Psychonaut spaceship.
Wednesday, 22 June 2016 13:45![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trace_logs
22 June, 2016
The moon is in the waning Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (83% full).
There's a notable tinge of blood and viscera in the air, not too far from the cookfire. A recently skinned deer carcass here, split down the middle and hanging upside down by its back hooves, the head— Well. It's probably somewhere around here. A hide isn't too far from the carcass, fresh enough to still be wet. Nearby, there's a trash bag with a small paper note attached to it that says, simply: GUTS.
Amidst all of this, dotted with smears of blood here and there that have clearly been wiped down, her overshirt tied at her waist, is Mona. Wearing decidedly rattier clothes than she was the night before, she's busying herself with stowing away some cuts of meat, and clearly getting ready to cook at least one of them for herself, all of the necessary supplies needed to do so close at hand.
The Glass Walker ahroun was here earlier in the day, before he went out on patrol, and there's noise at the edges of the clearing now as he heads back into sight. In lupus, the weight of the moon is all the more apparent in the fur standing up slightly on his back and neck, the curl of his lips back from his teeth. Nonetheless, there is a friendly enough chuff of greeting to the Fury, and a glance at the deer before Six-Shooter heads towards the entrance to the compound, and through the flap entrance and for the moment out of sight.
Mona pauses well before the wolf comes into sight, her eyes fixed on the direction in which he arrives. When he does, she makes it a point to leave open access to the cuts of meat, but doesn't retreat entirely. This is hers, after all, but its not her territory, a fact that even the knee-jerk possession instinct can't sweep away entirely. Then, at the greeting, she begins to put together some of the fur patterning that she recognizes from the other night. Who it belongs to, of course, isn't immediately known— a lot of things about that night were a complete blur— but it's enough familiarity to allow for a friendly smile by way of response, her eyes tracking the large animal's progress peripherally as he disappears into the compound.
Several minutes pass in relative silence before Trace emerges back out into the clearing, now in his birth form once again. The ahroun is wearing just an a-shirt at the moment, which leaves most of the compass star tattoo visible, as well as the armband of branches and leaves, both of which appear to not quite cover significant scarring. He's carrying a bottle the shape of which would suggest it to be Maker's Mark, which is about two thirds full, and there's a slightly more at ease nod of greeting to Mona.
"Afternoon," he offers, after a long moment.
By the time he emerges, Mona's already busying herself with the fire, the first signs of a decent one taking hold of the tinder. "Hey," she says, the hint of raccoon eyes from eyeliner she'd failed to wash off, the slightly-more-disheveled-than-usual hair, giving the impression that this is either 'morning' for her, or it's a 'give no fucks' kind of day. More than likely, given the job at hand, it was the latter. "Just get back from patrol?"
There's a brief nod as the ahroun moves over to take a seat on one of the logs, sitting relatively normally for now even. The bottle is opened, a long swig is taken, and it's offered over to the Fury wordlessly. "Yeah. Another one to run later when Felix gets back from town," he says, and shrugs. There's an observant look over the deer carcass, now, approving enough. "Not bad at all."
Accepting the bottle with a smile and a, "Thanks," to both the offer and the compliment, she takes a swig of her own, and passes it back. Looking over her shoulder once she's sure the fire is going to flourish, she looks over her own handiwork, and says, "It's not a bad way to burn off steam, either." Setting up the skillet at a proper height, she adds, "There's some more cuts over there if you want to fry one up for lunch," nodding in their general direction. "I'd offer to do it myself as thanks for the booze," she allows for an amused smirk, "but I've got an image to maintain."
Trace chuckles a little bit at that last bit, and there's a nod. "Yeah, in a bit," though the way that he's considering them and the glint in his eyes, as though he might just not bother with the cooking part. "I suppose you've had long enough to figure out all those ways of burning off steam, and what works for you," he says, before taking another sip of the bourbon.
Mona tch's softly. "Well— that's a roundabout way of saying 'gosh, you're old,'" she says wryly, throwing some of the carved off fat from the carcass onto the skillet as it heats up. "Though," she continues, seating herself on a raised surface near the fire, "to most of you kids running around, I suppose it seems that way."
"I'm eighteen, and fostern, I'm not a kid," Trace protests, almost automatically, and then seems to realise the words that are coming out of his mouth, because it forms into an 'oh' shape. He lifts his shoulders in a brief shrug, rubbing at his forehead for a moment silently.
