What'd Ya Catch?


dumortier_icon.gif isis_icon.gif

Scene Title What'd Ya Catch?
Synopsis Dumortier catches a little more than he bargained for…
Date December 15, 2019

What was just last week a thick beautiful cloud on the cold winter ground hasn’t stood up against the rains and slightly warmer temperatures. Splatters of brown mud have refrozen on the gray, crystalized sludge. The evergreens bend under the sheen of ice, looking just as skeletal as the barren tree boughs that shed their leaves months prior.

The crinkle-crack of ice, sticks, and the frozen brush is too loud under familiar, short-heeled combat boots. The laces tick against the calf-hight boot, following up to a small figure in a gray wool coat, deep hood. The gray-plaid scarf may manage to hide the lower half of her face, but it does nothing to disguise cold-frizzed, sanguine curls and glossy hazel eyes.

She holds herself tightly, rubbing her arms and looking around. “It’s way…” Stomp. Stomp. “… too cold…” Crack. Stomp. “… for this …” Sh-IIIIIIIIITTT!” She suddenly drops out of sight, her bellow echoing.

Providence - Outside Creekside-Cabin

December 15, 2019

7:33 AM EST

The woman rolls over onto one hip, hood falling away as Isis looks up from the bottom of the pit…

While Isis isn't down in the pitfall forever, it probably feels that way. The walls are steep and the bottom is at least a soft landing, but the meltaway has made the ground to mud down there. Leaves cover the bottom, a lazy barrier. The thatching overhead is busted through, and beyond that she can hear the crunch-crunch of steps in the forest litter. Any shouting prior to this has gone helpfully unanswered. The wood is full of deer and bear and rabbit and all manner- - it's the people that are scared of people.

Good thing it's not a deer. Or a bear. More like a racoon, with the way the source peeks its head over the edge of the pit. Dumortier's eyes adjust to the dark with the assistance of a penlight, whose beam catches across that copper hair first. Blonde hair wisps at his face, braided loose over one shoulder. Isis can't see much else of his finer features until he click-clicks the light off.

"Oh, petit renard." Rene's voice edges on playful, tempted towards mocking. "So what should I do with you?"

The pit walls bear several dents and scratches gouged into the semi-frozen, semi-sludgy surfaces, resulting in… pacing. Useless pacing. Lots and lots of useless pacing if the state of her beloved boots and the worn trench of tiny stomped steps is anything to go by. But, by the time the little golden raccoon breeches the edge of the pit the woman’s gone still - frozen alert by the sound of footfalls. Well, mostly frozen. A small rock comes sailing up in Rene’s general vicinity along with a holler of, “Git! Go on! Shoo-iiiiit!” Clearly, the rock was meant for some less intelligent varmint.

Isis stares up at Rene with wide eyes and a bright red nose. Her gloves dangle limply from a hip pocket and she holds her hands up. “Don’t eat me,” comes in a tumbling monotone demand past her chapped lips. Because that’s what weird lonely people with pits in the forest generally do with trapped things, right?

The rock, of course, goes wide and high enough that Rene only notices it when it lands; he raises a look downward again, mouth in a line. His put-upon expression stays as it is even through her pleading, taking notes on the state of her.

"Honey, this is the wrong part of the wood for that." Dumortier answers, crouching there at the lip of the trap. "It's your lucky day, I tend towards small game and veg. You look a little stringy anyhow." At least he doesn't say gamey?

Lucky isn’t generally part of her repertoire but after a very quick shivering consideration of Rene she opts not to look the gift horse in the mouth too closely. “Stringy?” Isis bobs her shoulders testingly, but then resigns with a sigh. “Fine. Stringy, but not petite.” Her thickly lined lashes narrow as far as she dares - considering her predicament. “And cold. Stringy and cold.” She moves stiffly to the pit wall supporting the sunny haired figure, pressing cold fingers to the murky wall. She inclines her chin, revealing a spattering of darker freckles across her face that are in fact spackles of mud. “So if you aren’t going to eat me, then…” She puts on a big leading toothy smile. “Maybe you can help a girl out. Literally and figuratively. I’m looking for someone.”

Being contrary, there is first a cant of head and an affirmative, "Petit."

He's not very big himself, but given the diluted accent, maybe not a literal term. Isis need not smile up at him as hard as she does, though he certainly puts on a chuffed look for it. At least she's making an effort to win him over. Same can't be said for all trespassers.

"Tell me what you're lurking around looking for, and then we'll see what we can do." Caution isn't a rare thing to find out here, but maybe he's enjoying the moment a little too.

