Scenario 1: 'First of all, a fur bearing trout is the worst euphemism I've EVER heard..'
[Its not the first time Isabela has awoken in an unknown room, with little recollection of the night before. It is the first time she's done so without her daggers in sight. A nice looking woman is standing beside her, peering over someone in a bed adjacent, and everything smells exceptionally clean. She looks down at the crisp white sheets tucked around her, and wrinkles her nose. Soon as the woman leaves the room - she looked officious and as though she was trying to tend whoever was in the bed adjacent, so she assumes she's a healer - she's out of bed, scouring the room for anything useful. She comes across a scalpel in amidst an array of tools, and rolls her eyes as she tucks it away. Looked like the closest thing she'd have to a weapon in awhile. The sod in the bed doesn't move an inch or make a mumble as she roots through the place, which was good; no need to silence 'em.
Content that that was all to be gained, she slips from the room - she'd noted she was still wearing her thigh high boots, a habit she would avidly avoid were she the one tucking herself into the bed, making the circumstances of the entire exchange entirely odd.
To say nothing of the strange scratches and bite marks that littered up her arms and twinged in places less exposed.
Still, the soft leather of the boots is silent as she sneaks through the darkened halls of the healer's place, the architecture of the building just slightly out of place and unfamiliar. Where ever she was, it didn't seem like Kirkwall any longer.
She exits the building with a shifty look in either directions, scouring the left and the right - and nearly stumbles straight into some person standing right at the front of the door. They hurriedly shove a few pamphlets into her hands, and she's left to raise a brow as they scuttle hurriedly out of her way, waiting back in the door way for next unsuspecting victim.
She glances down at the leaflets in her hands for approximately 2 seconds, before with a derisive snorts throws them over a shoulder, sets a rhythm to her swagger and starts to whistle an old pirate drinking song.
She was going to find the nearest port, or be damned trying. ]
Scenario 2: 'Oh. Shit.'
[ She'd found the water, at least.
It was a stony little beach down by the side of the city and just past the pier. The whole town had a musky, gloomy sort of air, and fog seemed to swim round the edges of her vision. It seemed to make the air heavy and damp, in a way that sunk into her skin and clung all uncomfortable.
Her ship had been nowhere in sight (which was not entirely unexpected but still stung, just a little) and no layabout crew men or familliar pock marked faces round the docks. It seemed wherever she had ended up, she had ended up there alone and fished out of the sea, if the whispers she caught were anything to go on.
So she'd picked her way down to the shore, and stripped off her boots. You could take the pirate from the ocean, but you couldn't take the ocean from the pirate; besides there was some comfort to it. Wherever she was, the sea connected it in some far off way to where she'd come from. Not that Kirkwall had been anything but a shit hole she had been stranded in, but the people had been alright. Hawke, Merrill, Varric.. She wondered if she'd see them again. She stepped across the grainy sand, feeling the pebbles against her toes, and the cool wash of where the tide had lapped just moments before. She breathed in the salt of the sea air, the muck and debris from the ports and the boats, the sour smell of fish and whatever else whisked away as the wind caught her hair, curled against her cheeks.
She stepped into the water, just as the tide turned to surge back over the shore.
And then any thoughts of home, or Kirkwall, of Hawke was long gone.
A spasm of agony wracks through her, seeming to choke the breath out of her all at once. She stumbles, unable to help it and she falls to her knees as the water rushes around her - it can be barely higher than her shin but splashes against her, into her mouth and eyes as the pain continues. Its as though her own skin is flexing, morphing, bones feeling as if they creak and moan like the mast of an old ship. She gasps with it as the pain burns white hot against the skin of her neck - feels as though three raw cuts have been sliced into her there, on either side.
And then all at once, it stops, and she's left panting in the salt spray, soaking wet as the tide rushes out around her.
