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In the many times she visited the beach, she mostly saw it as an opportunity to read a novel under a parasol. Hardly any of her trips ended up with her in the water. Worse yet, she hadn’t so much as even watched somebody surf. Before her was terra incognita of the highest order. Ingrid remained unperturbed. If she had to, she could be on her way to success, no matter the cost to her own sanity or health, “Neither have I, oh well, now is the time.”

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So focused on the challenge of learning and perfecting surfing in such a limited time frame, she had overlooked the ever present threat of the invaders. Glad to have Seika’s support, she turned her gaze up, venom welling behind her sunglasses. Her low tolerance for insolence had already been worn thin, this additional complication was Earth-chan’s vicious mockery, and Ingrid wasn’t going to have it, “They so much as look at me, they’re to answer for it.” She hissed.
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A certain bitterness nearly overwhelmed her alongside the cheers echoing for every landing stuck by the odious flock. Seika’s suggestion that they--in Ingrid’s warped interpretation--do something duplicitous was looking good, even at the expense of her pride. Second thoughts, however, vanished quickly; locking eyes with the bird it pressed the tips of its wings against the side of its head, fluttering its feathers in a mocking gesture. Beholding this particular indignity, Ingrid tossed any humility she was wrestling with into the wind.
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“We’ll beat them at their own game. Allons-y.” Ingrid sought vengeance with her usual swiftness. Launching herself forward as powerfully as her meager strength could allow, she took a moment to consider the magnitude of the swell. An almost insurmountable wave surged, curling into a vicious lash. Ingrid, soaring upwards, focused, letting pure instinct take over. Fighting upward, and following with a steep descent she allowed herself to give the appearance of being swept as the wave came to a close, crashing into a violent mist.
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Submerged, she guided her road into a corkscrew in a nearly futile attempt to keep her board from running away. In these precious seconds, she plotted out her grand resurgence. Finally angling her rainbow road straight upward, she laid out a glowing collection of chevrons up an exquisite example of gnar. From the outside, Ingrid would pop in and out as she shot straight upwards through the wave, launching out through the top in a spectacular torrent. Hungry for another competitor, the UFO stopped just above her; Ingrid, had a promise to keep. Not even considering stopping, Ingrid continued hurtling surfboard first into the ship. In the wake of a loud gong-like sound, she left a solid dent into the spinning craft, throwing it out of whack, although still on the hunt. Her little attack and the following airborne drift, ended in a torrential rain, leaving a prismatic light show in its wake.

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Her once voluminous hair clung to her face in long, twisting tendrils wrapped around her sunglasses. Out of breath, she finally came to rest beside Seika. Resisting the urge to huff and puff, she focused her strained breath on an almost guttural utterance of, “The coup de grâce, it’s yours.”

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Some wizards summoned wise thunderbirds, Ingrid’s summoned a replica 1962 Ford Thunderbird (Although, she would never). Yet marvels at her particular school of magic were short lived; quickly trivialized by the real human that existed past the unusual circumstance universally inflicted by Earth-chan. Ingrid, for all her self-centered flaws, could still provide an empathic, secretive ear; she did dress others from many different walks of life.

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Any inclination she had to revel in the monarchistic high drama of the politics of the business world was subdued. There had been both a time and a place, and that was neither here nor there. Offering a pair of listening eyes, she did not interrupt or offer any commentary. A great deal of trust had been laid squarely on Ingrid’s shoulders, a trust she couldn’t bear the thought of violating in the slightest.

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After baring her soul, Seika had followed through with the fear that she would be stung once again. Ingrid, in response, wordlessly reached over the gearstick; inviting Seika in for a friendly embrace. Misty-eyed, she followed through with the warmest smile her frigid features could feasibly muster, “Alas, a make-up artist, I should have known, and in such illustrious company; I’ve read quite a bit of Morikasa’s work--in translation--always an insight.” She drifted, becoming almost nostalgic.

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Ingrid was quick to work, in fact, she had been reduced to totally feral ferocity. Mechanical pencil in hand, she took to starting with a quick sketch of Seika. Eyes from the paper for a brief moment she returned her honest gaze to her companion, “You needn’t feel compelled to pay me anything, your company is an absolute joy. Either way, it’s muggy and hot. I could hardly allow you to continue steaming in your kimono, you’ll stain the poor thing; if it was a rental they’d have your head.” She added, wiping her eyes, “I have made costumes for all sorts of people, I’ll look after you."

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Mapping out a modified one piece. Ingrid sought a light pattern enhanced with some slight floral embellishments, while keeping up with a gradient of shades of lavender. Her focus was double edged. Firstly she placed her attention around the neckline, straying away from her own décolletage and aiming for a higher collar made up of a dual-layered fold, reminiscent of a kimono and han-eri. Secondly, she developed a knee length, if loose skirt, with a staggered hem line of three “steps”, all obscuring a built-in pair of safety shorts.

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“If it is to your tastes, I shall get to work. Would you kindly procure us a pair of surfboards?” she was open to critique, of course, “I think a halter may suit you, show off some of your finely tuned warrior’s musculature." While most people suffered when they spoke without speaking, Ingrid often struggled when she thought aloud.

