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Post by edisoncarter on Mar 22, 2007 3:18:37 GMT -5
(OOG: I'm in Australia. Gimme some slack.)
Nilou nods at Wraith, letting her take the lead. Gambling's an awful way to waste an evening. Watching gambling, on the other hand...
She stretches her fingers, laced in each other and bending away from her, then wriggles them loose. With practice that's so well-trod it's unconscious, she frees her fiddle from her bag and brings it out, gently tuning it to the harpsichord.
It's a Guardinal tune; Nilou takes to playing long drone notes, two-string chords, letting them slip in underneath the ringing sound of the harpsichord.
[dice=20] + 8 (strings) = 27[rand=9692414828319385682860718939237789900878472925026910651454853178]
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Mar 26, 2007 0:57:43 GMT -5
Wraith ignores the nasty words of the barkeep, the boos and the jeers of the crowd - particularly from the cluster of Godsmen - slipping deeper within herself and her haunted memories. She doesn't even seem to hear the flawless counterpoint of Nilou's fiddle, merging seamlessly with her own discordant, almost jarring music.
Perhaps on a subconscious level, she draws a sudden burst of confidence, and newfound resolve from the knowledge that a Sensate bard has taken note of her song. Or it could be that the seeds lay within her this whole time, buried beneath the surface, stifled by her morbid views of existence.
Either way, the result is disarming.
For too long her hands have examined, gutted and embalmed the lost, with a numb, almost mindless precision. Her fingers - deathly pale, cold and chapped from embalming fluids, beneath the black leather of her gloves - have lost their touch for anything joyous and beautiful. They fail her again, refusing to flow with the cadence of her soul, instead producing the same flat, lifeless, droning notes.
Yet her haunting alto voice rises in fugue, strong and clear, above the harpsichord. Emotion creeps into her song, infusing her voice with passion and conviction - joy, sorrow, rage, angst, bitterness, despondency and hope - a shining beacon, firing the dark, soulful chords of her heart.....
[dice=20] +7 [Singing]
[dice=20] +3 [Harpsichord][rand=838634681294381552289404239185596453139618270898060311079760292]
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Post by feq on Mar 28, 2007 8:52:30 GMT -5
Vatndir remained silent as his two friends performed. Amazingly they were so very different yet so very well combined. "I Imanged that would be beautiful. I'm glad I was right."
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Post by exile on Mar 28, 2007 13:27:10 GMT -5
The modest wooden door swung open to admit another patron from the waxing shadows of Sigil’s descending dusk. Outside the rain had momentarily abated, and a fell wind stirred the acrid vapors that choked the twisting corridors of the Lower Ward.
Stepping into the warming glow cast off by the tavern’s hearth, the cowled figure paused to survey the occupants for a long moment. With a leather gloved hand, the man doffed his billowing hood to unveil a countenance of beautiful melancholy. Sorrowful lapis eyes drank in the man’s surroundings voraciously, and a mane of untamed black locks crowned his head. His garb was drab and simple and lacked ornament but for two pieces, a steel belt buckle marked with a trinity of interlocking triangles, and a silver pin high on his left breast that proclaimed his allegiance to the Bleak Cabal. Oddly, he had entered wearing a dark wide brimmed hat beneath his cowl, and this item he did not remove. He bore an elegant spear with an air of comfortable familiarity, and on his back he shouldered a seemingly ancient leather pack. To say he was otherwise unremarkable was an overstatement; his attire rivaled the Dustmen’s robes for warmth of character.
The stranger’s piercing gaze settled at last upon the barkeep, and he strode up to the counter with an air of quiet determination uncommon in a Bleaker.
“A pint of whatever’s pouring, please” he announced in a soft baritone. The bartender turned with a nod and a twisted little frown, busying himself at the taps. Carefully the new arrival laid out a palm full of coins on the bar top and continued in his quiet tones. There was an art to inquiry, a furtive whisper often spoke louder than a scream, and a determined eavesdropper invariably made his mark eventually. The trick was to effect an air of casual conversation; in a burg as jaded as Sigil, hardly anyone paid that mind.
