Sticky Sweet

[chesha]

It was humid as Hell, which really couldn't be true- Hell, according to mythology, was dry, hot, waterless. In a way she should have been thankful this was not Hell but that taunting heat and moisture was not amusing.

The mud hut reeked of earth drenched and warm though the temperature was steadily falling. Water condensated all about on grass and rocks and even her, soaking into her rough worn t-shirt and the queer feer leather pants traded for a number of items that the traveller carried. The goofy little mashup swiped at the beads of sweat on her brow, glaring down at the kindeling which was refusing to marry with the sparks of her steel and flint. Frustrated Josephine cried out her distress, tossing one of the sticks out of the hut into the slowly bittering night.

"Fucker."

Simply stated- Josie was no southern belle. Little miss Taylor did her own hunting, fishing, denning, fire-building, and yes, cursing. Her head ached distinctly- she'd long ran out of medicine for such things. Depressed by this knowledge she gazed at her fire-making tools dimly before setting up to try again, a determined glare on her face when the fire finally caught, rumbled for a moment befo out by an abrupt downpour.

Josie looked up, grinned broad at the sky and yelled 'Fucker' again before retreating into the poor protection of the hut with her bag.

[fαllεη •]

OLiVER TWiST

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BONES SHATTER, FALL APART AND HIT THE FLOOR[/center]

Oliver was... pissed. Not in the usual drunk sense of the word: at least then he might have some shred of happiness left, and could wake up the next morning with no idea where the hell he was. Actually, he wouldn't mind the headache either. Anything to detract from the damp.
No, this was the kind of day in which the world was going to the dogs, and he was stuck following behind. If the outcome was inevitable, couldn't it at least come a little faster? The humidity had been killing him all day. There was nothing fun about every square inch of clothing stuck to your body. There was nothing fun about being so thirsty you were nigh willing to slit your own wrists (or something equally stupid) for a drink.

He slowed his pace to a dull tread, and ran a hand through his brown hair. Perhaps the Hut had been too far a distance to cover in one day. The shadows were already long, and the sun was in his eyes. He hadn't seen a single soul on his route today, either, which probably wasn't a good sign. Still... He'd have to make it to the Hut, if only for the water. There was a spring not too far from there, but if he didn't make it... Well, the idea of getting up in the morning without any fluid in him did not appeal.
All around him, the grass was waving invitingly, encouraging him to stop this here and now, to keep going tomorrow. But Oliver was nothing if not stubborn. Soaked through from sweat and the rains, he shuffled his pack into a comfortable position, and took up the pace again.

He'd been walking a good five days to get this far from Raewyn's Ridge... And God help him if he ever tried to cross that wasteland again. The rocks were so sharp, he'd cut his trousers clean through, numerous times, and his palms were still marked where he'd taken a wrong turn. 'At least it wasn't so humid there, though.' On the other well-scarred hand, it was worth that horror to be finally going to Theranse. His father's city of origin... Huh. His father had been the one most opposed to his leaving, funnily enough. Told him of the way the city had been 'too far gone' when he'd left. But the way his father told anything, well, he'd twist your thoughts around his little finger. It would take more than a scary story to persuade Oliver against something he wanted to do... However the stories might nag at the back of his thoughts.

But of course, that's all they were. Stories. Unlike the Hut, which he'd been to only once before: school trip. And he'd be blowed if that wasn't the Hut coming up over the skyline now! Oliver gritted his teeth into a grin, and walked faster. Shelter, water... Commodities he'd be grateful for.

"Fucker!"

Oh damn.
The rain hit, but that wasn't what made Oliver's grin fade. He was going to get soaked through. But he was alone. And in strange country, that was the best thing for you. No strangers, no highwaymen, no baiters... The prescience over another was almost enough to make Oliver reconsider his thoughts against the side of the road. But as he'd never get to sleep with all this rain, the thought remained an almost. The mud was beginning to get really treacherous under his feet: he struggled to keep his balance, and chose to focus on that rather than whoever was nearby. C'mon. It wasn't far now. And if he could just get to the Hut before whoever was nearby, he'd have the high ground. Just don't step there-- Oliver slipped in the mud, and oh-so-gracefully, fell flat on his face.
"Damn." Face and clothes covered in mud, face-down on the side-road, with his back-pack near soaking, he clenched his fists... He didn't need this. Really.

