RP Home Is - A Foreign Land

[Katpride]

A Foreign Land​

​

Ireland. 1970s.

The storm hits just before midnight. The skies crack open, and the rain tumbles down all at once. It hits the earth like a slap, swamps the roads and turns all the dirt to mud near instantly.

The Hound knows an opportunity when they see it. They’ve been eying the sky for days, biding their time and holding their tongue, gathering all the slack their handlers are stupid enough to give them. The storm doesn’t disappoint. Rain pours down in sheets. The wind howls, whipping the water this way and that. Booming thunder splits the sky, flashing lightning chasing its heels, and the power flickers, once, twice, then gives up in a sudden rush.

A metal fist is removed from the breaker box, glowing bionic eyes the only light in a suddenly pitch-dark room. The Hellhound’s laughter is too soft to carry over the howling wind. The screams that follow are not.

---

Hours pass, and the storm doesn’t let up in the slightest. The radio yammers on about closing the roads, battening the hatches, staying indoors and out of cellars.

The Hound’s eyes flick to the rearview, to the smouldering building shrinking into the horizon behind them. They flip to a different station and step on the gas.

---

They ditch the car half a mile outside town, driving it off a cliff and jumping out at the last second just because they can. They watch it tumble down, smile growing with every crunch. Then they walk the rest of the way, hands shoved deep in the pockets of their leather jacket. They’re thoroughly drenched by the time they’re halfway there, and contemplating another cathartic round of murders when they finally reach the outskirts.

Luckily for the residents of this dingy little middle-of-nowhere town, the pub is still open, and The Hound is amenable to using less sanguine liquids to drown their sorrows. Sodden and shrouded, they push through the doors of the establishment and drip their way over the threshold. There are a handful of people already inside, and they give them all one cataloguing sweep before closing their eyes behind their mirrored shades, cutting off the faint red glow and relying on sound and memory to guide them to the bar.

They draw the attention of the bartender soon enough, being the only person currently at the bar rather than seated at one of the booths. He greets them, and they give him a short wave in answer, their mask of polite disinterest firmly in place.

“Whiskey. Mix it with somethin’ warm, yeah?” They order, and when he shuffles off they remain standing, hip propped on one of the barstools rather than taking a seat. The fingers of their non-metal hand drum along the countertop, but they go still when the bell above the door rings. Footsteps, approaching the bar - one set. They risk cracking their eyes open, peering through their lashes at the woman who strides up beside them.

They don’t recognize her. Some of the tension leaves their shoulders, and they release the handle of the knife in their pocket. They crack a smile, let their shoulders drop further as they turn slightly towards her, commiserating. Casual. “Hell of a storm out there.”

 

[HighVoltage]

She hated the rain.

This was not the first time such a thought had crossed Freyja’s mind as she slogged through the Irish countryside. Indeed, such a hatred of rain would raise the question of what she was doing anywhere within a hundred mile radius of Ireland, or indeed of the entire United Kingdom.

Her cover answers were varied, including ‘visiting a sick family member/friend’, 'sightseeing’, or ‘attending university’. Responding to someone’s inquiries with ‘searching for magical artifacts that could cause serious harm in the wrong hands’ tended to get the British salivating and the Irish shaking their fist and yelling about how the English dogs have already taken more than their fair share.

It wasn’t the best time to be an outsider in Ireland anyways, to be perfectly honest. When Freyja had arrived she’d had no idea of the tensions between the IRA and loyalist factions, but she’d done her best to stay out of it, combing the countryside every hour she could in order to find her target.

Today she’d been unfortunately grounded. Veljara wasn’t happy about being stowed away, but when the clouds had burst her wings had quickly grown sodden and heavy. She’d stubbornly continued trying to fly until the weight had grown too much and she’d tumbled to the ground. At least she’d had the decency to stay out until she’d hit the ground, absorbing the impact before letting Freyja take the driver’s seat.

She remembered skirting a town not too long before the storm struck, but that had been as the valkyrie flew. It still took her the better part of an hour trudging through the moors until buildings finally came into view. She immediately began searching for a pub, letting out a sigh of relief as she saw light flickering in the windows.

Freyja pushed open the door, aware of just how bad she looked. She was soaked to the bone, hair and clothes stuck to her as they’d been drenched within the first ten minutes. The bartender started towards her with a worried expression, but she shook her head with a smile.

“Little rain never hurt nobody.” Freyja said, voice unusually cheery despite currently looking like a cat someone had fished out of a river. “If you’ve got a pot on, I’d love a coffee though. Double-strength.” She took her seat at the bar, wrapping her hands around the chipped mug as soon as it arrived

“Heh, you can say that again.” She responds, turning to look at the only other patron sitting at the bar. They certainly cut an interesting figure. Leather jacket and mirrored shades, scruffy hair that traveled down to their shoulders. Looking into their glasses Freyja grimaced slightly. She expected to look bad, but not that bad. She looked like she’d swam across the Irish Sea and gave up halfway across.

“Looks like we’re the only two idiots dumb enough to be caught out.” She chuckled, raising her mug and taking a small sip. Warmth instantly started to spread through her, the coffee and whiskey working in concert to chase away the chills. There was something about them that itched her brain, something that said there was a story there waiting to be read in them. She’d always had a knack for telling who or what had an interesting story tied to them, and it hadn’t led her astray yet.

“I’m Freyja. And you are?”

Code by Reyn

 

[Katpride]

Their drink arrives soon enough, set at their elbow along with a towel in a not-so-subtle attempt to get them to stop tracking water across the floor. They consider ignoring it, but a similar offer is made to the woman beside them, and she accepts hers.

