2017-03-19: Mr. Arashmatash, Mayfly Hunter of Love

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  • Log: Mr. Arashmatash, Mayfly Hunter of Love
  • Cast: Gwen Whitlock, Vash the Stampede
  • Where: Nearby Mirapulse
  • Date: March 19, 2017
  • Summary: When a storm forces her to seek shelter in a cave, Gwen makes the best of it with a large pot of soup. The heavenly smells of a warm meal soon attract an unusual Drifter to the cave, and unfortunately for him, Gwen doesn't take well to strange men suddenly appearing in front of her food.

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

There's not much here in the grounds around Mirapulse. Abandoned mineshafts, old relics from bygone eras, the telltale signs of Veruni control. Blue sky above, grey brown earth below. There's also a town here- the aforementioned MIrapulse, where people live. Those people receive mail.

Gwen delivers that mail. Memory Cubes do a lot of the communication, but they can't teleport objects and goods, and the people willing to come here just for deliveries is probably fewer than those who'd come for the chance to unearth a priceless relic. The former means you get a steady pay of some money, while the later has the danger and excitement of unearthing something that could set a Drifter on a road to richville.

That is not where couriers where Gwen live. Couriers like Gwen live... anywhere they can. And, when night falls and cold rain comes, they make their home in one of the smaller caves in the mountains.

The cave itself is nice enough, with enough room for a courier, her horse, and a small cart to comfortably exist with a nice bonfire going, over which is a pot with stew. Well, maybe a soup. Stew usually connotes something thick and meaty, and while this soup is approaching that, it sits at the threshold, content to be warm, smell good, and most definitely be delicious. Couriers don't mind if their pay is in meat of small game and foraged vegetables and herbs, because this is the result, assuming that courier is a decent cook. Gwen is.

"Damn, it wouldn't been nice if the rain started when I was in town... it's really coming down." Gwen tends to her fire, grabbing a piece of wood from her stash of logs in the cart. "At least I'll have a good mealllll~ Lucky me~~ I'll get to pig out and I won't have to share~~"

<Pose Tracker> Vash the Stampede has posed.

Mirapulse. It's one of those places most people tend not to be unless they already have the great misfortune of having to live there. Nothing to see, nothing to do, and frankly, it's just a dismal place to be -- that unseen presence of Veruni always hovering like a specter just in the background.

But sometimes people just don't have a choice. Or, sometimes, they just really love mineshafts.

Generally speaking, those are usually the only two reasons someone would be here.

Usually.

It at least makes the surrounding regions relatively quiet, especially in those caverns and areas surrounding mineshafts long abandoned by the people forced to scour them across generations. Such that, Gwen gets a relatively comfortably-sized cave all to herself with which to enjoy her meal. One would assume.

'At least I'll have a good mealllll~ Lucky me~~ I'll get to pig out and I won't have to share~~'

Gwen says, in the quiet comfort of her empty cave.

"Oh, yeah! Super lucky, this meal looks totally amazing! And we don't have to share at all! Good thinking!"

Answers the quiet comfort of her empty cave, with undue enthusiasm.

Wait. What?

It happens at some point when Gwen turns to grab another log from her cart. By the time she looks back, he's just sort of... there. Red coat. Blonde hair smattered across his forehead. Soaked to the bone. And currently hunched directly over her pot of stew, nostrils flaring with unduly extreme levels of exaggeration as he takes in the scent that wafts from it. "Whew. That's a stew goin' right there!"

It's hard to say just when he got there. Or how. Or how he managed to be so quiet about it. Or who he is. But he's definitely hovering over that pot like he owns it!! Eyes closed, expression deeply satisfied, the strange man plants his hands to his hips and gives a single, firm, -dramatic- nod.

"Yep! This is exactly what I needed exactly when I needed it! Thank you, kind stranger~~!!"

Dramatic thumbs up of approval with a twinkling smile goes right..........

here.

Right before he moves to just try to swipe himself some stew, ladle in hand. Where'd he get a ladle?? Also a mystery.

So, yeah. That's happening.

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

When Gwen's singsong conversations with herself (and Gulliver, who is a horse and has his own food) is answered by the cave, it takes Gwen a moment to process.

See, the chipperness doesn't quite fit within the autopilot mode that Gwen engages when a strange is there, presumably there for Bad Things like Stealing. They are never chipper, or if they are, it's in that fake, patronizing way that gets Gwen angry. This voice is earnest in its enthusiasm. But it's also sudden, which makes it fall into the realm of 'spooky scary'.

So what does a courier do when a strange red-coated hobo has quietly just invaded her camp site like some fog ninja, ready to steal her food and possibly more things? Whirling around with the small log in her right hand, the startled Gwen *shrieks* at the blonde man, reflexively hurling the small log square at Vash's twinkling smile. If it hits, well, that was her right hand. The ARM hand. It'll hurt.

Gulliver, meanwhile, just lifts his head from his meal and begins to mosey on by Gwen, eager to sniff at Vash experimentally while simultaneously ignorant of any sort of tension.

<Pose Tracker> Vash the Stampede has posed.

Villainous is the way that the red-coated man leans in. Villainous, the way his ladle descends upon that poor, unsuspecting stew. One can practically see the gleam of ill-intent in his terrible stare as he leans in and scoops up an ENTIRE LADLEFUL of soup. One can imagine the sound of his vile cackle on his head.

"GA HA HA HA!"

... or, you know, maybe you don't have to imagine it. Either way.

