They say journalism's dead and print media's a fossil, but Neph's always found both to be pretty handy. She's snagged somebody else's discarded copy of the Cheyenne Tribune Eagle (and wow, WOW is she ever Out West, a name like that sure does scream 'welcome to the land of enormous shiny belt buckles') to read over her waffles. The stack, when it arrives, is bigger than her head and covered in seasonal fruit. Neph's pretty sure strawberries don't count as 'seasonal' during springtime in Wyoming, but who is she to argue with the miracle of preservatives?
She's forced to amend that thought when she gets around to scanning the paper. It might have made more sense to read while she waited, but she's half-afraid her time in Faerun will turn out to work like a trip Underhill, worried she may have been gone years. That hadn't been the case for Moritz, but who knows how portals really work and, anyway, there were totally elves involved in the trip, so...it's anyone's guess. So she drowns her waffles in blueberry syrup and unfolds the paper, scanning the headline. Turns out it's not technically spring yet, not that that makes the strawberries any less suspect: the paper reads March 24.
March.
"MotherFUCKER." she slams her hands on the tabletop hard enough to send silverware and syrup carafes dancing. It's noonish on a weekday, there aren't too many people in the IHOP, but most of those present shoot her sharp looks or disapproving hisses. Neph doesn't notice, doesn't look up until her waitress steps up with a frown that teeters between 'worried' and 'irritated'.
"Is everything okay?"
"Hm?" Neph jumps and presses her fingers to her mouth, more to keep from screaming than to filter profanity, "What, yeah, no, sorry, I...I forgot something. Important."
Since there aren't any actual rules against swearing in a family restaurant, the waitress can only purse her lips and nod. "Ah, all right. Just checking. Let me know if you need anything." She whisks away, leaving Neph stabbing at her strawberries.
Her birthday would've been the end of February. Somewhere, between the foot-travel and the urban guerilla warfare and the search for a warlock and the whole devil crisis thingie she'd just...missed it. She can't even say for sure where she would've been when it fell - camping under the stars or hunkering down in a warded inn while batwinged nightmares wheeled past the windows? It's not as though she (or, until recently, anybody else in her life) makes a big deal out of her birthdays, but...
"I'm twenty now," she whispers as she cuts her waffles into manageable pieces. Twenty. Two whole decades. Neph can't help but feel like somebody out there just lost a shitton of money now that she's made it out of her teens. If she can manage to survive this long, with everything that's happened, what's next? Thirty? Is thirty a possibility now? "Huh."
She's halfway through that waffle stack before her daze clears and her hunger dies down enough to let her think of other things. Like how to get back to the East Coast, for starters. She could hitchhike the whole way, but that could take weeks and she's only got four days' worth of metals. Hitching's risky enough that she'd rather not do it unaugmented. There's always lifting enough cash to buy a bus ticket, but maybe she should prioritize a shower and new clothes first? Somehow the thought of rolling up to a payphone, calling Ashley and asking him to dispatch his private eco-jet or whatever never occurs to her. If she's honestly been gone for three months, it doesn't seem fair that her first contact should be a phone call. How impersonal. What would she even say, "Hey sorry about that portal that ate me I hope that wasn't too traumatizing could you come pick me up from the boonies before I get eaten by a steer?"
Actually, that line does have a certain understated appeal. Neph's just replaying it, a smirk on her lips and her right cheek stuffed with partially chewed waffle, when the IHOP door chimes. She happens to be seated facing the entrance, with no possible way of missing Anika's entrance.
Nephele did not survive six weeks under devil siege to choke on pancakes and die, but it's a really close thing.
no subject
She's forced to amend that thought when she gets around to scanning the paper. It might have made more sense to read while she waited, but she's half-afraid her time in Faerun will turn out to work like a trip Underhill, worried she may have been gone years. That hadn't been the case for Moritz, but who knows how portals really work and, anyway, there were totally elves involved in the trip, so...it's anyone's guess. So she drowns her waffles in blueberry syrup and unfolds the paper, scanning the headline. Turns out it's not technically spring yet, not that that makes the strawberries any less suspect: the paper reads March 24.
March.
"MotherFUCKER." she slams her hands on the tabletop hard enough to send silverware and syrup carafes dancing. It's noonish on a weekday, there aren't too many people in the IHOP, but most of those present shoot her sharp looks or disapproving hisses. Neph doesn't notice, doesn't look up until her waitress steps up with a frown that teeters between 'worried' and 'irritated'.
"Is everything okay?"
"Hm?" Neph jumps and presses her fingers to her mouth, more to keep from screaming than to filter profanity, "What, yeah, no, sorry, I...I forgot something. Important."
Since there aren't any actual rules against swearing in a family restaurant, the waitress can only purse her lips and nod. "Ah, all right. Just checking. Let me know if you need anything." She whisks away, leaving Neph stabbing at her strawberries.
Her birthday would've been the end of February. Somewhere, between the foot-travel and the urban guerilla warfare and the search for a warlock and the whole devil crisis thingie she'd just...missed it. She can't even say for sure where she would've been when it fell - camping under the stars or hunkering down in a warded inn while batwinged nightmares wheeled past the windows? It's not as though she (or, until recently, anybody else in her life) makes a big deal out of her birthdays, but...
"I'm twenty now," she whispers as she cuts her waffles into manageable pieces. Twenty. Two whole decades. Neph can't help but feel like somebody out there just lost a shitton of money now that she's made it out of her teens. If she can manage to survive this long, with everything that's happened, what's next? Thirty? Is thirty a possibility now? "Huh."
She's halfway through that waffle stack before her daze clears and her hunger dies down enough to let her think of other things. Like how to get back to the East Coast, for starters. She could hitchhike the whole way, but that could take weeks and she's only got four days' worth of metals. Hitching's risky enough that she'd rather not do it unaugmented. There's always lifting enough cash to buy a bus ticket, but maybe she should prioritize a shower and new clothes first? Somehow the thought of rolling up to a payphone, calling Ashley and asking him to dispatch his private eco-jet or whatever never occurs to her. If she's honestly been gone for three months, it doesn't seem fair that her first contact should be a phone call. How impersonal. What would she even say, "Hey sorry about that portal that ate me I hope that wasn't too traumatizing could you come pick me up from the boonies before I get eaten by a steer?"
Actually, that line does have a certain understated appeal. Neph's just replaying it, a smirk on her lips and her right cheek stuffed with partially chewed waffle, when the IHOP door chimes. She happens to be seated facing the entrance, with no possible way of missing Anika's entrance.
Nephele did not survive six weeks under devil siege to choke on pancakes and die, but it's a really close thing.