Participants:
| Scene Title | Old Brass |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Gossip Girls: Paramilitary Edition |
| Date | October 9, 2020 |
On the bottom floor of a red brick building, under the fire escape and behind a rolling door Secondhand Lookbook offers its wares. Clothes are set up on circular racks flanked by a handful of mannequins dressed in the most eye-catching clothes of the day. In the back, behind a glass partition, are more rare or costly pieces. All the clothes here are donated or, in the case of more upscale brands, sold to the store and resold to the public at a reduced rate. For those who don't care about which season their fashion comes from, or who need a wardrobe on the cheap, this small shop is a real treasure.
"Trust me, the jacket was the only thing that fit you. Literally and tastewise." Huruma shoulders open the door into the Secondhand Lookbook, its bell chiming and the hanging lights adding to the warmth- - more than the nippy outside. Over her shoulder is a canvas laundry bag, neatly full. "Unless you are suddenly wanting to show leg, Tinkerbell…
Megan is her shadow this time, and Huruma's nicknames are affectionate; she's always tuned in to whether or not they hit right, or frazzle nerves. The whole thing- - still new, strange, intimidating. Joking helps, a little.
Megan is mostly taking the teasing in stride by now. With Magnes's assistance, she's figured out how to lift off and get around — slowly — when she wants to. It still makes her a bit nervous to be outside on her own, but the more she practices getting down, the easier that is getting too. She still wakes up on the ceiling periodically, much to Scott's amusement when he happens to be around.
In response to the nickname, Megan sticks her tongue out at Huruma. "Rude! Not that I mind showing leg — I have great legs! — but I really don't need to accidentally flash anything else if I suddenly find myself doing a Jack-Jack impression."
When it came to this trip in the wild, Debra had been kinda… swept up into it as the ladies were going out the door. Stepping into the shop, she pushes her sunglasses on top of her head and looks around with slightly raised brows. “You know… the outside is a bit deceiving, with the bright ass skulls outside,” she says with a bland tone. “Kinda was hoping for a mariachi band and lots of tequila.” Which by the look of the place… she might want.
Wait. Something catches Debra’s attention out of her eye around the shelves of knick knacks crammed together.
"That's what tights are for." Still leg. Huruma's brows lift up, and she is comfortable enough to escape Megan's bubble to sit her bag into the donation cart sitting at the front of the store. A quiet look moves up and over to their third, the tagalong; Debra's interest in something or other gets her own, though she doesn't ask into it. Though the Et Cetera has a smaller portion of the store from clothing, it tends to be the kind of things that do attract.
"I suppose it's to pull your eye. Cultural too, I believe." Huruma angles another look up over to the back counter and the stairs to the upper level, roped off. "I do not trust myself with tequila and… spending… money." A bit quieter, a short, sheepish look to Megan.
Megan snickers openly at Huruma and tells Debra, "Last time we went shopping after tequila, she went home with a ridiculous hat that she'll never wear and talked me into some things that are better left unspoken." Any number of things fit that description and the redhead doesn't elaborate more as a way to tease Hooms than for Debra's benefit.
"But honestly, I've found some really nice stuff in here," she admits. "This is where I picked up my riding jacket," Megan reminds Huruma. "Couldn't believe it was real leather for that price," she tells Debra.
Whatever, they are saying seems to be missed as the old woman angles away towards the knicknacks, with a single-minded purpose. Reaching into the depths of a collection of weird ceramic children and clowns, Debra produces a figurine made of crystal.
Is that… a pig?
“Well, for this… I think I can forgive the false advertising,” Debra says as she places it in her hand and holds it up to catch the light. A small smile deepens the creases in her skin as she turns a little towards the other two.
"It's not ridiculous. It's just… it needs an event." Megan gets a small laugh out of Huruma, eyes narrowed her way.
While there isn't much in the way of explanation on Debra's side, Huruma still tips her head thoughtfully, eyes on the prize that the other woman's come up with. And that's what it is, to her. A prize. The empath can see that well enough.
"Looks like real crystal, too." The brief assessment comes with a gentler tone, smile curving to one side. Slipping past a punk display, Huruma leaves her approval at that and continues on with a slink in her step. Looks like she's vulturing in on dresses.
Megan snerks a soft laugh at Huruma's insistence that the hat needs an event. It's awful — such an event is not one she hopes to see, else her friend will ever forgive her for howling with laughter.