-Either way-, he's gunning for that stew. He licks his lips with dramatic flourish. Everything about the scenario seems like Snidely Whiplash indulging in another satisfyingly evil fit of tying a woman to some train tracks for no reason. He brings the ladle to his lips.

"Dinner is served!" enthuses the dreadful Vash the Stampede, his face a sparkling, shining beacon of terror. Just -look- at that monstrous way he smiles with guileless gratitude. "Thank you, miss, for helping this world-weary wanderer in his hour of--"

  • CRACK*

This would be the sound of a log, striking Vash right in the noggin. It happens so fast, it's all very hard to see. A snap, a crack, and the Humanoid Typhoon's head is knocked backwards, one hand lifted up, paused in mid-thumbs up. He's as still as a statue, a log jutting up from his partially-obscured head. Did she -- did she knock his head clean off and replace it with a log?! Is Gwen a horrifying murderer!? What has she done to this poor man!!

He teeters. He totters. A moment of silence passes.

And that is when Vash the Stampede spits up a log.

That's right. He spits it up. Somehow caught, in his teeth, the blonde just goes "PFSHAWS" and that log goes flying up into the air before hitting ground with a wooden clatter. He wobbles. He stares up at the ceiling from his bent-backwards position.

"... why... does this stew... taste like screaming logs--?"

And this is when the mighty Vash the Stampede dramatically falls to the ground like the collapse of a poor, sad, water-logged tree with one squishy wet 'whud!' of impact.

"... whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy...!"

Truly, truly fearsome.

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

The dastardly villain Vash the Stampede wields his evil ladle against the defenseless stew. It is a horrid sight, how the meat quivers in the metal instrument (well, it floats, anyway), herbs and potatoes swirling, the pure brothy goodness being carted into the VERY MOUTH OF DARKNESS. It is in times of evil like these that the brave heroic, extremely hungry Drifters must stand for truth, justice, and UNABASHED GLUTTONY. The LOG of JUSTICE lands right at its mark, and the nefarious entity bellows in defeat, possibly decapitated, wait what nononono

".... uh..."

Nono, it's not a villain, but a downtrodden hobo, coming in from the cold uncompromising landscape, his coat soaked and his spirit bruised! Gwen was the villain all along, as she had feared, casting away the reaching, grasping hand of a fellow Drifter in need of sustenance.

But never fear! The fallen Vash's body is not allowed to lay against the cold ground (well, it's cold on the ground furthest away from the fire) for very long. The gentle touch of a warm, caring soul nudges against the downed young man's shoulder. There's the warm sigh of a mournful soul, wracked with guilt at the passing of such a pure, innocent soul from this cruel world, like a wilting spring flower dying before the last of winter's caressing freeze. The soulful dark eyes, the twitching long ears, the long black eyelashes, the long grey snout...

yeah, it's a horse

Gwen just stands there, frozen in that throwing pose. All that can be heard is the fast breathing of the panicked courier, which begins to slow, the occasional drip of water further on down the rock walls of the tunnel further back, and the incessant pouring of the rain just outside the cave's opening. "..." Slowly, her arm lowers. She straightens.

Well, if Gulliver is examining him, Gwen reasons to herself, then she could at least be polite to the man she may have nearly killed with a small log. "Omigosh, are you okay?" Gwen clambers over and kneels down besides Vash, using one hand to press the curious Gulliver's snout away from the poor man's face. "H-hey, you're not... dead, are you?"

A curious question, considering Vash was just crying out against an unjust world. But it's always good to check. "You, uh..." She checks his face, grey blue eyes flicking around to see if he's sporting any cuts or bruises. "Don't get up too fast, I think you got hit pretty hard... You don't got a concussion or something, do you? Oh god, I'm really, really sorry, don't die! I'll give you soup, I don't want to be a murderer!!!"

Well, at least there's someone humanoid hovering over him now.

<Pose Tracker> Vash the Stampede has posed.

His world is a smudge of blurry, indistinct shapes for several long moments of tragic betrayal. Stars in his aqua blue eyes, Vash the Stampede mumbles indistinctly around a mouthful of splintered wood. It's a wonder his teeth aren't just shattered. Must get a lot of calcium. Or had lucky timing. Or both.

The idea that he could have perfectly timed capturing a log with superhumanly strong teeth before it knocked his head clean off is probably one rendered utterly preposterous by how pathetically he whines.

"... steeeeeeeeeeeeeeew... is paaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiin...!"

Yeah. It's not exactly inspiring.

But it's okay! After all -- within his swirling vision of incoherence, the sodden blonde man sees -- salvation. Salvation that comes in the form of a delicately youthful sigh, the presence of a warm body he can't quite make out. The nudge against his shoulder stirs him; his blue eyes crack open with a touched weariness, seem to practically water from the kindness of the gesture. "Oh, my savior!" he exclaims, with a surprising amount of vigor for someone who was just flogged with a log. "I knew you'd save me! The second I saw you, hurtling that log at me, I thought, 'this must be love at first sight'! It's okay. There's no need for words. Just let the kiss of your warm snout rouse me back to..."

... wait.

"... snout?"

Vash the Stampede's gaze finally, slowly, refocuses.

Right in time to find himself passionately clutching the dull-eyed head of a horse, staring (soulfully) at him. He pauses, right in the middle of making a dramatic kissing face.

He stares, blankly, at his so-called soulmate who is not in fact the redhead who bludgeoned him.

