((My RPing rules are on my profile. 
You don't need to match the post length in your reply. One paragraph will be satisfactory.))
For everyone else, it was just another night at the opera. But for Rowan Charles Halvorsen, it was a mission. Luckily for her, she wasn’t required to wear a disguise, nor would any lives be taken. A fortunate night, really. Rowan stepped down the steps into the opera house’s lobby with elegance, crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling reflecting against the material of Rowan’s dress. She wore a long, blue piece, the color of the evening sky, veiled sleeves falling from her shoulders and down her dark arms, floating to a stop just past her wrists. A slit in the skirt traveled the opposite way than the sleeves, slicing the fabric up to right above Rowan's knee. The dress itself was nothing conservative, nor was it noticeably revealing: a perfect fit for Rowan, the women best described as “charming to a degree.”
So, with her ticket in one hand, clutch in the other, and a familiar cool feeling against her outer thigh, she entered the actual opera house, taking her seat in the orchestra section, about halfway down, though her seat was towards the left aisle of the three sections. The lights above blinked twice, a signal all those experienced enough would understand. The rest of the opera-goers promptly filled in, though there was a seat left empty to Rowan’s left. Rowan took this as a small blessing from the gods above, saving her from a possibly undesirable fate. But, just as the lights began to dim in the house, a person walked down the aisle, stopping at Rowan’s row before squeezing past those between the empty seat and the aisle before situating themselves in the seat. Rowan watched them the entire time, charcoal eyes curious, though at the same time critical. If the worst came to be, she could escape at intermission, after she completed her task, of course.
You don't need to match the post length in your reply. One paragraph will be satisfactory.))
For everyone else, it was just another night at the opera. But for Rowan Charles Halvorsen, it was a mission. Luckily for her, she wasn’t required to wear a disguise, nor would any lives be taken. A fortunate night, really. Rowan stepped down the steps into the opera house’s lobby with elegance, crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling reflecting against the material of Rowan’s dress. She wore a long, blue piece, the color of the evening sky, veiled sleeves falling from her shoulders and down her dark arms, floating to a stop just past her wrists. A slit in the skirt traveled the opposite way than the sleeves, slicing the fabric up to right above Rowan's knee. The dress itself was nothing conservative, nor was it noticeably revealing: a perfect fit for Rowan, the women best described as “charming to a degree.”
So, with her ticket in one hand, clutch in the other, and a familiar cool feeling against her outer thigh, she entered the actual opera house, taking her seat in the orchestra section, about halfway down, though her seat was towards the left aisle of the three sections. The lights above blinked twice, a signal all those experienced enough would understand. The rest of the opera-goers promptly filled in, though there was a seat left empty to Rowan’s left. Rowan took this as a small blessing from the gods above, saving her from a possibly undesirable fate. But, just as the lights began to dim in the house, a person walked down the aisle, stopping at Rowan’s row before squeezing past those between the empty seat and the aisle before situating themselves in the seat. Rowan watched them the entire time, charcoal eyes curious, though at the same time critical. If the worst came to be, she could escape at intermission, after she completed her task, of course.
(Hem hem, i know we already have an rp on going buuuuuuuuuuuut do you mind if i reply to this??)
((Nah, if your reply is good. 
))
))
She was late. Well, perhaps a better way of describing it, would be to call it “exceptionally on time”, since the theatre staff had not blocked her entrance. She had heard that was something they did, at these fancy sort of performances. “Didn’t want to distract the other patrons.” Or something like that. She’d only been half paying attention at the time, because... well... who goes to the opera? To a play?
Not Isabella Cotton. She didn’t even own an evening gown until yesterday.
Yet here she was, walking down the aisle in a dress. She called attention to herself, but for all the wrong reasons.
Her appearance, admittedly, was rather... out of place. Her hair is worn in two pigtail style braids, bleached blonde, and the end dyed indigo. They stop just past shoulder length. Dark roots, her natural brown, are starting to show. She even sports a simple lotus flower nape undercut, also dyed indigo. She has hazel eyes, with natural double lashes. Light, natural makeup for the most part. Eyebrows rounded low, to accentuate her heart shaped face. Thin lips, sporting a matte indigo color. It was like she simply didn’t care to make the effort. Physically... average comes to mind. Classic pear shape to body: Smaller chest and shoulders with larger bottom, hips and legs. Mildly athletic build; fit or toned without clear definition. Caucasian, with mild tan; no noticeable lines. The real attention getter was her ink. A biological ripped skin tattoo adorned her left arm; full sleeve that extends onto the back of her hand. An intricate, indigo colored lotus, with leaves on chest.