Twining her way around various displays, she picks up pieces here and there to look at — a pair of sparkly flip-flops that might be fun, a couple of buttons with silly sayings. She turns when Deb comments she found something and she's honestly intrigued. One doesn't have to be empathic to see the genuine pleasure the other woman takes in the find. "Oooh," she says, "especially if it's crystal, that is a find." It's cute even if it's just glass, though. She's not going to make fun — everyone has their little quirks on collecting things. Meg collects antique Victorian medicine bottles. Or… she used to, years ago.
The contents of the store are crazily eclectic, but Megan finds and holds up what looks like miniature decorated chopsticks. "Look — hair sticks." She grins. They're such a feminine thing, but the pragmatic redhead looks sincerely happy with the find.
“Real or not, it’s coming home with me,” Deb says with a gruff voice, looking between the two, cradling the piece in the palm of her hand, ducking her head down to see if there are other treasures to be found within the knick knack depths. “Looks like one I gave my daughter for her birthday once.”
When it comes to Megan’s find… “Hair sticks don’t work for me.” Debra says with a fluff of short hair and a lop-sided smirk.
There is a short laugh from the eldest of the three, as she turns back to the shelf and picks through it. “Jane got super pissed at my son when he broke her crystal pig. It was an accident of course, but she swore it was on purpose.”
Ah, there it is. Huruma gets an answer for her patience when Debra shares the pig's significance. It's a cute tale, even with the fate of the first crystal pig.
"You never know." The dark woman smiles quietly, watching as the duo picks further through the thrift store detritus. "Mm. Something is telling me that if I were to ever visit you at home, I would be greeted with a thousand piglets." Not real ones. Hopefully. Huruma flicks through the mismatched plastic hangers, inspecting as she goes. "I can't say that I've ever collected much…"
"I keep it just long enough that I can do this with it," Megan gestures at her silver and strawberry blond ponytail. "If I keep it short, there's just way too much of it and it curls so it gets right in my way no matter what I do with it. So I finally learned to just keep it confined." Even in the height of the war, she'd use surgical scissors or even once a jackknife when it got too long but she's not ever worn it shorter than her shoulders that Huruma's seen.
As she holds onto the small prize, Megan makes her way around another rack. "Are you settling in okay at Wolfhound, Debra?" Because the other woman clearly has tales but we won't get to hear them unless we make friendly!
“Could be worse,” Debra counters with amusement, showing what looks like a Precious Moments clown with angel wings to the taller woman. “Could be into clowns.” Which the shelves look full of, probably someone's collection from an estate. “But yeah, I have a collection. I don’t even really like pigs… but… sometimes you find yourself doing things to cope.” There is a nonchalant shrug even as her dark emotional storm at her core strengthens briefly.
“Hmm?” Debra turns her attention, abandoning her search, when the other woman in their paty says something to her.
“Oh!” She says as what Megan asked clicks in her brain. “Yeah, they're good kids. This new Avi, though, still weirds me out a little. He was one hell of a sexy spitfire when we were younger. Got into a few good screaming matches when we stepped on each other’s toes in an investigation.” She almost sounds like she misses those days, as unpleasant as they sound.
Clowns? Huruma visibly side-eyes the one Debra holds aloft, looking quite like she's about to crabwalk stage right. Nope. No thank you. Megan making small talk is one way of making nice, and perhaps this was a hope; Huruma doesn't seem to want to interrupt at first, but of course she can't help herself. Eyes moving between Megan and Debra, it's the latter she responds to.
"Aie, he still does the screaming." Huruma snorts, pulling something off of the rack to give it a second look. "Less, if I'm around." Without looking up, she goes about gauging the width of the dress against her hip. Maybe a little on the small side. A laugh comes before she glances up to Debra, "The mouth stays the same, though, even if the volume changes."
Clowns? Megan, too, side-eyes Debra — with amusement, because she doesn't have issues with clowns but so many people do. As she reaches for a mug with a pithy saying on it just to look at it, that's when sexy spitfire comes out of the other woman's mouth and Meg bobbles the cup as she snorts out a laugh.
She could see it. Yeah… she could definitely see it. But she does agree with one thing. "The man's got a potty mouth that even I envy." And Megan shoulda been Navy instead of Air Force, with her mouth!
There's a definite expression of wicked impishness to her as she asks speculatively, "We gonna be in for some fireworks around the Bastion?"