It would be a waste to leave before they’ve finished their drink. They sit properly, one foot resting on the lower rung of the stool, and sling the towel across their shoulders to catch the water still dripping from their hair. Their hands are covered by thin leather gloves, which they dry on one end of the fabric before picking up their drink, mirroring her and raising it to their lips. They take a sip, smile turning wry.

“Parched,” they deadpan, still studying her. She’s tall. Well-built. Unarmed. Dark ink curls along her forearms, disappearing into the bunched-up sleeves of her waterlogged flannel. The nearest one looks like some kind of leafy plant. Maybe she’s some kind of environmentalist. That would certainly explain why she was wandering around in the rain.

Their eyes slip shut when the bartender wanders near, and they frown into their half-empty mug. They should keep moving. The storm won’t last forever, and when it breaks they’ll need to be as far from the base as they can manage. It’ll be easier once they steal a new car - won’t have to worry about trackers in some rando’s four-door - but they can’t say they’re looking forward to doing even more driving in this weather.

Well. There’s no avoiding it forever. They down the rest of their drink, hardly tasting anything but the burn, and set the mug back on the bar alongside a twenty pound note. Then they slide to their feet and turn to the woman, already reaching up to remove the towel from around their shoulders.

“Guess you’re smarter than me, angel.” They grin, fluff their hair out of their collar, nod to the money tucked under their empty mug. “Drink’s on me. At least one of us will get to appreciate it.”

The smallest sliver of red peeks through their lashes as they lean forward and wrap the towel around her shoulders. Their voice, already rough and fairly hushed, lowers further, like they’re about to impart a great secret.

“Your hair’s wet. Careful you don’t catch cold.”

They’re smirking as they release the towel, shoving their hands back into their pockets and straightening up. Amusement radiates off them in waves, but they waste no time in starting for the door, one hand briefly leaving their pocket so they can wiggle their fingers in an off-hand goodbye just before they shove it open. A ring of keys glints against their leather-covered palm.

They step outside and they’re gone, swallowed by the storm in an instant.

 

[HighVoltage]

Freyja let out a polite ‘hm’ at their stonewalling, choosing to use that moment to take another sip of her drink. Their avoidance was interesting, as a name was something usually freely given in these parts. Well, as long as it wasn’t a Name, those tended to be rather nasty things. But Freyja had only run into a few artifacts that made use of fae rules, so that almost certainly wasn’t the case.

Her drinking companion sat down properly, taking the towel offered by the bartender with seemingly no offense. Freyja did her best to keep her eyes off them, even if she wanted to pry. People didn’t refuse to use their names or cloak themselves in leather and reflections if they wanted to be an open book, or indeed if they wanted to tell anything about themselves.

What could only generally pass for camaraderie passed too swiftly, however, as they quickly downed the rest of their drink (Freyja winced, didn’t that hurt?) before paying for both their drinks. She raised her glass in a toast, one traveler to another, before she realized just how close they were. A faint flush touched her cheeks as they whispered to her, rough and low. They were kind of attractive, in a scruffy sort of way. Something the way they held themself, the way they moved towards the door reminded Freyja of a predator, the way that lions or panthers moved, knowing that almost nothing could possibly hurt them.

Veljara noticed too, her internal approval rippling through Freyja as she turned back to her drink. That itch wasn’t going away anytime soon, but she almost certainly wasn’t going to see them again any time soon. Pulling their money out from under their mug, Freyja decided her drink was starting to taste like another, and signaled the bartender.

---

It wasn’t until she’d finished her third drink that Freyja realized something was wrong. She’d drank through the money her mysterious stranger had left and was reaching for her wallet when she found that something was conspicuously missing from her pockets. Something metallic and vaguely key-shaped.

That bastard.

Freyja quickly let go of the mug before her hand reflexively clenched a second later. Her teeth followed, and she threw down some cash onto the counter before storming out, practically ripping the door of its hinges in the process. Cold steam wafted from her as Freyja stomped towards where she’d left her truck.

It was gone. That was the final straw. With a roar and the sound of shattering ice, wings ripped through her back as frost-coated armor snapped into existence around her. Veljara clawed her way into the air, wings now dry as a bone (funny, she could have mentioned that sooner). The rain had long since washed any tracks away, but Veljara had the eyes of a hunter, and the movement of prey drew her attention like light to water.

She took off like a shot, choosing a direction and loosely following the road. It wasn’t the fastest Veljara could travel, as she occasionally had to revert into Freyja to dry her wings, earning a few choice words as they fell before Veljara managed to pull them higher.

Eventually she saw movement, a lone truck doing its best to weather the storm. Frigid vengeance sang in her veins as Veljara drew her weapon, one of the few artifacts Freyja deigned to keep for personal use. A lone pocket knife, in its most basic, deceptive form. But as Veljara flipped it open-

-nothing happened. She cursed loudly, though only herself and the heavens bore witness.. What was the point of sharing a body with a nigh-immortal valkyrie if Freyja insisted on small things like using the safety latch on her knife.

With a frustrated sigh, Veljara clicked the latch off before opening the knife. The blade flipped open, and kept unfolding. The blade lengthened and thickened with each fold, the handle turning into a comfortable grip. It only stopped when the blade was almost three feet in length, the worn handle comfortably nestled in her hand.

Sword in hand, Veljara dived towards the moving vehicle, wings tucked in tight against her to gain the most speed. A wicked grin split her face as she snapped them open, slowing her fall just enough so that she didn’t punch through the metal as she crashed onto the roof, blade angled downward as she stabbed it into the roof of the truck, slightly too far to the left to properly hit the driver, but enough to let them know of her presence.

“Relinquish the vehicle!” Veljara yelled to be heard over the storm, holding on tight as the driver attempted to shake her off. Her claws dug gouges into the paint as she stabilized herself, tucking her wings in to avoid being blown off. “I won’t ask twice.”

Code by Reyn