Five seconds pass in stark silence as the Humanoid Typhoon squints, and his lips slowly melt into a thin line of dejection.

One can hear his soul crack before his limbs go limp and he falls backwards into the ground again.

"My heart--!"

Dead once more.

And there he might just stay, dead forever out of sheer shame for his unjust predicament, if it weren't for Gwen, his victimizer. He hears her words even as she pushes poor, caring Gulliver away, and yet, the man remains limp and immovable, expression blank like someone who's had the will to live sucked out of them. Really, he doesn't look too badly off -- maybe he'll bruise around the cheeks a bit, and there's probably some splinter situations going on there that won't exactly do him any favors, but otherwise, he looks shockingly, distressingly fine.

Aside from that dead-inside stare he offers the world, and Gwen. Mainly Gwen. Because it endures, steadfast and unalterable, right up until--

'I'l give you soup, I don't want to be a murderer!!!'

--suddenly, Vash the Stampede is sitting upright, his (bruised) smile a sparklingly inspirational (and bloodied) sight to behold.

"Don't worry, miss! Your words have reached my heart, and brought me partway back to life!" Yeah that's a thing, shut up. "I won't let you be a murderer on my watch, no matter how hard you try to kill me." ... And it was pretty hard. "(... though please don't test your luck)ANYWAY worry not! I could never let down a pretty lady in need!"

Hand to his jaw. Eyes sparkling. He looks dashing.

He looks bruised no yeah he looks bruised. And wobbly.

"So, miss, you and your distressingly blurry twin sister can rest assured. I won't let you down, or my name isn't frassarassmatash~!"

And concussed, maybe.

"And also what was this about giving me free soup--?"

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

Later, when Gwen isn't so focused on how she possibly nearly killed a man with a log, thus ending her career as an upstanding lawful citizen, she'll definitely find it curious, especially when she remembers her quick examination of his face. Even close-up, his teeth were in decent shape. Facial structure was intact- there was bruising, but nothing suggesting any fractures. Plus the superhuman feat of _catching a log with his teeth_. That's strength, precision, reflex, and luck.

Right now she's just settling for 'i don't want to have to deal with accidentally murdering a hobo via concussion'.

After all, that's clearly what's happening when he springs to life, sees Gulliver, makes a weird smoochy face (most likely a symptom of a concussion), then wilts before her very eyes.

Lifting Vash by the lapels of his coat, Gwen's breath seizes at the limp way he hangs there, his gaze distant. "... ohgodohgodohgod..." Her voice grows higher in pitch as she attempts to collect her wits. Yes. Clearly a concussion. "Hookay, Gwen, don't panick, stay calm, you can do this... So, Auntie Frea says, for concussions, you...." In Gwen's mind's eye, all the courier can see is the grim-faced woman mumble something about 'knowing your strength', 'goddamn it, I liked that teacup', and especially 'I'm going to need to replace that...'

So yes. Gwen broke the teacup that was Vash's brain. "I'm supposed to... lay you down and not touch you until she gets a chance to fix you. Yes." Her frantic eyes realize the absurdity of her words, widening. "I really screwed up..." Her head sinks. "... oh god, I'm the worst courier ever... Couriers don't kill people, they deliver things to people!!"

That's why, when Vash rouses to life, eyes sparkling and full (possibly) of life, Gwen breathes a sigh of relief. "Oh thank goodness! I'm really, really sorry, Mr. Frassa... rassatash." Probably not his name but BRAIN DAMAGE. "Oh, uh, I'm Gwen Whitlock, super... courier..." She slumps. Never has a marketing title sounded so fake. ".... I'll get a bowl... You, uh, warm up next to the fire." That coat is likely soaked enough to take forever for her fire to dry him off, but she's not going to suggest to him to take it off. She is NOT going to gamble on a Drifter wearing layers. Especially a hobo Drifter.

Vash doesn't have to wait that long, thankfully- soon, Gwen is offering him a bowl of warm, steamy soup, with a few splinters picked out with a worn spoon. "Okaaay, take it easy now. Steady. Hold it like thiss..." Gulliver looks up at Gwen expectantly, then looks back to his food. Ah, no, his person's just directing the other Person like a horse, not him, a horse.

<Pose Tracker> Vash the Stampede has posed.

Truly, Vash's savior has arrived, to save him. From herself. It's a great relief.

'I'm supposed to... lay you down and not touch you until she gets a chance to fix you. Yes.'

Truly.

"Errrrr."

The look that Vash the Stampede, the 60 Billion Gella Man, is something that translates roughly into 'distant horror.' Or maybe perplexity, if you wanted to sugarcoat it. "Maybe I really am gonna die--" he asides to himself in a quiet, terrified murmur as Gwen sinks into frantic guilt and doubt. The cold shiver of impending doom runs through him.

But still, there's something there as she so emphatically apologizes to him, airs her worries and her doubts, that brings a softened edge to the general absurdity that Vash the Stampede carries with him like a cloak -- or perhaps like a signature red coat right now drenched in cold water. His brows furrow and his lips turn towards a kind smile as he watches Gwen go to get his bowl of stew for him, head tilting at a faint and curious angle. Of course, it doesn't stop him from accepting her generosity (because free food is free food, he's not Superman), nor does it stop him from doing as she instructs: Vash is soon hopping, yes, literally hopping, onto his feet, with surprising dexterity and grace for someone who rightly ought to be in the wobbly throes of a concussion right now. Without a word, he settles himself next to the fire, legs crossing beneath him as he feels the warmth rippling from the rolling tongues of flame.