“What?” Debra looks at Megan like she’s grown two heads. “Fuck no. Who’s got time for fireworks?” Putting the little clown figure down and rubbing her hand on her jeans, she shakes her head. “I did that once with a guy I met in the Army, got two great kids out of it, but guys generally tend to be selfish assholes.” Clearly, someone hasn’t had a good experience.
Crystal pig secure in her possession, Debra moves to walk down the line of clothes with uncertainty. “However, I’m not beyond the sort of fireworks that mean me punching him when he deserves it.”
Pulling aside a floral shirt to look at a black tank Debra adds, “The man was always infuriating, but that ass when he stormed away….Mmm,” She looks at the others, with a smirk. “Cause I might not be looking, but I wasn’t dead. Now.. he’s more dadbod.” Touch of disappointment there.
Huruma tried to be absent from the discussion of adjectives, but she should have known Megan would snicker her way right to it. The redhead earns a deserved flat expression, though zero commentary on fireworks. It's very much the come on now look. Instead of Megan getting the business, however, it's a lick on Debra now, complete with nonplussed tilt of head.
"Nothing wrong with that." Just, well, putting it out there. A small addition, and a shrug. "I've seen him pull people on a cable into the Tlanuwa while it was doing a tilt-a-whirl. So…mileage may vary. Do you think this would be too short?" Immediate track jump, not slick at all. Huruma flashes a dress at Megan which looks like it could be in an Addams' closet.
Megan laughs outright, totally amused by both reactions. "He's never had reason to storm away from me, so I never saw that." Besides, the only times she and Avi were in proximity, there'd been a little something else brewing anyway. "If you pop that man in the mouth, Huruma better be videoing. I wanna see." She knows money used to change hands the few times she and Scott went at each other. She wants in on the betting pool this time — even if it's only about whether Avi'll hit back.
She does not address dadbods, though she does grimace slightly at the tilt-a-whirl imagery. There are a few things that she's genuinely glad she hasn't witnessed firsthand — Watching the Hounds do something that nuts is definitely in that list.
Turning her head at the voila motion, the redhead puts a hand on her hip. "Not sure I could carry off the Morticia Addams vibe there," she observes in a skeptical tone. "I dunno… very Goth, I must say."
“Oh please, it’s not like that,” Debra says with a bit of an amused scoff at Huruma. “I’m not saying it’s bad, so much as….” She takes a moment to find the right words, as she moves through the racks of clothes. “You have had this image in your head for many years, right? Then you see them again and it’s like a whole other person.”
Debra gives Huruma a teasing smile. She knows what you are doing, Huruma. Still she leaves them to talk about the dress, content to just flip through the garments lazily.
"I'm always ready with a camera." Huruma murmurs, fingers on the skirt hem, eyes moving from Megan's features to Debra's. The latter's words are given a notable consideration, a response held onto. "Morticia is an underrated matriarch." to Megan instead, before she slots the dress back up. "With good taste."
"I know what you mean," There's her consideration for what Debra added, both brows raising and pale eyes deepened with the dark of wide pupils. "Exactly what you mean." There are apparently prime examples in her life, unshared.
Huruma's smile curves to one side. "I like meeting new people anyway." The next dress Huruma pulls out is nearly immediately slung over her forearm, and by luck, a couple more only a few down.
Pivoting on a heel, Huruma pats Megan on the arm before stepping away. "I'll be back." Dressing room time. Also a few minutes without a buffer between Meg and Deb. Godspeed.
Yeeeaaaaah. The women in this little group? We all know what you mean, Deb. As Megan chuckles at Huruma's sage little smile, she leans on the rack of dresses, still considering that little black one. It's short…. maybe not that short? It's the V-neck she isn't sure of. But she pulls it back out to study with pursed lips for a long moment.
"Sounds like you're fitting right in with this lot," the redhead observes mildly. But her blue eyes slant toward Debra thoughtfully as she once more decides against that dress. She studies the other woman and finally asks what's on her mind. "Are you out to prove something by coming to Wolfhound or are you more like those of us who can't quite put it down and walk away?" It's a quiet question, blunt but not antagonistic — it's simple respect for not beating around the bush. Some of the people on this squad are the closest thing she has to family anymore, and like recognizes like.