Shaking fingers reach up to where the start of her necklace is cuffed about her neck. Just over the lip of the metal, where the pain had laced down her skin, there is a slit - almost feeling rubbery and soft, like a little out cropping of.. fin? Her eyes go wide at the thought.
isabela | dragon age 2
[Its not the first time Isabela has awoken in an unknown room, with little recollection of the night before. It is the first time she's done so without her daggers in sight. A nice looking woman is standing beside her, peering over someone in a bed adjacent, and everything smells exceptionally clean. She looks down at the crisp white sheets tucked around her, and wrinkles her nose. Soon as the woman leaves the room - she looked officious and as though she was trying to tend whoever was in the bed adjacent, so she assumes she's a healer - she's out of bed, scouring the room for anything useful. She comes across a scalpel in amidst an array of tools, and rolls her eyes as she tucks it away. Looked like the closest thing she'd have to a weapon in awhile. The sod in the bed doesn't move an inch or make a mumble as she roots through the place, which was good; no need to silence 'em.
Content that that was all to be gained, she slips from the room - she'd noted she was still wearing her thigh high boots, a habit she would avidly avoid were she the one tucking herself into the bed, making the circumstances of the entire exchange entirely odd.
To say nothing of the strange scratches and bite marks that littered up her arms and twinged in places less exposed.
Still, the soft leather of the boots is silent as she sneaks through the darkened halls of the healer's place, the architecture of the building just slightly out of place and unfamiliar. Where ever she was, it didn't seem like Kirkwall any longer.
She exits the building with a shifty look in either directions, scouring the left and the right - and nearly stumbles straight into some person standing right at the front of the door. They hurriedly shove a few pamphlets into her hands, and she's left to raise a brow as they scuttle hurriedly out of her way, waiting back in the door way for next unsuspecting victim.
She glances down at the leaflets in her hands for approximately 2 seconds, before with a derisive snorts throws them over a shoulder, sets a rhythm to her swagger and starts to whistle an old pirate drinking song.
She was going to find the nearest port, or be damned trying. ]
Scenario 2: 'Oh. Shit.'
[ She'd found the water, at least.
It was a stony little beach down by the side of the city and just past the pier. The whole town had a musky, gloomy sort of air, and fog seemed to swim round the edges of her vision. It seemed to make the air heavy and damp, in a way that sunk into her skin and clung all uncomfortable.
Her ship had been nowhere in sight (which was not entirely unexpected but still stung, just a little) and no layabout crew men or familliar pock marked faces round the docks. It seemed wherever she had ended up, she had ended up there alone and fished out of the sea, if the whispers she caught were anything to go on.
So she'd picked her way down to the shore, and stripped off her boots. You could take the pirate from the ocean, but you couldn't take the ocean from the pirate; besides there was some comfort to it. Wherever she was, the sea connected it in some far off way to where she'd come from. Not that Kirkwall had been anything but a shit hole she had been stranded in, but the people had been alright. Hawke, Merrill, Varric.. She wondered if she'd see them again. She stepped across the grainy sand, feeling the pebbles against her toes, and the cool wash of where the tide had lapped just moments before. She breathed in the salt of the sea air, the muck and debris from the ports and the boats, the sour smell of fish and whatever else whisked away as the wind caught her hair, curled against her cheeks.
She stepped into the water, just as the tide turned to surge back over the shore.
And then any thoughts of home, or Kirkwall, of Hawke was long gone.
A spasm of agony wracks through her, seeming to choke the breath out of her all at once. She stumbles, unable to help it and she falls to her knees as the water rushes around her - it can be barely higher than her shin but splashes against her, into her mouth and eyes as the pain continues. Its as though her own skin is flexing, morphing, bones feeling as if they creak and moan like the mast of an old ship. She gasps with it as the pain burns white hot against the skin of her neck - feels as though three raw cuts have been sliced into her there, on either side.
And then all at once, it stops, and she's left panting in the salt spray, soaking wet as the tide rushes out around her.
Shaking fingers reach up to where the start of her necklace is cuffed about her neck. Just over the lip of the metal, where the pain had laced down her skin, there is a slit - almost feeling rubbery and soft, like a little out cropping of.. fin? Her eyes go wide at the thought.
What was this place?]