We've All Been There, Too. [Oren.]

[Althea]

“What do you mean, the ride ends here?” Althea finds herself questioning. Her voice is pitched near a squeal; a clear display of her helplessness.

She’s in a land unknown. While it’s not somewhere she’d never been, it’s definitely not a place she knew like the back of her hand. It’s no Halite, after all. It could be argued that Halite was a pain to navigate, and perhaps it was, though Althea knew nothing of that. She’d grown up there, after all, spent her childhood picking leather-bound balls out of those common gutters, and muddying her good church shoes within the cervices of those cobblestones. She’d spent her life in that town, and if one asked her she could guide them to just about any nook and cranny upon those city streets.

Idola is a completely different story. Sure, she’d been there, before, she was almost certain had forced her there a time or two on some business trip. And Tephroiite was a different beast all together. A near endless maze of factory upon factory, some conjoined overhead with seemingly perilous walkways. Althea figures those are simply extensions of one another. The same, humongous building towering high over head. Those walkways misted with heavy smoke and hot, deadly pollution.

Thalasa reeked of fish, and saltwater, but it was nothing when compaired to this. The distinct scent of eggs, and smoke, the thick feeling of condensing steam touching upon her pale, pale skin. Even breathing made her sick to her stomach. Let alone the thought of being completely lost, and stranded within such a place as this hell-hole.

Tears are threatening at her eyes. They’re a combination of the smog offending delicate senses, and the frustration of being misplaced after the promise of a safe ride home. All she knew had been torn away, and tossed to the floor. Well, maybe it wasn’t that violently. Cabbies did have designated hours to work, didn’t they? Well, Althea is pretty sure they did. She’s also pretty sure that most of them wouldn’t be so rude over it. Especially when being paid for such an extensive trip.

Still, he’d earned what little money that ride was worth, and soon enough Miss Courcel finds herself throwing a small fistful of thick bills in that cabbie’s face before she’s scrambling down the side of the carriage to the best of her abilities. She’d not bothered to count the money before hand, and with what little wages she, herself, made she more than likely hadn’t paid that rude cabbie enough money.

Althea pays no heed, nor does the cabbie who seems more than eager to simply pluck up the wad of vaguely oblong bills up, and fold them into the pockets of his waistcoat. Althea preoccupies herself with simply walking away with what little dignity she had left from this situation.

She’s a pretty girl, with her stark blonde hair and equally light eyes. Her cheeks thin and hollowed out from ages of under eating, despite her profession. Somehow those dirtied clothes of hers didn’t so much seem to matter anymore with soot and smoke grinding between the threadwork of such. Still, the sauce stains, and blood on the threadwork were something that needed to be tended to quick, lest they set in such humidity. And despite her worry over the state of her clothing, this was the least of such.

Still, she finds her gaze lifting from the breast of her shirt to peer along the roadway which she was wandering. Did she need saving? Well, perhaps, but this was hardly the place or time of night to be looking for a savior.

[Oren James]

The noise reverberating between the four walls was the quietest it had been in years. The Lushing Ken usually held anywhere between 30 - 50 occupants at a time, especially at this time of night when the work shifts were over and home was no longer a familiar place. Truth be told, this local pub had become a secondary home to most of the men that fancied themselves as regulars; Oren James included. Tonight, though, it lacked the loud, constant chatter between the fellow men of Tephroiite. Most of the time, Oren was caught up on all the latest developments involving the government, the work toils, and the rebellion movement quickly growing in the main, lower class districts throughout all cities of Elysium, whether he wanted to know or not.

He savoured the aftertaste from the liquor he just empited, holding on to the aid it gave. Dealing with the hardships of life in general was at least eased by way of him not being completely sober. It was easier for all the bullshit in the world to settle in the pit of his stomach and then he could move on. Most of the time, anyway.

" 'Ey, Felix. What happened to this place tonight?" Oren asked, forcing out small-talk before he left. Normally, he wouldn't have bothered, but since no one else was there to entertain the barkeep and ask about all the interesting gossip that passed through, he would have to.

"Can't no one pay for nothing anymore. Drinking's now a pleasure that not all men get to have." Felix answered, wringing a dishtowel around a glass mug in attempts to either dry it or clean it altogether. Honestly, Oren couldn't tell.

"Mm," he mumbled, setting his own drinking glass on the opposite end of the bar counter for the cleaner's reach. "A man will always find other ways to pay for his booze," Oren commented, almost like an after thought to his original point. He was now bringing himself to stand from the stool he occupied for the past three hours now.

Felix slowly took his gaze up to watch the man, the owner of Crosswell's Barking Irons. He knew he was right, to a degree. A man would find ways to pay for his drinks, if he wanted them bad enough. The bar owner was almost certain he was the type. Besides, how could he have been paying his taxes all this time? He knew Crosswell's hadn't been getting much business, even though the possibility of attacks on Tephroiite District was an all too vivid reality. And here Oren was, paying for his drinks with promise to restock his own shelves the next night.