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"A lot can be done with the basics, I'm sure." She had commented, her voice a bit flattened. Chaos had erupted around them. The competition had yet to start, yet long standing rivalries were being brought to a head. As best as anyone could figure, Mecha Queen Shisa and the floating obelisk were getting especially heated. An orb of light had floated down from the heavens directly to the sharpened top of the obelisk. Strange characters glowed along its cracked until eventually it erupted to a shining beam attack directly into Mecha Queen Shisa’s chest. The ensuing confrontation was quickly sidelined upon, kind wonders falling upon Ingrid’s shoulders, flicking her well kept hair, she smiled, “Thank you, thank you. I'm always available to teach."
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The very moment Seika showed she was receptive was the very moment that Ingrid got to work. Tumbling open her sewing hit, she hastily retrieved her measuring tape and a felt pomegranate skewered to death with pins and needles. Setting them on a towel, she cracked open her tried and true sketch pad, sketching out rough outfits for her beachside ally. Her creative fires were wild; quick, all encompassing, and nearly untamable. She had her eyes set directly upon a vision. Picking through her catalogues she tried to seek proper inspiration, hoping to even incorporate elements of Seika’s current wardrobe—as to help maintain a cohesive personal aesthetic.
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Ingrid was very much teetering on the edge of being carried away. This was no longer her career; this was a hobby that helped supplement her career of driving crazy. Flustered, she took a deep breath, recollecting herself. Snapping shut her sketch pad; she returned a warm smile. As much as she missed her old life, this was an aspect she had forgotten. Never the auteur, she was always part of a joint creative venture. In this case, she was making an outfit for an acquaintance, not a blank figure on a canvas, her concerns were all that mattered.
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“Of course, ma chère.” She responded, in a gentle tone. There were a few dozen ways she was capable of removing the two from the public. Ingrid being Ingrid--one with a love of flare—summoned a sports car directly onto the beach. Already behind the driver’s seat, she opened the passenger side door, inviting Seika into the air conditioned vehicle. Once in, she planned to drive off a bit, mostly by going directly up, “You needn’t justify yourself to me; if I am to make you something, it is to be something you’re comfortable wearing. Something I would hope you'd like to keep.” she quickly added.

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An emergency request? Very well could have waited. Ingrid returned to sketching, taking in some more Mediterranean inspiration. Dismissively she hummed to herself, forges were sturdy; there couldn’t possibly be that much of a risk at play. A second glance teased reward. Drumming her sketchbook, she weighed her options. Reduced to a flustered sigh, she eventually caved and agreed to Earth-Chan’s call to Ender Island; all she did these days was risk life and limb for paltry reward.
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If anything, she was well equipped to take a trip. Unusually, a distant hum grew into an uncharacteristic roar. For once, her chosen mode of transportation did appear to be a chariot, soaring above the road on a shimmering rainbow. Like all of her others, it kept its typical iridescent charm. Being unable to summon horses, she had to substitute for the living animals by simply having her chariot pulled by a trio of modified motorcycles, all lavishly adorned with unicorn ornaments to give the false impression of living steeds.
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Custom-made evening gown flowing, she caught sight of a striking splash of red in the middle of the smoldering town. At top speed, she was far closer than she desired to be, much faster than she would have ever intended, as in, within sight of the mess. Yanking on the reins, she drifted into a sudden stop. Ferocity brewing behind her increasingly cracked glasses, she searched high and low for the vicious culprit. Reeling from the sight of the massacre laying at the feet of the tattered man, she leaned her back with snobbish force, “Brute… Away with you.” She scornfully requested, with a tone that implied an entire speech concerning the rotten fens was waiting in the winds.

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Dress to Aggress - Selected

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There had been a great many things that Ingrid thought she was entitled to; for the most part these demands of her weren’t unreasonable. She had thought she would be able to enjoy the Christmas season, only to nearly find herself in the stomach of a yeti, and not long after she found herself suffering the interior of a derelict cannery. Ordeal after ordeal had struck her down, and for once, she felt as if she could relax. A new zone had opened up, and with it, a new beach.
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Dressed in an elegant white one piece accented with many embellishments, a wide-brimmed hat, and pair of cracked sunglasses, she chose to fight against her almost pallid, Nordic tone and soak in some rays. Lounging on a wooden recliner, reflector in hand. For once, she had found enjoyment in an unenjoyable world. Many things clearly weren’t meant to be. A nearby assignment flashed across her UI, and she responsibly left it on “read”. She wasn’t going to allow anything to get between her and her vacation, nothing.
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A horrifying squawk erupted by her. She responded in turn by throwing her reflector into the sky and shrieking back with an almost inhuman noise. Wide-eyed and terrified, she spun around, and let out a sigh of terrible frustration. Somehow, she had been snuck up on by a large, seagull, which to her, was already one of the most monstrous of the birds, and already a target of her naturally voluminous contempt Snarling, she struck it, entirely verbally, “Excuse me!”
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“You’re excused.” It smugly responded, continuing to cast a shadow upon Ingrid. Its beady eyes and their vacancy only served to torment Ingrid. Realizing that any enjoyment she could possibly wring out of Nadir Beach had been completely spent, she opened the request log, seeing the mission to eliminate the most terrible bird this side of paradise. So elegantly disappointingly, she read the largest fine print around, learning that this bird was both immune to harm, and that the only way for it to truly be defeated, was for it to be defeated in competition regarding a sport she knew next to nothing about. [Mission Accepted]
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Perfect… just perfect.

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