psychoshenanigans | Skeleton City // PSL

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.

Now that he's in public, Robin does a very good job of hiding his surprise... And it helps that his only audience is busy staring at Phalanx, too taken aback by the sudden twist in conversation to remember to study the rest of his surroundings.

But after too many seconds of silence pass between all three of them, Tonic reaches out with his bad hand to pick up a lit candle from one of the many criss-crossing beams all around them. He blows out the flame, sending a line of smoke trailing up towards the ceiling. Hot wax spills over his fingers, but he doesn't seem to notice or care, watching the smoke trail intently.

"They're from nowhere," he finally says, cryptic as it is. "Start there."

"Thank you," Robin replies, now holding onto Phalanx's shoulder a little more protectively.

"At this point," Tonic responds in turn, finally looking down at the both of them again with a small smirk on half of his face, "I think that payment will be you leaving my store."

Robin chuckles. "Fair enough, friend. Phalanx, let's go."

And if there's no resistance, Robin will attempt to lead them out.

Phalanx has a headache and way too many things buzzing in the hive of their mind--Robin can feel that much for sure--so they don't offer a single ounce of resistance as they're guided out of the store. They follow along rather blindly, in fact, and ding a knee against some metal bit of junk on the way out. Hopefully whatever it is doesn't knock anything over when it jostles.

Robin has a soft warning for Phalanx when they bang their knee, looking over their shoulder to make sure that nothing too dramatic has happened--but since no one is bleeding and the display hasn't completely toppled, it isn't enough to actually get him to stop.

By the time they're outside, the air feels a little livelier. More people roaming the streets, carrying baskets and parcels, making trades with people that they know, chatting and haggling while they still have early-morning energy. Robin leads Phalanx away from the strange tent, but leans over to talk to him just a couple of stalls later.

"Are you all right?" he says, cautious but extremely curious, "How's your head feel?"

Phalanx's hand hasn't really strayed from their head since their last comment in the tent, so they peek around it when Robin asks his question. Their eyes are blue now, but the next blink is already bringing a slightly different shade. They're all stirred up.

"Are we swimming?"

"Ah," he says plainly, starting to work through several problems at once. The first is those changing eyes and the danger of being seen, and the second is a much more abstract concern for Phalanx themselves and whatever has been worked up inside of them. The third is that they need somewhere to duck into quickly, and he doesn't know a whole lot of other people in this area who wouldn't ask questions.

"No," Robin tells them, then immediately changes his mind. "Or yes. I don't really know."

And then he sees something, or someone, headed their way down the street. He does not outwardly sound alarmed, but Phalanx can tell there is some measure of urgency in his movements as he suddenly turns them and herds them around a corner.

"I'll handle everything out here," he tells them, scanning the street for a quick exit. "You just work on sorting yourselves out."

"Sorting," Phalanx repeats, sounding stressed about it. "Put into piles and--"

Phalanx trails off as their other hand comes up to help cover their face, now blocking both eyes from the world and lowering their head, retreating inward. They'll shuffle along if they're led anywhere, but otherwise they stop where they're standing.

They mumble into their sleeves. "Tie him up."

The mumbling is mildly disconcerting, but not the worst thing Phalanx could be doing. Honestly, their looking as though they're having a small meltdown will probably keep people away from them in these slow-moving streets.

And then he spots their chance, a humble brown semicircle of a tent pitched against a large stalagmite. There are no markings on the outside, nor displays, nor person out front shouting to indicate what wares they're selling, but Robin leads them in that direction anyway.

The door is really just a flap of fabric, hard to distinguish from the rest of the outside of the structure... But Robin finds it quickly enough, shoves it aside, and nudges Phalanx forward to get them off of the street. After a quick glance behind them, he ducks in after them.

The inside of the tent is very dark. It also isn't very big, with just enough room for a table and a couple of chairs and maybe four or five people on a very busy day. As it is now, though, there is only one person behind that table, speaking in a calm, old-sounding voice after the two of them barge into her establishment.

"We are not open yet, young man."

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