“I can’t walk away” is Debra’s answer to Megan, watching Huruma saunter away. Turning back to Megan and shrugs. “FBI wanted to retire me, they can’t outright say it was age, but pretty sure that was it.” There is some reluctance before she adds, “Mostly. I got into it with some of the new brass. Kids straight out of college that think they know everything.”
Debra pulls a flannel out of the rack and looks it over, “However, I had a guy that owed me a favor and set it up with Avi. So I ended up landing on my feet with Wolfhound.”
Megan's nod is thoughtful. "Gotta love the butterbars," she retorts ruefully. No. You really fucking don't. All the little snot-nosed, straight out of college officers thinking they know anything about anything is an annoyance that older vets often share. She grins at Debra. "You give 'em hell," she adds. "'Specially Lu. She's got the makings of a phenomenal leader. I keep trying to nudge her a bit more toward the healing side — she's torn between the roles. Likes the adrenaline but has the interest and ability to combat medic on the fly."
Meg would know; that's a lot of what she trained Lucille to do. She seems to feel a bit better too, having someone else to kick people's asses if they're doing Teh-Stoopid.
“Now that’s a term I rarely hear anymore,” Debra says with an amused grin to Megan.
As for giving them hell… Well, Debra doesn’t really answer, focusing on Megan’s example instead. “I haven’t been able to really get to know everyone yet, except in passing, but that Ryans girl. If she is anything like her famous father, she’s going to do alright.”
Looking at the pig, still held in her other hand, Debra adds knowingly. “You can’t rush them or push them. They have to find their way, but I’ll keep an eye out for that one. Though, there is no such thing as too many people that know how to patch up a wound on the go.”
"She takes a little after me too," Huruma reappears from the nook of the dressing room, "Unfortunately." Sidling out to measure up to the larger mirror perched on the wall, the dark woman appears somewhat satisfied in the result; a long sleeved, thigh-length dress of deep red velvet burnout.
"I hope to remind her of how well she did with you, Megan… she needs that, I think. To have something of hers. Because right now it is bare-knuckle brawling, and her insurance doesn't cover extracurriculars." Humor, yet/
"Mm. Well?" Megan moreso gets this sound of inquiry as Huruma turns in different angles in the reflection. It's fit is like a second-skin, with a bit of give at the waist, rather than hip. Her fingers pinch fabric back at her side, gauging an adjustment. "I would need to tuck this, but…"
"Yeah, well." Megan grins cheekily. "Swear to God, they always think their damn books make up for 30 years of living." It's just one of those things. "I figured Huruma was right about partial retirement from the ER when I found myself stripping layers of skin off an intern, verbally of course, and being so disgusted with the kid I almost hit him." She rolls her eyes. "Seemed like semi-retirement might be prudent."
The red is lush against Huruma's skin, and even as Megan grins at Debra the redhead is giving the dress a considering look. "Hmmmmmmm." Tipping her head, it takes a long moment before Meg smiles and admits, "I like it. Any shade of red looks terrific on you, but that particular one has a nice depth to it."
There is an appreciative whistle from Debra and a disbelieving shake of her head. “Any woman our age would kill to have a body like that.” The newest hound was more stout and less runway model-y. Not that her emotions show jealousy, she seems pretty content with who she is emotionally.
Turning back to the rack, Debra pulls out a black kinda fuzzy black slouch necked sweater. She seems to consider it, checking the tag before draping it over her arm. Though, unlike Huruma, she doesn’t make a beeline for the dressing room, just continues down the line. Only to pause again to pull out a pair of black leather pants. Brows go up and amusement touches her lips.
"Don't act like you hate the free time." Huruma verbally nudges at Megan, expression pleased at both of their assessments. Sometimes you just need to hear it, alright? "It just means that you get to make more trouble with me." That's just what the world needs.
"Thank you, I do work hard- - or maybe I just do kill for this. I'll let you pick." Debra's compliments are, obviously, accepted. A peek over her shoulder catches a look at the moment of amusement; Huruma's smile flickers in a small laugh. "Can't go wrong with those."
"How have you been settling in…?" Emotionally and visually, Huruma can already see how it's going- - her question becomes purely out of a desire to hear it from the source. "There are places to move if you're sick of the barracks life."
Not that it's undesirable, exactly.
Megan's form isn't as curvy as Huruma's really hot gams — she's just lucky enough to be naturally slender. She shoots a grin at Deb's comment, because she knows the workout Hooms has. It's exhausting!