"You're very kind, Ms. Whitlock, super courier," he offers up to her as she pours that soup, without a hint of irony or mockery to his tone. Which, maybe, makes it even weirder -- but at least it seems sincere in its weirdness.

And so the bowl comes, and Gwen generously offers it to him. Like he was a horse. He stares at her as she starts to offer it up, guiding him with soft words like he hasn't been trained to eat. Instantly, he heaves a deep, touched sigh. "Oh, you're so kind and generous! I can't believe my good fortune, to be struck by a log by someone as nice as you," yeah, that sentence hangs together well. "I'm feeling much better already! I think you've cured me with your kindness. I'm eternally in your debt. Treating me with all the kindness and compassion you'd treat a favorite... horse... ..." Vash's sentence trails. He slowly puts it together. His cheeks puff' he squints.

"... I'm not a horse you know, I--" he begins, and then notices Gulliver, looking at Gwen expectantly.

The resemblence between his expression and Vash's is so uncanny it makes the blonde pause, horse-faced and dismayed.

His shoulders sag.

"I'm not a horse...!"

But still -- it doesn't stop the red-coated wonder from taking that bowl not seconds later with a surprisingly dextrous swipe. "Thankyouforthefood He doesn't take it easy. He just goes for it. And immediately:

"OW I BURNT MY DHONGUH"

So maybe he isn't like a horse after all.

Eventually, though, he settles into a calmer rhythm. Seated comfortably, he swirls that stew, his eyes shut with the depth of his mirth and gratitude as he gobbles up that food like someone who hasn't eaten in days. Calmer rhythm. Not calm rhythm.

"Wow, this is really good! I can tell because it's tasty even after I burnt most of my tastebuds! Yum!" It's a compliment. Honestly. "So -- you're a courier, huh? A super one?" He pauses. His eyes widen.

"... does that mean you were bitten by a radioactive courier or something--?"

Where does he get these ideas, really?

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

"Oh god, please don't die, I'm really sorry!!" Vash's look of dread goes sadly misinterpreted by Gwen. "My auntie was right, I shouldn't have moved you at all, and now you're gonna die because of me!" First aid was mysterious like that. 'Don't do this.' 'Why?' 'Because then they die.' It sometimes seemed more like some sort of ritual to some strange deity of life who kept changing the rules as to how they best wished to be worshipped.

"Augh! Don't move, you might make things w- oh, so you're okay?" Gwen looks relieved, even if she also feels a little perplexed. He bounces back quick- even quicker than her ARM assisted heart does. "You're a fast healer. I mean, I would've been willing to carry you over. It'd be just a few feet, right?" She raises her left arm, curling it around in an attempt to display any sort of muscle. "I'm stronger than I l-" Her facial expression falls. "... Y-you don't need me telling you that, do you..."

Perhaps to Vash, it may be a pleasant change of pace. Gwen shows no knowledge, even with his distinctive red coat, aqua blue eyes, and blonde hair, that he's anything other than a fellow Drifter. One she nearly killed, and is trying to make up for that by fussing and lamenting her guilt over his injuries.

The man in the poster had blonde hair that stuck up, like a crop of thick golden wheat. Somewhat. He destroyed a city in the space of a minute. Or a second. A very short time. He was deadly. He was scary. A man who displayed no mercy. The young man in front of her had floppy blonde hair, and seemed more akin to an overenthusiastic puppy than a deadly wanted criminal. Sure, he was maybe trying to steal some food, but what sort of thief thanks the cook as they tried to steal it? His face and expression is far too kind. He even accepts that silly title with all the earnest sincerity of a proper, normal title. Strange, but sweet.

He's even polite when he reminds Gwen that he is not, in fact, a horse. "O-oh! Sorry about that. Went into Gulliver mode there. Sometimes I, uh, go days without talking to a single living thing except him." Handing the soup bowl over to Vash's deft grip, Gwen rubs the back if her neck awkwardly. "-Oh, hold on, I have spoons, lemme just-"

Well, now he has a concussion *and* a burnt tongue. Gwen, in spite of Vash's painful display, snorts, giggling into her hand. "Oh man, I shouldn't laugh, but... your face..."

He's pleasant company. Now, Gwen isn't sure she really wanted to have this soup all to herself. She is, however, going to grab a bowl of her own from the cart, in order to enjoy some soup with this red-coated Drifter.

"Radioactive?" Didn't her auntie explain that once? Something about weird energy that can mess you up and- "Nonono!" Gwen turns from the cart and waves her hands in front of her, an empty scratched bowl in one of them. "Super as in 'really good'. Like, 'hire me, I'm good at what I do' super." Kneeling down by the pot, Gwen spoons some soup into her own bowl. "So... if your tongue's okay, what's your name? Unless you want me to call you, uh..." She tries to remember. "Vassathass?"

<Pose Tracker> Vash the Stampede has posed.

"What? Of course I am! It was just a log! 'Sticks and stones can't break your bones,' after all!" He got that totally wrong, but it's the thought that counts (no it isn't).

"It'll take more than a simple log to take the likes of me down! A ha ha ha ha haaaaaaaaahhhoghhhmyhead."

This is the mighty sound of Vash the Stampede woozily lurching forward in his seat at the tail end of his bold declaration, looking like he might just topple over. It lasts for all of a second before he snaps back into place as if nothing at all was wrong, snapping a vigorously excitable thumbs up Gwen's way, as if to indicate that everything was absolutely a-okay. Forever.

