All she can see, all the way out to the horizon, is sand and sky. No plants, no real sign of life. Camilla has to tip back the wide brim of a stone-grey hat to mark the position of the sun in the sky, and she briefly thinks, where the hell would I have gotten a hat like this?. She startles at the conviction of it, flails for the self-knowledge of what it is she likes or doesn't like to wear, of why she is or is not familiar with anything from here.
It's gone. A classic mistake, darting too fast instead of approaching obliquely, of wanting too much, telegraphing her need to know, and like water through her hands any following knowledge slips away with just a sharp headache left behind.
Like her and the sand, even her memories won't stay. At least, she thinks sardonically, if she's losing her mind, there's no one out here to see.
She takes another sharp look at the sun, squinting; it's not quite overhead. There's no other sign of where to go, so she points herself toward the half of the dome with more sky, judging from the light -- and the heat; she's already unconsciously stripping the jacket she's wearing off, a little stiff but still soft under her hands, some kind of real hide -- that it's past midday, not still rising. If she orients somewhat toward sunrise, she reckons, at least the sun won't travel toward her. She puts herself at a 45 degree angle to the imaginary path she's drawn, so the sun isn't quite as directly in her face, rolls up the sleeves of the woven shirt, and starts walking.
She doesn't know how long she does that for. Long enough to know that she should have gone some distance for her calves to be aching on flat land -- and to recognize this is a thing she knows about herself; long enough to unbutton her shirt down to a sweat-soaked white undershirt and throw the jacket over her shoulders in the hopes of both layers swaying with her movement and generating some breeze.
Long enough to remember she isn't just alone here, now, but that she has lost everything. The only thing -- the only person who matters. To feel that emptiness in her gut like a weight, like a planet of weight.
Long enough to realize the sun hasn't moved. She crouches down, squinting wearily in every direction, and scoops up a pinch of the scalding sand in her hands, looking at it for any indication of -- anything. There's nothing. Nothing even that slips away from her memory. Except a breeze, warm but something, that takes it away from her, whispering. She shivers, a little. Or does the ground tremble, or is it sound? She lifts her head, slowly aware to be alert.
03. bull rider
Cam has decided three things: she doesn't at all mind an old fashioned, as recommended to her by the bartender; she doesn't prefer to drink as quickly as most others in the bar, and she's not as rattled by the bartender as a few of the others seem to be. She is intrigued by the few repetitive phrases in her lexicon, but she seems well meaning, and Cam can't say much about herself either, so she's happy enough to have another drink and stay in the cool.
Right now, though, she's drawn to the odd machine, the mechanical bull that's drawn a group. It's a clunky sort of device, dressed up with a patterned skin, rope and horns, and it bucks and pivots, challenging its rider to stay on. It looks ridiculous, really; she watches as someone goes flying off it after what looked like a promising start and collides. You could do better. The thought enters her mind, in a voice she doesn't recognize -- or maybe she does, and can't recall. She could, she considers, feeling for once today a comfortable sort of pride settle into her stomach, sipping her drink and watching quietly, not cheering or jeering. You want to show them?
So she steps up. It's not the worst display -- she lasts maybe half the time it'd take to get a free drink -- but as soon as the thing starts jerking and bucking under her, she can tell she doesn't have the first idea how to ride a mechanical bull and why should she? But she wants it. The worst part is, it's just out of reach: she can feel it under her skin, the idea of moving differently; she just can't quite get to it. It's as though her body's a puppet she hasn't gotten the hang of manipulating yet. In the last couple seconds, something clicks, somewhere, but she's half slid off by then, and the thing jerks upward and tosses her over the front of it.
Camilla hits the floor in front of a group of patrons hard; bristling as she hears aww and laughter. She rolls into it, instinct providing her with that much, rolls over one shoulder. Get up. You never learned anything by failing and giving up. The voice is more her own, this time, but there's a confident, patient undertone to it. You have this.
She orders a shot at the bar, downs it, stretches her sore shoulder and makes her way back up to the bull. The staff member looks a little surprised and a couple of the random onlookers toward the back of the bull call give it up, honey!, but he nods her up.
This time, it's like a light turns on. She can do this. She's done much harder things. She holds on tight with her thighs and finds the rhythm of the thing, using her hips and abs to counterbalance it, a duel, a dance. As people who'd initially chuckled at her trying again start to blink and watch, her lips curl at the edge with a smirk. It feels good. It feels great, their surprised gazes; she goes so far as to twist around as she rides it to tip her hat and lift an eyebrow at the ones who jeered aloud. She knocks her hat back and grins as the timer goes off, dismounting neatly.
04. wildcard
want something else? find cam anywhere in town or on the way! if you want to plot with me, i'm over at plurk at wingedvoices.