But there, at long last, was the Hut. He got to his feet, wiped most of the mud from his eyes -hoping it was mud- and observed the sunset. It was mostly black clouds, but being at the top of the world meant that Atropia got some of the best sunsets in the world. It was deep crimson, fading to a brilliant purple, and then darkening as the rain clouds approached.
God, would he be ever grateful for a roof over his head. He didn't like to admit it, but his muscles were decidedly sore. The door swung open. And finally, Oliver noticed that the hut was already occupied. Trying to avoid his instinct to close the door and just walk, he assumed this was probably the source of the shout earlier. What do you say to someone you didn't except to exist? 'Hello, are you a hallucination caused by lack of water?' Or, better still, 'Get the hell out of here!'?
But this wasn't her hut. Oliver shut the door and set his bag on the floor, slowly sinking down after it. He'd been lead to believe that the Hut was communal, and if she didn't like his prescience, well, he'd be all too happy to leave. The only problem: she'd have to ask him first. And Oliver, to be quite frank, did not respond to force.

IF IT DOESN'T THRILL YOU IT DOESN'T MATTER ANY MORE

[chesha]

Of course he earned a queer look- he was male and invading her space (the former actually made her more wary that the latter, but both held importance). She was just about set to shoo him back out into the rain when something clicked- he was handsomely inked under that coat of mud for there was no creature alive that could impart such attractive designs to the skin of their off spring- nature simply wasn’t that exacting.

The excitement drew her up, smacking the back of her head on the curve that fed the wall into the ceiling which drew her attention away for a moment to rub furiously at the sore spot before turning her eyes sharp and determined back upon him, a playful (though toothsome) grin on her lips. He had entered the hut, made himself imposing at first and then immediately compensated for said imposition by having millions of dots of ink under his skin in sight (even where the mud marred his complexion). The final had made him immediately a target for hospitality and affection- she stepped lightly toward him, having grabbed a dented all to hell steel canteen. Josie made sure to stop just out of reach, proffering the vital container full to the brim with clean chilled water. He’d have to move toward her to get it- away from the door. From there she could easily rope him into being her ‘friend’ (or newest idol of torture by chat) for the night.

Despite his newness (and all standing factors which made him almost god-like to her, that ink his grace and halo) she was undeterred. While still offering the canteen she ordered him to drink as much as he pleased, that it could be replaced, before stuttering off in silence, watching him much like a curious child, the toothsome, almost predatory grin faded into a soft curve of chapped lips and a nervous chewing at the inside of her lower lip. In the silence she grew attentive, taking a breath in to speak before realizing she had no idea what she was going to say. Meekly she shut her mouth again, blushing slightly before furrowing her brow and giving him that hard glare of ‘I’m gonna do it!’.

The left hand shot out toward him, demanding to be shook in greeting, form stiff and unwavering. “I’m Josie Taylor,” Last names meant squat anymore – her back began to bother her with chills at the thought she might be greeting a possible boogeyman in the flesh (but oh so inviting with ink) “And… You…” A nervous giggle, her eyes seemed stuck from mud patch to mud patch that clung to him- she forgot what she was going to say- it didn’t have anything to do with him, though. She knew it didn’t, at least not before she burst out into more giggles, looking away though not retracting her hand. “You are covered in mud.” The giggled became a laugh- more at herself than him, but the original syntax had not involved mud at all.