"See! So keep that in mind -- there's nothing to fear from logs! ... e-even ones hurled at frightening superhuman speeds..."

Perhaps it's best never to listen to Vash's advice.

His hair certainly works in his favor, but if he's worried about Gwen discovering just what obviously terrible monster he truly is, he doesn't show it -- really, that joyously foolish nature about him is as good a disguise as even the most concealing of everyday glasses. Case in point: the exaggerated way he ends up waving his free hand around at his mouth in a desperate and misguided attempt to cool it off, tongue hanging out as he groans in utter dismay. And Gwen laughs.

"H-hey! Duhn lavf ahd muh dithmay!!"

Truly, a terrible day to be Vash the Stampede.

Still -- his smile is one good natured down to its core as his antics come to an end, rubbing the back of his head as Gwen speaks. He blows on that bowl carefully, watching as the steam rising from it whisks away to dissipate into the open air with every cooling wash of breath over it. He looks up only at that question, his head tilt and expression quite serious as he considers.

"Dasharamarash," he corrects, wisely and confidently, in a way that absolutely is not correct whatsoever. Nodding once, grimly, to himself without actually answering the question legitimately one way or the other, was one does, he returns to his soup, taking another, brief sip with a very slight 'tt-tt-aaahhhh.'

"Coming all the way out to a place like this though, you've gotta be some courier," he enthuses with a warm sort of smile, free hand flopping into his lap as those blue eyes look Gwen's way with the faint tinge of curiosity. "It's pretty dangerous out here! And the locals hate it when you sing in their bars, for free! It's awful! Do you have to come out to areas like this often??"

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

Seeing Vash lurch over, possibly into the fire (and hot soup), Gwen's automatically reaching over and around the small fire, ready to stop Vash from toppling down with a hand.

It's probably kind of comicalthat she looks confident that her hand could take on Vash's tall frame. "Maybe you should stick around for the night, here? Just in case you do got some sort of concussion. Besides, it's not safe out there, especially with the rain. Areas like these get flash floods." Sitting back down when Vash bounces back with a thumbs up, Gwen adds, "I think I got an extra blanket or two in the cart. Haven't had to use them that much here. It's be nice having someone other than a farty horse around for a night. In the morning, the rain'll probably be done and you can go off on your way."

It's odd how the guy manages to, in the space of an hour or so, go from 'bean on sight' to making Gwen feel comfortable enough to ask him to stick around for a night, even at the risk of someone being around when she's asleep, or not on guard.

He's odd. Very odd. But Gwen can't bring herself to call him suspicious anymore. Especially after he's just made her snort laughing a second time as he attempts to cool down the painful burning on his lips.

"Mr. Dash-arama-mirash. Da-sha-rama-marash? Okay, uh... Hold on, I'll get it eventually." Gwen stumbles over the name, but she accepts it, readily enough. Maybe Dasharamarash is from Aquvy too! Home to giant cross-toting priests, black-wearing investigators, and just all out WEIRD.

Gwen pauses in her eating as Vash peers at her with that question. Her lips twist thoughtfully. "Mmn. If I was gonna be all heroic, I'd say, just like this, all dramatically--" Gwen begins, pausing to blow on her spoonful of soup, "--'No one else will.' But I'm getting payment for it, so it's not just because I'm some saint. Sometimes people don't have a lot to pay me, but... that wasn't as much of a problem before the Aveh blockade. But, well..." She begins to seriously muse over this question as she eats. After all, one does not simply give a stock answer to a man who looks at them like Vash is doing, right now.

"When I was a kid, I was... sick, I guess is the best word for it. Also, not the fastest, or strongest, or anything-est. Had to be inside all the time. But when I listened to these stories about this one Drifter, uh... Nightburn Acklund? It'd... make me want to see the world too. If a guy like that could get the respect of people like the Veruni and just work his way to the type of guy he is, surely I could too, right? So, uh, I did. Being a courier ain't really close to what he does, but seeing the world, and being able to make of life what I wanted. Now I'm this courier who takes on jobs that are usually pretty inconvenient for others or just plain dangerous, as long as they're legal. It gets scary sometimes, but people need their packages too, y'know? Plus, I gotta earn money for my auntie. SHe's retired from the research business, so." Slurping some more from her bowl, Gwen lowers the bowl. "What about you? Whatca do for a living? If any job, at all. I mean, for some, 'drifting' is a legit job for them."

<Pose Tracker> Vash the Stampede has posed.

Laughable, maybe, that Gwen thinks she can prop him up -- but considering Vash knows just how much force that arm is capable of, maybe more concerning should be whether or not she'd powder his bones gripping him too hard. Not that he's complaining. Please don't powder his bones!

It's the generosity of Gwen's offer, though, that makes him pause. Those aqua blue eyes shutter in a curious, slow blink as if not quite comprehending what they heard. A moment passes. Those eyes go wide. Shine.

Brim over with tears--? Is he -- yes he's crying this is happening.

"OH, what a generous, kind, sweet, selfless, reckless, dangerous, compassionate girl!!" Vash proclaims praisingly, hands (and bowl) lifted up towards the heavens as tears spill from the corners of his eyes like waterfalls. "Oh, t's too much to bear! Don't worry, miss, I'll do just that!! Your generosity will not go unanswered, I promise! Don't worry about me, though. Even if it is a concussion, I'll just sleep it off! Ha ha ha!"

No Vash. No.

