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May. 23rd, 2024 12:45 amShe wants to go to him at daybreak, even after a miserable night's tossing and turning, but first of all Ned's Night Watch, and second of all she's got a pressing list of things to address, not least of which is figuring out how she's going to make a living in what seems to be a world that's analogous to something pre-Victorian. Probably won't find an auto-shop to wow some good old boys at, which is a shame since fixing engines is one of her only marketable skills that doesn't risk giving away her powers.
Luckily, two opportunities present themselves almost immediately, the first coming when she's almost bowled over by a horse and carriage (she's no horse whisperer but she does like them, and the horses are instantly on best behavior for a human who can physically hold them still), and the second comes from two women of completely indeterminate ages who radiate violence and dress like grandmas, and invite her along to properly meet Rosie Palm. Rogue has to restrain her vehemence when turning down Miss Palm's initial suggestion, but it doesn't seem to be the one she really wanted to make anyway.
It had not gone unnoticed in the fray that Rogue seemed to have a talent for committing violence against men in armor and emerging unscathed. That, it turns out, is potentially at least as valuable a skill as shoeing horses, if the pay is potentially less stable.
But to hang about with the girls, she can't draw quite as much attention as her strange, apparently masculine garb attracts, and it's a few hours later that Miss Palm has semi-satisfactorily outfitted Rogue from the communal pool of abandoned items the girls have amassed over time, enough that at a glance, she could pass for a normal, respectable young lady; hair pinned up (fighting wildly to escape), blouse appropriately high-necked (though she keeps letting it fall open and fold back, rather more like the young gentlemen wear them - and no cravat in sight), shirtwaist on but similarly improperly unbuttoned, and the greatest point of contention: The Skirts. Altogether a perfectly average ensemble, but something about it being on Rogue makes it off enough that Rosie keeps her there with adjustments for long enough that playing dress up actually stops being fun. Anyway, more than a glance and it all falls apart, but frankly, the patrons Rogue ends up interacting with are lucky if they get even that much.
One such luckless fellow is dropped unceremoniously face down on the cobbles in front of the Watch house doors deep into the evening, followed by a light knock from a misleadingly delicate, gloved hand as Rogue leans over the threshold to scan the room as casually as she can.
"Got one here for the drunk tank, fellas."
That every visible inch of the man is black and blue doesn't, she think, bear immediate mentioning.
Luckily, two opportunities present themselves almost immediately, the first coming when she's almost bowled over by a horse and carriage (she's no horse whisperer but she does like them, and the horses are instantly on best behavior for a human who can physically hold them still), and the second comes from two women of completely indeterminate ages who radiate violence and dress like grandmas, and invite her along to properly meet Rosie Palm. Rogue has to restrain her vehemence when turning down Miss Palm's initial suggestion, but it doesn't seem to be the one she really wanted to make anyway.
It had not gone unnoticed in the fray that Rogue seemed to have a talent for committing violence against men in armor and emerging unscathed. That, it turns out, is potentially at least as valuable a skill as shoeing horses, if the pay is potentially less stable.
But to hang about with the girls, she can't draw quite as much attention as her strange, apparently masculine garb attracts, and it's a few hours later that Miss Palm has semi-satisfactorily outfitted Rogue from the communal pool of abandoned items the girls have amassed over time, enough that at a glance, she could pass for a normal, respectable young lady; hair pinned up (fighting wildly to escape), blouse appropriately high-necked (though she keeps letting it fall open and fold back, rather more like the young gentlemen wear them - and no cravat in sight), shirtwaist on but similarly improperly unbuttoned, and the greatest point of contention: The Skirts. Altogether a perfectly average ensemble, but something about it being on Rogue makes it off enough that Rosie keeps her there with adjustments for long enough that playing dress up actually stops being fun. Anyway, more than a glance and it all falls apart, but frankly, the patrons Rogue ends up interacting with are lucky if they get even that much.
One such luckless fellow is dropped unceremoniously face down on the cobbles in front of the Watch house doors deep into the evening, followed by a light knock from a misleadingly delicate, gloved hand as Rogue leans over the threshold to scan the room as casually as she can.
"Got one here for the drunk tank, fellas."
That every visible inch of the man is black and blue doesn't, she think, bear immediate mentioning.