That toothy smile grinds slightly at ’petit’.

“Not really in a position to argue, am I?” Isis chimes up. As it’s made clear this tit-for-tat is going to drag out a bit longer, her fingers curl through the muck - a little fist that carefully uncoils one finger after the other to rest on biting cold earth, rubble, and roots. “I’m looking for a doctor. Came out here a few months ago. One eye. Hard to miss - not because of the eye, because of his mouth.” She gives an inquisitive jerk of her head to one side, lofting a brow. “Know ‘im?”

Dumortier might enjoy getting her goat, but he knows he can't leave her down there forever. Or he could. Her quest gets a narrowed look.

"I might." Which, in many, if not all cases, is a 'yes'. "Better question," Blondie turns to pull something from his bag and fling it down. A twiney rope lands against the wall, a loop at one end. At a glance, its strength is highly suspect. Moreso when close examination tells Isis that it's a vine, not a rope.

"Is what you want if I do."

“Not going to hurt him any.” This seems like a safe bet. If Zachery’s (likely) managed to piss someone off, they’d want to do the hurting themselves. If he’s actually managed to (less likely) charm this lovely sunny-haired trapper, then all the better. “Just talk. I’ve got some information that… may honestly not matter one lick a’ difference. But, then again…” It could change everything.

Isis looks dubiously at the ‘rope’. “Not petite,” she mutters again, her lowered breath a plume of mist, and inserts her wrist to secure herself to the vine. If it breaks, what’s one more bruise on her rear? She’s just happy not to have twisted anything on the first fall. A boot brace onto the slipper winter-muck wall, the little redhead turns her countenance back up to Rene’s narrowed sapphire suspicions.”What’s your name?” she asks, suddenly all sorts of curious about her would-be rescuer.

"I'd believe you better if you said you did…" Not wanting to hurt him gets a bit of a snort. A lot of people do, though. It's a task to keep him out of trouble. Rene hardly tries too hard now. Just makes sure he has backup. That is easier.

"Rene." A singular answer, nothing else added. "You?" As he stands, she can see that he isn't very rough, and yet- - he seems to have zero problem in pulling her up. The 'rope' is a lot stronger than it looks? Surely.

“Oh! See, you do know the guy!” Isis chimes all too merrily at Rene’s cheeky retort. Her smile twitches at one side, though, when she tries not to too closely consider the vine’s strength or smooth ascension. Instead, she grits her teeth and makes sure to do her proper un-petite part - jamming one boot after another and using her free hand to try and gain any purchase.

Half-way out she looks more like a muddy and frazzled cat than a sly fox - eyes wide, huffing, arms splayed out over the precipice and claws digging into the crystalized winter muck. “Jo,” she grunts. “P-please tell me,” Huff-huff. “I’m not far now. It’s been… a hell of a trip.” Pause. Blink. She snorts and lifts her chin out of the dirt. “Haha. Trip. See what I did there?” She jerks her head helpfully back towards the pit.

The effort Jo makes to help in her own ascent is just as cheeky as the rest. Okay, tough girl. Still a Little Fox. Rene helps her to her feet, lean under layers of wool and cotton.

"You're lucky, this is a small one." Dumortier's features crack a grin, and as for the rope- - it starts sliding back to him like an unlocked reel, ravelling back up and coiling around forearm. He could have just hoisted her out… but there wouldn't be a lesson in that. "Closer than you were before, yes."

With a firm grip around Rene’s forearm, Isis accepts the assistance until she’s on soggy, unsteady footing. She adjusts the lay of her scarf as a distraction from the way her gaze now roams curiously over the golden-haired ‘hero’. “Honestly, I’m just grateful..” As her eyes follow the slithering path of the rope-vine, her words lose a little steam. “…-there weren’t… um…” What the fu-…? “Oh … -spears at the bottom.” She nods. At herself. And plasters a smile back on.

Isis pops a pale brow. “Ever been to Botanic Gardens in Park Slope?” Part askance part word-projectile, all hurry.

He certainly fits the part of Providence, at least in manner and dress. There's always been something quaint and cautious here, and it connects to the people. Isis' diminutive 'hero' just flashes a grin, just a tad crooked to convey his amusement for her eyeballing, pausing, re-treading her words.

"I thought you were here for Handsome?" Rene scoffs, tempted towards laughter but instead turning to pick up a pack he had discarded nearby. He slings it over a shoulder and angles away, a look over one shoulder is all Isis will get in terms of asking her if she is coming with. "I don't tend to linger in other people's homes unless I need something." Would be a 'sure'.

