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Palmyram, like her luck, had been something of a mixed bag.

Crystal was assigned as her roommate. Worked out fine. Thus far the other Magi had been content to ignore her ramblings— rather than trying to engage with them, which could only lead to frustration for who else could understand the machinations of her mind— and more importantly had been a willing and able accomplice in her aims to design a proper logo for their little band. Even though the [i]devushka[/i] was in another room she was still around to provide an able minion. That was to be placed within the good luck column, for sure. As was the recovery of some of her luggage.

Unfortunately, that did not mean all of it had been recovered intact.

Her guitar had been smashed. The knowledge, the reality of its demise crashing down into quantum certainty for which Schrodinger could never be sufficiently damned, had been enough to wrench from her a most undignified torrent of invectives. Not that she much cared about her dignity; dignity was for people without passion. But she could [i]certainly[/i] have been more artistic about it. Screaming her head off, while understandable, would [i]not[/i] endear her to the [color=ec008c][i]prekrasnaya.[/i][/color] No, such things could only be detrimental to her cause. Bequeathing a coffee had been a masterstroke, the first of many, but she would need to work harder. Unfortunately for all of her hard work she had been hardpressed to find the staples of her life within the city. A shooting range had been easy, and her chance to return to a regular practice schedule (at least as regular as she could manage) had been seized with grace and delight. And she had managed to strike a deal to purchase an admittedly battered, but serviceable, new guitar with one of the city's denizens.

But she had, for far too long, been completely and utterly unable to find a place within which to sing in front of a large crowd of people. They all insisted that she be of drinking age, which was [i]ridiculous[/i]. She needed, nor desired, no intoxicants to convince her that she could sing. She merely needed the microphone and an enthusiastic crowd. But at last, perhaps, she had a lead. Which was why Rivka was in the process of raising her phone to her ear, swinging her legs over the side of her bed.

[color=7e5e7f]"[i]Devushla[/i], you should come with me to check out my new lead. I think this one might actually let us in."[/color]