To her credit, Mona doesn't smirk, or snicker at the knee-jerk reaction. Still— "Sorry," she says, with an easy smile that says 'but not really.' "Force of habit." There's a crackle from the skillet as the heat continues to rise, the savory odor of cooking fat wafting through the clearing. "To your statement, though, yes, I've had plenty of time to figure it out."
There's a long minute where Trace remains silent, and then buries the awkwardness by taking another swig from the bottle, longer this time. "'Sokay," he responds after, offering the Fury the booze again. "Guess I kind of deserved that one, when it comes to down to it." A minute later, he adds, "But really, last I checked the Sept didn't have any baby goats running around."
The pun earns him a sour look, but it's clear she's doing her best to avoid smiling, tilting the bottle back to take down a decent shot's worth before handing the bottle back. "I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that," she says mildly. "All joking aside, though, don't take it too personally. This kind of life has a way of aging people beyond their years."
Trace grins broadly, and says, "There's more where that came from but I'll spare you," in a somewhat smirking tone, "this time." But he sobers, more serious, not long after, and there's a nod. "Yeah, it kind of does, at that." Once again, he lifts his shoulders in a shrug, pushing away from the surface what is still nonetheless clear as rage and grief and anger all rolled into one unpleasant emotion.
It doesn't go unnoticed, either, but Mona is— as always— careful not to draw any unnecessary attention to it. Still, it's something to keep in mind. It's not as though she's been immune from the effects— far from it, in fact, if the back and haunches of the deer carcass are any indication. "I'm 34, by the way," she says, seemingly apropos of nothing, flopping the cut of meat onto the pan once she's satisfied with getting it greased. She looks over at him. "If that's what you were politely wondering."
That grin is back. It's definitely a more pleasant expression, overall. "You don't look a day over thirty," Trace says, perhaps an ingrained social nicety from some point upon a time, immediately continuing, "but really, I wouldn't have been able to guess. I'm terrible at that sort of thing aside from very broad guesses. I was wondering, though, guilty as charged." He looks off into the trees, and asks, "Finding your way about the Bawn and such okay?"
Affording him an amused look at the compliment, Mona nonetheless accepts it at face (and/or obligatory social) value rather than call it out, deferring to poking the venison steak to make sure it slides over the pan, rather than stick. "Haven't done much exploring today, I'm afraid," she says. "Wore myself out last night. Took it as a sign that today was a good day to take it easy." Beat. "Well— that, and I had a dead deer to deal with. Seemed kind of gauche to leave it laying out in the forest."
"Heh," Trace responds, still grinning a little bit. "I was wondering who that belonged to when I left this morning, but it's not really that unusual around here either." He tilts his head to one side. "You have plans for the hide?" he asks. "That's one skill set I'll freely admit I don't do very well at, out of things out here."
Ceasing her poking for long enough to look over her shoulder, Mona considers the hide for a moment. "I'd say I'd try my hand at tanning, but I'm not sure I could stand the fart smell for long enough to manage it." She shrugs. "Someone'll find a use for it, I'm sure. Same with the guts, if they feel like dealing with them. If not, I'll just find some place to bury 'em."
Trace grins. "Put a note on them says 'free'," Trace says, "and yeah." There's an amused snort. "Kind of the woods version of leaving furniture out on the corner? Or something. In any case, I'm sure there's someone who'll at least want the hide, there are enough people around here who do in fact do that stuff." He shrugs, a much easier silence following it. "So what do you do, aside from work with felons and delinquents?"
Mona chuckles softly, brow arching, a glance shot in Trace's direction. "Not letting that one go, are you?" she says mildly. "Well, smartass," she continues, her tone remaining light and just a touch playful, "if you really must know, the answer is 'not that much.' At least, not at the moment."
Trace just about beams at being called 'smartass'. Apparently, it's a compliment in his book. There's a nod, and then he purses his lips and considers. "Alright, so what do you want to do?" Even with the stupid grin on his face, there's something to the tone of his words that seems to be coming from rank and experience and just the slightest hint of a push to the question.
Either she didn't notice, or she's purposefully ignoring it. Regardless of that, however, "Ask me again when I'm doing it," doesn't seem like it's a dishonest answer. "For the moment, the resources I need for my usual stock and trade aren't what I'd call 'up to snuff.'"
Trace considers this answer for a while and then simply nods in acceptance of it. "Fair enough," he says, only just now digging out his pack of cigarettes to fish one out and light it.