“I’m looking for a friend,” he said. “A Gith woman. She’s mentioned this establishment in conversation before.”
“Huh,” said the barkeep, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I don’t make a habit of wigwagging with berks I don't know, mister --”
“Hadrian,” the arrival interjected. “You may call me Hadrian.”
“Arright, Hadrian,” the barkeep continued, placing a filled stein on the counter and collecting the coins. “I see lots of Gith, in and out of here every sodding day.”
“You would know this one if you saw her,” Hadrian pressed. “She’s rather distinctive. A nervous woman, bald as a baku. A little wild around the eyes if you catch my meaning. Spends a good deal of her time chewing on her finger nails, or what’s left of them.”
The bartender fixed Hadrian with a dubious gaze for a moment then spoke up. “...No. Nobody like that here. Not that I've seen, anyway.”
Hadrian nodded and smiled thinly. It was another long shot and he hadn’t truthfully expected much to come of it. “Thank-you,” he offered at last, resolving to cut short his search for the night and enjoy his ale. The Ubiquitous Wayfarer was as hospitable a place as any in the Lower Ward and his legs were weary. Absently he turned once more to regard the establishment’s patrons and ruminate on his next move.
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Post by insomniac on Mar 28, 2007 22:55:27 GMT -5
And once again, the door swings wide open, and a figure steps through, billowing gaudy robes of purple and blue with a silvery Sensate symbol sewn into the back. Around his neck, hanging from a chain, is another Sensate symbol, made of green and blue tranclucent metal of some sort. The robe around the back and shoulders seem to be raised, somehow, off his skin. In stark contrast to the gaudy robes are his walking stick of warped and knotty wood, and his face is covered with greyish-brown hair or fur. One small, withered-looking horn is set on his forehead, above his left eye. He walks with a strange gait, helped by the staff, with a click on every step on flagstones or hardwood; goat hooves poke from benieth the hem of the robes, and the sound matches that of the staff hitting the ground.
"Bub and a meal, on the hurry-up." His voice is low and raspy, and he seems continually amused. "Limbo wine, if you have it. And a seat..." there's a pause. "Near the music, I think."
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Post by TheGratefulNed on Mar 29, 2007 20:27:28 GMT -5
The barman glares at Nuuko through a sour expression. "The rain gutter's outside, and it depends what you've got in the way of jink." The tall elf's eyes narrow and lock on the short barman, " I wouldn't have asked if I didn't plan to pay. If you want your jink, you'd do better to tell me what wine you have." Face expressionless, Nuuko gazes down his nose at the human.
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Post by Stix on Mar 30, 2007 11:11:27 GMT -5
The few late-night stragglers who stick around through the song give some appreciative, if guarded applause (it wouldn't do for a Godsman to be seen carousing with a Dustman, after all), and hand over a few coppers. The mezzoloth keeps characteristically silent, drinking in the scene through its wide-set eyes.
One slightly stooped, jaundiced patron -- a half-elf, from the look of him -- stands and approaches the two tieflings with a kindly smile. "That was top-shelf, ladies. Thank you." He fidgets with a small leather bag as he speaks. "Forget about these unpleasant sods... they don't know the value of a good song." He produces a silver piece for each of them, pausing for a cough before offering them over. "I have to call kip for the night, but I hope I'll see you both again soon." With a nod and half-bow, he shuffles along toward the door.
The bartender begins to fill a mug from the tap, apparently at a loss for an unkind word to throw at anyone. He sets the foaming beer in front of Kubasik. "Too late for a meal, kitchen's closed. Six coppers." Addressing Nuuko, he continues. "We got too many wines for me to waste my breath. If you're spending copper, you want somethin' made in-town. Silver, pick your plane."
The gambling Athar looks to John. "Guess we pay up, huh, basher? Or do we roll some more?"