[fαllεη •]

OLiVER TWiST

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BONES SHATTER, FALL APART AND HIT THE FLOOR[/center]

A pair of guarded brown eyes observed the woman as she watched him. He felt like an animal under close scrutiny by a scientist; a creature who spoke in a language not his own. But honestly, he was just happy to be out of the rain. Getting any further soaked would be a recipe for the flu, and that was something that would slow him down... Not to mention that it would make his life not worth living.
As far as his untrained eye could see, she looked to be his own age. About the same height... And those... Were those pieces of metal in her lip?! it should be explained that Oliver was completely unfamiliar with the idea of piercings. Tattoos were the earrings of Lithistian children, and they wore each dot with pride. Sticking a thin, metal tube into your skin and depositing a potentially toxic dot of ink there was fine... Willingly impaling yourself was not. A curious stroke of irony, it must be acknowledged.

He stared for a good few seconds longer than was necessary, horrified and fascinated. She didn't seem to mind having those points in her lip; presumably the pain went away after a while. Did she consent to that?
Oliver could probably have stared for another good minute, but his fascination was cut short by the object quickly standing up, and managing to attack the roof with her head. In spite of mixed emotions, Oliver couldn't help grinning as she rubbed the back of her head. One day, doing that would probably get him in trouble... But hopefully not today, because she was smiling too.

Suddenly, Oliver was very concious of the mud on his face. Wiping it off took considerably more effort than he imagined; it was everywhere. Face, hands, eyelids... Hah, he'd even managed to get some in his ears. 'Just a minute...' Gods, the stuff was thick...
There. He was probably presentable, and looked up to where the stranger had been, only to discover her a good few feet closer, and proffering a canteen of water. Shock wrote itself across his features for a moment; it's not every day that someone appears to teleport right in front of you. But the can of water was enough to encourage his participation. After all, she was offering. Watching her carefully, like a guarded animal, he finally realised that she was holding it just out of arm's reach. But there she was, still asking him to take the can. Well, hearing her speak confirmed her as the voice he'd heard earlier, proclaiming her frustration to all who would listen. Strange that she held the can so far... Still, Oliver leaned forward, moving onto his knees and, apprehensively, took the can.

Water. Thank God, water! Completely forgetting his saviour for the moment, Oliver threw back his head and swallowed as much of the precious liquid as he could. It was cold, but that only made it the more welcoming. He threw a splash on his face, attempting to clean off what was left of the mud, before remembering who had given him the water.
"Um. Thanks." he muttered, clearly embarrassed by the display of pleasure. The decidedly less full canteen was handed back to its owner.
She made no further move to speak, so Oliver shuffled slightly further away from the door, still on his knees, and dragged his backpack towards him. It ended up between himself and the girl who, for want of a name, he thought of as the 'water-bearer'.

He was about to accept that the silence was normal, when she made a sharp face and thrust a hand at him, and introduced herself.
"I'm Josie Taylor."
Oliver grinned, thoroughly amused, and took the offered hand. Very formal, she was. He had no grounds to accept her as either friend of foe yet, but she seemed... Amusing. In a serious manner, of course. “And… You…
"You are covered in mud.”
A light chuckle issued from his lips, even further amused. It wasn't every day you met someone who made you smile on the road. "Oliver. Oliver..." somehow, he didn't seem comfortable with using his regular name. Perhaps there were times when you had to do as your parents told you, and be safe. Even if people seemed open or friendly... And after all, he was starting a new life. So it was only fitting that he had a new name.

He smiled.
"Oliver Twist."

IF IT DOESN'T THRILL YOU IT DOESN'T MATTER ANY MORE

[chesha]

Olly-olly-oxenfree!

“Oliver Twist?” That was so freaking… Cool! She drew her hand back, inspecting the canteen a moment, shaking it a bit. Her expression panned out into one that was far more subdued that the previous elation, an attempt to make the mood more serious going into effect as she palmed the metal container, tossing it a couple of times between her hands.