To the store’s credit, the one that sold her the dress, her attire was actually appropriate. She wore a long evening gown, indigo colored racerback; Fairly simple, and more than adequately tailored. It looked above fine on her. Not amazing, but maybe good.
It was how she wore it. How she carried herself in general. That was the real problem. She was a person not used to dressing up. Not used to fancy things.
And now she looked lost, trying to find her seat as the room lights dimmed... she managed to make out an empty seat... and stopped at the row. She checked the ticket they’d given her, bringing it up close to her face to read in the dying light. Then a quick glance around to see if it was the right row... She had no idea where to look, but after a moment she shrugged and started walking anyway. Not like someone was going to ask her to move, right? They keep the tardy out, after all.
She managed to squeeze past everyone... awkwardly stumbling, and catching herself once in the process; that caught her some looks. It might have been the loud quick burst of profanity. But, she made it to her seat, or someone’s seat anyway. She flops down in it, and then looks around at the people seated next to her.
Choosing a person at random, the woman on her right, Isabella leans over. “Hey. How long till they do the break thing? The uh... what’s it called? The... intermission?”
Not Isabella Cotton. She didn’t even own an evening gown until yesterday.
Yet here she was, walking down the aisle in a dress. She called attention to herself, but for all the wrong reasons.
Her appearance, admittedly, was rather... out of place. Her hair is worn in two pigtail style braids, bleached blonde, and the end dyed indigo. They stop just past shoulder length. Dark roots, her natural brown, are starting to show. She even sports a simple lotus flower nape undercut, also dyed indigo. She has hazel eyes, with natural double lashes. Light, natural makeup for the most part. Eyebrows rounded low, to accentuate her heart shaped face. Thin lips, sporting a matte indigo color. It was like she simply didn’t care to make the effort. Physically... average comes to mind. Classic pear shape to body: Smaller chest and shoulders with larger bottom, hips and legs. Mildly athletic build; fit or toned without clear definition. Caucasian, with mild tan; no noticeable lines. The real attention getter was her ink. A biological ripped skin tattoo adorned her left arm; full sleeve that extends onto the back of her hand. An intricate, indigo colored lotus, with leaves on chest.
To the store’s credit, the one that sold her the dress, her attire was actually appropriate. She wore a long evening gown, indigo colored racerback; Fairly simple, and more than adequately tailored. It looked above fine on her. Not amazing, but maybe good.
It was how she wore it. How she carried herself in general. That was the real problem. She was a person not used to dressing up. Not used to fancy things.
And now she looked lost, trying to find her seat as the room lights dimmed... she managed to make out an empty seat... and stopped at the row. She checked the ticket they’d given her, bringing it up close to her face to read in the dying light. Then a quick glance around to see if it was the right row... She had no idea where to look, but after a moment she shrugged and started walking anyway. Not like someone was going to ask her to move, right? They keep the tardy out, after all.
She managed to squeeze past everyone... awkwardly stumbling, and catching herself once in the process; that caught her some looks. It might have been the loud quick burst of profanity. But, she made it to her seat, or someone’s seat anyway. She flops down in it, and then looks around at the people seated next to her.
Choosing a person at random, the woman on her right, Isabella leans over. “Hey. How long till they do the break thing? The uh... what’s it called? The... intermission?”
((Ohohoho, I sense a personality conflict. Yes, this is pleasing! Hue hue hue.))
((I’m glad you like it. I was a little worried you might mind me stealing the seat. Oh, and I’ve got more planned for this than just an abrasive personality. Though, full disclosure, I haven’t been active in a while, so I might be a little rusty.))
Rowan's charcoal eyes watched the very indigo-colored woman squeeze past the people on Rowan's side and slide into her seat: the empty seat next to Rowan.
Rowan's first reaction was one of general shock. It wasn't every day you saw someone with an undercut, ponytails, and indigo lip color at the opera. And not even that, but the woman also had a large tattoo sleeve coating one arm, and Rowan could just make out a couple of sneak peaks of a chest tattoo as well. It wasn't that Rowan had anything against tattoos or... abnormal haircuts, Rowan often dressed oddly with her occasionally neon pink-highlighted hair, many ear piercings, and interesting fashion choices, it's just that it was uncommon to see someone like that at the opera. Very uncommon.