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Post by TheGratefulNed on Mar 31, 2007 8:19:14 GMT -5
The bartender begins to fill a mug from the tap, apparently at a loss for an unkind word to throw at anyone. He sets the foaming beer in front of Kubasik. "Too late for a meal, kitchen's closed. Six coppers." Addressing Nuuko, he continues. "We got too many wines for me to waste my breath. If you're spending copper, you want somethin' made in-town. Silver, pick your plane." That's not surprising, a human'll back down from an obviously superior creature no matter where you're at in the plains. Now where was that brightly colored water-creature from... Creasing his brow in momentary contemplation, the lanky dark-skinned elf finally states, " Something from Eesgurd then...a fruit-wine or something light."
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Post by Stix on Apr 1, 2007 14:33:25 GMT -5
The bartender coughs out a laugh at Nuuko's expense, filling a mug from a tap on the adjacent wall. "'Eesgurdian' plum wine. Two silver pieces."
A tapestry hanging next to Angwen's table ripples suddenly, flaring with blackness and sputtering out a staccato hissing noise. Within seconds, a robed, hooded figure tumbles out, colliding with a heavy chair before landing hard on one shoulder. As suddenly as it started, the noise dies off, leaving the unmoving sod behind.
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Post by exile on Apr 1, 2007 22:10:16 GMT -5
It had been what, a fortnight now? Closer to three weeks even. Three weeks since Tol had strolled out between the massive steel uprights of the Gatehouse’s portcullis without drawing so much as a glance from her caretakers. Perhaps she hadn’t left along Bedlam Run at all. Perhaps she had tumbled through one of the myriad gates that plagued Sigil like loose cobbles. The only thing Hadrian could be sure of was that she was not where she was supposed to be, safely in her cell.
Cupping the mug in steady hands, Hadrian raised the dark ale to his lips and tipped back a bitter draught. For three weeks he had trolled every lane in the hive, every recess in the lower ward. He had even ventured into the twisting warrens beneath the streets of Sigil as far as he dared go. And he hadn’t turned up so much as a whisper. What more could he do? The commotion brewing at his side brought the aasimar back to the present.
Hadrian regarded the exchange between the barman and the blade-strapped elf with thinly veiled disdain. So much posturing and saber rattling over what, two bit’s worth of spirits? It was no wonder the Hardheads could do little more than force a veneer of civility on the Cage. Silently he willed that the scarred man would bite his tongue before somebody did it for him. There were enough real problems in life that a berk needn’t spend his time contriving more.
A sharp hiss followed by a heavy clatter tore his gaze away from the irritable pair and Hadrian felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck rise up as though electrified. For a long moment he regarded the fallen form in silence. Then Hadrian carefully set his mug on the countertop and rose, crossing the common room with a purposeful stride to finally take a knee beside the crumpled figure. Tentatively he extended a hand and tried to rouse the being by jostling its shoulder.
“You alive, berk?”
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Post by Stix on Apr 1, 2007 23:20:12 GMT -5
Hadrian's hand finds the planewalker's frame thin, angular, and bony, despite the bulky robes and layers of padding beneath. His concern is met only with a muffled androgynous groan; the traveler appears quite content to lie still, breathing shallowly (or is unable to do otherwise).
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Post by TheGratefulNed on Apr 2, 2007 0:04:57 GMT -5
The bartender coughs out a laugh at Nuuko's expense, filling a mug from a tap on the adjacent wall. "'Eesgurdian' plum wine. Two silver pieces." A tapestry hanging next to Angwen's table ripples suddenly, flaring with blackness and sputtering out a staccato hissing noise. Within seconds, a robed, hooded figure tumbles out, colliding with a heavy chair before landing hard on one shoulder. As suddenly as it started, the noise dies off, leaving the unmoving sod behind. Nuuko hesitantly lays two silver on the bar, gaging the short human's movements and expression, attempting to see if he's being intentionally overcharged. The wine untouched and coin on counter, both hands drop to his peculiar white sword hilts and the dark elf's head turns toward the body that has appeared out of nowhere.
