come_sailaway | What the water wants is hurricanes,

Entry tags:

What the water wants is hurricanes,

CHARACTERS: Darcy, and you?
DATE: July, month-long
LOCATION: All over
SITUATION: A lot of truth-telling
WARNINGS: Standard warnings for Darcy with the risk for more specific parts of her history, ie eating disorders, institutionalization, murder, homophobia, more murder, etc.

What the water wants is sun kiss (meta)

A couple of parcels arrive for Darcy at the start of the month. An oddly heavy bag that she quickly works out contains a shapeshifting sword is the first one. The second is empty, and she sets aside the next day to weather the recurring symptoms of her death, harassing her friends into bringing in food so she doesn’t have to traumatize anyone by walking around.
The third is just a cool leather jacket and a decent pair of boots. It’s probably too warm for it, but Darcy runs cold anyway, and as if she’s not going to take the chance to preen in a sick leather jacket.
(Assume truth/lie effects for all prompts, the only change between the prompts is whether or not Darcy is aware the effects are happening)

And land to run into and back.

Over the first week, Darcy can be found testing out her new powers with all the eagerness of a kid with a new toy. Any close CR might find their shadow suddenly staring at them with Darcy’s eyes as she tests out her new shadow form for pranks and shenanigans. Anyone can come across her utilizing her new wall-running ability to scale the ship and get places she isn’t meant to, or hanging by the pool and utilizing her new ability to turn to water.

I have a fish stone burning my elbow,

The new bag with the odd sword in it is a source of some fascination to Darcy. For a decent portion of the first week, she can be found on the sports deck in her usual location, opening the bag and replacing the weapon within to see what else it turns into. Come get y’all sword fights.

Reminding me to know I'm glad

It’s been two months now since Darcy’s seen rain. She tries not to think about how little the weather changes between the days as she makes her way outside to verify what she heard from her cabin. Actual rain, that to her knowledge isn’t acidic or made of tiny knives. The rain is oddly relieving. It’s a taste of normalcy from the usual endless summer days, and it cools the temperature down enough for her to be comfortable in her new leathers. Darcy doesn’t go more than an hour without touching water for the whole day, in between bouts of sitting outside in the rain, and subsequently will be compelled to truth for a solid twelve hours.

That I have a bottle filled with my own teeth.

A couple of instances of regretting conversations after they happen is just par for the rest of Darcy’s existence, in her experience. Being too weirdly earnest sometimes, or coming up with some bullshit that probably seemed funny in the moment, remembering the conversation in hindsight differently to how it felt at the time. Darcy’s not the most eloquent person in existence, awkwardness is to be expected. But after the first day of rain, several consecutive hours of compelled truth-telling catches up with her, more than can be explained away easily. She doesn’t leave her room the next day. Darcy spends the rest of the month paranoid, avoiding the weekend rainfalls and, unless told specifically, failing to connect the bouts of compulsion with anything other than the rain.

They fell out like a tear in the bag.

(Wildcard/catch-all for any situations that arise as the month progresses)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Ah, Miss Darcy."

Watson has been hoping to catch her on the sports deck for a little while, now, and today seems to be his lucky day.

"Fine day, isn't it?" Which isn't unusual, on this ship. "What are you up to?"

"Doctor Watson," she greets in return, "it's always a nice day here, it's kind of annoying."

She indicates towards the bag near her feet, "I'm trying to figure out how this works. I got it from the sundries store, one of the little gifts, ehn? I thought it was like a bunch of swords, but watch this-" she leans down to unzip the bag. Inside is just the one sword, which she withdraws. The scabbard is ornate and floral, with what appears to be medieval heraldry on it, and the blade within is equally decorated on the steel, with words etched on both sides. 'I am El Cid’s colada, who was made in the year one thousand forty' on one, and 'Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with me' on the other, both in Latin. Oddly, the sword is only sharp on one side.

"Every time I open the bag, it's a different sword. It's cool, ehn?"

His eyes widen. "That's incredible. Impossible? Well, there's a word that seems to have very limited meaning here. I should know better."

There has to be a trick to it. That's a bit of a sticking point for him, even now, that this can't possibly be real, that it's a bit of sleight of hand, or a secret compartment, or something sensible. Watson leans closer. "Good heavens. How many different swords have you found, then? Have they repeated at all?"