Isis holds up her bare hands. “Wait-wait-waitwaitwait. Handsome?” Her chin lowers to counterbalance the heft of her brows. “I’m here for Zach. I just - didn’t know if you happened to ave a friend living in Park Slope. Someone with your ‘green thumb’, s’all.” She watches carefully as the short man hauls the bag up. “Nevermind, which way to the Good Doctor’s house?”

She starts rummaging through her pockets and patting herself over with the absentmindedness of one running through the Departure Checklist: phone, wallet, keys, and in her case gloves. Isis dips her head to look at the ground around her, searching.

"Uh, yeah? Doctor Handsome." Rene cannot help but cackle just a little bit. "Friend? Not really… I go to the Slope a lot. Hard to miss others like me." This is all he offers in terms of relationships with other agrokinetics, one shoulder rolling in a shrug.

The blonde pauses on his way to look back again, raising his chin quizzically. "Lose something? Probably buried in that mud you knocked around." Dumortier is unhelpful in his commentary.

“She wasn’t very friendly, anyway, come to think of it,” Isis comments on the matter of Park Slope’s very own Poison Ivy. As Rene’s assessment of her search mission, she pops her head up in a flurry of garnet frizz.

“Oh shit.” Isis grumbles what is clearly today’s motto, this time with a new level of annoyance. She toes back to the edge of the pit and leans precariously over. “Damn it. I dropped a glove.” The redhead looks back to her sunshine hero expectantly, brow lofted in the silent, partly sheepish language of: Help a girl out? … Again?

"Dieu, I could just give you a pair?" Even with the offer and his frowning and grousing about it, Dumortier's booted feet backtrack a little towards her. "Do you want that glove or do you want me to take you to Miller? I've things to do."

“Oh. Well, so long as you have another pair.” Still, she casts a longing look back into the trap-hole. “Redheads are cold-blooded, is all. True fact.” Stepping forward, she holds out a bare hand - fingers red and raw; nails, cuticles, and joints outlined with dirt from her scrabbling efforts - they shiver notably. Then she looks around. “Sorry to interrupt your day, but uh… really… What things?” Hazel eyes are turned towards the bare winter-laden forest. “Out here?”

"Here and out of town." Dumortier's answer is less curt this go around, and he steps closer to offer her a pair of thin woolen gloves. A backup pair, considering the ones he wears are well made lined leather. It's a small gesture but he seems no less in a hurry about it. "You know how it is. Things to see, people to do."

At least he gets sassy about it.

“Ooo! Saw-say,” Isis croons with a matching playful smile, stepping forward to meet Rene. “I really appreciate-”

The subtle brush of Isis fingers is a gentle petal of a kiss on the sensitive little area of exposed flesh between glove and jacket. At least compared to the world-tilting gut-splitting sensation that immediately follows. Through the blurry halo of Rene’s dissolving perception, Isis dips her chin and bares her teeth in a determined snarl. She’s not unaffected, simply more accustomed.

There’s a soft thud of something on the ground - the rustling and crack of flaking weak ice seeming to echo as she lets go of her control and the wrenched psyches snap gracelessly into opposite meat suits.

Rene’s proper body is guided to a knee, steadying mind and body with one hand anchored to the ground. Prismatic blue catches the sunlight as Isis looks up and out from the golden boy’s gaze.

The last time he felt something- - anything- - like what he feels now, that didn't end well. It could have been anything, but from the way his body first reacts it is akin to someone who knows when they are about to pass out. Faint thoughts of sitting down, of grabbing onto something. The ground lurches figuratively and literally, thin roots flailing out of the shallow dirt and wilting just as quickly as they appeared.

The snap is new. It's nothing like a bad trip, or a bomb exploding overhead. It's a psychic boot to the face; the reeling sends Rene stumbling backwards into the leaf litter, hands scrabbling for, well, anything.

A fistful of leaves and a broken stick are hazily flung into the air.

Nothing happens.

Instead of facing an onslaught of flora, Isis watches her halo of red hair spread out in the mud when its pilot thumps down with a groan.

Isis-in-Rene gives a detached stare before pushing upright, gloved hand wound tightly around that which had dropped in the quick chaos. Standing over her proper body with a curious cant of a blonde head, she shifts borrowed weight as though to better settle into the foreign flesh.

“Sorry about this. I swear it’s going to hurt me just as much as you.” The taser’s sharp azure sparks illuminate Rene’s angelically cut features from below…

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