pike | nigel's mobile;

[True to her word (http://his-instrument.livejournal.com/3653.html?thread=131653&style=mine#t131653), it doesn't take long for Rosella to go through the Warehouse and put together a quick parcel of necessities for Nigel. She's lived there so long and spent so much time organizing and cleaning--since that was part of her arrangement with Sam on her first day, cooking and cleaning in exchange for a place to stay--that she knows right where everything is almost before she puts down the device to go looking for them. She does hesitate a little over the matter of the shoes, because that means going in Sam's room to unearth a pair of his, and she's simply not ready yet to start loaning out any of his possessions, so in the end she settle's for a set of Duo's old work boots and hopes for the best. Those, along with a snug gray sweatshirt, get wrapped up in a black wool cloak and bundled into a neat package; a small bag of chocolate chip cookies goes into her skirt pocket. And then, wrapping her own red cloak around her shoulders, she sets off for the garage with a rapid step and a cheerful air.

It doesn't take her long to get there; normally she might linger in the chilly air to enjoy the snow, but today she is on a mission, and so she makes quick work of the journey, heading straight for the door and pushing it open to poke her blond head inside.]

[ It's been a few hours since Nigel took that fateful step down to the basement and into the City. He'd spent the first of those hours idly pouring over Saya's tools, noting the obsessive precision in which they were stored, categorized and handled. His attention to detail meant it was easy for Nigel to be occupied by the simplest things for hours on end. But he wasn't particularly fond of machines and gadgetry and he so quickly tired of the exercise, turning to his network device instead. It was during that time that he'd found Rosella, or rather Rosella had found him. Upon realizing who she was (and more importantly what she was), Nigel had felt a familiar feeling begin to trickle down his back all along his spine. Destiny had lead him to Jack, had it lead him here as well? It's a question he considers in both the front and the back of his mind as he sits on the floor of the garage, back pressed against one wall, tediously pour through old posts for any sign of Jack.

At the sound of the door opening, however, he lifts his head and looks over. His first glance of Rosella is obscured by some of his hair falling down into his eyes. Quickly, though, he straightens, pushing himself up to standing in case it happens to be her. ]

Hello?

[Really, Rosella isn't exactly sure what she was picturing the new arrival to look like when she was speaking with him. Handsome, certainly, since he seemed rather charming (if a bit odd), and charming people generally turned out to be handsome ones, too, just like nice people generally turned out to be beautiful. And then of course there was the accent, which only reinforced the thought that he'd a kind-faced, good-looking young man with a lovely smile, as thoughts of other friends with the same accent mingled together in her head. He'd be rather the quiet sort, to be sure, and perhaps the sort that always looks a bit out of place in a room (since he sounded a bit shy on the Network), but generally friendly once one managed to persuade him to open up a little.

What she wasn't expecting, however, is what she inevitably gets: a tousle of dark hair and a wickedly familiar face, one that she's spent the past few days convincing herself was nothing more than a nightmare, nothing more than a horrible, horrible fantasy.

She can't stop herself before the yelp escapes her lips, strangled and heavy with fear, and the bundle of clothes she is carrying falls forgotten to the ground as she ducks back out the door. She is shaking and cold all over, and it isn't from the chill in the air; unbidden, her hand comes up to clasp over her mouth, pressed tight to keep any further noises from escaping.

It can't be. It can't be. But it is.]

[ There is no denying that Nigel is handsome, though he would never describe himself as such. Well-defined features, a strong jaw and eyes that are capable of staring in the most predatory way from beneath an equally strong brow. It's the predatory part that no doubt rings the strongest bell -- the way he glares the way an animal would glare, the way his lip can curl when pushed towards contempt. There's very little of that in Nigel's demeanor at the moment, however, as he carefully tucks his communication device away and stares after the now-shut door and the toppled bounty beyond it.

When he approaches, he takes his time, not rushed or hurried the way any normal person would be. Other people would look to provide aid, some sort of assistance, but Nigel is simply there to satisfy his own curiosities. Eventually, he hand finds the brace of the glass door and he pushes upon it with one hand, making it swing open wide so that a blustery rush of cold air swirls past him into the garage.

He has very pale skin (never one for the outdoors), but the chill December air immediately causes it to flush. Pink in cheek and red in lip, he stares out at the stranger standing there in the street. He's not a dog, not a psychopomp -- but a portent of death? That still remains to be seen.

There's a curious blankness to his expression when he asks: ] Princess Rosella?

