The scattered clothes don't immediately register as an issue -- for one, whatever happened here, these people left relatively quickly and mess is to be expected. And there's no way of knowing how long a discarded shirt's been lying on the floor, given that this world isn't nearly as dusty as the one he's just left.
But puddles of water? Those he hones in on as soon as the scant light catches them. It hasn't been raining that long, and the road had been dry before the skies opened up. That water's fresh.
There's somebody in here.
Wolfwood pauses, finger still on the trigger, and considers what he knows. Whoever is in here came in recently. They haven't attacked him yet, or called out any threats. They're being silent, which is a good sign that there's only one -- or at the most, two -- people in here. Big groups make noise just by existing, especially in a small space like this.
And, perhaps most importantly, he's not the only dead person here. That slick bastard who gave him his motorcycle (and a hell of a debt to carry with it) clearly had a good racket in used car sales to the recently deceased. Whoever's in here might be a problem, a local highwayman or... or demon, or whoever inhabits this very wet Hell he's found himself in... but they also just might be another lost soul, like him.
He can't just go in shooting. God dammit.
"You find that mop yet?" he calls out suddenly, turning on his heel and closing the distance to that wet lightswitch. He doesn't turn the switch on yet though, in part because the hairs on the back of his neck are still standing painfully bolt upright, because this is a very bad choice that he's making. But it's the right one, he's sure of that.
He's mostly sure of that.
"I assume that's what you're back there lookin' for, given the mess you left out here."
Guy expects violence to cut through the silence. A threat, maybe, jabbed blindly to flush out a skittish quarry. He does not expect the smart-ass comment, and it's enough to make him hesitate.
Stupid, is his first thought, realizing what the stranger's referring to. Haste had undone his cover. Strange, is his second, when he sees the other man turn around. Though the darkness obscures the stranger, it's apparent he's carrying a weapon. Yet--
A thug would've turned on the lights and barged in, no warning given, hot on a trail promising a (supposedly) easy mark. This is enough to give Guy pause.
This world is a far cry from Auldrant, with its bizarre machines and even more bizarre inhabitants. But if there's one thing Guy's picked up from his first few days here, it's that humans remained humans. There's vultures and highwaymen; there's businessmen, like Yom Crook; there's decent folk scattered among them.
Guy breathes in deep before he straightens up, one hand still resting on his sword. But he cups the other round his mouth and calls back:
"Hey, no harm, no foul. If a mess is made with no one to see it, does it even exist?"
There's no taking this back, he thinks with a grim smile. He'll learn soon enough if this was a mistake.
It wouldn't have been a thug's behavior to just start shooting -- it would have been the wise man's choice. It's stupid as hell to show his hand, to draw attention to himself without knowing who -- or what -- is lingering in those shadows. He's on edge enough that he jumps when the voice finally calls out from the darkness, every bit as fake-casual as his own.
One man, in that back corner. Young, perhaps? But not a child's voice. Wolfwwod turns his face into his shoulder and squints as he flicks the light switch, the better to spare himself from being dazzled when the lights come on. Behind him, at the entrance of the laundromat, the rain is still bucketing down on the other side of that open door. It has a smell, he's discovered. Who knew that water -- clean, fresh water anyway -- could smell like anything?
(Not that he's smelling a whole lot over the coppery stink of old blood from his clothes, but he'll fix that soon enough.)
"Oh, so you're lazy and sloppy?" His finger is staying light on the trigger, but he lets the gun fall to his side, half-hidden behind his leg. Come on out, pal. Let's all be friends here, yeah? "You chew with your mouth open too?" The brat at the end there isn't voiced aloud, but it's still there, clear in his tone.
The room fills with cheap, bright light, lacing everything with sharp hues of white. It takes a few vital seconds for Guy's vision to adjust -- seconds that could be taken advantage of -- but the time passes without incident. He permits his grip on his sword to loosen a notch. Just a notch. The stranger's mouthing off with his weapon lowered. Guy'll take it as a metaphorical branch being extended.
"What can I say? I wasn't expecting company."
He will approach. Slow, with deliberate nonchalance. He wants to get a better look at this guy.
Water amplifies and alters smells. When Guy ducked into this building, his nose was clogged with the aroma of oil lingering from his vehicle's exhaust; the clean briskness of soap laid thin over the humid stink of clothes left moldering in their metal containers. Strange smells, off-center from his normal.