Rowan herself had forgone most of her piercing, leaving four of five only as slight indents in her ears, two large pearls occupying the two left, one on each ear. The pink hair was gone too, Rowan's natural black combed to perfection, her hairline recently cleaned up. Most of the other theater-goers fit this description of elegance as well, with done up hair and glittering jewelry. The dress of the woman wasn't out of the ordinary for the event, per say, but, yes, it was obvious that the person wearing it was.
So, Rowan was immediately suspicious of said person, though she tried her damnest to hide it, especially when that person began speaking to her. Rowan’s head whipped towards the sudden sound of her voice, most definitely not expecting it. Then, when prompted to respond, Rowan stuttered for a minute, caught off guard, then replied, “It’s at the end of Act I. In like, an hour or so. You can tell, at least in this show, when that’s getting close when everyone’s voices start getting louder and they start crying more and more.” Rowan smiled sweetly at the end, though it was more polite than kind.
Just after Rowan spoke, the lights finally diminished entirely and the orchestra began the tuning of their instruments. Rowan turned her attention to the stage as the heavy velvet curtains pulled back off the stage, revealing a simplistic set, rather resembling an old Italian city.
Rowan's first reaction was one of general shock. It wasn't every day you saw someone with an undercut, ponytails, and indigo lip color at the opera. And not even that, but the woman also had a large tattoo sleeve coating one arm, and Rowan could just make out a couple of sneak peaks of a chest tattoo as well. It wasn't that Rowan had anything against tattoos or... abnormal haircuts, Rowan often dressed oddly with her occasionally neon pink-highlighted hair, many ear piercings, and interesting fashion choices, it's just that it was uncommon to see someone like that at the opera. Very uncommon.
Rowan herself had forgone most of her piercing, leaving four of five only as slight indents in her ears, two large pearls occupying the two left, one on each ear. The pink hair was gone too, Rowan's natural black combed to perfection, her hairline recently cleaned up. Most of the other theater-goers fit this description of elegance as well, with done up hair and glittering jewelry. The dress of the woman wasn't out of the ordinary for the event, per say, but, yes, it was obvious that the person wearing it was.
So, Rowan was immediately suspicious of said person, though she tried her damnest to hide it, especially when that person began speaking to her. Rowan’s head whipped towards the sudden sound of her voice, most definitely not expecting it. Then, when prompted to respond, Rowan stuttered for a minute, caught off guard, then replied, “It’s at the end of Act I. In like, an hour or so. You can tell, at least in this show, when that’s getting close when everyone’s voices start getting louder and they start crying more and more.” Rowan smiled sweetly at the end, though it was more polite than kind.
Just after Rowan spoke, the lights finally diminished entirely and the orchestra began the tuning of their instruments. Rowan turned her attention to the stage as the heavy velvet curtains pulled back off the stage, revealing a simplistic set, rather resembling an old Italian city.
Isabella looked back at Rowan intently, listening to her answer. She smiled back, a warm, genuine smile. The type that said “I’m not psychotic.” Or at least that was the intent behind it.
She turned her attention to the stage, and the set. In truth, this was her first opera. And already, she had decided it would cost her client money. An inconvenience fee of sorts. See, the thing is, there are multiple methods of blending in. Some people chose to step into the role, to simply adapt and blend in. Much like Rowan was doing.
This? This was simply a different approach. She had payed money to be here, an expense that would also be charged for sure. So from a legal standpoint, no one in the room could make her leave... a fact everyone would know... so many, again like Rowan, would choose to simply ignore her. To pretend the undesirable outsider didn’t exist.
Her attention drifted slowly from the stage to the crowd, most were focused on the performance about to begin. A few quickly shifted their attention else where when she caught them looking in her direction. Eventually her focus drifted back to Rowan. Her hazel eyes lingered on the woman for a moment, studying her.
“You’re very pretty. You come here alone?” She smiled again. It was... not nearly as benign as the first one. She had an hour to kill... and the gods willing, more things to kill after that. But for now... wasn’t there an old adage about misery loving company?
She didn’t wait for an answer, but instead glanced around before leaning in closer to the woman. “On the level, So did I. My friends once said you could find some real nice men at things like this. The lonely hearts type with extra money, if you catch my drift. That why you’re here?” It probably didn’t help matters that she wasn’t even bothering to whisper.
