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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on May 21, 2017 16:36:08 GMT -5
{ Conolly Coffee;; early afternoon;; early summer }
Phoebe is still busy trying to order when a familiar face waltzes into the coffee shop. No, not Mitchie. Emerson. Phoebe stiffens, guilt hefts its amplifier out of the attic and starts wailing loud and proud against her ribs. Her first instinct is to walk over, make her presence now, and apologize for her behavior the other night. What stops her is the girl.
Her first thought is girlfriend. Obviously that’s his girlfriend. But a moment of scrutiny (disguised as sporadic glances meant to appear “casual”) reveals a distinct resemblance. Sister, then. The way she talks, walks, and dresses all boast volumes of maturity. Young adult, at least. Phoebe scoots farther into the background. Another time, she decides, I’ll apologize another time.
“Grünwald.”
The girl whips around, features instinctively melting into a practiced scowl, belying the firecrackers going off in her chest━ all sizzle and snap and fountains of colorful sparks. Rolling her eyes, she returns Mitchie’s disgust, “Keddie. Why don’t you stop teasing me and drop dead already? The world would thank you.” Not long ago, Phoebe would have meant those words. The edge to her voice would have been razor-sharp, a serrated fang made of bitter rivalry that stretched between her coven and his. Now it’s dulled. Folded steel turned to flimsy plastic. The bite’s still there, just a different kind.
A playful fire danced just behind Phoebe’s eyes as she took Mitchie in: brown hair styled to perfection, eyes masked with disgust to match her own. The sight of him filled from crown to toe with the kind of warmth reserved for August evenings; dense, sweltering, and calm.
For a split second, Phoebe was a few months younger and hating him to pieces. Arrogant, vain, petty, an ego big enough to make even Narcissus say “chill”. He insulted her hair, she insulted his hair. The Raven witch hated the Serpent witch and everything was right with the world. Then the crush started to blossom against her will. Phoebe remembers one particular encounter that left her feel dizzy, weak, and nauseous and jittery. She blamed the heat. Blamed her hunger. Blamed a lack of sleep, a lack of water. Phoebe wrote it off as anything but Mitchie.
Then it happened again.
They were at the Beauchene Plantation for a meeting. Mitchie was going on about how her outfit looked like it had been fished out of the trash and tailored by a color blind homeless man. Phoebe had rolled her eyes, preparing to give her snappy retort. But she made the mistake of meeting Mitchie’s eyes━ those bottomless dark eyes threatening to swallow her up ━and her retaliation fizzled to ash on her tongue. Speechless and gut prickling with sparks, Phoebe stormed away and avoided him for the rest of the night.
To say the least, Phoebe had been very, very, very slow to accepting her crush on Mitchell A. Keddie. She denied it whenever it rose it's ugly head. That didn't stop it, of course. The butterflies twisting her stomach into a frenzy of nerves turned into a storm, into a tornado, into a hurricane. For a short time, Phoebe was even convinced she was dying.
Dying was an easier notion to accept over having a crush on Mitchie.
The topics of their conversations changed shortly after that. The insults were still sprinkled in, sparingly and less biting. The charade keeps going though. Inter-coven relationships aren’t forbidden (not like they used to be), just heavily frowned upon. You see, inter-coven romances always end up dividing loyalties and assuring children with divided-loyalties. The Moth Coven is well-known for not taking these rivalries and traditions seriously. Serpent and Raven, on the other hand, are a different story.
Her lips thin into a line, a gesture that could easily be interpreted as annoyance, but that Mitchie knows means the girl is fighting to contain a smile. “Your hair looks like trash, did you run out of product?” His hair looks perfect. It always looks perfect. “No, wait, lemme guess: you’re trying this new style where you mean to look like a lost hobo.”
The faintest traces of amusement can be seen glittering in Phoebe’s stormy gray eyes. It was poorly hidden. The longer she lingered around Mitchie, the more Phoebe started to lose her grip on her carefully crafted mask of loathing. Talking to him made the slipping happen at break-neck speeds.
