Road Trip!

[Clair de Lune]

Clair lets herself relax into the bed, her arm curled around Robin under her head. "Uncomplicated is... not what this is. But you mean romantically, and you're right about that. I am... a very uncomplicated person to date, so long as you don't want me too much. It's possible to make that mistake, but I don't think you will." She rolls over, lips to Robin's ear, and kisses her gently.

"I've noticed something about you. You had a very... human form, until I first met you. When you didn't know I was there. But now that we've spent more time together, it's clear that you only even assume a human form out of convenience, and you drop it out of convenience too," she says, as she makes room for Robin at her breast. "I think I could introduce you to a kindred spirit, in that sense... though its psychology would be very strange to you." She shifted a little, cuddling into her partner, reaching down to pull the shitty hostel blanket over them both. "Speaking of 'scary things'... would you like that?"

[Robin Stanton]

"I mean, it's kind of the agreed upon default, yeah? And it's weird, I used to have pink hair, change my face a lot even as a human. Not completely different although people kinda recognize me no matter what. For some it's telepathy, others smell and I think at the end of the day I'm not a very good actor, so if you know me you can probably see 'me' bleeding through." she laughs. "Setting out as regular ol' human was kind of me trying to.... start from a baseline to figure out who I want to be. Guess it's pretty clear that's not purely 'human', huh. But still. Without it the funky stuff's less funky and if I don't have a face I can look at in the mirror and call 'me' then who the frick am I?"

"I dunno. Even what I fall back on as 'normal' changes and maybe that's all there's to it?" she shrugs a little, which serves to also make her snuggle into Clair a bit more. "So yeah, I think I would very much like to hear what others think about this stuff. Heck the stranger the better, right? I've learned from people with deep understanding of this but that's only two points of view on something so vast. If I followed in their footsteps right now there'd be just two options here. Be a human, with all the flesh and bones and soft skin that entails or be abhorred at this terrible blanket and turn into the finest cashmere for you. But maybe I like how the blanket makes me appreciate how warm and soft you are more and maybe there's better things than arms for hugging." she says and her arms split right down the middle into two silky-smooth tentacles each that slowly snake around Clair in an embrace. They're kind of pale and have an almost iridescent sheen to them as if there's a layer of mother-of-pearl just beneath the skin. "Take me to your leader." she warbles jokingly.

[Clair de Lune]

Clair shifts a little, and lets her own self go a little bit soft, lets her arm melt away just a little bit - a change that is much harder for her than for Robin, but with a slight nick of the wrist with a fingernail she lets flow the blood and presses a finger over it, squeezing to apply pressure to seal the very same wound. It's subtle, almost unnoticeable - but Robin could notice it, and it would be her first insight into just what Clair has to do to produce her magic.

"If I look in a mirror, and recognise the person I saw yesterday, I consider it a personal failure. I'll prepare the introductions... someday soon. There must be alignments of influence, time and place, among other things that are harder to quantify. Would you like to attend an auction with me? There is a dress code." She cuddles up into the warm, embracing tentacles without a hint of a problem - if anything, she looks at the pearlescent sheen with fascination, the light from the halogen bulb shining off of Robin's skin and perhaps too brightly off of Clair's eyes.

[Robin Stanton]

Subtle or not, between this and the nick on her own collarbone Robin can put two and two together. She's been taught to pay attention to these kinds of things in order to figure out how a hostile mutant's power works but it applies all the same to a mysterious woman in her arms tentacles. And magic comes with a price, that much she knows. "A dress code, huh. I didn't exactly pack for that kind of thing, so I might have to figure something out. What kinda auction are we talking about here? The fancy art, tuxedos and pear-necklaces sort? I wouldn't have figured you for someone who fits in that scene." she teases a little. "But maybe that's cause I've only seen you in the woods and running from the Gendarmerie. Is there a Cinnamon-Crow who wears fancy dresses and those gloves that go over the elbows?"

[Clair de Lune]

Clair holds Robin closer for a moment, tightly entwined with her feelers, silently thinking of the time and place she could find an auction that would be holding what she needed. "We can figure something out," Clair said. "I know a tailor, among other people, in Paris. Let's you and I go out on the town, tomorrow, and get ready for the date." She pullsaway, a free and easy eagerness worn on her face. "I haven't been shopping in a while. You have no idea how well I can do high society, if I need to." It isn't lost on her that she comes off like a child raised by wolves, but Clair knows and loves the city, and it would soon become clear to Robin that she isn't at all out of place among the reclusive, eccentric old money of Paris.