She turned her attention to the stage, and the set. In truth, this was her first opera. And already, she had decided it would cost her client money. An inconvenience fee of sorts. See, the thing is, there are multiple methods of blending in. Some people chose to step into the role, to simply adapt and blend in. Much like Rowan was doing.
This? This was simply a different approach. She had payed money to be here, an expense that would also be charged for sure. So from a legal standpoint, no one in the room could make her leave... a fact everyone would know... so many, again like Rowan, would choose to simply ignore her. To pretend the undesirable outsider didn’t exist.
Her attention drifted slowly from the stage to the crowd, most were focused on the performance about to begin. A few quickly shifted their attention else where when she caught them looking in her direction. Eventually her focus drifted back to Rowan. Her hazel eyes lingered on the woman for a moment, studying her.
“You’re very pretty. You come here alone?” She smiled again. It was... not nearly as benign as the first one. She had an hour to kill... and the gods willing, more things to kill after that. But for now... wasn’t there an old adage about misery loving company?
She didn’t wait for an answer, but instead glanced around before leaning in closer to the woman. “On the level, So did I. My friends once said you could find some real nice men at things like this. The lonely hearts type with extra money, if you catch my drift. That why you’re here?” It probably didn’t help matters that she wasn’t even bothering to whisper.
((Hi, so sorry for not responding yet. I have it written up, but it’s trapped on my laptop... which doesn’t have internet. However, ‘thought I should just let you know that, and I will have said reply up before ten PM EST. Promise. Sorry for the wait again!))
((Okay, twelve minutes late, ha.))
Once again, Rowan went through several stages of a reaction.
At first, she was shocked. Mainly because the woman was still talking. Had she ever been to a show before? No matter the level of class, speaking during it would just be considered improper etiquette.
Then, she was embarrassed. Not only because of the fact that this strange person was talking to her specifically, but it was also the things she was saying to her, though she must admit: the compliment wasn't that bad. But after, Rowan couldn't help but feel heat rising into her cheeks.
"I am most certainly not here for mingling," Rowan exclaimed in a harsh whisper, her eyes darting around as others' attention drew to Rowan and the mystery woman. "And who I came with is not your business, nor should you be concerned with it at all," Rowan huffed.
It was not hard to distinguish the change in Rowan's tone. It had been, at first, the more relaxed version of Rowan, but now, it was evidently more proper. This was, in fact, a side effect of growing up in the United States, but learning all the grammar rules and most pronunciation in England when she lived there past her tenth year (of life).
The attention of the onlookers distraught Rowan, as she did not want to be kicked out of the theater. No, she could not get kicked out of the theater. The woman did know that she could, right? It would be disastrous if they associated her with the stranger. She had very important business to take care of! And this... this weirdo could screw everything up for her. And if she did, well, that would not be good for Rowan. She did, after all, have to pay the rent this month. With the necklace, she could easily pay for the next three months. She needed that.
So, with a sleek smile and a quick- awkward- glance down, Rowan whispered to the woman, "So sorry, but could you please not talk to me?" Rowan pursed her lips before continuing. "I would like to enjoy the program-" False. "-and you are putting me in danger of being kicked out." True. "I get it, you've probably never been to an opera- you don't look like it." True. "But really, I don't want to get in trouble." True. "And, well, if you don't stop, let's just say I have the means to make you." Rowan said this much quieter, her hands moving her jacket so that the woman could just see the sidearm hidden under the fur.
And with that, Rowan nodded (to check for understanding) and readjusted herself so she was staring straight at the stage. Externally, she excreted an air of coolness, but internally, though the woman couldn't tell, Rowan was screming at herself for increasing the liabilities of the situation.
Once again, Rowan went through several stages of a reaction.
At first, she was shocked. Mainly because the woman was still talking. Had she ever been to a show before? No matter the level of class, speaking during it would just be considered improper etiquette.
Then, she was embarrassed. Not only because of the fact that this strange person was talking to her specifically, but it was also the things she was saying to her, though she must admit: the compliment wasn't that bad. But after, Rowan couldn't help but feel heat rising into her cheeks.
"I am most certainly not here for mingling," Rowan exclaimed in a harsh whisper, her eyes darting around as others' attention drew to Rowan and the mystery woman. "And who I came with is not your business, nor should you be concerned with it at all," Rowan huffed.
