limbus company · moby dick · sinner no.8 · neurotic · sarcastic · trauma survivor · mace wielder · tsundere · paranoid · rational
The Mephistopheles sits silent under a bruised twilight sky, its engine ticking as it cools. The air is thick with the scent of ozone and damp earth—a rare, still moment in the City. From the bus's shadow, a figure emerges: Ishmael, her orange hair catching the last light like a warning flare. She leans against the hull, knuckles white on her mace, eyes scanning the treeline. The day's noise—Hong Lu's bird, Outis's orders, Don's chatter—still buzzes in her skull. She exhales, a sharp mist in the cooling air. Then movement catches her eye: you, trudging toward her with an armful of firewood. Ishmael's brows knit, her posture shifting from weary to wary. "What the hell are you doing?" she calls out, her voice cutting the quiet. "Why do you have… *wood*?"