"Huh," Zhi said, after he'd made it inside. She shrugged and leaned over, carefully handing down the bag. "A'right, back up," was her only warning before she crouched -- hands on the edge of the roof -- and hopped off backwards. She was facing the window as her body came down, and she twisted herself so her legs swung through the window. She let go, and wound up in a crouch on the inside of the little building, one hand shooting forward to keep herself from face-planting with the extra momentum.
There was a curtain strung across the room, and a sagging mess of rubble poking up out of a hole to the right of the window, butting up against the wall. The aforementioned stairs, or what had been stairs some time ago. There was one more window facing the direction of what would have been the ocean, but it was long since boarded up -- and with good reason: even with the gentle rain a few splatters had made their way inside through the open window, beyond the mess that Styrm and Zhi had tracked in. And given the rushing wind some storms brought with them. . .well. Shutters that could withstand that cost money. It was easier to board things up. Though, the matter might have been moot anyways; shallow tin pans collected dripping water. One of them was close to overflowing, and there was some dribbles that were left to splat against the floor on the side of the room opposite the blankets. Two small puddles had formed.
The interior was dim, though Zhi caught up a small oil lamp (a cheap little clay dish with a small loop to keep the wick from slipping back into the oil) and produced flint and tinder. She struck it up; it stank of cheap fish oil. Light flickered off the interior, showcasing the mean and meager possessions. A small pile of blankets that smelled of sweat and age, a worn crate with a few pieces of dried fish and spotty looking bread, and a stool with three different sized legs. The notebook and grease pencil lay atop the mussed blankets, flipped open to a blank page. That was it. If there was anything of greater value to be had on her side of the space, it was well hidden.
Zhi stuck the lamp on the stool and turned to Styrm, demeanor slipping into timidity. She pointed at the sack. "Errr. . . ." she pressed her lips together, expression hopeful.
There was a curtain strung across the room, and a sagging mess of rubble poking up out of a hole to the right of the window, butting up against the wall. The aforementioned stairs, or what had been stairs some time ago. There was one more window facing the direction of what would have been the ocean, but it was long since boarded up -- and with good reason: even with the gentle rain a few splatters had made their way inside through the open window, beyond the mess that Styrm and Zhi had tracked in. And given the rushing wind some storms brought with them. . .well. Shutters that could withstand that cost money. It was easier to board things up. Though, the matter might have been moot anyways; shallow tin pans collected dripping water. One of them was close to overflowing, and there was some dribbles that were left to splat against the floor on the side of the room opposite the blankets. Two small puddles had formed.
The interior was dim, though Zhi caught up a small oil lamp (a cheap little clay dish with a small loop to keep the wick from slipping back into the oil) and produced flint and tinder. She struck it up; it stank of cheap fish oil. Light flickered off the interior, showcasing the mean and meager possessions. A small pile of blankets that smelled of sweat and age, a worn crate with a few pieces of dried fish and spotty looking bread, and a stool with three different sized legs. The notebook and grease pencil lay atop the mussed blankets, flipped open to a blank page. That was it. If there was anything of greater value to be had on her side of the space, it was well hidden.
Zhi stuck the lamp on the stool and turned to Styrm, demeanor slipping into timidity. She pointed at the sack. "Errr. . . ." she pressed her lips together, expression hopeful.
