I've been globetrotting and don't have any money and have a sword an' all. Is my smile as dazzling as all that?"

Edited 2023-03-18 06:01 (UTC)

"You dodged the question of how you lost your money," she points out, finally, glancing down at her from the corner of her eye. "'Cause yeah, you don't make much sense, so far—no offence. But I figured I wasn't going to get much of anywhere with asking certain things all direct, like that. Was I wrong?"

"I ain't a swell, Detective Crabb. The rules of my game aren't rigged - I've been being direct, why shouldn't you be direct back?" Erin sighs wistfully and picks her head up, looking upwards at the flying ships in Gallery's skies.

"...For most of my working life I've been a mercenary and a thief for hire, among other things. Professional theft is a very different business from the common kind most people think about. You steal on commission; clients are annoying and rich, generally pompous, and often add absurd conditions to jobs. And that's if they don't try to do you dirty, either literally or metaphorically. But I'm out of that line of work now, starting over where nobody knows to hire me for that work." Erin hums, thoughtfully. "...I think I might take up witchcraft. There's gotta be a market for it, right? Even in the famous city of science?"

"...you're lucky I'm that kinda detective that I am, y'know. Just admittin' to a bunch of past crime like that, and all." But that's not the kind of thing she cares about, not where her priorities lie. Still no true answer to how she lost whatever money she earned making that, but... she snorts, softly. "Witchcraft's a new one, though. Really?"

"Oh please, like Gallery has any jurisdiction. For that matter merc work isn't illegal, just brutal, immoral, and scarring." The half-grin Crabb gets has no joy in it; getting her gyro, on the other hand, makes Erin light up like a little kid. She takes a bite Immediately and makes a contented noise from low in her throat.

For once she's not trying to provoke Crabb; she's genuinely forgotten in this moment of Receiving A Gyro that Crabb goes nuts for the little sounds she makes.

Crabb might have snarked a little by pointing out the whole stealing things part sounds pretty illegal, but she's distracted first by accepting her own gyro and thanking the owners, and then, of course, by Erin again.

There's that colour in her cheeks yet again, as Crabb's mind drifts in frankly sinful directions that she barely even knows how to follow because, and it must be emphasised, she did not get the talk until the boat.

She's stunned to silence for a moment before she clears her throat and says, "G-Good, then?" and then takes a bite of her own.

There's the swallowing of her bite and the savoring of the flavor before Crabb gets her answer: "You wouldn't believe how hard it is to find good gyros in Maryland. Russian food? Handled. Irish food? On it. Soul food? Endless. But all the Greeks went to fucking Michigan half the continent away and the Turks are in New York. Let's see this river view, Detective."

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Crabb you fool do you think she's not gonna try to move in until Bastrop's arrival possibly ends it?

God Help Her

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