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[open] a cat's the only cat that knows how to swing
WHO: Daan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
limbical) & YOU!
WHAT: July catch-all. Event, non-event prompts, you know.
WHERE: A bank! A restaurant! Maybe the clinic!
WHEN: J-July
WARNINGS: Severe depression, alcoholism. CSA mention in the thread with Midnight, marked.
A. IN THE VAULT [event]
[With the possibility of a new place to explore reveals itself, it's only natural for the floodgates to open; there are plenty of people here, and Daan is but one of them, nosily investigating for any clues. Though typical as ever, there is nothing to reveal whatever secrets the city holds, or whoever their captors might be. No useful files, no names, nothing.
Then there are the keys.
Sorting through them is interesting at first, as he recognizes some of the names that they go to. They're names to people currently in the city. Which also means...
Yes. There is one for him too. Daan | Daniël is embossed on the tag, clearly indicating him. It's bothersome enough that the name he goes by mostly is there, but the other...
He scowls, plucks his key free without a word, and marches into the vault to find where it belongs. There are rows of safety deposit boxes, but finding the corresponding one isn't much effort at least. He opens it, and inside is a note. Something or other about sharing, which he pockets for now in case it does end up important. But the item inside...
How could he forget?
A little box is inside, which Daan delicately pulls out, his eye wide. His shoulders bunch, and he swiftly walks to a corner, as if he could steal the semblance of privacy. Lips quiver as he opens the box, revealing inside polished tools for sewing.
The sight of it almost seems to bring Daan pain and he shuts the box swiftly before he presses his forehead against the wall, shaking his head to himself. He always tries to keep his mind even and cool, even if it is a pretense, but it seems that this has successfully shaken him to his core. Absently, he whispers to himself:]
How the hell did they get this?
[And then the vault door slams shut, jolting him out of his thoughts.]
B. DRINKS ARE ON ME [post-vault]
[He couldn't rightfully call these his worst days. After all, Daan has lived through those; he's remarked that his time in this city so far has been more like a vacation in comparison, and frankly that is still true. However, that doesn't mean he isn't still miserable.
The weight of the little wooden box in his pocket indicates as such.
In one of the restaurants, Daan is behind the bar, mixing a drink for himself. By how much the whiskey bottle has been emptied certainly indicates how many he's had, but he isn't in the mood to stop. The bank and the dreams he's been cursed with both haunt him alike, along with everything else he's ever put up with, and he's had enough.
He almost misses the Pocketcat's ever closing in steps and rotten promises.
When you enter, he forms a smile that looks too sharp, almost cruel as he lifts a glass in some toast that only he knows.]
Shall I pour one for you? [And then he proceeds to drain his glass.]
C. WILDCARD [choose your own adventure]
[If you'd like a specific prompt, hit me up and I'll make it happen!]
limbical) & YOU!WHAT: July catch-all. Event, non-event prompts, you know.
WHERE: A bank! A restaurant! Maybe the clinic!
WHEN: J-July
WARNINGS: Severe depression, alcoholism. CSA mention in the thread with Midnight, marked.
A. IN THE VAULT [event]
[With the possibility of a new place to explore reveals itself, it's only natural for the floodgates to open; there are plenty of people here, and Daan is but one of them, nosily investigating for any clues. Though typical as ever, there is nothing to reveal whatever secrets the city holds, or whoever their captors might be. No useful files, no names, nothing.
Then there are the keys.
Sorting through them is interesting at first, as he recognizes some of the names that they go to. They're names to people currently in the city. Which also means...
Yes. There is one for him too. Daan | Daniël is embossed on the tag, clearly indicating him. It's bothersome enough that the name he goes by mostly is there, but the other...
He scowls, plucks his key free without a word, and marches into the vault to find where it belongs. There are rows of safety deposit boxes, but finding the corresponding one isn't much effort at least. He opens it, and inside is a note. Something or other about sharing, which he pockets for now in case it does end up important. But the item inside...
How could he forget?
A little box is inside, which Daan delicately pulls out, his eye wide. His shoulders bunch, and he swiftly walks to a corner, as if he could steal the semblance of privacy. Lips quiver as he opens the box, revealing inside polished tools for sewing.
