(no subject)

[we_bring_hell]

The Bar has not relented in her attempts to get Harrow to eat something with slightly more calories than air. After many false starts, she seems to have struck gold with potatoes, a vegetable Harrow has never had before.

Mashed was a success; soup went well, too. But chips--ahhh, chips. Hot, salty, taste like almost nothing at all. Harrow may never eat anything else again. After several false starts in the dipping sauce area she has made peace with a light sprinkling of vinegar. The only problem is they make her gloves and her papers greasy.

Therefore, find Harrowhark Nonagesimus at a table with her journal and a skeletal hand, drawing spirals and... God help us... eating chips with a fork. It could be worse. The hand could be feeding them to her.

Comments

[herald_ingress]

"You're very welcome, Harrow." she says, leaning one arm against the door. "Any time. I'm sorry you had difficulties since it was fun taking you to show off London Below. Do you need me to send anything up for you?"

She pauses. Does she need Ingress for anything?

[we_bring_hell]

"It's quite all right," she says. "I really am already feeling better. It's not uncommon for an adept to push their luck like that, and I was on a living planet for the first time. It's almost to be expected."

The paint is bitten away from one corner of her lip, pink skin showing through. "I don't need anything," she says outloud. Her black eyes tell a different story, but it's mixed with something like fear and not far from panic. "I very much enjoyed visiting, and I hope I can again. Please give my apologies to the Marylebone."

[herald_ingress]

"Definitely, to both. Be well, Harrow, and see you soon."

Ingress waves and smiles before she turns around and walks down the hall. She looks back over her shoulder once, a worried expression on her face once more, but she leaves Harrow be.

[we_bring_hell]

Harrow closes the door with unseemly haste, and presses her paint-greasy forehead against it.




She needs a shower. A water shower, not a sonic, and cold. With harsh lye soap. She'll feel better when the blood is washed off. And the top layer of skin, maybe.

She gets halfway to the bathroom before dizziness over takes her again, and she sits down abruptly on the perpendicular cavalier's bed. Her hand presses against the crisp white sheet, leaving an accusatory pawprint of gravedirt and blood and smeared off paint, and she flees from it.

Later, after her shower, she will strip and make the bed again and listen to Tallahassee at a window-rattling volume.