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Post by servalstrike on May 21, 2017 17:34:42 GMT -5
Jasadja al-Jarad Jasadja was terrible in groups of people. She tried her best to be upbeat and friendly, a little more like her Mom who somehow always knew what to say to others. But Jasadja often found herself at a loss for words, always taking a step back from others. Afraid that the next thing she might say would make her look foolish or inconsiderate, or would just start a fight. If the night of the meeting wasn’t already an obvious example, Jasadja doesn’t handle confrontation well. And Beau’s mere presence is practically begging for a fight.
“Whoa, guys,” she started speaking to Beau and Lucifer and Ingrid after some nasty comments were exchanged. She tries putting on her best smile, though it was wobbly and awkward looking. Too much teeth while she talks. “Let’s not start anything, all right? I’d hate to have to tell my parents that there are more broken dishes.” With a nervous laugh she set the broom down and clasped her hands together. She also wouldn’t like to have to kick anyone out. Especially not Beau, he had enough grudges against them.
Quickly veering the conversation away from that she looked to Algernon at the news. “Oh! What a big responsibility that must be, Algernon! Your Da- Absolon must really trust you.” Carefully she tucked that information away, putting it next to her Mom’s announcement to her Dad that she was also leaving. She tampered down the edging worry that was growing in her gut. Telling her that they were going to do something clearly related to those terrifying demons from a few nights ago. Jasadja tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about what it would mean if Absolon and her Mother didn’t come back.
Luckily she didn’t have to let her worry fester for long as more people entered the shop. The group in the shop was getting bigger and Jasadja was starting to feel all the more awkward. She could already feel herself clamming up and wishing to hide in the back room.
She directed a glowing smile towards the newcomers as Sinbad ruffled his feathers and flapped his wings. She shushed the bird and waved to their guests, “Welcome.”
Hearing her brother’s voice in her ear she gave an encouraging nod without thinking twice. “Of course,” she said to him. As much as she didn’t want him to go, she needed someone to keep her from running and hiding. But Jessamine needed to get away far more than Jasadja did. He was breathing everyone’s combined interactions like toxins. “Take all the time you need, we can handle this.” She shot a smile at him, not one that was too much teeth or lopsided, a genuine one that was edged with dimples and smashed her freckles together. She looked to Beth behind the counter, the girl was always a reassuring presence to the siblings. Without much thought Jasadja ran a hand through Jessamine’s tangled locks, concern clouding her eyes as she pressed her lips together. “Go take a break.” Then she shooed him away and readdressed their customers. “Are you all going to chat or can I get anyone anything?”
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on May 21, 2017 19:20:24 GMT -5
{ The Golden Locust;; early afternoon;; early summer }
Ambrose is reaching up to poke at the origami cranes littering the ceiling, oblivious (or pretending to be) to the situation surrounding him like oozing lava. Algernon, on the other hand, is beaming. Pure, unconcentrated pride exudes from him near-tangible waves. He barely contain the smile halving his features in two.
“Of course he trusts me,” Algernon boasts in a manner that he hopes is subtle. It isn’t. “I’m his heir, after all. Someday, I’ll be the leader of the Serpent Coven. He says it’s best I practice while I can.”
Speaking of which, Algernon turns just in time to see Isaac Winslow walking through the door. Though physically removed from the coven-life due to his fatal lack of magic, Isaac’s and connections were well-enough known to make him something of an honorary witch. Sort of. Something in Algernon’s chest twists at the sight of the Winslow boy and he’s thrown back into his earlier conversation with his father.
“Gladys Winslow? The Moth Coven witch?” Algernon asked, skeptical, as though his father had simply misspoken and would soon correct himself.
He didn’t. “Yes, that Gladys Winslow.”
Algernon tried not to chew his bottom lip as he was wont to do, “You’re… You’re serious.” He hated sounding so skeptical about his father’s decisions. He knew what was best for them. For everyone. And recent events had driven him to make difficult decisions. Such as choosing the new leader of their rival coven.
“The Winslow’s are a very powerful family of witches, Algernon. They’re as old as us Abernathy’s. I am actually shocked they have yet to take leadership of the Moth Coven,” Absolon rearranged a stack of papers on his desk, glancing up only briefly at his son before returning to the paperwork at hand. “With my blessing, Gladys Winslow will be a proper replacement for the Raven. I plan on discussing the details with Anton later today.”