But there is one scent Guy recognizes. Metallic. Damp, yet umistakeable. It makes him cock his head to the side as he sizes up the other man, taking in his disheveled state.
The guy he's been talking to is armed with a sword?! Armed he expected -- in Wolfwood's experience it's a rare traveler who heads out into the worlds without at least a pea shooter hidden on their person, and even kids have knives -- but a sword? It doesn't look like a costume piece either, not with the way the guy's holding it.
Huh.
Wolfwood keeps his head down, hair in his eyes (and his wet sunglasses) blocking out the worst of the glare from the lights. But this guy doesn't seem to be an immediate threat, even with that ridiculous sword. Wolfwood nods past him, towards the back of the laundromat and the door he can just barely see. Is it an office? The restroom? From here he can't tell.
"You could say that again. We alone here?" It's been a stroke of dumb luck to have ended up someplace with the promise of new clothes, and damned if he doesn't want to get these bloody things off and swapped. But first things first. "Tell your friends they can come on out, I don't bite."
With the lights on, Guy can say this with confidence: this stranger looks like hell. He's drenched to the bone, wearing sunglasses despite the storm bearing down on them. It's a strange look, and Guy has seen many strange fashion statements. He gives him the once-over, more than a little judgement in the motion. He refrains, however, from saying anything. Now is not the time to make enemies.
(He makes a mental note how the man didn't answer his question straight out.)
Guy sighs. "I wouldn't have hid if my friends were with me."
From his experience, the presence of a well-armed group was enough to deter solitary troublemakers. He tilts his head towards the back of the room, nods at the door behind them.
"Help yourself to the privy, if you'd like. Just brace yourself for the smell."
Guy will come to learn, in time, that Wolfwood almost never answers a question straight out, especially not one that requires him to admit to any weakness or problems.
Wolfwood, having just learned a new name for the shitter, scowls briefly over the guy's shoulder at the door beyond, then turns that disapproval full force onto the other man. "Do I look like a little kid?!"
And just like that, all the tension in the room -- at least on Wolfwood's end -- dissolves into grumpiness. Asking if he needs the washroom, who is this guy kidding! The gun disappears into his shoulder holster with a smooth, practiced movement, but that scowl isn't going anywhere anytime soon. "You want to get knocked down, just keep sayin' stupid things."
Even as Guy holds up his hands, he's laughing. The way the stranger's carrying on reminds him of an old friend. The bristliness, the snappiness. He shouldn't laugh - but he can't help himself. The gun's been holstered and the atmosphere has evaporated into something lighter.
"I was only trying to be friendly! It's the least I can do after scaring the hell out of you, yeah?"
If there's laughing -- even if he's the butt of the joke -- then there's probably not going to be any fighting. Wolfwood turns half-away from the guy with a huff, directing most of his attention instead to the surrounding laundromat.
He can draw his gun faster than really should be possible, and he hasn't missed a shot in years. So long as everybody stays friendly, there won't be any reason to demonstrate that particular skill set, right?
"You didn't scare me, asshole," he grumps, heading over the the nearest machine and pulling the door open. This place smells awful, but mildewing clothes are still an improvement over bloody and tattered ones. "Bein' cautious isn't the same thing as bein' afraid."
It's really asking too much to find a black suit in his size in one of these dryers, isn't it?
It's not in Guy's nature to continue needling; he's amiable now it's clear there's no immediate danger and he passes the other man to pick up the clothes he'd scattered in his hurry to hide. Oversized shirts printed with strange pictures and writing, jackets, one or two pants made of sturdy material. Guy's picks have all been practical, with a preference for brighter colors - a stark contrast to his fellow laundromat scavenger.
"Name's Guy, by the way." So quit calling him 'asshole,' bud. He pops open another machine and wrinkles his nose. "Pleasure meeting you."
The clothes in the machine he's opened are far too colorful and way too small for him -- they're for a kid, he realizes a moment later, as he closes the door and moves stiffly on to the next machine. There's no point in wondering what happened to that kid, but just because it's futile to worry doesn't mean it's easy not to. Is that kid and their parent out in the rain somewhere, wandering in the dark? Did something come through here and scare them away before they could finish their washing up?
Did something come through here and take them, before they could finish up?
The next machine down is full of black clothes, but they're lacey delicate things. God dammit.
"Wolfwood." He slams the second dryer shut. "What the hell happened here?! Where are all these people?"