He'd help her to suss through that name, but really -- every time he tells it, it likely ends up as something different, subtly or egregiously so, without him acting like he's any the wiser about it. Names are very serious business. He needs to make sure she has it -exactly right-. Which is why his stare is critical, his frown intense. And his nod? His nod has the gravity of the -densest star-.

"Good enough for now," he declares roundly. "It's okay. You'll get there eventually. Even I have trouble, sometimes." With his own name.

It's true enough, in a certain way.

But still -- he listens to her as she speaks, calm and quiet as the rain pitter patters across the top of the cave entrance from just outside. Talk of Nightburn earns a cocked brow of recognition; talk of her aunt, of family, makes those brows soften as Vash looks towards the fire. "That's good," he says after a long moment, his voice quiet, contemplative. "Maybe being a courier isn't like being a Golem Hunter--" He knew! He's up to date on current events!! "--but it's still important. I bet the people here appreciate it. And besides -- some of the most famous people started out with humble beginnings, right?" He smiles, a bright, optimistic thing. "I bet you'll get there eventually. I can tell." And somehow, his words just seem... sure, carrying a weight of experience behind them that they rightly shouldn't.

"Besides, coming out here, even in situations like this -- you've definitely earned that title of super courier!" And this, too, he says with a straight face.

It's a rare moment of sublime calm and introspective calmness from Vash the Stampede. Perhaps even... wisdom. Which is why he ruins it within the following handful of seconds. 'What about you? Whatcha do for a living?'

"I'm glad you asked!"

Suddenly, Vash is on his feet. When did he get on his feet? He's crossing his arms over his chest regardless, one gripping his chin, his eyes closed and expression smug, while the other... carefully balances his bowl of soup. Carefully. "I'm a hunter, you could say. A hunter... searching for that elusive mayfly, known as love!!!"

His eyes open. One could swear they twinkle. His voice is still so very steeped in dramatics as he adds, effortlessly,

"Or something."

...

... ...

And he holds that pose for exactly ten awkwardly intense seconds before realization dawns on him. "Oh! Crap! Y'know what -- I could use something courier'd!!"

It's practically a squeak. There's just no middle ground with Vash the Stampede.

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

At this point, a part of Gwen suspects that she's going to wake up to a Drifter in an eternal coma, doomed never to wake back up. Sure, she could carry him in the cart, but *where*? Mirapulse? 'hello, a man fell and had a concussion, here is his comatose body' What sort of warrant do you get for that?

"W-wait, you know I can still punch you if you're really dangerous, okay?!" Gwen flails back slightly at Vash's 'praise'. "It's not that reckless! You just seem like a decent guy!" Well, it's not reckless if you didn't have secrets. But if Gwen didn't have those secrets, she wouldn't have the ability to fling a log at a drifter.

A courier that can throw and punch things, but no visible ARM- a knife, yes, but nothing that could counteract the threat of a smoking barrel leveled in her direction. Pointing a finger at Vash, Gwen squints her eyes and frowns, possibly in a futile attempt to make her face look more threatening. "Just don't get any ideas, okay? I'm just looking at you as a fellow Drifter. I mean, if I was all cold and wet and starving, I'd like someone to have a bit of mercy on me, right? It's just like that. So don't die on me, either."

Gulliver, sensing Gwen's attempt, ambles over to her, pressing his horsey lips into her hair, causing her to giggle. "... Gentle, gentle," she warns softly, rubbing the top of Gulliver's snout. "Gulliver's a good pal to have, even if he's dumb as rocks. His heart's in the right place, though. I wouldn't have even thought of helping you out if Gulliver didn't give you his seal of approval." Which is, apparently, sniffing to see if you're dead. SOmething to that end.

Clapping her hands to her freckled cheeks, Gwen bashfully looks away. "Flattery will get you nowhere and everywhere~ ER, I mean, I'm glad you understand my mission." Gwen straightens and nods, her expression miming Vash's serious face. It's odd. He doesn't look that much older than she does, but he seems to have, as her auntie would term it, an 'old soul'. Whatever that meant.

It's just in moments like those, because now he's talking about mayflies and love and- "Don't mayflies only live a day when they mature...?" The AWESOME DISPLAY OF BRILLIANCE seems momentairely lost on Gwen's idle pondering over Vash's metaphor. "Ain't that just a raw deal..."

She comes around. Eventually. She pats a fist into her open palm. "Well, that settles it! You're just drifting, then." A gloved figure itches the side of her head, ruffling a few curled tendrils of hair. "So, Mr. Arashmatash, mayfly hunter of love. Got it."

.... did he just squeak

"Huh? Oh!" Gwen rubs her chin. "Usually I only go through the Adventurer's Guild to keep things legal, but y'know? Screw it. What do you need delivered?"

<Pose Tracker> Vash the Stampede has posed.

'W-wait, you know I can still punch you if you're really dangerous, okay?!'

"E-erk!"

Distant (not distant) memories resurface of logs being fired like cannon rounds. Vash the Stampede visibly pales.

"I-I don't think I could survive another--!" Truly, a wise man knows his limits, and the wisest men of all know not to trifle with girls who have super courier powers. Truly.

Hands lifted in a show of innocence (and soup bowl lifted too in a show of the fact that it will have to be pried from his cold dead hands if the worse comes to worst) when Gwen makes that (attempted) threatening look, Vash just laughs nervously, in a way that either makes him seem more suspicious or more harmless. It's hard to say, really. It's just one of those little mysteries that make him, him. "I'd really rather not die, since it's pretty painful, so I'll just do my best to do what you say!" Mercy, she says. That little bit of empathy does make him smile, just a little.