[Robin Stanton]

"Hey, that makes one of us." she chuckles, letting go of Clair and snapping her tentacles back into arms, albeit still vaguely boneless ones. "And really, no need for a tailor. Off the rack's a perfect fit when you have a body like this." she grins and gestures at herself, from the light sprinkling of freckles on her shoulders and down across her curves that are quivering and adjusting as she speaks. Her chest loses a little heft towards a more pert, athletic build, waist narrows and abs ripple beneath her skin. "Doesn't matter the cut, I will rock those clothes." she says, leaning herself back into the corner of the bed and resting her arms on the headboard, the other arm finding nothing to be put on and she flounders a little before recovering with a hand placed on her waist. The confident grin on her face, however, never falters.

"No but seriously, what kinda clothes? Classic tux?" she asks and sprouts a tuxedo-top complete with shirt and bow-tie that are, on some level, still attached to and part of her body. "Ooh or is it real fancy? Can I wear a cloak? Please tell me it's the kind of auction where people wear capes and ridiculous hats. The tuxedo loosens and flares out into an almost old-fashioned Victorian overcoat that makes her look extremely British, though the fact she's wearing zero pants means the overall effect isn't exactly classy. "Tiny top-hat maybe? I've always wanted to wear a pointlessly tiny hat to something."

[Clair de Lune]

Clair sits up in the bed, propping herself elegantly on an elbow, eyebrow arched as she watches Robin go off on her various fashion tangents. The girl really was adorable, physically and emotionally, naïve to the workings of Clair's and childlishly eager in everything she showed interest in. Maybe it was this that endeared her to Clair, a limitlessly intense person with depths of character unknown even to herself. It was a breath of fresh air... and a source of limitless fascination, when contemplating the implications of Robin's conduct to the universe.

"If you're comfortable in the knowledge that many of the people at this function will know you are, in fact, naked, you can wear what you please. Seers of the Lantern will be there, the same power that shines from the lighthouse in your hometown, and I could not tell you what they see, but I know they will see and know you well." She rises, crosses to Robin, wraps her in a loose embrace, hands just above her ass. "You are adorable, though. I encourage you to do what feels comfortable. I must visit the tailor, either way, and you are welcome to join me, and see how the hidden world does business."

[Robin Stanton]

"As amusing as that sounds, it's an awkward shape to be in for too long. And I wouldn't want my shifting muscle to cramp up at a fancy event." she chuckles. "I'll tag along but I definitely don't have the cash on hand to pay a tailor, so maybe I'll have to... borrow some clothes from a fancy-schmancy store. But you can model for me." she grins and leans forward to touch her forehead against Clair's. "But seriously, where on the scale of stuffy to eccentric are we talking here? Do people try to make a statement or are monocles going to pop free and get us kicked out if we dress too extra? Come on, gimme the deets so I know what to expect, Miss Dark and Mysterious."

[Clair de Lune]

Clair smiles enigmatically - it seems, actually, that enigmatically is the only way she ever smiles, except when smiling lasciviously. "You wouldn't have the kind of money they take at the kind of store I frequent, anyway. Let me take you, and let me treat you. I've already fucked you within an inch of your life twice, so let me do the 'buying you dinner' part, even if late, please." She kisses Robin, affectionately, on the forehead, and whistles a quiet little bit of birdsong against her skin - a robin, in fact. Briefly, a nutty, malty scent hints in the air.

"You forget that 'archaic' and 'conservative' are two different things. There's no such thing as dressing too 'extra', so long as you do so genuinely. You'll find people in all kinds of clothes among us, but everyone is dressed as they please or require. You," she says, in an only faintly patronising voice, "must dress as you choose. But let me allow you the opportunity, please."

[Robin Stanton]

"Sweeter words have never been spoken!" she grins, teetering on the edge of what a normal human face can manage. "But just so we're clear, you owe me nothing. I'm accepting this for the gift it is and because I'd be stupid to turn down the chance to go as hard as I can on this. I need to think on this." she says with an excessive amount of gravitas. "I'm thinking definitely a cape. Not a cloak, I don't think. Big shoulders? No, that's too square a look with a cape unless it's real narrow... This is going to be great! Too late to go tonight, yeah?" she asks, brimming with excited energy in Clair's loose embrace around her waist.

