tampered | Log; Open & Incomplete

When; Monday morning, Nov. 12th
Rating; TBA
Characters; Stella Olemaun [

ressurectnlight], and [Open] to beach-goers...
Summary; At dawn, the City’s newest arrival awakens on the beach...
Log;

On the last sunrise together, Stella held Eben close, felt her heart shutter and embrace tighten when his anguished scream erupted into the morning sky then slacken as his burning body crumbled in her arms, and ashes drifted away on the wind.

One last sunrise together... Stella couldn’t bear to watch the sun rise anymore. In dismay, she recoiled from the first light over the picturesque sight. But her body wasn’t filled with pain, but rather, paralyzed by an unspeakable despair that saturated every fiber of her being. As Stella expelled the salt water from her lungs and clenched the wet sand beneath her splayed fingers, a harrowing flood of memories washed over and threatened to drown the prone woman. Survival had been a Phyrric victory at best.

Thoughts of Barrow’s doomed fate, and the loss of her husband Eben, their friends, and the faces of all those who the sheriff had failed- the living and the dead- haunted her still. But like the sand, they too slipped away as a rush of water, a breaking wave, splashed over her, dampening her parka, soaking the fur and feathers down insulation forcing her to fully awake, regain her senses and turn her mind to other things- namely the foreign surroundings and the dawning of a new day.

Lifting her head, through wet locks green eyes stared in marked disbelief at the warming climate, out over a snowless, color-filled land, endless rolling waves and sandy shores with the excited, breathless cries of sea birds hung on the air. And not a speck of snow to be found. Definitely *not* Alaska. But at least it wasn’t night. It wasn’t Dark.

Feeling for subtle comfort of her cuffs and side arm, Stella was sorely disappointed to find the gun lacking. Where its full magizane was, was probably best answered by whoever brought her here. Shuffling off the heavy parka, made all the heavier by the water soaking the down insulation, the young woman was left to wander down the long stretch of empty beach. With two questions hung on her lips: Where am I? What do I do now?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

There was a little beach shack set up along the shore, open and relatively unprotected. The man who resided there needed no protection, though judging from the way he was sprawled out in the hammock one might wonder if he was dangerous at all. Socrates awoke to the smell of human flesh, his nose served as an alarm as well as a prey seeking device. He raised his head briefly, to catch sight of who might've wandered near his Syndey Opera House. However upon seeing Stella, he seemed to relax.

"Oy, down'ere. Lady bird," he went to the bamboo railing and waved to her.

Lady bird?

After thirty days of constant terror, Stella instantly suspected an ambush by default; by instinct alone, her body turning to follow as vigilant verdant eyes carefully swept the strange surroundings, searching out the source of the disturbance, before coming to rest on terrace above. Mirroring previous attacks, every muscle tense and at the ready, prepared to fulfill the most primal of responses, reacting in a heartbeat. Maybe less.

But as the sunlit highlighted his body language, from his casual demeanor and handsome, easy-going smile, the pale pocket Venus relaxed slightly in spite of herself. Years of training told the woman to be friendly but proceed with caution. With a cupped hand, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun, Stella issued a confirmation waved. "Hey!" By the looks of things, he was a local, and if he was a local, Stella could gain vital information. "Listen," she called out to him with a ghost of a smile gracing her lips, "Hate bother, but could you tell me where I am?" She was alone, and lost. And by the looks of the soaked winter clothing and parka in arm, the young blond was *really* lost.

Where she was? For once Scholar had the opportunity to play the part of the welcoming committee. He remembered washing up on the shore himself, salvaged by one Lupe Salvatore who had long left the City. Briefly he wondered what she was doing now... Scholar shook his head then turned to climb down the steps of his sturdy but otherwise shacked Sydney Opera House. That was its pet name.

"Christ luv, you'll catch your bleedin' death in tha'," the man upnodded to her, noting the parka and smelling the mix of saltwater and... melted snow? The fibers and fabric was soaked in it. Scholar trotted along the sand to meet Stella, himself quite unarmed in his board shorts and t-shirt. He was dressed for summer despite the coming winter season.

"You're in the City, bu' you'll be in a doc wagon with a toe tag if we don't warm you up," he nodded and offered his hand to lead her to his beach shack. "Scholar's the name."

[ooc: Sorry late tag, was a bit out all night!]

"Looks like you’re not so winter-proof yourself," she remarked with a wiry smirk, nodding towards his less than appropriate attire. If there was one thing Stella Olemaun knew intimately, it was the cold. Tutored by the harsh realities of life in Northern Alaska, Stella knew that one could go nights in the deepest cold and live. She’d survive three long Dark days, pinned down beneath a 4x4 exposed to the worse Alaska had to offer, and live. But a quick rub to the her arms she tried to ward off the onset of shivering, the sheriff knew the surf bum was right, wet clothing no matter how thick or thin would cause nothing but misery-- hypothermia, to be specific. Best not to prolong it.

A consenting nod; the blond was obliged to reciprocate the courtesy with an extended gloved hand. "Stella Olemaun." Ever the profession, ever the cop, she began asking those routine, but crucial questions— the who's, what's, where's, and when's— that allowed her to better assess the situation and, in the process, the witness.

"Which city... Scholar?" She hesitantly repeated in name with a note of amusement and skepticism, feeling adrift in misinformation and omissions and misinformation; if there was anything she hated, Stella hated being in the dark.

"I'm used to i', Stella," Scholar winked at her then led Stella up the short flight of steps to the interior of his beach shack. Fortunately he had a heating lamp there, for guests who weren't as tough skinned against the weather. But the second hammock on the deck was empty. The 'beach bum' nodded to a door towards the rear of his home.

"Tha's the loo, luv," nodded Scholar, if she needed it. "S'no city at all. The locals all call i' the bloody City, 'n tha's tha'." He shook his head then smiled, "asked meself the same questions when I washed up."

The blond man took a towel from one of the cabinets and offered it to Stella. "I've go' spare clothes, might be a smidge too small though," he smiled, gesturing a pinch of his fingers over her stature compared to his.

It was amazing how a friendly smile and accent could work towards putting someone at ease and tease the reluctant smile’s warmth from Stella’s lips. As she made entry, she casually passes an inspecting eye over the domicile, when she glanced at the lamp, recognizing it instantly.

She was no stranger to heat lamps. UV lamps would supply the sun-thirsty citizens of Barrow with all the vitamin pick-me ups and slight tans they needed to sustain them through the long month of darkness. Not to mention Helen’s, Eben’s grandmother, unsanctioned use to grow the pot she needed to ease her cancer. But of course, it was arguably best to keep her husband in the dark. Helen’s business wasn’t any of grandson’s, Sheriff or not.

Her smile must have dropped through the floor. That’s it? No name? How could a city have no name? It didn’t sit well with her. Something about this place, the whole circumstances of her arrive, sat as well as three-week-old lunchmeat.

Not wanting to appear ungrateful to her gracious host, she demurely accepted the towel. Becoming distracted by the simple indulgence, the act of patting the sand and sea salt sting off and peppering her skin with the sweet fragrance of the soft clothe becoming a rare luxury. God did that ever feel good. The smell: it smelled faintly of home. Recovering from the minor escaped, she blushed embarrassed, realizing she’d only half heard what the handsome blond had said. "Thank you, Scholar," she recovered, "I’d appreciate it." It’s only until the clothing dried, she told herself, noting that she could sun them out on the porch.

Log; Open & Incomplete

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