"And what about you?" Mona asks, turning her head to glance at Trace. "You got an answer to that question?"
There's silence in the space of a long, thoughtful drag on his cigarette as Trace considers. "Not in the long run," he says. "I want to get the Spirals out of Edgewood, I want to help make this Sept safe again for all of us…" Trace trails off, no additional tension for the tense topic. "I've got a pack, I've got this…" he shrugs again. "That's pretty much enough."
Mona nods at that, returning her attention to the cooking meat, the two-pronged fork she uses lifted to check the cut's underside before letting it flop back down. "That's an admirable stance to take," she says, giving no indication that she's taking the answer as anything other than face value. "Knew plenty of veterans who felt the same. Just used different words."
Missing pose here. Working on fixing that.
Mona offers a faint smile at that, pulling her pack over to her to pull out a small packet of— something. Based on the smell the skillet produces after the a fair amount is thrown in on the meat, though, it's probably garlic powder, the packet rolled back up and placed in a small compartment of the pack she carries. "I have a vague idea," she says. "Never took the time to commune with him, myself, but I'm sure he's the life of the party."
Trace picks up the bottle and unscrews the cap in order to take another drink from it. "Yep," he agrees. "Well, as long as people have a sense of humour to start with. Otherwise it's only funny for us." There's a small chuckle, and Trace lays out along the log, blowing smoke lazily up and into the air.
Mona mn's, digging one-handed into her pack for the bottle she was swigging from the night before. "Folks around here seem like they're either perpetually amused, or in a constant state of flying around in a psychonaut spaceship," she remarks, holding the bottle between her thighs to get the leverage to uncap it, her other hand busied with flipping the cut. "It's probably the best audience you could ask for." And with that, she takes a moderate sip.
Trace snickers a little bit. "There are people with less of a sense of humour around," Trace assures the Fury, "you just haven't met them yet." And despite all that he's had to drink this afternoon, the ahroun is still incredibly coherent, just less tense, a hairs breadth seeming less likely that he'll fly off the handle at the slightest provocation. "Though I suppose all of that is a matter of perspective. If you're the person whose shampoo gets switched out for nair, it's not very funny, but if you're everyone else, it's definitely funny."
"Sure, if they deserve it," Mona replies, using the flat of the fork to press the cut down against the skillet, the gesture producing an exaggerated hiss. "Whether or not they do is always a gamble."
Trace sets the bottle down on the ground next to him, and then puts his free hand underneath his head, the other hand holding the cigarette, and stares up into the canopy of the trees. "Anyway, what brings you here from Wisconsin? Lot of people come here and pass through, sometimes they stay, sometimes they don't. I've been told that one way or the other it has a…" The pause is reminiscent of someone searching for a word, which since no matter how good Trace's English is, it isn't his first language, "tendency to draw people back."
Taking a slow sip of her drink as the question is asked, the bulk of Mona's attention is largely fixed on her meal. All things considered, that's probably not all that surprising. "I got an assignment," she says, simply. "The tribe wants boots on the ground out here, and they decided I fit the bill."
Straightening, she looks in the direction of the central tree. "I'm guessing it has something to do with who— or, more appropriately, what— took control of this place, once upon a time," she says, raising her head to punctuate the remark. "Otherwise, it's all about networking."
Trace doesn't nod so much as give the impression that if he weren't sprawled out the way he is, he would be nodding, with a soft 'mm' sound at the response. "Well, one way or the other, right now we can use all the help around here that we can get." It's phrased as a simple statement of fact, nothing more.
"Yeah," Mona says, checking on the meat again. "I got that impression." Stabbing into the cut experimentally, she pulls the fork back just enough to check the insides, and, seeming satisfied, drags it out onto a plate she has set aside for herself. "And that's leaving aside the fact that I've yet to meet someone my age."
Trace looks mildly amused by the last comment, and then thoughtful for a long moment. "I'm not entirely sure you're going to," Trace eventually says, after a moment of drumming the fingers of his hand against his knee. A few seconds later, he continues, "Fighting the Wyrm tends to come with a side effect of dying young."
"Almost makes you wish you could unionize," Mona comments, taking up the uncapped scotch to take another quick sip before screwing the cap back on, the bottle slipped back into her bag.
Trace seems all the more amused by this, and his gaze glances to his wrist, which is followed by a sigh. "I've got another patrol to run," he says, standing up and shaking his head a little, before turning towards the compound to put things away first. "See you around."