It was not hard to distinguish the change in Rowan's tone. It had been, at first, the more relaxed version of Rowan, but now, it was evidently more proper. This was, in fact, a side effect of growing up in the United States, but learning all the grammar rules and most pronunciation in England when she lived there past her tenth year (of life).
The attention of the onlookers distraught Rowan, as she did not want to be kicked out of the theater. No, she could not get kicked out of the theater. The woman did know that she could, right? It would be disastrous if they associated her with the stranger. She had very important business to take care of! And this... this weirdo could screw everything up for her. And if she did, well, that would not be good for Rowan. She did, after all, have to pay the rent this month. With the necklace, she could easily pay for the next three months. She needed that.
So, with a sleek smile and a quick- awkward- glance down, Rowan whispered to the woman, "So sorry, but could you please not talk to me?" Rowan pursed her lips before continuing. "I would like to enjoy the program-" False. "-and you are putting me in danger of being kicked out." True. "I get it, you've probably never been to an opera- you don't look like it." True. "But really, I don't want to get in trouble." True. "And, well, if you don't stop, let's just say I have the means to make you." Rowan said this much quieter, her hands moving her jacket so that the woman could just see the sidearm hidden under the fur.
And with that, Rowan nodded (to check for understanding) and readjusted herself so she was staring straight at the stage. Externally, she excreted an air of coolness, but internally, though the woman couldn't tell, Rowan was screming at herself for increasing the liabilities of the situation.
((I’m not gonna lie. 12 minutes isn’t bad. Like, at all. Don’t worry about it if you’re busy or something comes up. I get it. We all have lives.))
Isabella continued to smile, watching the woman as she spoke... non-verbal cues were just as revealing of information, though the low light wasn’t helping things. But still, there was some useful data to be had, like, how this woman looked around. Nervous. And no quick glances for reassurance from anyone. She seemed alone. That was certain.
Her speech pattern was a bit off too, though exactly how was hard to discern. The irritation was in her tone alright, but... considering Isabella had just inquired of her being a whore... irritation seemed on the lower end of acceptable responses.
It was the firearm that finally made the smile slowly fade, being replaced by an expression of blank neutrality. Isabella looked at the pistol, and continued to look at where it was, even after it was tucked back out of sight. It was a noticeable pause as well, and coupled with a lack of any sort of emotion, it made her seem... almost slow. Like she couldn’t grasp the situation.
Isabella quietly turned to face the stage, and sat back in her seat. It gave Rowan at least a few moments of her sought after quiet.
It wasn’t intimidation that had silenced Isabella, and certainly not a sudden interest in the opera itself, but rather a careful review of the situation.
Prim and proper woman. Here alone. Dressed to the nines. Not here to mingle. Pretending to be into a performance that she’s seen enough to at least loosely memorize the schedule. Threat of violence, and display of force.
Isabella did not know what it meant, but she did not like how this was adding up. After another moment or two, she leaned forward and started pulling up the hem of her dress, revealing, of all things, cross trainer athletic shoes... dimmed theatre lights can’t cover that up. Why she was pulling up her dress... well, that became apparent enough when she reached under the material, and pulled out a hip flask: Steel and black leather, smuggled in strapped to a thigh.
She sat up, letting the dress fall back into place, then turned and looked at Rowan once more.
“I do apologize. Think we got off on the wrong foot.”
At least this time her voice was lower. Almost enough to count as a whisper. Almost. She wasn’t worried about getting shot. She’d been on the business end of many a weapon before. But that? That had been the most idle threat she’d seen in a long time. Don’t want to make a scene? Get in trouble? What the hell would shooting a woman in cold blood do?
“You’re right... This is my first opera... I uh... I feel out of place.” She unscrewed the lid of her flask, then took a sip from it. “...I’m taking a course in Italian. For a degree... not doing so well... so the professor said If I came to this and found them after... We could maybe work out some extra credit. I guess you could call it immersion therapy.” She smiled again. It seemed... somehow sad... her volume dropped again , actually reaching appropriate whisper levels. “I’m still probably gonna fail.”
Isabella sighed, and took another sip from the flask before screwing the cap back on. “Anyway, my name is Izzie. Didn’t mean to pry earlier. Just thought... gorgeous woman... maybe single... go for it... And then my mouth started doing its own thing.”
Oh, it was weird alright, her acting like the gun thing hadn’t just happened.
