capeandcowllogs | (no subject)

(no subject)

WHO: A bunch of magic lamers.
WHERE: Dunwich, Massachusetts.
WHEN: Friday, September 2nd through Sunday, September 4th.
WARNINGS: TBA. There's bound to be something.
SUMMARY: Herp derp.
FORMAT: Whatever you feel like!

Let's get it on.

■ Friday, September 2nd.
■ Saturday, September 3rd.
■ Sunday, September 4th.

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There was an impatient click of her heel against the floor, lost in the din of dozens of other passing people, but Terra turned and obliged. A careful tug expanded the folded-over mess of a blueprint from inside the convention schedule book. She didn't bother trying to read it; even if it'd been right-side up to her, she would have gotten lost in the endless corridors and numbered rooms.

She either didn't notice or didn't care about the nearby clicks of camera-phones. Instead, she was watching the way he looked over the map. "So?"

His head tilts to see the layout as it ought to be, eyes darting back and forth, trying to place numbers blotted out to their labels in the key. It takes a little while to recognize dealers as vendors, and a few moments more still to decipher its location in relation to them; he occasionally lifts his gaze, glancing over his shoulder to find landmarks, squinting belatedly after camera flashes here and there. If he keeps telling himself that nonsense has nothing to do with him, he'll soon believe it, right?

"Right," he mused, lowering his arm a bit before gesturing. "Over this way, I think."

He leads, much more capable of parting a crowd than his lady.

While he parts the crowd, she refolds the map, following crease-lines and the incredibly subtle shake of the floor that comes with walking next to an individual who can exceed the weight limit of an elevator car without any help.

Once that's out of the way, it is operation Hand Catch Without Getting Bones Crunched.

It takes a couple tugs for him to realize what she wants hand-wise, but he's gotten used to reciprocating. He was also fairly convinced he had gotten turned around at least twice, or a series of rooms just happen to look stupidly alike. Eager to please as he was, it made him a little snippy and short with some of the slower, bumbling people in his way. Move, dammit!

"There it is," he says at last, catching glimpse of the dealer's room. He slows and sidesteps, giving Terra the lead.

Of course, Zelgadis was usually snippy with strangers and crowds anyway, so it was hardly a new or unexpected turn of events. Though she took the lead, she was in no hurry to desert, perfectly willing to drag her human anchor in after her.

It was louder inside, and more populous, but at least the pathways were wider and the ceiling higher, giving both illusion and reality of more space. To the one side, all that fandom stuff Terra didn't get and didn't care for; the other, endless possibilities.

She turned to smile back at Zelgadis over her shoulder, making way for the inevitable artisan weapons and historically inaccurate costumes covered in gears.

Terra's head was already whipping around to lead her straight to that mess of costumes by the time he could react to her expression. So his little smile went unheeded. It happened sometimes, but he was hardly bent out of shape about it; he had to keep up.

This wasn't new territory, this aspect. Much like the fair months ago, Zelgadis simply had to be present, keep up, and pay attention. He wasn't much for fashion (neither was she, if anyone was being brutally honest), but he watched to learn. Her tastes, for the most part. Future reference.

And, here and there, he could point at something he thought suited. He knew enough about color and shape to at least do that, not just stand there like a more jaded and useless boyfriend would...

Unfortunately, at least for Zelgadis, was that Terra did not seem satisfied browsing only for herself. For by the third of these, she had gotten into the notion of getting things for him as well. With a quickness of hand and motion difficult to dodge she would wrap this band of fabric around his arm, toss this over his shoulder, lay that other thing below his neck. What sort of look she was going for was a mystery, but at least it didn't involve goggles.

So he was a walking mannequin now, too? Great. A lack of goggles was a mercy, at least; his hair would probably do damage to those things, and like hell if he's going to be paying the costs of those overpriced things...

But it was rather unnerving, given the surroundings. Each addition was met with a little wince or worried glance, a half-uttered sound that died in his throat because she was obviously absorbed and enjoying what she was doing. Each subtraction got an exhale or sound of relief, mainly for himself, because it just reaffirmed he wouldn't have to walk around with silly things all over him.

...Right?

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