The moon is in the waning Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (83% full).
There's a notable tinge of blood and viscera in the air, not too far from the cookfire. A recently skinned deer carcass here, split down the middle and hanging upside down by its back hooves, the head— Well. It's probably somewhere around here. A hide isn't too far from the carcass, fresh enough to still be wet. Nearby, there's a trash bag with a small paper note attached to it that says, simply: GUTS.
Amidst all of this, dotted with smears of blood here and there that have clearly been wiped down, her overshirt tied at her waist, is Mona. Wearing decidedly rattier clothes than she was the night before, she's busying herself with stowing away some cuts of meat, and clearly getting ready to cook at least one of them for herself, all of the necessary supplies needed to do so close at hand.
The Glass Walker ahroun was here earlier in the day, before he went out on patrol, and there's noise at the edges of the clearing now as he heads back into sight. In lupus, the weight of the moon is all the more apparent in the fur standing up slightly on his back and neck, the curl of his lips back from his teeth. Nonetheless, there is a friendly enough chuff of greeting to the Fury, and a glance at the deer before Six-Shooter heads towards the entrance to the compound, and through the flap entrance and for the moment out of sight.
Mona pauses well before the wolf comes into sight, her eyes fixed on the direction in which he arrives. When he does, she makes it a point to leave open access to the cuts of meat, but doesn't retreat entirely. This is hers, after all, but its not her territory, a fact that even the knee-jerk possession instinct can't sweep away entirely. Then, at the greeting, she begins to put together some of the fur patterning that she recognizes from the other night. Who it belongs to, of course, isn't immediately known— a lot of things about that night were a complete blur— but it's enough familiarity to allow for a friendly smile by way of response, her eyes tracking the large animal's progress peripherally as he disappears into the compound.
Several minutes pass in relative silence before Trace emerges back out into the clearing, now in his birth form once again. The ahroun is wearing just an a-shirt at the moment, which leaves most of the compass star tattoo visible, as well as the armband of branches and leaves, both of which appear to not quite cover significant scarring. He's carrying a bottle the shape of which would suggest it to be Maker's Mark, which is about two thirds full, and there's a slightly more at ease nod of greeting to Mona.
"Afternoon," he offers, after a long moment.
By the time he emerges, Mona's already busying herself with the fire, the first signs of a decent one taking hold of the tinder. "Hey," she says, the hint of raccoon eyes from eyeliner she'd failed to wash off, the slightly-more-disheveled-than-usual hair, giving the impression that this is either 'morning' for her, or it's a 'give no fucks' kind of day. More than likely, given the job at hand, it was the latter. "Just get back from patrol?"
There's a brief nod as the ahroun moves over to take a seat on one of the logs, sitting relatively normally for now even. The bottle is opened, a long swig is taken, and it's offered over to the Fury wordlessly. "Yeah. Another one to run later when Felix gets back from town," he says, and shrugs. There's an observant look over the deer carcass, now, approving enough. "Not bad at all."
Accepting the bottle with a smile and a, "Thanks," to both the offer and the compliment, she takes a swig of her own, and passes it back. Looking over her shoulder once she's sure the fire is going to flourish, she looks over her own handiwork, and says, "It's not a bad way to burn off steam, either." Setting up the skillet at a proper height, she adds, "There's some more cuts over there if you want to fry one up for lunch," nodding in their general direction. "I'd offer to do it myself as thanks for the booze," she allows for an amused smirk, "but I've got an image to maintain."
Trace chuckles a little bit at that last bit, and there's a nod. "Yeah, in a bit," though the way that he's considering them and the glint in his eyes, as though he might just not bother with the cooking part. "I suppose you've had long enough to figure out all those ways of burning off steam, and what works for you," he says, before taking another sip of the bourbon.
Mona tch's softly. "Well— that's a roundabout way of saying 'gosh, you're old,'" she says wryly, throwing some of the carved off fat from the carcass onto the skillet as it heats up. "Though," she continues, seating herself on a raised surface near the fire, "to most of you kids running around, I suppose it seems that way."
"I'm eighteen, and fostern, I'm not a kid," Trace protests, almost automatically, and then seems to realise the words that are coming out of his mouth, because it forms into an 'oh' shape. He lifts his shoulders in a brief shrug, rubbing at his forehead for a moment silently.