"Right?? How could you not feel pity for someone as pathetic looking as me! I feel bad for me, and I can't even see me!" Which doesn't stop him from making this proud declaration, nostrils flaring and expression briefly quite pleased with himself for his ability to look sad and desperate. A second passes. "... wait. What?"

He's busy scratching his head and pondering over his confusing self-diss when Gwen's hands clap together. Blinking, Vash looks back towards her with a puzzled expression etching across his features, brows scrunching up just a bit as she talks about Gulliver. "Is that right?" He looks to Gulliver, scrutinizingly. He squints. Squints at the horse who so cruelly tricked him. Eventually, though--

Vash is quick to bow his head in an excessively dramatic way; his exclamation is no less flared with excitability and SERIOUS GRAVITY. "Thank you, Gulliver!! Thank you from saving my life from a log cannonade, which is always how I thought my life was going to end until today!!"

He sounds very serious about all this. Deadly serious.

Exactly as serious as the talk of mayflies, as excitement enters his gaze for Gwen's seeming comprehension. "Exactly!! You understand! The true essence of what it means to live as a hunter of love, is--"

'You're just drifting, then.'

"--gawk."

Yes. It's gawk.

And thus does Vash the Stampede visibly deflate, head hanging low as he shuffles his way dismally back towards his seat. He settles in once more, heaves a sigh, and then just sort of... gulps down the rest of his soup like a ravenous fiend. It doesn't even have a prayer.

He's in the midst of audibly GLUG GLUG GLUGing down that broth when she speaks up again. Finishing off the food with a heavy sigh, he places his bowl down, claps his hands together, and bows his head, as if in silent thanks for the meal.

'Mr. Arashmatash...'

"-Mister- Mashtabalamalash."

He says it with such certainty, it has to be what it was before. Right--??

Still! When she finally accepts his offer, Vash's expression lights up brighter than the morning sun. It's practically blinding. Are his teeth sparkling?? They may very wel be. One might expect a chorus of angels to float down from heaven with how he genuflects before Gwen, quite literally. "Oh, thank you, thank you! Thank--" Whud. This is the sound of his forehead hitting cave from genuflecting too hard.

"... ow."

...

"I think that fixed my concussion!"

Is that -- that's not how it works, right--?

Still; within a blinding flash, Vash is back to sitting once more, stamping one gloved fist into the other. "Great! I need you, Super Courier Gwen," one can FEEL the capitalization, "to deliver..."

...!!!

"... me!"

...??

"To Adlehyde!"

Is he just--

--is he just bumming a ride??

"--so I can deliver this package!"

And soon enough, a letter is produced from his coat, and then he immediately stops himself just as a 'V' in the sender information can be seen, hastily grabbing a pen from his coat to scribble something out quickly and crudely before he presents it once more. Meant for what seems like an ARMs Meister shop in Adlehyde. The sender?

Something that looks like VA scribbled out excessively, and replaced with--

HASHGOULASHBALDERDASH

JR.

ESQ.

It might get kind of crammed into the margins there a bit.

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

'How could you not feel pity for someone as pathetic looking as me! I feel bad for me, and I can't even see me!'

Ah, there Gwen snortlaughs again, this time in the middle of eating some soup. Which makes it all the more hilarious, if awkward, as she finds herself caught between coughing and laughing. After her coughlaughing fit, she manages a hoarse 'it went down the wrong tube', then reaches for her canteen to drink some water as Vash goes on to praise Gulliver.

Gulliver, at the mention of his name, moves over to Vash, presenting his head hopefully for snout reading or the possible offer of food.

Gwen clears her throat. "W-well, even if you're feeling better, maybe just stay the night here, just in caseeee...." The courier stretches that last word out as Vash presents her with his.... letter. Pale red eyebrows level, overshadowing disbelieving eyes. Her mouth slightly hangs open, twitching slightly. That is definitely a deadpan expression.

As Vash presents the letter away, Gwen politely takes it, looking the address over. "Oh, the ARMS meister. Never visited him, but I definitely know this place. Though..." Gwen's head raises from the hastily scrawled letter to Vash's face. "You're prepared to pay me for the trouble of transporting you there, right? I charge a fee for my service." She rubs her chin smugly, a wide, self-satisfied grin on her face. "Since you're probably not the sort to carry money on yourself, I can always make do with some other form of payment, like a favor or somethin' like that. You know how many times I've had to turn down a job because it was too much for one person to do? But that was.... a while ago..."

She sighs, lost in the heady days of 'a few weeks ago'. "Why do these things never happen in a corner of the continent... If I ever see that one guy that's in charge of Aveh, I'm going to give him a piece of my mind!"

On cue, the first flash of lightning sparks in the sky close by, followed by an ear-popping roll of thunder. A startled Gwen falls back on her seat, empty food bowl hanging off of one hand, while Gulliver suddenly just flinches back, snorts, then lands the underside of his horsey head on top of Vash's. Vash clearly can protect against loud sounds, right?

"... Y-yeah. N-no going outside tonight...."

<Pose Tracker> Vash the Stampede has posed.

And along came Gulliver. As the horse hoofs it towards Vash, the floppy-haired blonde blinks and peers at the animal. He squints. Just a bit. His bowl of soup edges away very... very slowly.