Her speech pattern was a bit off too, though exactly how was hard to discern. The irritation was in her tone alright, but... considering Isabella had just inquired of her being a whore... irritation seemed on the lower end of acceptable responses.
It was the firearm that finally made the smile slowly fade, being replaced by an expression of blank neutrality. Isabella looked at the pistol, and continued to look at where it was, even after it was tucked back out of sight. It was a noticeable pause as well, and coupled with a lack of any sort of emotion, it made her seem... almost slow. Like she couldn’t grasp the situation.
Isabella quietly turned to face the stage, and sat back in her seat. It gave Rowan at least a few moments of her sought after quiet.
It wasn’t intimidation that had silenced Isabella, and certainly not a sudden interest in the opera itself, but rather a careful review of the situation.
Prim and proper woman. Here alone. Dressed to the nines. Not here to mingle. Pretending to be into a performance that she’s seen enough to at least loosely memorize the schedule. Threat of violence, and display of force.
Isabella did not know what it meant, but she did not like how this was adding up. After another moment or two, she leaned forward and started pulling up the hem of her dress, revealing, of all things, cross trainer athletic shoes... dimmed theatre lights can’t cover that up. Why she was pulling up her dress... well, that became apparent enough when she reached under the material, and pulled out a hip flask: Steel and black leather, smuggled in strapped to a thigh.
She sat up, letting the dress fall back into place, then turned and looked at Rowan once more.
“I do apologize. Think we got off on the wrong foot.”
At least this time her voice was lower. Almost enough to count as a whisper. Almost. She wasn’t worried about getting shot. She’d been on the business end of many a weapon before. But that? That had been the most idle threat she’d seen in a long time. Don’t want to make a scene? Get in trouble? What the hell would shooting a woman in cold blood do?
“You’re right... This is my first opera... I uh... I feel out of place.” She unscrewed the lid of her flask, then took a sip from it. “...I’m taking a course in Italian. For a degree... not doing so well... so the professor said If I came to this and found them after... We could maybe work out some extra credit. I guess you could call it immersion therapy.” She smiled again. It seemed... somehow sad... her volume dropped again , actually reaching appropriate whisper levels. “I’m still probably gonna fail.”
Isabella sighed, and took another sip from the flask before screwing the cap back on. “Anyway, my name is Izzie. Didn’t mean to pry earlier. Just thought... gorgeous woman... maybe single... go for it... And then my mouth started doing its own thing.”
Oh, it was weird alright, her acting like the gun thing hadn’t just happened.
((I didn’t scare you off, did I?))
((No, sorry. Haha, just busy. Didn't get home until late last night again.))
((Ah. Fair enough. I know how it can be... and figured it was something like that... but you know, there’s the little voice in my head that starts getting all negative.))
((OT: I've just been stalking this thread since I get the notifs and all... and can I just say that I am so gay for Isabella??? She just seems like a very badass lady and I would ask to rp if I wasn't just about the least motivated person ever.))
((Hi, I’m back.))
Rowan breathed quietly out through her mouth as she saw the woman turn back to face the stage. Good. The lack of the out-of-place woman would make Rowan’s life much easier now. It was the indigo truly. Rowan was fond of color, but the way she popped amongst the muted color of the rich would draw too much attention to Rowan if she got attached.
Rowan was happy the gun thing had worked too. Honestly, given the woman’s attitude, it was a gamble. A gamble that had worked out in favor of Rowan, but it shouldn’t’ve had to have happened. If only Rowan hadn’t lost it. Showing someone a gun, in an opera house too, was not the most clever thing to do. Hopefully the woman though she was a cop. Yeah, a cop. That would be a good cover…
Though, hopefully, she wouldn’t have to use it. Hopefully, the woman would just leave her alone. Hopefully, she could just watch the show in peace. Hopefully, this oddity of a human being would not cause any future trouble.
Just until intermission. Just until Rowan’s plan could go into action. Just until she was scot-free. Please.
But at the second the woman spoke once more, all those hopes were throw out the window. Rowan’s eyes fell shut for a moment, preparing herself. But what she heard surprised her both at the fact that it was abrasive and that it was almost quiet enough to be considered polite.
Rowan watched the woman with confused curiosity as she explained her situation, Rowan’s eyes breaking away for a second only to catch a glimpse of the athletic shoes the woman wore. As Rowan’s eyes drifted back up, she watched the woman ramble on about some Italian class she was taking.