The bar owner, Oren and the rest of the remaining drinking men for that matter, were startled by the sudden clatter across the room. Those still able turned their heads to see an older man kicking at the downed stool further along the bar than where Oren had sat. However, in a district this small, there was no denying the fact that everyone knew him.

"Oh, Pete. Knock it off!" Felix shouted, waving his rag through the air in a threat. "I'm cuttin' you off as it is. Go home."

Oren pressed his lips together for a moment before the sigh wound its way out regardless. "I'll take him, Felix..." The bar owner nodded and went back to his clean up while Oren straightened the brown leather jacket amazingly too loose for his almost stocky stature. He wasn't overly tall or terribly thick, but a very moderate size. He was naturally chubby, though it was proportioned along his body evenly. Dark hair, dark eyes, and almost usually a vacant stare; especially over the last few months.

He bent down to help his neighbor off the floor. He wasn't one to go too far out of his way for anyone else, but since the man lived just beside him, it wouldn't be a problem getting him back home to his wife and sleeping children.

"Come on," he grunted, hoisting the large man to his feet while reaching for the edge of the bar to hold both of their balance. "I don't need your help," Pete Loughton barked in his deep, gruff voice. Oren would have personally loved to have let him try on his own, and quiet possibly taken pleasure out of watching him bust his weight on the floor, but he didn't have time, or the strength, to try to get him back up.

Gripping the drunkard's wrist, Oren James shrugged his arm around his shoulders to even the weight distribution, using his own body as leverage to practically drag Pete out of the pub. The night was cool tonight, but that didn't keep people from sweating any less. The thick smog that generally blanketed the district was like solid humidity.

"I wasn't done drinking yet," Pete cursed, dragging the toes of his boots along the mucky stones of the street.
"You have to learn when to limit yourself, Pete. Felix said you've had enough, then you've had enough. Now, come on. At least try to help me help you get home." Oren stopped in the middle of the street, adjusting the drape of the man's arm around the back of his neck before starting up again.
"Oh, you're one to talk, Crosswell..."

Oren paused for a moment, letting the depth of that dagger sink in before continuing on. "At least I'm walking home myself, Pete." He was drunk. Oren knew that and he accepted it, and he forgave him. The drowsy man wouldn't even remember it in the morning; but the issue still remained trying to get him home tonight. "Now work with me. You're not making this easy on anyone."

[Althea]

Terrified is a good word to describe Althea’s outlook right now. Scared shitless, not so literally thankfully. Despite being what could be considered the “middle” class district Tephroitte was a working district, and somewhere where Althea would have never considered wandering to under any normal circumstances. The men here were rough, and the women, more than likely, were also the women here. You had to be in a place like this, though, where near-all occupations could get you hurt, or worse.

Still, Althea wanders onwards. Attempting to make her own way home would be far safer than finding a park bench to sleep on, or a crate of sorts to curl up in. Hell, she could wake up dead if she dared sleep out in the open. She didn’t exactly had the funds to be checking into any Motel. Not that she knew where any were at, nor if Tephroiite even had hotels to stay at in the first place!

Maybe she’d come across another cab, eventually. With any sort of luck.

Weak and tiny hands lift to shake through her hair carefully, pulling brilliantly blonde locks from her pretty features and out of her face. She seems more than eager to tuck it behind her head to clear her vision, lest she miss any hints to the whereabouts of her hometown; Thalasa, Diaspore. Sure, it reeked of salt water, and fish, and was near-candy coated in a thin layer of salt.

This air was sweet with a tang of bitterness biting thick upon her tongue. Disgusting. She hated it here, and she’d known she always would. It’s why she finds herself to be so frustrated. She’s almost to the point of throwing down her canvas bag, stuffed with left-overs and a small number of more personal items. She could kick it down the road way, cursing as she did so, of course ladies didn’t behave in such a manner, and despite her less-than first-class status she couldn’t be seen acting in such a barbaric manner. Sure, she was young, but that would be no excuse, and she’d surely lose her job if she were discovered behaving so erratically.

There’s always been this hint of anger bubbling within the pit of Althea’s little stomach. From a young age the tiny girl made note of a sharp-temper, quick to build and even more-so to overflow with such. Though despite this she never was quite a violent girl, and more inclined to verbal assaults rather than throwing a punch or two.

There’s a disturbance in the relative silence. That is, if the constant churning of factories, and the hiss of steam. Well, it’s the sound of people; grunting and cursing. Stumbling. It’s the sound of deep inebriation, and it brings Althea from her self-imposed misery, albeit not so willingly. She’s still irritated, and it’s more than obvious by the crease upon her brow. Still, she finds herself drawing closer, if only a slight, “Excuse me?” she breathes timidly before clearing her throat in a more-than-obvious manner, “Do you live around here? She questions thereafter, blonde brows lifting skywards.