"The free time without gunfire is … easier than I was expecting," Megan admits with a smile. Having Huruma and Scott helps, too. "Now that I'm not quite as paranoid about falling with style, getting out is more relaxing." She's lazily browsing the racks and not finding much that appeals to her at the moment aside from the small hair sticks.
"If you're looking to settle in, I think there's a place just down the block from us that's getting ready to open. Might be more space than you want, though," she tells Debra. "Assuming it's the same floor plan as ours, it's two bedrooms in about 1500 square feet."
“I’ve got my eye on a few places,” Debra comments gruffly, “Though I may look into that place, they once I’m looking at are a lot smaller. Kinda the dredges that no one wants. A lot of studio apartments.” After a few more moments of consideration she drapes the leather pants over her arms. What she doesn’t do is move to try any of it on.
Megan gets a glance out of the side of Deb’s eye, “That’s right. You are one of the really late bloomers?” Meaning her ability. Happy to find a way to push the subject of her, she is happy to push the focus elsewhere. “How’s training going with that?”
Falling with style, great alternative to plummet from the sky. Huruma allows her entertainment to stick in the way she checks herself over one last time, mouth turned in a sidelong grin. "We know kids who've bought an old fire station and turned it into home- - so you've options open to you." Things Debra might not even ever consider. Huruma steps back to the dressing room, this time tuned more into the conversation beyond it.
"Not late bloomer so much as… surprise development…" She offers, though allows Megan to tell her own tale from here.
Wrinkling her nose at the term "late bloomer," Megan sighs. "It's… going," she allows. Huruma brought in a young man to help me get a handle on it. So now I mostly, at least, don't just go floating off. Or if I'm about to, I know how the world tilts so I can hold onto something. But I'm still waking up on the fucking ceiling a couple times a week." She rolls her eyes.
"I still haven't figured out exactly what to do about it," Meg admits. "Scott's pretty adamant in thinking I should register and take advantage of all the health benefits and what have you." Still, the redhead hasn't been able to shake the vague uneasiness that has been her constant companion for more than a decade — that things aren't really over and all it will take is a change in who's in charge in the White House to make things bad again. "I guess I understand a lot better these days why people were so unwilling back then," she admits.
“Yeah, the idea of having my name on a list would make me uneasy, too.” Debra says blandly. “Cause, if you don’t think they would dip into that list… y’all are crazy.” She may not be helping, but doesn’t stop her from giving her opinion. “You get the wrong people in charge of the government and you can expect getting conscripted into a new evo — “ she stops herself and gives them both an apologetic look, “Sorry, expressive army.” Some terms are new to the oldies like Debra.
Fingers deftly flip through hangers, though nothing else seems to be catching Debra’s attention, “However, that being said, I’d still do it. Cause all that is a what if. The government got their asses whipped last time they tried shit, I’d think there would be some hesitation in trying to control you lot again.” Debra looks up at Megan with a smirk, “I know I would.”
"I didn't have much of a choice in the matter." Huruma sounds off as she exits with her regular pants, though a button-down she'd taken to try on. Shoulders a bit tight. "I was on Company radar…well… a long time ago. A life and a half later…" Before she is lest to tug threads too hard, she undoes the front to loosen it, unphased.
"I was, in fact, conscripted into Operation Apollo. …More or less." Huruma's volume has lowered, though her steady voice stays that way, matching the hood of her eyes as she sidesteps back to replace the shirt with her own. Apollo was part of history, hard pressed to be ignored. Conscripted- - to fight the Vanguard.
Amusement sits on her smile when she roams out with items on her arm. "Caution is healthy. Governments should fear their people."
The use of "evo" doesn't seem to bother Megan at all; she just ffts at the apology. And she listens to Deb's perspective with a thoughtful expression. "Eh, I know he wants to believe that it's time to enjoy the results of that fight," the redhead says on a slowly released breath. "I want to, too," she admits.
And yet, they buried Benjamin just a few months ago. The hint of regret that tinges her yearning — it would be really nice to actually believe it won't happen again. Her trust in the people currently in control is fine. The betrayal of the institution cut really deep.
Wrinkling her nose, Meg studies Debra as she walks over and easily helps Huruma unzip and the leans on the wall. Maybe she really is being just too sensitive over it in a lot of ways. "You'd really do it?" She's genuinely interested in the answer, because Deb's a new set of eyes on this.