She set the canteen within reach, dragging her own bag over and opening it to paw through. Out came a small sketchbook stuffed full of loose paper. A few of those pages were removed, deemed worthy of becoming a sacrifice to the gods Flint and Steel, gods of fire. A panged distress crossed her face as she crumpled the images long past water colored and inked, and set to the task of catching a light to them. They caught, burning at a moderate pace. Her hands worked fast to catch the slightly damp tender which, after a while of disagreeing eventually gave into a dark glare. Success made her giddy and cautious, working to keep the fire alive. A few more undeserving sketches met the licking tongues before the sketch journal was set off to the side next to her back.

“You must be a good luck charm, Twist! I’ve been trying to get this fire up for the past hour and a half.” Must have been the ink – the ink was the charm, the man it occupied a vessel. Once satisfied that her small success wasn’t about to play suicide in spite of the hut’s occupants she scooted back against the wall, pulling her bag into her lap, holding the sketchbook as if it were a bird or some equally small and cute warm-blooded thing (Nobody held creepy crawlies that way, at least not girls, right?) that would fall apart under severe pressure, a sad frown crossing her face before she turned back to Oliver, Oliver Twist, sporting a small, reserved expression now of restrained curiosity.

“Your ink is amazing.” ’Just thought you should know, Ox.’ The idea of the nickname made her giggle again before shaking her head and resting her chin on her folded arms. “Especially the eye bit – Does it scar? Does it hurt? I mean… The tattoos, any of them. You have more, right?”

How she wished that her skin could be somewhat like his- bright and colorful, intricate canvas for the art of one’s self or another. “Did you use a machine? Or a needle? Or… The stick thing, ah, two sticks-“ The final, more dated theory had been introduced to her while searching for a tattoo’s influence on society. There was a gang that had tattoos all along their body – such tattoos inflicted fear upon the people. It was a sign of status within the gang. The thought of this made her expression grow shocked and tainted with an immature fear. “A-are you… Do they mean anything? You have more… Right?”

[data]Yakuza! xD -could not resist-

[fαllεη •]

OLiVER TWiST

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BONES SHATTER, FALL APART AND HIT THE FLOOR[/center]

"Oliver Twist?"
His smile a little graver this time, he responded with that expression alone. Oliver Thomas, now Twist, was feeling safer already. Josie's serious expression told him that she was not all laughs... And he'd probably to better to remember that. Mentally, he kicked himself. Smiling at random strangers? What had gotten into him? 'Relief, probably.' Still, he wasn't about to stop now, just because his instincts told him to... Although his grin abated a touch.

He pushed himself into a more upright position against the wall, as Josie pulled her bag towards her, and pulled out... Well, of all things, a sketch book. For a strange moment, he wondered if she was going to draw him: wasn't drawing what they were for? But no; she was removing a few pages. He was immediately torn between his desire to see her works and to stay against the solidarity of the wall. By craning his neck, he managed to catch a glimpse of water-colours in the fading light, but what he'd really wanted to see was hidden. Her expression was pained... But they were probably very good drawings. And what had she drawn, anyway? Josie was unlike so many other girls he'd met. She cursed, lit fires, and walked unaccompanied through barren landscapes. A strange kind of female indeed. He smiled, and looked, almost sheepishly, at his knees. His mother refused to so much as get the mail without a male escort, which never ceased to amuse him. Did she think she would get mugged by a band of ruffians if she so much as set foot outside the house?

The scrape of stone on steel made him look up sharply. Those drawings, crumpled now into balls, were slowly melting into balls of flame. 'No...' He forced himself to settle back against the wall, and relax the suddenly tense muscles. He had no reason to interfere. Even if she was burning art. The idea of destroying work had never truly sat well with him, though he often contemplated it when he was angry. It was like the idea of him burning off the tattoos he created; senseless and cruel.
Still, he sat back, suddenly unwilling to help; not trusting his fingers not to betray him. She seemed happy when the fire caught, so he contented himself with watching as her able fingers fed the flames, and made them grow. Speaking of feeding... Still watching the flames, he pulled has backpack closer, and began rummaging.
“You must be a good luck charm, Twist!"
Oliver's smile, this time, was a wry one. Good luck? He could've used that on the Ridge. He eyed his scarred hands, remembering dryly.
"I’ve been trying to get this fire up for the past hour and a half.”
Usually ready to take credit for things, this time Oliver was at a loss for words. He settled with, "Very precise..." and looked up from his rummaging to see if she was pulling his leg. No; she was cradling the surviving pages of her sketchbook, a despondent cast to her face. The expression was lent extra credence by the fire casting shadows across her features. "Would've been luckier if you had some... other paper to burn." She looked up, and he turned back to his bag quickly, strangely worried about offending her. Which made no sense, of course. He continued searching for the elusive packet of jerky. He knew it was in here somewhere... Aha! He unsealed it, withdrew a strip, and... offered it, hesitantly, to Josie. A peace offering.