The sight of it almost seems to bring Daan pain and he shuts the box swiftly before he presses his forehead against the wall, shaking his head to himself. He always tries to keep his mind even and cool, even if it is a pretense, but it seems that this has successfully shaken him to his core. Absently, he whispers to himself:]
How the hell did they get this?
[And then the vault door slams shut, jolting him out of his thoughts.]
B. DRINKS ARE ON ME [post-vault]
[He couldn't rightfully call these his worst days. After all, Daan has lived through those; he's remarked that his time in this city so far has been more like a vacation in comparison, and frankly that is still true. However, that doesn't mean he isn't still miserable.
The weight of the little wooden box in his pocket indicates as such.
In one of the restaurants, Daan is behind the bar, mixing a drink for himself. By how much the whiskey bottle has been emptied certainly indicates how many he's had, but he isn't in the mood to stop. The bank and the dreams he's been cursed with both haunt him alike, along with everything else he's ever put up with, and he's had enough.
He almost misses the Pocketcat's ever closing in steps and rotten promises.
When you enter, he forms a smile that looks too sharp, almost cruel as he lifts a glass in some toast that only he knows.]
Shall I pour one for you? [And then he proceeds to drain his glass.]
C. WILDCARD [choose your own adventure]
[If you'd like a specific prompt, hit me up and I'll make it happen!]
no subject
Or was it just the end or is it ongoing? Lucy doesn't want to overly invest in someone's grief but she struggles to be neutral and apathetic at the same time. If her friends who reside in her body, now silent and lifeless as the ink they appear as at least they would carry that burden for her.
But Daan's story was interesting. He had started off on the streets and suddenly his fortune had taken a turn. And not only that, he met the person he loved the most...]
So you continued your studies in medicine instead? And eventually, you married her?
no subject
Then the Second Great War began to crawl in, and a draft came out. Every able bodied man, and I became a field medic as a result. I received letters from Elise, at first. Then...
[Daan closes his eye, his throat tightening. No, no he doesn't want to talk about this, but he pushes on.]
Then they stopped. I assumed the letters got lost or something for awhile, but I continued to hear nothing. When the war ended and I could finally go back...
[He grimaces and shakes his head fiercely, gripping the tiny box in his hands tightly. Though his fingers remain steady, the rest of his body quakes.]
no subject
[She reviews the details he just gave her in his head. Not only was there the burden of war but the fate of his wife was... What was it? It can't be good, not by the way he pauses and grimaces.
It was painful to see him this way. Lucinda doesn't want to overstep the boundaries but she doesn't want to stand and just listen and watch either.]
Daan.
[Lucinda says his name quietly.]
You don't have to share anymore if you don't want to. I'm satisfied.
no subject
[There's an airy, mirthless laugh from him as he shakes his head. He's silent for a moment, biting his lower lip hard before he goes on to speak.]
I found her and the baron dead. She was... killed. I don't know why, and I'm still trying to figure it all out.
[But that isn't even the end of the story. He hopes it's enough to satisfy the conditions of their situation, though.]
no subject
She hates herself for thinking that about Daan. But Lucinda isn't any different. She too was a pitiful person. Wasn't this enough though? Her confinement pales in comparison to the ongoing mystery of his wife's death. It's tearing him up inside.
"Lucy, it's bad to think about your pain and others in which one had it worse. It's not a contest."
... River. She wishes River was here to soothe both of their agony. He would know what to say.
Before she can open her mouth to speak there's a clicking sound behind her. Lucinda stands up straight and moves away from the vault door.]
I think it worked...?
no subject
[It's no offense to Lucinda. Not at all, because he does like her, but Daan isn't waiting. As if desperate to escape some kind of hellhole, he pushes himself forward to get out of the vault, sewing kit clutched in his hands.]
I need a drink. [Or a few, to be honest.]
no subject
[None taken. Lucinda rarely takes offense. She waits until Daan passes her first before she slips her bracelet into her back pocket and follows after him.]
Don't overdo it. But definitely get a drink.