“Yeah, I read your file, chica,” Debra says to Huruma, starting towards the cashier and stops, reconsiders with a… “Well, the heavily redacted version.” No remorse there. “Pretty badass, I gotta admit.” Respect.
Megan’s question isn’t unexpected, but Debra doesn’t answer it right away. It’s clear she’s giving it a moment of serious thought. “I think I would, but…” She holds up a finger, “I’m also not and never will be in your shoes. I’m just a plain Jane and can’t even imagine the shit someone like,” she motions to Huruma, “has and will go through. So my opinion doesn’t count for shit.”
Debra finishes her journey to the counter and the attendant waiting, “But, it ain’t a bad deal,” while the person behind the counter goes over what she’s getting, the old woman looks back to Megan again. “They want to fuck with you…” She shrugs, “Kill ‘em.”
The attendant behind her freezes and looks up at Debra’s back, jumping when the old woman suddenly turns and offers a fake smile towards them. “That was a joke, honey.” Mostly. The worker ah’s soft, but still very nervous, working to quickly finish adding it all up.
"The redacted version makes for an excellent fairy tale." Huruma muses, now all properly refitted to street clothes; the person behind the counter gets the gift of a throaty, close-mouthed laugh from the empath, who does lift a hand in an idle gesture of 'it's fine'. They know her here.
"That mantra is the story of my life, but you know that." A look goes to Megan, down the curve of her shoulder to the strawberry hair in her peripheral vision. At least Debra gave an honest answer. Even if it's similar to Huruma's- - it's up to Megan, and she'll have support whichever way.
"SESA may frown on murder a tad more harshly than past agencies." Just saying. If you need someone to run interference~.
Megan rolls her eyes theatrically at Debra (and the attendant). "I have had way too many people I'd have to line up and eliminate if I killed everyone who fucked with me," she retorts mildly, making it sound for all the world like she's using everyone's favorite kind of hyperbole speaking of her co-workers or something. To put the attendant at ease, more than anything else.
She's thoughtful about the answer and seems like she will likely take some time to keep thinking about it. Eventually she'll figure out which way to jump on it. Glancing at her tall friend, Megan asks with a smile, "You gonna buy it? It looks fucking fantastic on you."
“The kernel of truth under that fairy tale must be a doozy.” Not that Debra seems to care, the comment is without any true need to know. Turning back to the patient, if possible nervous attendant, the old woman offers over some bills.
While change is made, she glances at Megan over a shoulder with an understanding smile, “I think we all would. Avi’d be towards the front of mine,” Debra says with a huffed laugh. “Though my asshole ex would be the first one in line. Thank you.” The last said as she receives her change and snags her bag.
Stepping aside for the others to buy their things, Deb nods in agreement with Megan. “She ain’t wrong, you look amazing. Killer bod, show it.”
"I have a party to attend coming up… It'll do." Huruma runs a hand along the hem of that dress on her arm, stepping up after Debra to offer the employee a reassuring sort of small smile first, sliding her prize over the counter. It seems to have at least cooled out the anxiety in them, at least- - or maybe that was just her.
"My line, thankfully, is not long." The dark woman glances over her shoulder a moment, more keen on allowing the transaction to go unimpeded; once it's over with, Huruma does add one thing, "Or I could say that it isn't quite as specific…"
"I am on more lists myself than there are names on mine…" Huruma flashes a toothier smile this time.
Megan's laugh is easy and full. "Mine just mostly consists of infant doctors in my ER, so eh," she offers with a shrug.
She waits politely for the other sales to ring up and takes her turn with the small purchase she's making. It amuses her to realize that being out like this, with these two women, is a really easy camaraderie — it's something she rarely seems to find except with Huruma. It makes her practically glow inwardly the sense of comfortability.
As she turns from the counter, she tucks the purchase into the pocketbook on her shoulder. "So, ladies. Shall we find some lunch?"
Sliding her sunglasses off her head to cover her eyes again, Debra gives a shrug. “I’m at your mercy.” The old woman motions to the door giving the two the go ahead to lead the way.
"I hear that I am very merciful." Huruma holds in a small laugh as she pops the door with her hip; a look goes Meg's way- - Mercy's the name, don't wear it out. "I think I know just the place…" In orderly fashion, she holds the door with a toe. The comfort from Megan is much the same in her; looks like they've gone from double trouble to triple threat.