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Apr 2, 2007 3:48:13 GMT -5
Wraith's song ends to the guarded, scattered applause of the few remaining patrons. Not that she expected much from them, so the few coppers they toss her way surprises her a little, even if she doesn't show it. She glances at the sickly half-elf when he approaches with his burnished silver donation, offering a feeble appreciative smile, and a murmured thankyou, for his kindness. She remains motionless before the harpsichord, watching the man depart, through hollow amethyst eyes, and turns her back on the door, and the remaining patrons. She sits there a while longer, quietly riding out the roiling storm of emotions, stirred deep within, and draws in a shallow, shaky breath. It catches in her throat, barely escaping as a choked sob, before she stubbornly crushes the gnawing pain to nothingness, and a few stray, cold tears slide down fine, bone-white cheeks. She wipes her eyes with the flared sleave of her robe, takes a moment to compose herself with another soothing inhalation, and reverently lowers the lid over the keys. Cold, leather cased fingers slide through the dust coating smooth, antique wood, and she rises to her feet again. A tapestry hanging next to Angwen's table ripples suddenly, flaring with blackness and sputtering out a staccato hissing noise. Within seconds, a robed, hooded figure tumbles out, colliding with a heavy chair before landing hard on one shoulder. As suddenly as it started, the noise dies off, leaving the unmoving sod behind. Wraith jerks suddenly, startled by the clattering noise, and stumbles, nearly tripping over the leg of her chair. She rights herself at the last moment, with one hand braced upon the harpsichord, and another on the padded seat, and laughs nervously at her own clumsiness. Until a sober, concerned expression crosses her pale face. Her weary, haunted eyes fall upon the supine form, crumpled beside Angwen's table, and she moves without further hesitancy toward the sod; pausing once to collect her meagre belongings on the way over. All traces of any emotional turmoil have since been erased, smoothed away by a calm, professional poise and a faint air of confidence. In her heart, she knows she'll be of some use here. She kneels beside the Aasimar Bleaker, and leans a little closer to listen to the crumpled sod's shallow, uneven breathing. She frowns pensively, and fiddles idly with her labret stud. She glances at the fallen chair [assuming the chair was knocked over with the fall], then back at the Aasimar. "What happened here, basher?" She shakes herself, still seeming a little startled, and without waiting for his reply, starts to turn the nameless being over, and cautiously lifts the cowl away to check for a pulse, or any other signs of consciousness...
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Post by exile on Apr 2, 2007 14:34:30 GMT -5
“I wish I could say,” Hadrian replied truthfully, meeting Wraith’s mournful amethyst gaze with a lapis melancholy of his own. With solemn curiosity he watched the dustman work, wondering much the same as she about the condition of the poor sod. He was prepared as ever to dispense with his healing prayers but such blessings were too precious to squander on bruised brainboxes and hangovers. For now he was content to merely observe an apparent physician at work, and the woman certainly seemed to know what she was about.
“How can I help?” he offered in deferent tones.
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Post by insomniac on Apr 2, 2007 18:18:06 GMT -5
"It may be a miserable hole, but I do love the Cage--something new comes through every day." The gravelly voice of the Tiefling sounds particularly unplesant when it starts toward a laugh, and his hooves clock along the floor, beer in hand, until he moves beside the curled figure. "Ohh, a Dead and a Bleaker taking an interest... doesn't bode well for the poor berk, does it?"
He seems to shift, slightly, benieth his robe, as he walks--it's not a limp, but ungulate leg structue makes for a shuffling sort of walk. He starts to crouch down as he approaches, and extends an arm toward the man, muttering something benieth his breath. Close to him, even his smell is somehow unplesant, animalistic. It might be the fur.
From the sleeves and folds of his gaudy robes, a giant, fat centepede starts to crawl out, dangling part of its body out and stretching toward the man. He hangs back for the moment, though, having a draw off his beer and watching with an amused sparkle in his yellow eyes.