To her credit, Mona doesn't smirk, or snicker at the knee-jerk reaction. Still— "Sorry," she says, with an easy smile that says 'but not really.' "Force of habit." There's a crackle from the skillet as the heat continues to rise, the savory odor of cooking fat wafting through the clearing. "To your statement, though, yes, I've had plenty of time to figure it out."
There's a long minute where Trace remains silent, and then buries the awkwardness by taking another swig from the bottle, longer this time. "'Sokay," he responds after, offering the Fury the booze again. "Guess I kind of deserved that one, when it comes to down to it." A minute later, he adds, "But really, last I checked the Sept didn't have any baby goats running around."
The pun earns him a sour look, but it's clear she's doing her best to avoid smiling, tilting the bottle back to take down a decent shot's worth before handing the bottle back. "I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that," she says mildly. "All joking aside, though, don't take it too personally. This kind of life has a way of aging people beyond their years."
Trace grins broadly, and says, "There's more where that came from but I'll spare you," in a somewhat smirking tone, "this time." But he sobers, more serious, not long after, and there's a nod. "Yeah, it kind of does, at that." Once again, he lifts his shoulders in a shrug, pushing away from the surface what is still nonetheless clear as rage and grief and anger all rolled into one unpleasant emotion.
It doesn't go unnoticed, either, but Mona is— as always— careful not to draw any unnecessary attention to it. Still, it's something to keep in mind. It's not as though she's been immune from the effects— far from it, in fact, if the back and haunches of the deer carcass are any indication. "I'm 34, by the way," she says, seemingly apropos of nothing, flopping the cut of meat onto the pan once she's satisfied with getting it greased. She looks over at him. "If that's what you were politely wondering."
That grin is back. It's definitely a more pleasant expression, overall. "You don't look a day over thirty," Trace says, perhaps an ingrained social nicety from some point upon a time, immediately continuing, "but really, I wouldn't have been able to guess. I'm terrible at that sort of thing aside from very broad guesses. I was wondering, though, guilty as charged." He looks off into the trees, and asks, "Finding your way about the Bawn and such okay?"
Affording him an amused look at the compliment, Mona nonetheless accepts it at face (and/or obligatory social) value rather than call it out, deferring to poking the venison steak to make sure it slides over the pan, rather than stick. "Haven't done much exploring today, I'm afraid," she says. "Wore myself out last night. Took it as a sign that today was a good day to take it easy." Beat. "Well— that, and I had a dead deer to deal with. Seemed kind of gauche to leave it laying out in the forest."
"Heh," Trace responds, still grinning a little bit. "I was wondering who that belonged to when I left this morning, but it's not really that unusual around here either." He tilts his head to one side. "You have plans for the hide?" he asks. "That's one skill set I'll freely admit I don't do very well at, out of things out here."
Ceasing her poking for long enough to look over her shoulder, Mona considers the hide for a moment. "I'd say I'd try my hand at tanning, but I'm not sure I could stand the fart smell for long enough to manage it." She shrugs. "Someone'll find a use for it, I'm sure. Same with the guts, if they feel like dealing with them. If not, I'll just find some place to bury 'em."
Trace grins. "Put a note on them says 'free'," Trace says, "and yeah." There's an amused snort. "Kind of the woods version of leaving furniture out on the corner? Or something. In any case, I'm sure there's someone who'll at least want the hide, there are enough people around here who do in fact do that stuff." He shrugs, a much easier silence following it. "So what do you do, aside from work with felons and delinquents?"
Mona chuckles softly, brow arching, a glance shot in Trace's direction. "Not letting that one go, are you?" she says mildly. "Well, smartass," she continues, her tone remaining light and just a touch playful, "if you really must know, the answer is 'not that much.' At least, not at the moment."
Trace just about beams at being called 'smartass'. Apparently, it's a compliment in his book. There's a nod, and then he purses his lips and considers. "Alright, so what do you want to do?" Even with the stupid grin on his face, there's something to the tone of his words that seems to be coming from rank and experience and just the slightest hint of a push to the question.
Either she didn't notice, or she's purposefully ignoring it. Regardless of that, however, "Ask me again when I'm doing it," doesn't seem like it's a dishonest answer. "For the moment, the resources I need for my usual stock and trade aren't what I'd call 'up to snuff.'"
Trace considers this answer for a while and then simply nods in acceptance of it. "Fair enough," he says, only just now digging out his pack of cigarettes to fish one out and light it.