[OOC: OTA! I rolled a d20 for her to try again on the bull and got 19 vs her first 9, hence the spectacular second try. :P when she is sober and not in the saloon she will probably be incredibly embarrassed, but you know what, it's been a long day. you can absolutely use that as a wildcard situation though!]
no subject
01. the wasteland
All she can see, all the way out to the horizon, is sand and sky. No plants, no real sign of life. Camilla has to tip back the wide brim of a stone-grey hat to mark the position of the sun in the sky, and she briefly thinks, where the hell would I have gotten a hat like this?. She startles at the conviction of it, flails for the self-knowledge of what it is she likes or doesn't like to wear, of why she is or is not familiar with anything from here.
It's gone. A classic mistake, darting too fast instead of approaching obliquely, of wanting too much, telegraphing her need to know, and like water through her hands any following knowledge slips away with just a sharp headache left behind.
Like her and the sand, even her memories won't stay.
At least, she thinks sardonically, if she's losing her mind, there's no one out here to see.
She takes another sharp look at the sun, squinting; it's not quite overhead. There's no other sign of where to go, so she points herself toward the half of the dome with more sky, judging from the light -- and the heat; she's already unconsciously stripping the jacket she's wearing off, a little stiff but still soft under her hands, some kind of real hide -- that it's past midday, not still rising. If she orients somewhat toward sunrise, she reckons, at least the sun won't travel toward her. She puts herself at a 45 degree angle to the imaginary path she's drawn, so the sun isn't quite as directly in her face, rolls up the sleeves of the woven shirt, and starts walking.
She doesn't know how long she does that for.
Long enough to know that she should have gone some distance for her calves to be aching on flat land -- and to recognize this is a thing she knows about herself; long enough to unbutton her shirt down to a sweat-soaked white undershirt and throw the jacket over her shoulders in the hopes of both layers swaying with her movement and generating some breeze.
Long enough to remember she isn't just alone here, now, but that she has lost everything. The only thing -- the only person who matters. To feel that emptiness in her gut like a weight, like a planet of weight.
Long enough to realize the sun hasn't moved.
She crouches down, squinting wearily in every direction, and scoops up a pinch of the scalding sand in her hands, looking at it for any indication of -- anything.
There's nothing. Nothing even that slips away from her memory.
Except a breeze, warm but something, that takes it away from her, whispering.
She shivers, a little. Or does the ground tremble, or is it sound? She lifts her head, slowly aware to be alert.
03. bull rider
Cam has decided three things: she doesn't at all mind an old fashioned, as recommended to her by the bartender; she doesn't prefer to drink as quickly as most others in the bar, and she's not as rattled by the bartender as a few of the others seem to be. She is intrigued by the few repetitive phrases in her lexicon, but she seems well meaning, and Cam can't say much about herself either, so she's happy enough to have another drink and stay in the cool.
Right now, though, she's drawn to the odd machine, the mechanical bull that's drawn a group. It's a clunky sort of device, dressed up with a patterned skin, rope and horns, and it bucks and pivots, challenging its rider to stay on. It looks ridiculous, really; she watches as someone goes flying off it after what looked like a promising start and collides.
You could do better. The thought enters her mind, in a voice she doesn't recognize -- or maybe she does, and can't recall. She could, she considers, feeling for once today a comfortable sort of pride settle into her stomach, sipping her drink and watching quietly, not cheering or jeering. You want to show them?
So she steps up.
It's not the worst display -- she lasts maybe half the time it'd take to get a free drink -- but as soon as the thing starts jerking and bucking under her, she can tell she doesn't have the first idea how to ride a mechanical bull and why should she? But she wants it. The worst part is, it's just out of reach: she can feel it under her skin, the idea of moving differently; she just can't quite get to it. It's as though her body's a puppet she hasn't gotten the hang of manipulating yet. In the last couple seconds, something clicks, somewhere, but she's half slid off by then, and the thing jerks upward and tosses her over the front of it.
Camilla hits the floor in front of a group of patrons hard; bristling as she hears aww and laughter. She rolls into it, instinct providing her with that much, rolls over one shoulder. Get up. You never learned anything by failing and giving up. The voice is more her own, this time, but there's a confident, patient undertone to it. You have this.
She orders a shot at the bar, downs it, stretches her sore shoulder and makes her way back up to the bull. The staff member looks a little surprised and a couple of the random onlookers toward the back of the bull call give it up, honey!, but he nods her up.
This time, it's like a light turns on. She can do this. She's done much harder things. She holds on tight with her thighs and finds the rhythm of the thing, using her hips and abs to counterbalance it, a duel, a dance. As people who'd initially chuckled at her trying again start to blink and watch, her lips curl at the edge with a smirk. It feels good. It feels great, their surprised gazes; she goes so far as to twist around as she rides it to tip her hat and lift an eyebrow at the ones who jeered aloud. She knocks her hat back and grins as the timer goes off, dismounting neatly.
04. wildcard
want something else? find cam anywhere in town or on the way! if you want to plot with me, i'm over at plurk at
[OOC: OTA! I rolled a d20 for her to try again on the bull and got 19 vs her first 9, hence the spectacular second try. :P when she is sober and not in the saloon she will probably be incredibly embarrassed, but you know what, it's been a long day. you can absolutely use that as a wildcard situation though!]