psychoshenanigans | Skeleton City // PSL

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Skeleton City // PSL

They call it the "Market", and it's always buzzing like a hive. The vast caverns are warmed by the hundreds of bodies all hauling, shouting, pitching, laughing, exchanging things from one hand to another. Even more people stroll up above, their voices lost in the tangle of bridges made of stone and wood and metal. The place is lit by dozens of electric signs, spilling brightwarm colors where the hanging lanterns cannot reach.

There is a lot to look at. One person seems to trade a bolt of rich red cloth for some nails and hinges. One man is trying very hard to convince another that the chicken he is holding is worth at least three bags of grainmeal. And then there is whatever Phalanx is holding, which they most certainly did not trade for, and it most certainly leads to someone reaching out over their stall table and grabbing them harshly by the arm.

"Hey, you little theif!" Says an irate, heavy-set woman, "What do you think you're doing?"

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"--All this," Phalanx compulsively parrots before the man has finished the words, and the hand that Robin isn't holding gets fidgety with the edges of their new coat.

They look around the tent, give the man another hesitant glance, and then look up at Robin. They look like they want to answer, but maybe don't understand the question. Or the context. Or the place in time and space that it's being asked in.

"All this?"

The man watches this with interest, while Robin--who has a lot of experience talking to Phalanx over the last day and some change--finds it easy to respond.

"I believe he's asking how you feel about my trying to figure out where you came from."

Whether or not this is, in fact, what the man is interested in, he nods a little in acknowledgement. He also reaches down towards that other hand of theirs, the one that's fidgeting uncomfortably, but stops just seconds after turning it up.

"Darling--what happened to your hand?"

It's the one that got stabbed by a dozen needles. The bleeding has probably stopped by now, but both the both of them had gotten so sidetracked by the "sewing" adventure that Robin completely forgot that Phalanx was ever bleeding in the first place.

"Oh, shit--" Robin says, genuinely surprised, "That's right!"

"...Oh." Right. That happened.

The fact that Phalanx's fingers look permanently filthy doesn't help either. Stained and sticky with blood and immovable dirt, they look ready for some kind of infection.

"Sewing," Phalanx offers helpfully. They know the answer to that one.

At that, the man laughs. Perhaps surprisingly, it is not a cruel laugh, but rather one of genuine surprise and light affect.

"Oh, do you like sewing?" the man asks him, half of his face lit up with a charmed smile.

Phalanx would be relieved to not be mocked if they knew to expect it. Instead, they only brighten a little bit with renewed interest and nod.

"Working."

The man seems to like that answer too, for whatever reason.

"Working, yes," he drops Phalanx's hand, "Always good to be keeping busy. Come--"

He turns, limping back towards the center of his tent with a bit of a guiding nod for the both of them to follow him further into the space.

"Make yourselves at home, I'll think while you shop. Would you like some tea?"

"I think you've made a friend," Robin says to Phalanx now that the surprise is over, not so quiet that this 'Tonic' couldn't hear them, but not so loud that it could be mistaken as meant for anyone else.

Phalanx makes a conflicted sound and--now that they have reclaimed some personal space--they take their hand back from Robin so they can start unwinding and fixing the wraps on their arm. Sensing that they're all going to be moving onto whatever the next stage of this adventure will be, they want to bind up and hide their wounded hand first.

If Phalanx's hand hurt more, Robin would offer to fix it. If they weren't used to hideous, debilitating injuries being a fact of everyday life, Tonic probably would have offered to fix it too. But as they are, neither men stops Phalanx from wrapping up his wounded hand rather than addressing it.

"No answer?" Says their shopkeeper, who has ducked down around a hidden corner of the internal geometry of this tent. "You don't have to say yes."

"No, thank you," Robin finally answers, "I was actually hoping you could help us find a skirt appropriate for my new friend."

Robin doesn't want to set Phalanx loose in this shop, honestly. They'll go right for the pile of blankets, tunnel into it and refuse to be parted from them. The things hung up on the frame look like coats, and bits of armor cobbled together from bits and pieces of metal and other scraps from all corners of the Underground--but none of it seems right for Phalanx.

"Mm," says the voice from just out of sight, "Something grey, I'd imagine."

Keeping the creature close and managed is a good tactic. Already, Phalanx is looking wander-y, and definitely eyeing the tempting sea of cloth. There is a distinct look of longing in those currently-colorful eyes.

Though, when they do finally begin to drift, it's toward literally whatever object is closest to them and can fit in the palm of a hand.

There are a number of bags draped over and spilling out of a small chest near where they entered--that's probably where Phalanx wanders first. Some of them have buckles, metal snaps, or drawstrings on them, but some are simply very plain bags made out of whatever fabric was available. The whole thing is kind of a confusing mash of grungy style and limited materials, but it would be fun to dig through.

"Something that wraps around multiple times, I think," Robin replies, briefly eyeing and picking up a leather glove off a hook, "Not too tight, though."

"You're describing a blanket, honey," the man replies, coming out of the back just to roll both of his eyes (though one doesn't quite follow in the same perfect loop as the other).

Robin laughs, glancing back at Phalanx, "I'd take that, if it would stay on him."

The man considers for a moment, before directing another question at his new acquaintance, "Well, how much do you like buckles?"

It takes Phalanx a delayed moment to realize that they're being spoken to, and when they do, they are absolutely in the middle of rummaging through that welcoming pile of bags.

"Buckles." Phalanx lifts up a bag that does, indeed, have a bunch of buckles dangling off of it. "Buckles... bugs. Bags."