[Were Rosella in a slightly less stunned state of mind, she might recall that she's certainly no stranger to the idea of doubles showing up in the City. She's met plenty of them before, and even once saw a woman--a vampire, of all things--that shared her own face. And time and again, she's told herself that in a place like the City, one must always judge a person based on who they are, not what they are.

But that's hard to remember after a shock like this, which leaves her with her knees shaking and a hot sting in her eyes. When that thing had vowed to chase her, she'd convinced herself that it was only a harmless, baseless threat to try to scare her. Now, all of a sudden, she's not so sure--because it's him, isn't it? And maybe this was all a trick, and now she's caught, and--

There's really no way of hiding in a red cloak in the midst of snowy gray December. Of course he spots her, wrapped up tight to try to quell the shivering. And her voice is thin and shaking itself as she calls back: ]

W-Why are you here?!

[The "again" remains unspoken, but the dog would know exactly what she means, with or without it.]

[ There's a difficult question to answer if ever there was one. He had just asked Saya the same exact thing not but a few hours ago and although her first interpretation had been literal, Nigel's inquiry had been meant as completely metaphysical. Which is why, when faced with the question himself he answers -- in a calm, low voice: ]

I'm not sure yet. But all things reveal themselves in time.

[ He approaches the way one would approach a frightened animal (that is what she is, isn't she -- a startled doe shivering in the snow). Nigel has plenty of experience with animals, with luring them and keeping them and opening them up to see how they work. What he lacks in empathy he makes up for in stillness, his barefeet leaving footprints in the snow. Not worried, not concerned, but still curious. ]

Why are you here? [ Much more literal this time. Why come if you only intended to run? ]

I'm not--

[As he begins to approach, she unconsciously takes a step back, instinctively trying to keep distance between herself and her fears. Everything in her is screaming to run, to seize this head start and flee the way she would from a monster in Daventry. But this isn't Daventry, and this is no ordinary monster, and her hand creeps up as if to put some feeble defense between his jaws and her throat.

In a way, it's lucky it does; through the folds of her cloak, she can feel the familiar weight of her pendant resting against her chest. Suddenly seized with a desperate idea, she scrabbles for the chain and pulls it free of its confines, clutching the smooth, cool weight in her hand. She's used this pendant only once in her life, reserving it for times of the greatest peril. But of course, facing down certain death is likely as great a peril as any.

She's sure she can rub the stone faster than he can lunge, and that the teleportation that follows will be instantaneous; it's that assurance that gives her the courage to speak once again.]

They won't this time. You can't have me.

[She has no intention of dying today, whether her foe yet knows the means or not. He'll just have to be disappointed once more.]

[ The scene playing out in the street would most likely be comical if the elements at work (fear and death and obsession) were not so inclined to spell tragedy. Still, the sentiment just expressed to him is so obscenely ridiculous and random that Nigel cannot help but laugh. A hand coming to cover his mouth as he does so, breath pluming up out of his fingers, the sound of it is decidedly not as alien as the Black Dog's laugh. Not a bark, not a growl, just a laugh. Almost charming in its boyishness as the corners of his eyes crinkle.

To Nigel it's a strange thing to do, to laugh. Only Jack ever seemed to manage it properly from him, and yet. ]

I beg your pardon? We've only just met.

you cannot map the ways of divinity;

you cannot map the ways of divinity;

you cannot map the ways of divinity;

you cannot map the ways of divinity;

you cannot map the ways of divinity;

you cannot map the ways of divinity;

you cannot map the ways of divinity;

you cannot map the ways of divinity;

Baby doll I recognize, you're a hideous thing inside;

Baby doll I recognize, you're a hideous thing inside;

Baby doll I recognize, you're a hideous thing inside;

Baby doll I recognize, you're a hideous thing inside;

Baby doll I recognize, you're a hideous thing inside;

Baby doll I recognize, you're a hideous thing inside;

Baby doll I recognize, you're a hideous thing inside;

Baby doll I recognize, you're a hideous thing inside;

][under the tree][

voicemail; | backdated to 1/21

callback; | about an hour later

callback;

callback; | sorry for the delay I'VE BEEN SICK :(

callback; | no problem I hope you're feeling better bb!

callback; | oh my god i hope this isn't too late NOW WITH LESS PLAUGE I SWEAR :(

callback; | it's all good this is just rosella being a twit, idk

Well no one told me about her how many people cried, but it's too late to say you're sorry;