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OOC: SSWM - 403
Brooklyn's beads were wearing thin. Truth be told, they were falling apart, but she was determined to hold on to them as much and as long as she could. They were her most cherished possession, something which, like her coat, almost didn't fit her any more. Not because she had grown out of it, of course not. It was just too worn and no matter how much it pained her to do it, she just had to change them both. Halifax seemed like a natural choice for her and with that thought in mind, she had left the lands of her pack and started slowly towards the sea. The way took her by the edge of Cour de Miracles, where her brother now resided. For a little while, she lingered, hoping she would glimpse him, hoping they might just run into each other, but the longer she waited, the more she understood that it would not happen. Haven was elsewhere.
Silently, she went onwards to Halifax and as the first houses of the city came into view, a knot tightened in her stomach. The last time she had been here her mother had set the inn on fire. She had watched with such sick interest. Brooklyn couldn't connect the girl who had stared at the flames and wished to know how they were made with the girl she was now. She had changed so much. She had grown quiet, a curious sort of quiet, but nonetheless, the brash girl was gone. It felt nice to be alone in the city like this. She walked between the shops, staring through cracked doors and broken windows, peeping into a life that was not quite her own. Finally, the girl found a clothing store, disused and nearly empty. Many had come through in the past, but she pushed the door open and looked around. Dust had settled everywhere and she stood there for a little bit, waiting for the silence to reclaim the corners.
Brooklyn didn't know where to start. Trunks lay opened and abandoned, but she knew what she wanted was somewhere else. She walked in the back of the shop and started looking for the perfect coat. It would have to be wonderful. The white female was happy. For the first time in a long while, she could genuinely say she was content.
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All kinds of late :<
His hair dye was beginning to fade one more, the color losing its vibrancy and the dark brown underneath began to show. To compensate for his sudden self consciousness, he planted an old ski cap on his head, parts cut out for his ears to peak through, and the remaining dyed hair was erupting out from underneath its edge. There had to be some way for him to style his hair better than simply trimming it once in a while, letting it grow shoulder length usually. He had divided his hair about an inch over from the center of his head to the left, some of his bangs partially covering an eye. It was hard to see and he kept rising a hand to move strands out of his vision. Maybe he could find himself a bandanna or some kind of headband.
Strel needed material, and that was all she wrote. He wanted to make something, a test of sorts, with his skills. Sewing was his passion and he needed the cloth to do what he wanted. Though the problem was, he needed a sort of base to work from, and he was not sure exactly what kind of base to use, let alone what kind of clothing he wanted to try to make. He figured he could look for cloth as well as clothing the humans had not taken away while they were dying out in the city. He could probably cut up a lot of the clothing he found later too and use that as material for Luperci clothing since a lot of what was available would need to be tailored to properly fit a werecanine. He hoped to come across a store that had once upon a time sold bolts of cloth and sewing tools as well as yarn, wool string, needles, and thread, but he would settle on finding only an abandoned boutique of sorts.
There was a store, empty mannequins on display in the dusty window, that seemed perfect. The door was ajar, dust puffing out if it into the day light. He thought nothing of it, slipping into the place, letting his eyes adjust to the slight light difference. He saw clothes lying around on the ground, racks, and some were still hanging. He went to the left of the store, looking for something he could use as an example. He took about four of the same identical shirt, glad they were the same color; it meant they could be used to make a shirt or something of the same color. He crouched behind a shelving unit, examening a fallen blouse. It felt thin and delicate; good for fancy trim. Those shirts, and the blouse, he draped over his arm in his crouch, feeling the amount weight his hand down a bit.
His ear twitched and he turned, having thought he heard something in the back of the store. Stiffly rising, Strel looked over the shelving unit into the depth of the store. "Hello? Someone there?" he called out, voice echoing in the confines of place, lavender eyes trying to see a figure or something in the location he thought he had heard a noise.
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