[Clair de Lune]

"I know," Clair agrees, "but I want to do it. I do my best to owe humans nothing at all - we're so inconsistent about our debts." Clair looks over Robin's shoulder, out the window towards the suggestion of the setting sun. "Well... we can meet the tailor, in a couple of hours. But the auction isn't today, not for us." It's every day, is what Clair doesn't immediately reveal, but that doesn't need to come up until the time they actually go. A shadow crosses her face as she thinks about what she'll have to do, what she's put off before now.

Then it brightens again, and she turns back to Robin. "I have to go, then, but I'll leave you an address. Meet me there, in comfortable clothes you can easily remove, in two hours."

[Robin Stanton]

"There are no clothes I can't easily remove." she winks and leans in to kiss Clair on the cheek to see her off. Robin can't even begin to imagine what she has to take care of, but she can tell there's something she's either neglected or put off. She'd feel guilty about derailing Clair's plans by being rescued from police custody but without knowing what it is she potentially kept her from it doesn't really take hold. Besides, she totally had that under control. Robin Stanton doesn't need rescuing, though it felt kind of nice that Cinnamon-Crow worried about her. At some point she should really learn the woman's real name...


A couple hours later and some navigating the streets of Paris with limited ability to speak French Robin manages to find her way to the address Clair has given her. She's wearing her tie-dye t-shirt and comfy cargo shorts, looking like the most stereotypical Europe-backpacking tourist imaginable but that's kind of what she is right now and if there's one thing Robin knows it's that you gotta own who or what you are at any given point. She checks to see if the door is unlocked but half suspects this to be some kind of after-hours arrangement that's pending Clair's arrival.

[Clair de Lune]

Clair has had an evening of it, the sun already sunk below the buildings and the sky beginning to lose the coral stain of light as she pads over rooftops to a small, unromantic shed nestled in the buildings of an industrial estate. Her fingernails are stained underneath with a deep, rusty red, the colour of blood dried hours ago. The latch on the skylight of the shack isn't even a lock - not really, not to people who know how to get in under it. Clair trips it and is inside. The only light is through the skylight itself, shining on furniture, and other oddments, all under variously yellowed tarps. She's aware that the alarm has already been tripped - though there isn't even the tiniest hum or click of a mechanism, not even to her razor-sharp hearing. The window closes behind her, but that's fine; she'll be leaving via the door anyway.

Clair pads across the floor, knowing exactly what to do in the tiny space. She whips a tarp off of a mirror, holding it bunched in a hand as a sharp, hooked point gently touches to her neck, off to the side where one of the sets of jugulars can be found. She tilts her head up, but is unmoved - blinking, purposefully, to allow the owner of the hook to manifest. "Good evening, Marcel," she says in French, by way of greeting, but she doesn't smile - the hooked point could nick her, just slightly, and she would be done forever. Marcel knew who she was, and would not strike, but still that old yearning pulled at her, that impulse to flee the trap. It would kill her, if she didn't wait thirty seconds. "Hi, Chanson," Marcel replies, dark face blank of any emotion. "I take it you have something to tell me?"

"Certainly," replies Clair, "and then I'll fuck off. But take the tool from my throat first. You know how it irks me and mine something fierce to be made to stand to still."

Obligingly, the hook leaves her throat. "Alright, then," Marcel says. "You know how it is with groundskeeping these days. Can't be too careful." He had his ways of knowing she was a real De Lune, just as someone else might have had a way to fake her face and voice.

"I'm coming to the auction. Tomorrow night. And I'm bringing a plus-one."

"You? I didn't think you'd be silly enough after the last time your coven was in Paris. Are you bringing enough to bid?"

"Not the plus-one, if that's what you're thinking. Beyond that, it's my business. That's all I wanted to tell you."

"Alright, girl. See you there, then. You won't be harmed." His face goes even blanker, featureless, his skin turning ashen as he slumps to the floor. By the time Clair turns around the body is gone, and the door is unlocked. She lets herself out, and walks as fast as is politely possible to her date with Robin. A little simple romance to take the edge off of having her life threatened might be best.

On the way, she stops to wash her nails as best she can in a fountain - the obvious scratches on her hands, abrasion like someone who scaled a rock face, bite and scratch makes like someone who toyed too closely with a cat, are harder to mask, but it doesn't matter. Robin can assume what she wants.