But the woman seemed sincere, as much as Rowan couldn’t trust her. And she still couldn’t. No sane person would continue to talk to a person, especially after being threatened by a gun. Well, no sane person or a person without a plan. And as much as Rowan wished she could call this woman insane, Rowan decided to side with the latter option.
The woman- no, Izzie then introduced herself and Rowan was quite in shock, really. Conversation after being threatened was one thing, but to introduce yourself and imply some sort of interest in friendship, that was another entirely.
Rowan, still in shock, replied, “My name’s Jane.” Gotta be careful, you know? Rowan wasn’t the most invisible person when it came to local presence, so using a fake name was the best she could get at the moment.
“Jane Frazier,” she added. Rowan’s name of choice wasn’t quite made up; it was her ancestors. On her maternal side, Rowan’s grandmother shared the same name, though Rowan had only met her twice before she died, so she though it fit to use. After all, who was going to think Rowan was using a fake name when all that came up if you were to do an internet search is a bunch of not-Rowans and a dead lady from Oklahoma. It was unlikely, basically.
Rowan just knew she couldn’t trust Izzie. She was up to something, even if Rowan couldn’t quite figure it out yet.
Rowan breathed quietly out through her mouth as she saw the woman turn back to face the stage. Good. The lack of the out-of-place woman would make Rowan’s life much easier now. It was the indigo truly. Rowan was fond of color, but the way she popped amongst the muted color of the rich would draw too much attention to Rowan if she got attached.
Rowan was happy the gun thing had worked too. Honestly, given the woman’s attitude, it was a gamble. A gamble that had worked out in favor of Rowan, but it shouldn’t’ve had to have happened. If only Rowan hadn’t lost it. Showing someone a gun, in an opera house too, was not the most clever thing to do. Hopefully the woman though she was a cop. Yeah, a cop. That would be a good cover…
Though, hopefully, she wouldn’t have to use it. Hopefully, the woman would just leave her alone. Hopefully, she could just watch the show in peace. Hopefully, this oddity of a human being would not cause any future trouble.
Just until intermission. Just until Rowan’s plan could go into action. Just until she was scot-free. Please.
But at the second the woman spoke once more, all those hopes were throw out the window. Rowan’s eyes fell shut for a moment, preparing herself. But what she heard surprised her both at the fact that it was abrasive and that it was almost quiet enough to be considered polite.
Rowan watched the woman with confused curiosity as she explained her situation, Rowan’s eyes breaking away for a second only to catch a glimpse of the athletic shoes the woman wore. As Rowan’s eyes drifted back up, she watched the woman ramble on about some Italian class she was taking.
But the woman seemed sincere, as much as Rowan couldn’t trust her. And she still couldn’t. No sane person would continue to talk to a person, especially after being threatened by a gun. Well, no sane person or a person without a plan. And as much as Rowan wished she could call this woman insane, Rowan decided to side with the latter option.
The woman- no, Izzie then introduced herself and Rowan was quite in shock, really. Conversation after being threatened was one thing, but to introduce yourself and imply some sort of interest in friendship, that was another entirely.
Rowan, still in shock, replied, “My name’s Jane.” Gotta be careful, you know? Rowan wasn’t the most invisible person when it came to local presence, so using a fake name was the best she could get at the moment.
“Jane Frazier,” she added. Rowan’s name of choice wasn’t quite made up; it was her ancestors. On her maternal side, Rowan’s grandmother shared the same name, though Rowan had only met her twice before she died, so she though it fit to use. After all, who was going to think Rowan was using a fake name when all that came up if you were to do an internet search is a bunch of not-Rowans and a dead lady from Oklahoma. It was unlikely, basically.
Rowan just knew she couldn’t trust Izzie. She was up to something, even if Rowan couldn’t quite figure it out yet.
((Welcome back.))
((Thanks, mate. Memorial Day weekend is an ass.))
Isabella wasn’t insane. But, she also lacked a plan. Plans only last until the first shot. Then all bets are off, and chaos reins supreme. She simply found it better to set up loose objectives, and improvise. If she didn’t know what she was doing, her enemy couldn’t either.
But the woman next to her? Isabella had zero misconception about Rowan being an officer of the law. The gun sold her on that. It was dark, and she only saw it for a second, but it was enough to tell what it wasn’t. And it wasn’t one of the three main manufacturers law enforcement and government agencies preferred. Sure, there were outliers to that... or personal weapons while off duty... but she’d made a show of having it. Of making the threat.