"And what about you?" Mona asks, turning her head to glance at Trace. "You got an answer to that question?"
There's silence in the space of a long, thoughtful drag on his cigarette as Trace considers. "Not in the long run," he says. "I want to get the Spirals out of Edgewood, I want to help make this Sept safe again for all of us…" Trace trails off, no additional tension for the tense topic. "I've got a pack, I've got this…" he shrugs again. "That's pretty much enough."
Mona nods at that, returning her attention to the cooking meat, the two-pronged fork she uses lifted to check the cut's underside before letting it flop back down. "That's an admirable stance to take," she says, giving no indication that she's taking the answer as anything other than face value. "Knew plenty of veterans who felt the same. Just used different words."
Missing pose here. Working on fixing that.
Mona offers a faint smile at that, pulling her pack over to her to pull out a small packet of— something. Based on the smell the skillet produces after the a fair amount is thrown in on the meat, though, it's probably garlic powder, the packet rolled back up and placed in a small compartment of the pack she carries. "I have a vague idea," she says. "Never took the time to commune with him, myself, but I'm sure he's the life of the party."
Trace picks up the bottle and unscrews the cap in order to take another drink from it. "Yep," he agrees. "Well, as long as people have a sense of humour to start with. Otherwise it's only funny for us." There's a small chuckle, and Trace lays out along the log, blowing smoke lazily up and into the air.
Mona mn's, digging one-handed into her pack for the bottle she was swigging from the night before. "Folks around here seem like they're either perpetually amused, or in a constant state of flying around in a psychonaut spaceship," she remarks, holding the bottle between her thighs to get the leverage to uncap it, her other hand busied with flipping the cut. "It's probably the best audience you could ask for." And with that, she takes a moderate sip.
Trace snickers a little bit. "There are people with less of a sense of humour around," Trace assures the Fury, "you just haven't met them yet." And despite all that he's had to drink this afternoon, the ahroun is still incredibly coherent, just less tense, a hairs breadth seeming less likely that he'll fly off the handle at the slightest provocation. "Though I suppose all of that is a matter of perspective. If you're the person whose shampoo gets switched out for nair, it's not very funny, but if you're everyone else, it's definitely funny."
"Sure, if they deserve it," Mona replies, using the flat of the fork to press the cut down against the skillet, the gesture producing an exaggerated hiss. "Whether or not they do is always a gamble."
Trace sets the bottle down on the ground next to him, and then puts his free hand underneath his head, the other hand holding the cigarette, and stares up into the canopy of the trees. "Anyway, what brings you here from Wisconsin? Lot of people come here and pass through, sometimes they stay, sometimes they don't. I've been told that one way or the other it has a…" The pause is reminiscent of someone searching for a word, which since no matter how good Trace's English is, it isn't his first language, "tendency to draw people back."
Taking a slow sip of her drink as the question is asked, the bulk of Mona's attention is largely fixed on her meal. All things considered, that's probably not all that surprising. "I got an assignment," she says, simply. "The tribe wants boots on the ground out here, and they decided I fit the bill."
Straightening, she looks in the direction of the central tree. "I'm guessing it has something to do with who— or, more appropriately, what— took control of this place, once upon a time," she says, raising her head to punctuate the remark. "Otherwise, it's all about networking."
Trace doesn't nod so much as give the impression that if he weren't sprawled out the way he is, he would be nodding, with a soft 'mm' sound at the response. "Well, one way or the other, right now we can use all the help around here that we can get." It's phrased as a simple statement of fact, nothing more.
"Yeah," Mona says, checking on the meat again. "I got that impression." Stabbing into the cut experimentally, she pulls the fork back just enough to check the insides, and, seeming satisfied, drags it out onto a plate she has set aside for herself. "And that's leaving aside the fact that I've yet to meet someone my age."
Trace looks mildly amused by the last comment, and then thoughtful for a long moment. "I'm not entirely sure you're going to," Trace eventually says, after a moment of drumming the fingers of his hand against his knee. A few seconds later, he continues, "Fighting the Wyrm tends to come with a side effect of dying young."
"Almost makes you wish you could unionize," Mona comments, taking up the uncapped scotch to take another quick sip before screwing the cap back on, the bottle slipped back into her bag.
Trace seems all the more amused by this, and his gaze glances to his wrist, which is followed by a sigh. "I've got another patrol to run," he says, standing up and shaking his head a little, before turning towards the compound to put things away first. "See you around."