She splashes a little water on her face, then sits down by the fountain, head slumping as a crow takes off from the top of the ornate fountain's metal working. By the time the crow is twenty feet from the ground, Clair was never there. It only takes five minutes of flight to land on Robin's shoulder.

The bird is heavy enough to stagger her, and lands silently except for the loud rustle of feathers directly in Robin's ear, but Clair takes a second to let her recover from the shock before leaning in and opening her beak to say "Mwah," directly into Robin's ear, the high-pitched, cartoonish voice of a corvid imitating a kiss - a peck - on the cheek. When Robin looks again, the bird is gone, and Clair's hand is on her shoulder instead, the older woman standing behind her, reaching her arms over to hug her from behind. "You didn't wait long, I hope," she greets her, reaching around her to knock on the door lazily.

After a short while, an elderly woman, tall and elegant, peering down from behind square-rimmed glasses, looms out of the door at them both. "Oh, it's you," she says in French, in a voice that could have been disappointed if she didn't look so emotionless incidentally. "It's me," Clair agreed, brightly. "English, though, please. My guest has only the one language." She switches easily, and so does the woman. "Name?" she asks, looking at them both.

"Moth, both of us," Clair answers, pressing a finger gently to Robin's lips. "Don't say a word until you step through the door, okay, darling?" she asks Robin, pecking her once more on the cheek with this time decidedly more human lips. She steps around Robin, taking her hand and leading her into a closed-in room with absolutely no dust in the air at all and no sign of any air purifiers or electrical ventilation. Red curtains hang by rails about halfway down from the high ceiling on all three sides, and it can be inferred that the space behind them is actually about twice as large in all directions. Clair found this space confusing when first she entered it - now, she simply leads Robin straight ahead, through one of the sets of curtains, to sit on a couch in a tidy and more open carpeted space with a dress form standing politely in the corner. Everything is warm, soft, and scented faintly of myrrh.

"I take it you've payment for both of you?" the woman asks. Clair holds up a silver coin, too large and heavy to be any actual currency - not one that Robin knows, anyway. Embossed clearly on the surface is a too-real portrait of a man with his head between the thighs of a woman, whose own head is tilted back in obvious ecstasy. The woman plucks it from Clair's fingers, and it is gone. "That will do. And what is your name, dear?" she asks Robin, impassively but not unkindly, turning to her. Clair smiles, and squeezes Robin's hand. "It's okay," she assures her.

[Robin Stanton]

Robin is surprisingly unperturbed by the sudden appearance of a crow on her shoulder, reaching up to scratch the bird's head in response to the kiss-mimicry. "You're gonna have to try a little harder to catch me off-guard. I got used to sudden crow appearances pretty much as soon as I started sneaking out of the house." she grins. "Although those usually just cawed disapprovingly." She catches a glimpse of Clair's torn up hands as she knocks on the door, quirking an eyebrow but not saying anything for the time being. Whatever Clair's business she had to take care of, it doesn't look like it was particularly pleasant and a little voice in the back of her head reminds her that she actually knows very little about Clair. Even what she's been told is vague at best and certainly does not include the blood magic so clearly involved.

When the elderly woman who opens the door looks at them she smiles politely, although all her well-behaved smiles tend to look a little forced. Clair has mentioned 'Moth' before, she vaguely realizes, in that belljar metaphor. She racks her brain to recall some of the basic lessons - more like warnings really - she's gotten about magic from her aunt. Metaphors and stuff, right? Something about similarities or interpretations or something. So what's 'Moth' then? Curiosity cause they're drawn to light. The mental image of a goofy looking moth with the simple label of 'lämp' keeps popping into her head and she has to fight down a chuckle, instead turning her attention to the store they're walking through. Kind of ostentatious but she expected that from some kind of high-end custom tailor. Not to mention the huge and comfortable area behind the curtain. It reminds her of a place where important people swirl brandy and smoke cigars, only smelling much nicer.

"Robin Philomena Stanton." she answers the woman. She has no idea if names hold any meaning or power here and legally she doesn't have a middle name, but in reality her parents have called her any number of silly, elaborate or serious names depending on exactly how much trouble she's in at any given time. So in keeping with that she provides one she's never been called but feels like something in a similar vein as Thelonius, Lavinia and countless others. She's given people plenty of reasons to use a full name over the years. "And I've got some ideas. Like high-waisted pants but with one of those half-skirt butt-capes. Pardon my English."