“Your ink is amazing.”
Amazingly, Oliver blushed. People seldom commented on ink in Lithista, apart from the obligatory, 'Hey, is that a new tat?'. He'd sort of forgotten what the comments were like: it was like having brown eyes or blonde hair, just something that people had. Her giggle brought back a smile, and a mumbled comment of thanks, before he chewed into the jerky.
“Especially the eye bit – Does it scar? Does it hurt? I mean… The tattoos, any of them. You have more, right?”
Wow, questions! Who'd've thought. He swallowed. As long as he didn't get tongue-tied Oliver was happy to answer.
"Most of it's pretty scar-free," he grinned, suddenly grateful to have a topic of conversation. And talking about his tattoos? Well, that was easy enough! "Just the more intense stuff; most of the art back home is done by the professionals." (Oh-so-subtly hinting that he was one of them... Despite the fact that he was technically still in training.)
"Doesn't hurt any more than the metal in your lip."His initial curiosity suddenly re-aroused, he pointed at the studs.
"... Does that hurt?"

“Did you use a machine? Or a needle? Or… The stick thing, ah, two sticks-“
"Um... Yes, yes, and no...?" he grinned. "I'm not quite that dated..."
Lithista, as soon as it had been re-discovered by the outside world, had revolutionized the way it did tattoos. That was a few generations before Oliver was born, but it was a familiar enough story. Three cheers for primary school history. Funnily enough, it had been his dad who'd persuaded him to get into that whole side of things... Funny, because his dad always seemed so rooted in the present. He cautiously fingered his left wrist, on which were tattooed his name, place and date of birth, and parents. A sort of permanent birth certificate; it had stretched considerably over the years, and had had to be re-done a few times... But it had been his since he could walk.

“A-are you… Do they mean anything? You have more… Right?”
"Am I what...?" Diseased? He chuckled to himself at the idea. Maybe; if so, he didn't know what with. Surely disease was an obvious thing. And even if he was diseased, surely the symptom would not be bright explosions of pigmentation.
"Some of them have a story. Most are just for kicks." And the ones that were 'just for kicks' generally had a history, too. He rolled up his left sleeve, pointing out a snake circled around the vines that almost completely covered his arm. "One of my friends has one exactly like it." He couldn't help grinning at the memory. "At least, I hope he does." Sam was one of the younger boys who'd become a close friend of Oliver's over the years. Whenever Sam wanted new ink, it was soon Oliver who he'd come to... But Sam was notorious for forgetting about the reasons for his older inks, and trying to get them done over instead of just getting another piece of skin tattooed. If Oliver hadn't reminded him, he'd probably have lost quite a few tattooes long ago.

Oliver was slightly puzzled when she asked if he had more. Tattoos were a story of life, as well as being a way to show who you were. "Yeah, there's plenty more where those came from."
For a moment, he debated on showing her his needle, the precious machine that kept him connected to both what he loved doing and to his mates back home. (Goodness, away just over a week, and already it was 'back home'.) But he decided against. Maybe not just yet; he'd gone through a lot of pains to wrap it up as water-tight and safe as it was, and he wouldn't undo it just to show Josie. Maybe later.

IF IT DOESN'T THRILL YOU IT DOESN'T MATTER ANY MORE