Tonic looks at Robin... who looks back at Tonic.

"You heard them," Robin says, shrugging.

"I did, yes," Tonic agrees, though he's clearly not certain what he heard. Still, he walks across the tent again, ending up near Phalanx as he looks through another pile of things that is slightly more organized than the chest full of bags.

He moves through a couple of lovingly tattered shirts and long, patchy scarves with rivets and swirling embroidery, picks up a black skirt, holds it up towards Phalanx... puts it back down again. He picks up a second skirt, this one jingling with the sounds of some buckles and belts that may or may not just be sewn on to the damn thing... and nods.

"I think this will do. Would you like to try it on?"

He seems to be talking to Phalanx again, foolishly.

Robin may or may not have thoughts on the idea... but Phalanx does head toward the shopkeeper and reach for the skirt.

If no one intervenes, who knows how that thing is going to be cobbled into their current outfit.

"Phalanx..." Robin starts, with a slight sense of warning in his tone, "...That's for your legs."

Again, he remembers the incident with the shirt.

Yeah, the look that Phalanx pauses to give Robin is absolutely one of confusion. So, if there had been any question on the shopkeeper's part about the necessity of the warning, there won't be at that point. Phalanx has to take a second look at the skirt and do some thinking before they try reaching for it again.

And, blessedly, they take the instructions to heart. Though, if any buckles or ties need to be undone first, someone is going to need to help, because they don't bother with anything before stepping into it.

Robin seems content to watch them struggle. The shopkeeper, on the other hand, is very used to helping people in and out of clothes, and steps in to help without so much as a moment's hesitation.

"If I may," he says, reaching forward to undo the buckle with his good hand. His bad hand (or rather, his entire bad arm) has not moved much the entire time they've been in here. Now, it's easy to see that it moves with some difficulty, stiffly, almost robotically.

But he's practiced with it, so he can do some looping and hook the skirt onto Phalanx properly--with only minor uncomfortable encroachments on their physical space.

Unlike most typical human beings, this sort of tending, physical encroachment is handled more easily by Phalanx than the observational and conversational sort from before. The spirits are much less attached to their body than they are to their mind.

And once the skirt is fastened, Phalanx runs their hands down the cloth and over the buckles, and moves a leg out to try and get a better look at it.

"Hey, that's not a bad look..." Robin smiles from where he's standing, a few feet away. He tilts his head, looking them over. The skirt is almost long enough to distract from the fact that they still aren't wearing anything on their feet, too.

"It'll certainly do you better than nothing at all," the man named Tonic comments, resting the bad side of his face on his bad hand and looking curiously at Phalanx with the other side, "Your style is... a little hard to pin down, but you'll get by."

Phalanx murmurs to themself while they look down at the skirt. "Pin. Pins."

They swish the fabric back and forth for a moment, seeming thoughtful, and when they look up again--searching for and then mimicking Robin's smile--their eyes are a nice shade of green.

The change doesn't bring much of a change to Robin's expression, but his eyes do slide towards Tonic, whose expression has changed to that of blatant surprise.

"Oh," is the man's first reaction, followed by a measured silence as he absorbs the gravity of the situation. Robin has brought him something very dangerous, which he more-or-less understood, but the extent of it has finally sunk in.

And Robin knows this, too. He's actually taken a fairly big risk, bringing Phalanx here. The only reason he's so calm about this is because he knows he can destroy Tonic faster than Tonic could get the word out about Robin's new friend.

"So you like the skirt, Phalanx?" Robin asks them, pretending that all of that background noise isn't happening and beginning to grin, "It fits?"

"Fits," Phalanx seems to agree, though they're still swishing the skirt experimentally around their feet and picking at the mostly-useless buckles.

And then, as if something suddenly catches the creature's ear, they glance toward the concerned shopkeeper, and then questioningly over to Robin to ask about it.

"...In fits?"

One side of the shopkeeper's mouth turns down into a frown at the phrase. Robin, meanwhile, seems nothing but pleased by the response.

"He's just thinking hard, don't worry." The demigod approaches them again, giving Phalanx a reassuring pat on the back. "I think you look lovely. A little mysterious, too."

After this, Tonic finally sighs, shaking his head. To Robin, he says, "That's trouble."

"Of course it is," comes the bright response, chipper and quick, "Trouble is my middle name--or so I keep hearing."

Phalanx mimics Robin's bright smile, though it mostly just makes them look more clueless than usual, and their features continue a slow shift. Their hair is paling to a more blonde shade now, and the curl that had been in it is beginning to loosen. It isn't easy to notice with their hood up in the dim light of the tent, but the change is definitely there.

"Robin-trouble." Phalanx seems to find it funny.

"Ugh," the man's hand moves from his cheek to his forehead as he groans, "I suddenly see why you're together."

Robin laughs softly, giving Phalanx's shoulder a soft squeeze. Tonic continues to watch them change while Robin waits, but the demigod isn't surprised when the man shakes his head again in defeat.

"I don't know. I've heard of some new mages blooming in the lower layers, but none like this."

"That's a shame," Robin says, shrugging like it doesn't matter much one way or another. "And you haven't heard of any strange rituals involving soul bonding in the last month or so, have you?"

"...What?" Tonic leans back, mildly alarmed.

"No then? All right." Robin reaches back into one of the pockets of his jacket, looking for something, "What do I owe you?"

"One hundred, sixty-seven souls," Phalanx responds, as if Robin's question had been for themself. Then, immediately afterward, they wince and lower their face to rub hard at one eye.

It's probably fine.

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