[Clair de Lune]

"Should I try something other than a crow?" Clair asks, smiling smartly. Shortly enough, they are let in, and past the web of old snares left by long-dead but never-gone mystics over the years. This is old ground, and though Agnès can defend her own home well enough, to try and prevent all of the eavesdropping and name-binding that goes on on the street outside would be an exercise in futility. It's rare enough that a normal person even makes their way to this address, let alone to Agnès' front door. But then, neither Clair nor Robin are ordinary humans.

The woman, inside, studies them both with a meticulous but not unkind eye. "Philomena," she echoes, and smiles knowingly. "That was my grandmother's name." She extends an earth-dark hand and shakes Robin's politely. "I don't suppose Clair has told you her name yet, has she? It slips her mind quite often. I do so love ruining the surprise for her." Clair only quirks an eyebrow, her smile unchanging, though her eyes become just a shade flinty. "Agnès," she replies, "I was going to introduce myself sooner than later."

"Of course you were, dear, but trust is the fundament of even the most turbulent romance," Agnès replies, a gentle chiding as if from a schoolteacher. "But I'm not here to tell you what's what. I'm here to fit you for... dare I guess, the auction." It wasn't a question.

"Oui," Clair agrees. "And a half-skirt would be lovely, if it's what Robin wants." The implication that it would somehow ever be Clair's choice isn't lost on Agnès, evidently, who purses her lips only a little. "Well, come with me, Robin. Clair can help herself to the brandy, as she always does." Agnès parts another, different curtain, and vanishes behind it. Clair takes the moment of privacy to steal a deep, lingering kiss from Robin, and smiles at her. "She's a lovely lady," she explains, "but she does so love to make me look bad. I think she does it to everyone like us. Call it a hobby, maybe."

[Robin Stanton]

Robin grins back at Clair smugly with her hand on her chin as if she's propping it up in profound thought, more amused at Agnes busting Clair's chops than upset at not having been told her 'real' name. "Oh I think I like her already. Everyone dark and mysterious needs somebody poking fun at them to keep it real. It's an important service we provide in exchange for people putting up with us." And with a laugh she follows Agnes behind the curtain.

The next twenty minutes or so are filled with Robin rattling off a list of ideas, some doable, some just plain bad, but she's unbothered by Agnes pointing out the later to her in no uncertain terms. Finally they settle on something that's still doable yet not particularly sensible and Robin gets the impression that Agnes is used to the weirder kind of requests, though she's not sure where on that scale her outfit falls. Leggings that clip to laced high-heels with a low waist-line that attach to a kind of filigree waist-corset made of brass and what Robin calls 'hip fenders' much to Agnes chagrin. The top is a low-cut leotard piece akin to the pants with flaring shoulders to match the hips and a high collar. But what pulls it all together is the half-skirt and loose, slitted sleeves, both black on one and a pale pink on the other.

The real challenge is getting the excited shapeshifter to stand still for measurements and, more importantly, not adjust her physical dimensions in the middle of it, thinking she's being helpful and constantly assuring Agnes she'd just shift to match the clothes so they'll fit perfectly regardless, which mildly upsets the tailor's sartorial sensibilities. After a couple of false starts Robin finally distracts herself by trying to grill Agnes for info about this mysterious auction and Clair herself. There's only so much new things she can gleam, though Clair's full name is one she will definitely keep in her back-pocket. It's the ideal mix of a perfect fit and just a tad embarrassing. Beyond that she doesn't manage to get much more out of the woman that she didn't already kind of figure. Clair's a womanizer and clearly prefers to engage on her own terms, which is fine with Robin. Going out there and doing her thing, free as a proverbial or literal bird is kind of what this whole trip is about so she can hardly fault Clair for doing the same thing. Still, she'd like to figure out how to booty-call get into contact with Clair on her own terms as well.

Finally, after much squirming Agnes has managed to get Robin to commit to a set of measurements and releases her to slip out of the sectioned off room, wearing her regular old clothes again but with a wide-brimmed hat she insisted on hanging onto right away. Tugging on the brim she leans against a wall and tilts her head at Clair. "Madame de Lune, I presume."

[Clair de Lune]

Clair smiles her own little smile and watches them go. While they're gone she entertains herself in the usual polite ways - Certainly Clair herself is active practicioner of magic, far more so than Agnes, but that doesn't means he has to be doing mysterious and magical things every moment of the day. She hears the distant suggestions of conversation behind the muffling curtain, but she doesn't much mind - instead she crosses her legs, reaches over to the glass - not crystal - decanter, and pours herself a glass of fairly high-quality brandy. Everything about Agnes' place is like this - cosy, friendly, and fairly upmarket, but not opulent. This is a woman who does well enough for herself at a small, profitable trade for a small, connected clientele.