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Post by john on Apr 2, 2007 21:04:51 GMT -5
"We pay up. To fishy, damn his eyes."
John grins slightly, a gash-like opening in his darkened face exposing his teeth, as he pushes his coin over to Vatndir. He grunts, looking over at the fellow who dropped to the ground for a moment and says, "Wonder what that's about?"
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Post by angwenriada on Apr 2, 2007 21:19:01 GMT -5
Angwen has been sitting quietly, sipping his beer, his eyes focusing on something outside the bar. A memory, perhaps, or something different. When the poor sod comes flying out of the wall, he doesn't start, though his eyes do grow wide. He sets his beer down on the table in front of him, and that peery look returns to his face. His fingers are still now, no longer drumming rythmlessly on the worn wood of the table, but his eyes dart between the patrons in the bar, then to his belongings on the floor. Seeing that others have come to the berk's aid, he pauses a moment to examine the tapestry. Apparently not seeing anything special, he moves to help the cloaked figure into a chair.
OOC- sorry about the delay. I found out recently I'm going to be living in africa for a year, so things here have been a bit hectic.
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Apr 2, 2007 21:19:10 GMT -5
“I wish I could say,” Hadrian replied truthfully, meeting Wraith’s mournful amethyst gaze with a lapis melancholy of his own. A great burden, the mantle of Death, hangs heavily upon the tiefling woman's shoulders, weighing her down; as evident in the sad, misty eyes, the thin, stooped shoulders, and the faded, haggard face. She looks as though she hasn't eaten, or slept, properly in several days. Something clearly bothers her. She's possessed by this preoccupation, chased by memories of events she couldn't change, yet she fights it with a determination unbecoming for an uncaring Dead. If a stare could convey a lifetime of tragedy and sorrow, then hers speaks volumes. She is a woman weighed down by numb defeat, a crushing depression bordering on apathy or madness. Yet, she stubbornly refuses to be conquered by it. She clings resolutely to the precipice, because she knows she must go on, and weather out this storm. She knows there is no other way, and so much is at stake here if she doesn't, somehow find that inner strength. Wraith turns away again, her brow creased in deep thought, as she carefully rolls up her sleaves - the arms beneath are thin, almost bony, sheathed in long black leather gloves extending to her elbows - and presses her fingertips beneath the nameless berk's chin. With a sensitive light touch, she feels carefully for the pulse; the steady heart-beat throb of lifeblood. She pays no attention to the sod's unveiled features, her concentration instead drawn to the task at hand. With solemn curiosity he watched the dustman work, wondering much the same as she about the condition of the poor sod. He was prepared as ever to dispense with his healing prayers but such blessings were too precious to squander on bruised brainboxes and hangovers. For now he was content to merely observe an apparent physician at work, and the woman certainly seemed to know what she was about. “How can I help?” he offered in deferent tones. "I'm not sure yet, cutter, but thankyou for the offer." She murmurs softly. "He could be drunk, or injured... Or ill; I don't much like the sound of that shallow breathing..." She leans close to the body again, to catch a quick whiff of the berk's breath - and any traces of bub that might be present in his body odor - then begins to pull open the neck of his robes, to better examine him for any indication of injury... or illness. "Here... you can help me turn him over..." She asks at length. "It may be a miserable hole, but I do love the Cage--something new comes through every day." The gravelly voice of the Tiefling sounds particularly unplesant when it starts toward a laugh, and his hooves clock along the floor, beer in hand, until he moves beside the curled figure. "Ohh, a Dead and a Bleaker taking an interest... doesn't bode well for the poor berk, does it?" Wraith's head jerks up, her attention drawn by the gruff voice, and the shambling arrival of the garish tiefling Sensate. Her pretty face twists into an ugly scowl, baring sharp white teeth, and a sanguinous miasma rises about her, rank and cloying, like a freshly slain corpse left to rot in the heat. "Bar that, and pike it, bubber." She hisses, and pointedly turns