"I'm not -that- grateful," he warns, most solemnly.

Though it doesn't stop him from, at the very least, presenting one of those heavily-gloved hands up towards that snout for proper inspection, a warm smile on his lips as he dedicates some friendly attention towards that well-meaning if not clearly food-thieving horse.

The bowl, meanwhile, edges just a -little- bit further away.

He's in the middle of scratching the top of Gulliver's head when Gwen clears her throat; the red-coated drifter blinks, looking her way with a curious expression. "Huh? Well, okay, I guess. But I mean, I'm sure I'm getting better. There used to be four of you and now there's only three." -Objective improvement-.

Letter presented, letter snatched, Vash looks quite proud of himself for actually having a letter to be delivered as a pretext for bumming a ride to the city. He smiles a big, dumb, self-satisfied smile, eyes shut in his mirth as he nods with vigorous contentment. "Mmhm, mmhm! He and I go way back!" claims Vash, in a way that makes it an open question if he even knows who the ARMs Meister is or if he's just making it up to catch a ride. A plan that seems to be going swimmingly until--

'I charge a fee for my service.'

"Uhk."

Vash the Stampede freezes up. He looks down, slowly, at his various pockets, all of which would presumably fling out nothing but comedic volumes of mothballs and dust if he pulled them inside out. A second passes.

"... I kinda just figured it'd be like good word of mouth..."

'The Woman Who Couried for Vash the Stampede' has a nice ring to it, right?? Not that she knows. Maybe he should have thought about that. But then she might try to capture him. Damn!!

"--Huh?" Broken out of his reverie of figuring out a way to pass off rocks as possible gella substitutes, Vash blinks exactly once. "You know the guy in charge of Aveh??" Clearly not tracking the conversation here--

"I mean uh sure, a favor, yeah, I'm good for that! My word is my bond!" He holds a hand to his chin, his eyes flaring with SERIOUS GRAVITAS.

"I never leave a debt unpaid, especially to a pretty lady."

Eye sparkle here.

"Or my name isn't..."

uhhh

"... whatever I said it was!"

Yes he's very good at this undercover thing.

He'd probably reassure her some more, except that there's that sudden thunderclap; Gwen topples, and suddenly Vash has horse head flopping all over his mop of hair. "Ack!?" exclaims the Stampede, noodly arms flailing helplessly -- before he ultimately sags in defeat, his head becoming the ideal resting place for poor, scared Gulliver.

He is once more back to scratching the horse with one gloved hand when he looks Gwen's way. His gaze softens, just a bit.

"... How about you get some sleep?" he suggests. "Me and Gulliver will keep watch for the first shift tonight. It'll be payment for that delicious soup! Sound good?"

'First shift,' he says.

But he'll probably just end up staying up and letting her sleep the night through, when it comes down to it. Because it's just the way he is.

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

He snuck in out of nowhere. He tried to steal her food. He gave no real background or job to mark him as something legitimate. He never gets his name straight.

He can't even remember his name. IT'S REALLY SUSPICIOUS

But at this rate, whether due to laughing too much, the onset of sleepiness, Gulliver's affection, or a pleasant meal, the courier can't bring herself to care. It's been a while since she's even felt this comfortable one on one with someone. No suspicious questions, no curious glances when she just seems to wave off wandering alone as a Drifter with no ARM, no... questions of that degree at all, really. ... it's like the man has a skeleton army in his closet as opposed to her closet, which only contains an ARM skeleton. Not that she knows this. Or knows anything about Mr. Shamallamagoulash.

Or _Mister_ Shamallamagoulash.

Seeing Vash's massive display of un-wealth, Gwen's smug expression dissipates, dissolving into her giggling. "I just wanted to see your expression, really. Or if you *did* happen to have something on you." Barely managing to get her chuckling under control, Gwen nods. "But yeah. If you need a ride to Adlehyde, I don't mind. Just as long as you fit in my cart, which you should, provided you don't need to nap perfectly straight." Using a stick to rearrange some logs on the fire, she adds, "I'll have to make some stops first. You'll just... be keeping the packages company. Something like that, anyway."

Gwen's pleasant grin widens, gaining slightly menacing upturn in the corners of her mouth. "... still gonna take you up on you owing me a favor. But," Gwen pauses, holding up a finger, "that's because I'll probably have to feed you if this takes longer than a day. Usually I don't have to feed my packages." That's the excuse she'll use. Yes. Perfect.

"Know him? Er no, I don't, that's not- GRK!" At least Vash gets his correction before the hand of God strikes a dead tree nearby the cave entrance. "Y-yeah... getting some sleep... That... sounds good about now, yeah." Gwen awkwardly gets up from her fallen position with a wince, rubbing her back as she goes to the cart and takes out two brightly colored blankets- a style that's more akin to those seen in the Badlands, where such colors would evoke the colors of the brilliant sunsets. "Heads up!" She throws one (gently this time) to Vash. She's warning him now.

Pressing a final log into the fire for Vash's sake, Gwen prepares her bed, pausing to yawn. "G'night, Mr. Goulashabosh."

Okay, now she's just inventing names.

Settling in her blanket, it takes a few moments for Gwen to feel comfortable enough to sleep, knowing that there's someone nearby. But after a while, her breathing slows into the deeper rhythms of sleep, leaving Vash alone with the sound of rain, distant thunder, the crackling of fire, and... the murmuring of a sleeping horse, content to find the proper pillow on Vash's head.

Fun fact: horses sleep standing up.