Clair closes her eyes and cups the brandy in the bowl of her palms, letting herself drink in the cosy warmth of the place. This was a place where the skein of the world was thick, rich with veins and well-loved. Human life kept the everyday alive with the community, people came and went, and even sworn enemies might tip hats while passing each other on the way into or out of Agnes' door. As with Clair, how much of this is magic and how much is simply how Agnes keeps herself and her company is up to the beholder. A place like this certainly couldn't hold Clair, any more than it could hold Robin, but it made it easier to be still, when Clair wanted to be.

She lets herself feel that, taking slow sips of the brandy and letting it stain her blood a rich, amber brown. She breathes in the boxes and boxes of newspaper clippings and needles and thread, the shelves of carefully stored fabric rolls, the barest suggestion of oiled and maintained tools, the occasional ear-pricking nip of dressmaking shears meeting, businesslike, from either side of the fabric. A life well-lived, stable at the centre of the world. There's an appeal to this, sometimes. Agnes even turned Clair down, once, a secret she was kind enough to keep to herself.

Clair smiles at Robin as she opens the curtain, without moving her head or opening her eyes. "Madamoiselle, s'il te plais, mais c'est moi," she agrees, switching to a more proper one-handed grip of the cup so that she can cock a palm up beside her ear, playfully. "I did tell you before, you'll remember. Or maybe you won't." She stands up, opening her eyes and meeting Robin in a one-armed hug, her breath softly scented the leather-trim earth of the booze. "Don't take Agnes too much to heart. If you're ever in need, you can escape to here, the safest place in Paris, and she won't tell a soul." Agnes doesn't disagree - though she does give a meaningfully peeved stare over Robin's shoulder at the woman offering shelter on her behalf. "Of course, you and I are more likely to have each other, non?" She squeezes Robin's hip, and pecks her on the cheek. "My turn."

"You can come if you want, but the brandy stays out here, so if you want a drink have it now, hm?" Agnes says, in a stern but smiling voice. Clair disappears behind the curtain and is naked far too naturally within moments. Agnes is used to this - mercifully, and somewhat rarely, Clair is wearing underwear. The exact cut of Clair's suit isn't discussed - the requirement seems implicit - but notably Agnes takes Clair's measurements brand-new, like with Robin's, clashing somewhat with the idea that Clair was a regular, or at least familiar. The measurements taken, Clair smiles and steps from the small, slightly raised stool. "It's been a pleasure, Agnes," she says, not hurried but clearly done once the purpose of the meeting had been achieved. She is utterly unembarrassed by her nakedness, donning her clothes in no particular hurry and with the same grace she disrobed, before linking up with Robin's arm. "I think I'll show you the nightlife tonight. Is tomorrow night acceptable to pick up the clothes, Maitresse?" The question seems presumptuous, given the tight deadline, but Agnes only smiles warmly and winks. "But of course. You two enjoy your night out, and do try to recover for your night out tomorrow, hm?"

[Robin Stanton]

The two wrap up their business with Mademoiselle Agnes Claire whisks Robin off into the Parisian nightlife and the two spend the night dancing and drinking until the night fades into a haze. She wakes up in an expensive-looking hotel room with only vague memories of how she got there. She half expects Claire to not be there, in part because it seems like she cheated some basic information about the mysterious stranger out of the clothier and she seems like someone who might pull away the more that veil of mystery is pierced. Vague memories of wrapping herself around warm skin like as a blanket bubble through her head but at some point during the night she must have reverted to 'human'. She sits up and brown hair streaked through with bright pink fall into her face. She blows at it but it stubbornly falls back. It's been a while since she's woken up as a kind of mish-mash of features. That's some rookie shapeshifter stuff and the pink hair feels like reverting to comfortable rut she tried to escape in the first place.

"Just not fully used to it yet..." she mutters and runs her hand through her hair to keep it out of her face, in the same motion wiping the pink out of it and asserting what she's mentally dubbed her back-packing persona on herself. She lifts her arms above her head and stretches like joints and spines are optional suggestions, letting muscles and whatever protoplasm fills the gaps ripple and twist before letting them settle into a comfortable configuration.