Guy straightens up at the slammed door and, for a second, his hand darts for the sword. Instinct. He drops his hand.
It's a good question. All the lights are on, but no one's around. In the hour Guy prowled around...
"I know just as much as you do. When I arrived, there wasn't a soul in sight."
A strange occurrence he wrote off, creepy as it was. Because what could he do? Panorama remained far away. There were still great distances to travel. Nobody could be helped here, because there was nobody to help.
Guy shrugs. "From the looks of things, I'd say the storm kept them from coming back. Or they had to run."
From what, he won't speculate on, nor does he care to find out. There's a reason why, when Wolfwood entered, Guy had hidden behind the machines.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2026-03-12 04:47 pm (UTC)But puddles of water? Those he hones in on as soon as the scant light catches them. It hasn't been raining that long, and the road had been dry before the skies opened up. That water's fresh.
There's somebody in here.
Wolfwood pauses, finger still on the trigger, and considers what he knows. Whoever is in here came in recently. They haven't attacked him yet, or called out any threats. They're being silent, which is a good sign that there's only one -- or at the most, two -- people in here. Big groups make noise just by existing, especially in a small space like this.
And, perhaps most importantly, he's not the only dead person here. That slick bastard who gave him his motorcycle (and a hell of a debt to carry with it) clearly had a good racket in used car sales to the recently deceased. Whoever's in here might be a problem, a local highwayman or... or demon, or whoever inhabits this very wet Hell he's found himself in... but they also just might be another lost soul, like him.
He can't just go in shooting. God dammit.
"You find that mop yet?" he calls out suddenly, turning on his heel and closing the distance to that wet lightswitch. He doesn't turn the switch on yet though, in part because the hairs on the back of his neck are still standing painfully bolt upright, because this is a very bad choice that he's making. But it's the right one, he's sure of that.
He's mostly sure of that.
"I assume that's what you're back there lookin' for, given the mess you left out here."
no subject
Date: 2026-03-13 01:10 am (UTC)Stupid, is his first thought, realizing what the stranger's referring to. Haste had undone his cover. Strange, is his second, when he sees the other man turn around. Though the darkness obscures the stranger, it's apparent he's carrying a weapon. Yet--
A thug would've turned on the lights and barged in, no warning given, hot on a trail promising a (supposedly) easy mark. This is enough to give Guy pause.
This world is a far cry from Auldrant, with its bizarre machines and even more bizarre inhabitants. But if there's one thing Guy's picked up from his first few days here, it's that humans remained humans. There's vultures and highwaymen; there's businessmen, like Yom Crook; there's decent folk scattered among them.
Guy breathes in deep before he straightens up, one hand still resting on his sword. But he cups the other round his mouth and calls back:
"Hey, no harm, no foul. If a mess is made with no one to see it, does it even exist?"
There's no taking this back, he thinks with a grim smile. He'll learn soon enough if this was a mistake.
no subject
Date: 2026-03-13 04:48 pm (UTC)One man, in that back corner. Young, perhaps? But not a child's voice. Wolfwwod turns his face into his shoulder and squints as he flicks the light switch, the better to spare himself from being dazzled when the lights come on. Behind him, at the entrance of the laundromat, the rain is still bucketing down on the other side of that open door. It has a smell, he's discovered. Who knew that water -- clean, fresh water anyway -- could smell like anything?
(Not that he's smelling a whole lot over the coppery stink of old blood from his clothes, but he'll fix that soon enough.)
"Oh, so you're lazy and sloppy?" His finger is staying light on the trigger, but he lets the gun fall to his side, half-hidden behind his leg. Come on out, pal. Let's all be friends here, yeah? "You chew with your mouth open too?" The brat at the end there isn't voiced aloud, but it's still there, clear in his tone.
no subject
Date: 2026-03-14 05:55 am (UTC)"What can I say? I wasn't expecting company."
He will approach. Slow, with deliberate nonchalance. He wants to get a better look at this guy.
Water amplifies and alters smells. When Guy ducked into this building, his nose was clogged with the aroma of oil lingering from his vehicle's exhaust; the clean briskness of soap laid thin over the humid stink of clothes left moldering in their metal containers. Strange smells, off-center from his normal.
But there is one scent Guy recognizes. Metallic. Damp, yet umistakeable. It makes him cock his head to the side as he sizes up the other man, taking in his disheveled state.
"You look like you've run into some trouble."