away, returning to her task, yet at the same time she keeps a wary eye on the fiendling. He seems to shift, slightly, benieth his robe, as he walks--it's not a limp, but ungulate leg structue makes for a shuffling sort of walk. He starts to crouch down as he approaches, and extends an arm toward the man, muttering something benieth his breath. Close to him, even his smell is somehow unplesant, animalistic. It might be the fur. From the sleeves and folds of his gaudy robes, a giant, fat centepede starts to crawl out, dangling part of its body out and stretching toward the man. He hangs back for the moment, though, having a draw off his beer and watching with an amused sparkle in his yellow eyes. Wraith stares at the thing crawling from the man's robes in horror, and hisses at him, bristling visibly like an irate harpy. "Get that disgusting thing away from here... Now." She rises into a defensive, curiously protective, crouch over the prostrate, groaning figure on the ground. Her purple eyes flash with a momentary, vivid fury, and lock with the Sensate's amused yellow orbs. [dice=20] +13 [Knowledge - Medicine] [OOC: Hot damn, you guys are quick. Snuck in just as I was finishing my post. Oh, I'd like to apologise for my posts being so long. I get a bit carried away when I write about this character. ][rand=45892671000405278629352565708757735123184339097805385573999568127]
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Post by edisoncarter on Apr 2, 2007 21:56:43 GMT -5
Nilou curtseys at the half-elf's generosity. "Thank you, sir--" she begins, but is cut off by the appearance of the stranger clattering from the tapestry.
It was crowded enough down on the floor over there, and as Wraith is a far more competent physician than Nilou ever was, the bard is quite content to let her do the work. It gives Nilou a chance to measure the new people in the bar, and particularly the one the barkeep had called Hadrian.
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Post by Stix on Apr 3, 2007 13:41:55 GMT -5
The Defier glances aside, starting to rise from his chair as he realizes what just happened -- and then settles back in, figuring there's nothing he can do that the others aren't already. He rasps out a cough, wipes his lips with the back of his wrist, and sets into his story.
"A little boy was born in a Hive Ward alley -- on one of those days Her Serenity makes it snow, I'm told. His mother died in childbirth, the way it often happens in that part of the Cage, and he was lucky enough to be found by a collector. He was turned over to the closest orphanage, and they did the best they could with him.
"As he grew up some, they found somethin' wrong with him: the boy's legs looked whole, but they were withered, and he couldn't walk on 'em. Fifteen years he lived in that orphanage. Nobody took him -- he wasn't no good to anybody, without legs. He was smart, and he was friendly enough, but it piked him off a sure lot that nobody'd give him a chance to use it in the world.
"'I'd make a fine clerk,' he'd say to himself. 'I could negotiate prices in the Bazaar. I could sing. I could act. I could tell jokes,' he'd say. 'If only somebody'd give me the sodding chance!'
"Well, one day, he got himself fed up with it all. 'The Powers cursed me,' he said, 'and I curse the Powers!' He crawled out of the orphanage, drug himself all the way over to the Shattered Temple. The guard there looked at him -- a sorry sight he was, soaked through with the rain and his fingers torn up from pullin' him so far -- and he asked him what he was doin' there.
"An' he said: 'The Powers took my legs! Without 'em, I can't work, I'm ashamed of myself! For what? They didn't have no reason to do this to me! I hate the bastards! All of 'em! They took my life away, and didn't even have the stones to just kill me!'
"Well, a sorrier story had never crossed the basher's ears before, and it put mercy in his heart, so he picked the boy up and carried him inside.
"And when they let him join the faction, he stood up on those two withered legs, and he walked. And he ran. And he danced."
The Athar scoots back a bit in his chair and nods, indicating that his story is finished. "Hope that covers the wager."
The unconscious planewalker is rolled over, amber eyes unblinking and unfocused. His/her features are fine and fair but reddened by exposure, with an aquiline nose, prominent cheekbones, and thin, pale, chapped lips pursed into an "O" of shock, a few strands of ragged, patchy blonde hair sticking to them dryly.
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