The habitually-drunken Orlha crashlands in the middle of a sensitive moment, and an unlikely pair bond quietly over their respective knowledge of the battles they must fight. A moment in time, lost and never revisited...
, Orlha When:
December 8th, 2008 Where:
West Cape, Chronos
|The information contained within this log is to be considered information gained Out of Character (OOC).|
This information may not be used as In Character (IC) knowledge or in roleplay unless it has been learned in-game or permission has been granted by the parties involved.
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At the very end of the cliff face here rests Toma's Grave - the final resting place of the great explorer Toma. For some reason cans of soda are always left here as a memorial by the townsfolk. Occasionaly a stray child or two will make their way here to sneak off with one.
A flash of light fills the air around Toma's Grave, causing a sudden blast of wind to pick up, and cause the ocean far below to crash violently against the rocks. As the light fades, Crono stands there, sword in hand. In a fluid motion he sheathes the katana, and stretches his hands out above him, slowly floating into the air, a soft glow of light starting to filter down from the heavens down upon the grave of Toma. The wind once more starts to pick up, as a lone feather starts to fall from the sky, landing upon the grave before vanishing without a trace..
A single feather is not the heavens' only gift this day. It's path leaves an odd trail that should be unexpected, a tiny ripple - almost like a heat haze - rushing upward through the charged air. Ten feet higher, and the ripple expands...
Time, she howls; a sub-bass frequency that stirs the gut without alerting the ears.
With a dull *whump*, louder but likely rendered inaudible by the crescendo of the sea, a portal bursts into being. A widening circle that seems to ill fit the environment, bearing an odd two dimensional quality, expands to a circumference wide enough to admit a fairly tall humanoid. That bizarre, oscillating hum so familiar to Crono fills the air. But this is different to the portals from his own adventures; it /feels/ different.
There's precious little time to ponder this before a shape bursts from the rainbow-hued interior of the portal, clearly human and utterly unused to this manner of trip. Wide eyes focus momentarily on the floating king before the figure - feminine, scantily clad to some degree, and pigtailed - drops into a rapid spin to the earth.
The strange woman lands at the foot of the grave, scattering soda cans and leaving a furrow in the grass as she skids to a halt. She lies still a moment, then spits a curse and raises her dishevelled head, exploding in a choking cough that doesn't sound entirely healthy.
The energy surrounding Crono is instantly dispersed, as he drops to his feet, jumping back a few feet from the portal. The katana is pulled from it's sheath faster then the eye can track, and the 'King' stands there in a battle stance, ready to defend himself on a moments notice. "..Who are you, and why did you come from a Gate?" The words are spoken with authority, as if he were letting himself behave like a king, instead of shirking his duties off to the Chancellor like he normally does.
Hack, hack, hack...
That can't be right. Either the pigtailed interloper smokes forty a day, or...
She stops coughing with a final gag, and pushes herself up and backward, sprawling onto the can-littered grass without seeming regard for the metal things crowding her in and supplying a wonderfully uncomfortable surface for her behind. Blinking up at Crono with bleary brown eyes, the woman looks intensely puzzled for a moment and then offers a throaty chuckle.
"'Gate'? I don't know what you're-- ugh, hold on," she cuts herself off, and holds up a quivering finger, rolling her gaze sidelong to take in one of the nearby soda cans. She looks intensely displeased, and then thrusts her other hand - the one not raised impudently toward Crono - rather unceremoniously down the front of her dress. She rummages a moment in her cleavage, and finally produces a small leather bottle.
Swiftly it's uncorked using a single finger, and brought to her lips. Gulpgulpgulp, her eyes close as she wastes no time in emptying the contents. A foul smell will reach Crono by the time she's done, upon when she drops the bottle into her lap and opens her mouth in a distinctly unladylike belch. She squints through both eyes before looking back to the king with a confident smile.
"That's better. Sorry, what were you saying? I was on my way to the Isle of the Water Dragon but I suppose I got a little lost somewhere." Well, her voice sounds better. Not cracked, broken and slurred like it was. "And who might you be?"
...because it's polite to turn around a question without offering an answer yourself.
"..Isle of the Water Dragon...?" Crono sheathes his sword and stares at Orlha for a few moments. "This is Choras. There's nothing like that here. Now, return to whatever world you came from. I really don't want to see this war escalate any further..." Crono goes silent, seemingly unwilling to give his name to the drunken girl, especially with the current situation. "You'd want to be careful.. Porre is still fully occupying this area, and is causing problems with the El Nido islands.."
Anyone else's mind would be working overtime. Orlha's has just been fighting to maintain essential systems until such time as the situation settles down and can easily be made sense of; the oh-so-valuable defensive mechanism of the long-term alcoholic. She's young to have developed such a thing, but there it is. A wonderful character trait.
"Choras," she echoes the king subconsciously as he talks, and she checks herself over for any damage. And, perhaps, any more stashed booze. As he issues his warning she looks back across, making no attempt to stifle a huge yawn that slowly subsides into a similarly wide-mouthed grin. "Porre! Yes! There's the rub!" She glances at Crono's sheathed sword, then back at his face, before with a shrug she leaps to her feet.