Whose blood is that?
no subject
Date: 2026-03-16 03:20 pm (UTC)Huh.
Wolfwood keeps his head down, hair in his eyes (and his wet sunglasses) blocking out the worst of the glare from the lights. But this guy doesn't seem to be an immediate threat, even with that ridiculous sword. Wolfwood nods past him, towards the back of the laundromat and the door he can just barely see. Is it an office? The restroom? From here he can't tell.
"You could say that again. We alone here?" It's been a stroke of dumb luck to have ended up someplace with the promise of new clothes, and damned if he doesn't want to get these bloody things off and swapped. But first things first. "Tell your friends they can come on out, I don't bite."
no subject
Date: 2026-03-17 12:38 am (UTC)(He makes a mental note how the man didn't answer his question straight out.)
Guy sighs. "I wouldn't have hid if my friends were with me."
From his experience, the presence of a well-armed group was enough to deter solitary troublemakers. He tilts his head towards the back of the room, nods at the door behind them.
"Help yourself to the privy, if you'd like. Just brace yourself for the smell."
no subject
Date: 2026-03-17 03:58 pm (UTC)Wolfwood, having just learned a new name for the shitter, scowls briefly over the guy's shoulder at the door beyond, then turns that disapproval full force onto the other man. "Do I look like a little kid?!"
And just like that, all the tension in the room -- at least on Wolfwood's end -- dissolves into grumpiness. Asking if he needs the washroom, who is this guy kidding! The gun disappears into his shoulder holster with a smooth, practiced movement, but that scowl isn't going anywhere anytime soon. "You want to get knocked down, just keep sayin' stupid things."
no subject
Date: 2026-03-17 08:13 pm (UTC)Even as Guy holds up his hands, he's laughing. The way the stranger's carrying on reminds him of an old friend. The bristliness, the snappiness. He shouldn't laugh - but he can't help himself. The gun's been holstered and the atmosphere has evaporated into something lighter.
"I was only trying to be friendly! It's the least I can do after scaring the hell out of you, yeah?"
no subject
Date: 2026-03-17 08:52 pm (UTC)He can draw his gun faster than really should be possible, and he hasn't missed a shot in years. So long as everybody stays friendly, there won't be any reason to demonstrate that particular skill set, right?
"You didn't scare me, asshole," he grumps, heading over the the nearest machine and pulling the door open. This place smells awful, but mildewing clothes are still an improvement over bloody and tattered ones. "Bein' cautious isn't the same thing as bein' afraid."
It's really asking too much to find a black suit in his size in one of these dryers, isn't it?
no subject
Date: 2026-03-19 04:02 pm (UTC)It's not in Guy's nature to continue needling; he's amiable now it's clear there's no immediate danger and he passes the other man to pick up the clothes he'd scattered in his hurry to hide. Oversized shirts printed with strange pictures and writing, jackets, one or two pants made of sturdy material. Guy's picks have all been practical, with a preference for brighter colors - a stark contrast to his fellow laundromat scavenger.
"Name's Guy, by the way." So quit calling him 'asshole,' bud. He pops open another machine and wrinkles his nose. "Pleasure meeting you."
no subject
Date: 2026-03-19 04:18 pm (UTC)The clothes in the machine he's opened are far too colorful and way too small for him -- they're for a kid, he realizes a moment later, as he closes the door and moves stiffly on to the next machine. There's no point in wondering what happened to that kid, but just because it's futile to worry doesn't mean it's easy not to. Is that kid and their parent out in the rain somewhere, wandering in the dark? Did something come through here and scare them away before they could finish their washing up?
Did something come through here and take them, before they could finish up?
The next machine down is full of black clothes, but they're lacey delicate things. God dammit.
"Wolfwood." He slams the second dryer shut. "What the hell happened here?! Where are all these people?"
no subject
Date: 2026-03-22 03:31 am (UTC)It's a good question. All the lights are on, but no one's around. In the hour Guy prowled around...
"I know just as much as you do. When I arrived, there wasn't a soul in sight."
A strange occurrence he wrote off, creepy as it was. Because what could he do? Panorama remained far away. There were still great distances to travel. Nobody could be helped here, because there was nobody to help.
Guy shrugs. "From the looks of things, I'd say the storm kept them from coming back. Or they had to run."
From what, he won't speculate on, nor does he care to find out. There's a reason why, when Wolfwood entered, Guy had hidden behind the machines.