Cops just don’t flash guns. They flash their shield. Their almighty symbol of authority. And most kept them near their firearm... sort of a safety precaution to prevent unnecessary panic in the event a member of the public accidentally saw a the concealed weapon. Plus... threatening someone with a fire arm in a public place? That’s a big risk... especially in this day of smartphones and on the fly video where everyone was itching for their precious time in the spotlight.
Thus, this woman was something else. Here, like Izzie, for a reason beyond the performance. She was certain of that... equally certain she was a planner... and one that could easily be rattled if things didn’t go as they should. Though what her plan was... well, that still remained to be seen. As did whether it would be a problem or not.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Jane... Frazier was it?” Isabella paused. What ever the reason was for why the woman was here... she was certain the name was fake. People never used their real names. Well, almost never. Which is why Izzie gave out hers so freely. People always expect liars to lie.
She realized she’d spaced out slightly, and quickly continued, to cover for her delay, “...I think I feel a bit awkward about trying to flirt with you now. My mother’s maiden name was Frazier. We might be related. And then where would we have been?” Okay, that was a full on lie... but also hopefully a distraction from the fact she hadn’t shared her actual last name.
She brought the flask back up, opened it, and took another quick sip.
“Oh! Where are my manners?” Isabella pushed her flask toward Rowan in offering. She glanced around, then leaned in closer. Close enough that the alcohol on her breath could be detected, though her whispering did not drop any further in volume. “It’s Everclear. So... don’t chug it. Stuff will strip off paint just as quickly as kill your...“ Izzie sniffed the air lightly, the closer proximity to Rowan also meant she could catch a hint of her fragrance. “You smell nice. Anyway, the bottle says not to drink it straight... I was planning to buy a soda from the concession stand... but I didn’t have time.”
Her brow furrows in thought, and she glanced back to the doors to the lobby... “You know...” Her attention drifted back to Rowan. “Come to think of it... I didn’t see one when I came in here. Do... do they have a concession stand? For fooding and drinks? It’s a theatre, right?”
But the woman next to her? Isabella had zero misconception about Rowan being an officer of the law. The gun sold her on that. It was dark, and she only saw it for a second, but it was enough to tell what it wasn’t. And it wasn’t one of the three main manufacturers law enforcement and government agencies preferred. Sure, there were outliers to that... or personal weapons while off duty... but she’d made a show of having it. Of making the threat.
Cops just don’t flash guns. They flash their shield. Their almighty symbol of authority. And most kept them near their firearm... sort of a safety precaution to prevent unnecessary panic in the event a member of the public accidentally saw a the concealed weapon. Plus... threatening someone with a fire arm in a public place? That’s a big risk... especially in this day of smartphones and on the fly video where everyone was itching for their precious time in the spotlight.
Thus, this woman was something else. Here, like Izzie, for a reason beyond the performance. She was certain of that... equally certain she was a planner... and one that could easily be rattled if things didn’t go as they should. Though what her plan was... well, that still remained to be seen. As did whether it would be a problem or not.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Jane... Frazier was it?” Isabella paused. What ever the reason was for why the woman was here... she was certain the name was fake. People never used their real names. Well, almost never. Which is why Izzie gave out hers so freely. People always expect liars to lie.
She realized she’d spaced out slightly, and quickly continued, to cover for her delay, “...I think I feel a bit awkward about trying to flirt with you now. My mother’s maiden name was Frazier. We might be related. And then where would we have been?” Okay, that was a full on lie... but also hopefully a distraction from the fact she hadn’t shared her actual last name.
She brought the flask back up, opened it, and took another quick sip.
“Oh! Where are my manners?” Isabella pushed her flask toward Rowan in offering. She glanced around, then leaned in closer. Close enough that the alcohol on her breath could be detected, though her whispering did not drop any further in volume. “It’s Everclear. So... don’t chug it. Stuff will strip off paint just as quickly as kill your...“ Izzie sniffed the air lightly, the closer proximity to Rowan also meant she could catch a hint of her fragrance. “You smell nice. Anyway, the bottle says not to drink it straight... I was planning to buy a soda from the concession stand... but I didn’t have time.”
Her brow furrows in thought, and she glanced back to the doors to the lobby... “You know...” Her attention drifted back to Rowan. “Come to think of it... I didn’t see one when I came in here. Do... do they have a concession stand? For fooding and drinks? It’s a theatre, right?”
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