"Like... five so far? And not that I've seen. I don't know if it's like... infinite swords, or if I've just gotten lucky."

She stashes the sword back in the bag, unzips it again, and this time pulls out a sword with a golden guard, a large red stone in the pommel that seemed to be... glowing faintly?

"Oh, sick as shit. Anyway- you were probably here for training? Give me a minute to get used to this sword and I'll take you through some footwork."

"Infinite swords, but only one at a time? And, goodness, that looks valuable."

It's true that he'd hoped she was free for a little lesson. He has serious doubts about his ability in a swordfight, and there seem to be more people with swords here all the time. It's only sensible to learn a thing or two."

"If you're available, of course," Watson says, "But yes, I would enjoy that, I think. I could use the practice."

"Yeah, I'm literally just fucking around with this at the moment, I can take a break from it."

Darcy stands up, withdraws the sword from its glittering scabbard, and- in the spot she'd cleared for practicing- gives it a few experimental swings and stabs.

"Okay, I can work with this," she indicates to the space in front of her, "stance up like you're going to stab at me, show me what we're working with."

He draws the blade out of his cane, and sets the sheath safely to one side. There seems to be something reckless in practising with sharpened swords, but so be it.

"I'm... really more at home with a revolver, if I'm honest."

It's been a very long time since he tried to fence. Watson's stance is more military than classical fencing, favouring his right leg a little now that he doesn't have the support of his stick. It's the sort of stance you might expect from someone who's more used to a full-body rugby tackle.

There's a clinical manner to the way she looks over how he's standing, and she paces a quick circle around him to get a better view of how he's holding himself.

"Is there something up with your leg?" she asks, noting the odd way he's standing.

"Otherwise, not awful. Your posture is okay, you're just leaning forward a bit too much. And you're a little hunched," she indicates to his shoulders.

"The idea is to have your shoulder-blades back so you have a full range of motion, ehn? And you always lead with your arm and the sword the sword- the sword is what you're defending with as well as attacking with. If the rest of you is out too far, it's like you're begging to be hit. Readjust your shit," she concludes, her tone relaxed despite the profanity.

He adjusts his shit accordingly, un-hunching as best as he can. It goes against all his instincts to lean back instead of forward, but he tries.

"There is something up with my leg," Watson says lightly. "There's a bullet in it. A fragment of one at least, lodged behind my left patella. Add in some damage to the Achilles tendon, and, well. I do my best to not let it slow me down." He shrugs dismissively. That's not the extent of it at all, but the stiffness of his left shoulder may, in fact, go unnoticed. He hopes. It's all sort of embarrassing.

"The cane is not merely a fashion accessory for me," he adds. "Also, goodness, it's a damn good thing I am not the type to be easily shocked by your language, young lady." He grins at her.

"Well, you're going to have a rough fucking time with a regular fencing stance. It's all in the knees and ankles, I just got mine kicked in and it's fucking sucked having to train on it."

She returns to stand opposite to him, but doesn't return to her regular stance. Instead she scrunches her face up in the effort of remembering, and puts herself in a wider posture that bends the knees less dramatically.

"I'm not super super practiced at this, but I'll teach you a HEMA stance instead. The like, standard fencing posture uses your leg as a spring to push yourself forward, but this is for stability instead. You're probably not going to win any fight on speed alone at this point, so don't aim for it. Strong core, shoulders back like in the last one, and I'll run you through the guards."

At his last comment, she snorts a little derisively.

"I've said worse at people who could do more about it than you can."

"I was in the army, you know. Prudish soldiers are rare, in my experience."

He mimics her new stance, though, as best as he can. "How is this? That does feel better, though," he says, shifting his weight experimentally. Yes, this might be doable. "And it's true, I am not built for speed. I have other strengths so it's best to play to them, yes?"

"Oh shit, you were an army doctor? Well- obviously, bullet in the knee. But I know, my mum's an engineer in the army. Or was, anyway. I get most of my language from her."

Darcy nods approvingly as he tests his weight, "I mean, anyone can learn speed, but it takes time and practice, and we're trying to get you fighting now."

She takes him through some basic footwork, how to stay in the stance while advancing and retreating, how to ensure he doesn't get toppled.