"We're near El Nido, then?" The question is asked as she arches her back, lifting her elbows to shoulder height and curving gratefully. This is followed with a crick of the neck, and a couple of light springs off her feet - time enough for the question to be answered before she helpfully, and belatedly, supplies, "Orlha, by the way. Barmaid extraordinaire. I live out at Guldove. /I'm/ the reason Porre hasn't taken it."
She might not look like much, but she doesn't seem to be lying.
"..I've never really been to El Nido.." Crono shakes his head sadly as he looks down towards the town. "If you go down this road, you'll reach the docks. There are ships that make regular trips to El Nido, ferrying troops and supplies in. Try as they might to survive without anything from the outside world.." He shakes his head once more and looks back to the tombstone. "If you're going to go, don't cause any problems. The people of Choras are just trying to make do, and live through this." He reaches into a small bag tied to his hip, and pulls out a bottle of root beer, which he then steps past the drunken girl, and starts pouring it over the top of the gravestone.
Orlha sways as Crono steps toward her, twisting to keep their positioning roughly even in case he does try to pull that fearsome-looking sword again. She might be drunk, but she's not stupid; there's something about her that's a little dangerous in itself. If likely not so much to the spiky-haired Hero of Time.
She doesn't respond to his advice just yet, canting her head to one side as she watches his actions with some curiosity. "Somebody special died here?" She asks with no little sensitivity, though the effect is ruined a beat later when she lets out a quiet hiccup. It's perhaps a little obvious even as partly rhetorical questions go, but the implication is obvious; somebody special to Crono himself, of course.
Without saying anything more, she takes a couple of steps back and half-turns as she squats, beginning to pick up the cans scattered by her impact with the soil. She can't do much about the imprint of her form, but she can restore some order to things. She does it quietly, allowing Crono to finally get more than a few words in... if he chooses.
"Yeah. He died almost four hundred years ago. The last real thing he told me was to pour his favorite drink over his headstone. He was off on a big discovery, and he had a bad feelin'. Like he wouldn't be comin' back. So every so often, I pour him one." Wait, almost four hundred years ago? And this guy knew him...? Just how old is Crono really? He turns and grins at Orlha, as if he were trying to play a joke on her. "Toma Levine. He's the man who discovered the rainbow shell."
An eyebrow lifts as soon as Crono cites the time... the /era/... of death. Her hand pauses in setting a can straight, and a finger lifts from the can as a dubious half-smirk spreads on the barmaid's lips. She kills the expression as she listens further, sinking into some point between belief and otherwise. It sounds impossible - but why would the swordsman spin a yarn like this to someone he's never met and might never run into again? Only a moment before, he was trying to get rid of her...
Why didn't she leave? Well, barmaids are supposed to listen.
Is that an adequate excuse?
With a shake of the head, Orlha's internal banter is stopped short. About the moment that Crono turns his experienced eyes back upon her. Quickly she rights the last of the cans and slides to her feet, idly dusting the palms of fingerless gloves. Toma Levine. It rings a bell; she does come from this world, after all. And looking at the young king, she begins to feel further glimmers of memory. She didn't pay a great deal of attention at school - and school on Guldove is an unusual affair - but nonetheless...
"You know, you're quite familiar," she admits after a moment's pondering, alcohol sweeping through her blood and causing a clouding of the gaze as she lifts her head, regarding Crono with confident appraisal, "But my memory's not what it should be. What I /can/ say, is that if this man was a good man... and you're here to honour him? That makes you a good man as well. That's all that matters to me. Besides," she drops her gaze and smiles, starting to lope past the mysterious swordsman, "You're not a friend of Porre, which gives you a better than average chance of being a friend of mine."
She pauses at the head of the road indicated by Crono, and glances back over an armour-clad shoulder, pigtails swishing as she turns. "That's an unusual sword, too. If you ever passed by El Nido, I think we could use someone like you. I can't keep Guldove safe forever. There's always more trouble coming - bigger guns, better soldiers." She shrugs, then flashes a big ol' grin, "We need reinforcements. I've got a feeling you'd be an asset. Call it.. woman's intuition."
"Heh... I missed the start of this blasted war alltogether. Here we are a year into it, and everyone I knew is scattered." Crono scratches the back of his head, as he laughs loudly. "If I make it to Guldove, I'll stop by. But I still have some things to do here."
Being so down-to-earth and downright normal must be a curse as much as an asset; how many children hear about 'King Crono', even see a picture of the man, and yet assuredly fail to recognise him in person? Then again, the Rainbow Sword may be a good indicator that Orlha misses due to her.. other interests. Give her a good, lithe body and a couple of outlying limbs any day.
Still, something still nags at the back of her head. Perhaps she'll remember next time they meet. Or perhaps she'll be more drunk, and even less likely to recognise Crono?
"It's a deal," she offers him by way of reply, throwing up a hand into a two-fingered salute from the brow. "And hey, if you miss out on the fighting but you still pass by Guldove one day, you can't miss me. Only bar in town. You're an interesting man." Is that flirting? It doesn't seem like flirting. Her eyes narrow slightly, though she could be squinting, but it's fleeting in any case, as she spins upon her heel and launches into a brisk jog.
"Until we meet again!" Comes the cry as she disappears down the slope, a set of dextrous digits waving wildly in the air above her head. She'll be on the next ship out of here; perhaps they never will meet again. But fate works in mysterious ways.