"You'll have to practice these outside of the lessons too. I used to practice footwork while I waited for water to boil, or for something to roast, and while I was brushing my teeth. You need it to be instinct, you can't be thinking about where your feet are and what your opponent is doing at the same time."

"Oh, a military family? I knew I liked you." It's jokingly said, but there might be a kernel of truth, there. He did marry a captain's daughter, after all.

But he falls into the instruction easily enough. He's clumsy the way of anyone is with a new skill, but Watson is definitely trying. If there's any hesitation at being taught by a teenage girl, he certainly isn't letting it show. "Well, any new skill needs study, why should this be any different? I promise I will practice."

Darcy snorts, "yeah, I got all of the damage from it and none of the respect for authority. But thanks. I'm trying to be less of a bitch than I was when we met- I was mad at everyone and you didn't deserve it."

She seems pleased at his progress, stepping in only to correct occasionally.

"Good, glad to hear it. Back home I'd help teach the younger and beginner classes, and I could always tell the ones who wouldn't actually practice. I think a lot of people have this like... idea in their head that they're going to be cool and badass with a sword the first time they pick it up, but it takes a lot of work."

"No one's at their best when they arrive here. Consider it forgotten."

Watson snorts a bit at that, though. "Life would be very simple if we were all gifted the ability to be perfect at any skill we try, immediately. I've at least worked out that anything worth being good at takes some time to master."

He probably has that advantage over a child.

"Life would also be boring as shit if that were how things worked," she snorts back in turn, "literally my favourite feeling in the world is being better than people at something. I kicked the ass of one of the girls ranked higher than me in the European rankings at a tournament in Zurich once, and like, the crowd went absolutely nuts, which was nice, but it was like I was reading her fucking mind. I was just countering everything she came at me with, like I was in the zone and nothing she did could knock me out of it. I wouldn't want to live without getting to have that feeling."

And now she's beaming, the roar of the crowd from that day still phantom ringing in her ears.

He smiles, because he knows that feeling, and the power of it: pride in oneself rather than in the acclaim earned, satisfaction in one's own skills through the throb of adrenaline. He's experienced it himself, he's seen it in Holmes, and he can't help but smile to see it in Darcy.

"It's a wonderful feeling," Watson agrees. "Did you do many competitions."

"As many as I could. Mostly in Europe, I kept having to get my coaches to write to my school so I could take time off to travel to them. I did a lot of solo tournaments and shit, but my club had a team, too. Me and Sabine and Luna and Farah, I think we managed to get... fifth in Europe, for our age division? My best ranking solo was eighth in the same. I hate like, admitting it, but I fought better with them than I did on my own."

A shrug, but the fond smile on her face betrays her feelings on the matter.

"When you're fencing on a team, it's like, having to keep a bunch of plates spinning at once. You have to swap people out so nobody gets too tired, but some people are genuinely better at some parts of the sport than others. I got pulled in whenever the other team had someone with a really strong guard, because I was faster than the rest of my team, but I got swapped out if the other team had a really tactical fighter. It was nice, like... having a specific job, and only having to do that."

"Impressive."

Watson sees that smile, and he can't help but smile in return.

"I think I know what you mean, though. There's something to be said for having a role as part of a larger team. I used to play rugby when I was younger, actually. Different sport, but the idea of being part of a greater whole."

"I was sort of wondering. You had this like, really forward stance like you were going to try and tackle me with the sword."

If he'd tried to lunge with it, he would have absolutely ended up ass-over-teakettle. But it would've been decent if she'd tried to tackle back. Such is the way of sports; bad form in one is good form in another.

"You think you're ready to try some lunges and shit?"

"I think, perhaps, I've learned all the wrong sorts of athletics," Watson complains. "And to be fair, the general appeal of a swordstick is the element of surprise. But yes, show me."

He lifts his sword, watching Darcy closely.

"No such thing. It all comes back eventually, ehn? My boxing helps my fencing, even just with cardio. Rugby would help with that too, and with the physical strength. Everything builds on everything else."

And she demonstrates the lunges, going as slow as he needs to get it.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

What the water wants is hurricanes,

I have a fish stone burning my elbow

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Is it cool if we wrap up around here?