“And you want me to help?” The question was a tentative one, as though Algernon was afraid of the answer.
Absolon, on the other hand, merely nodded, “Like I said, the Winslows are as old and powerful as our family, but they are inexperienced as coven leaders. I want you to help Gladys in any way you can, understand?”
This time it was Algernon’s turn to nod, “Of course.”
Their conversation had lasted a few more hours after that. They discussed━ or, rather, Absolon explained ━the benefits of placing the Winslows in such a position of power. They were powerful witches. They were well-liked in the community. They were well-known as well and a force to be reckoned with should anyone doubt them. Since they were friends of the Abernathy’s, that pesky old rivalry between the Serpent Coven and the Raven Coven would finally be brought to an end.
Algernon thought it was odd that his father referred to the whole Winslow family when it would only be Gladys leading the coven. But he knew not to think on it too deeply. His father knew what he was doing.
Snapping from his reverie, Algernon offers Isaac a friendly smile and a wave, casually glancing behind him as though expecting Gladys to walk through the door. “Hello, Isaac,” he greets, “Is it just you and━” he stops at the sight of Holly, brushes it off and continues. “Where’s Gladys?”
Beauregard Florence Abernathy, son of Absolon Nigel Abernathy, has officially reached his limit. For one thing, the environment has grown increasingly hostile toward him, with admonishments coming from faceless nobodies. How these people know him is no mystery. Where they get the guts to talk to him as an equal, however? That’s where Beau has gotten lost. The countenance of cool, calm, and collected that Beau has been wearily cultivating over the course of this interaction has begun to crumble, revealing veneer of loathing beneath. He's had about as much as he can take of this. He pushes past Algernon, grumbling a hasty "I'm leaving" as he does so. The Golden Locust was always crawling with witchfolk, but never to this extent. It's unbearable.
Beau steps out onto the sidewalk, relishing in the open space. He takes a moment to think and then decides to head to Conolly's Coffee. He prefers coffee to tea anyway. At least, he prefers anything to the al-Jarad's tea. They always managed to make their stuff taste like wet ash.
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When he finally arrives at the coffee shop, Beau is almost insulted that he wasted a good five minute walk for this. Right off the bat, Beau spots two Raven witches. Disgust tastes like sour grapes in his mouth. The Golden Locust had been overcrowded and brimming with hostility, but at least the ratio of Raven witches to every other witch had been 1:5. He recognizes one of the male baristas (the one with an ungodly amount of freckles, seriously dude, draw the line somewhere) and already knows which one to avoid. Unfortunately, the only other barista is currently occupied with some chick Beau doesn't know.
The other Raven Witch is the blue-haired girl from earlier. She's exchanging words with Mitchie, looking annoyed by the encounter the entire time. Good. Beau harbors a bit of respect for Mitchell Keddie, for no other reason than Mitchie's ego could eat his own ego as a snack any day. There was no competition there. Great. This oughta be fun. At least it wasn't as crowded as the Golden Locust.
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Post by ᴘᴀʟᴀᴅɪɴ ✧ on May 21, 2017 19:24:12 GMT -5
"Oh, you're impossible." Camille huffs, swatting at his arm. "Em, why wouldn't you want to share your gift of freakishly cold skin with the world? Spread the love." She hears Brooks talking and looks over at the freckled barista, all smiles. "Morning!" She singsongs, walking over to his till. "You'll have to excuse Emmy here, he's miserable." Camille gets a glare but Brooks receives a small nod of acknowledgement.
"Well, there's not exactly any love to spread." He drawls, though his brow furrows at her next words. "Non miseriae. Lassus." Emerson grumbles after much consideration of how exactly to reply, dark blue eyes flickering up to meet Brooks' momentarily. The guy most likely didn't understand a word that was coming out of his mouth and probably thought he was talking trash if anything - Latin was a pretty dead language that was hardly ever used in conversation. He grew up in a household with a mother who was the associate professor of Greek, Latin, and classical studies in her respective university, however, so she probably would've disowned him if he hadn't picked up on something. She was especially passionate about her work and to try and keep the language alive, she had a two-month immersion course in Latin every year during the summer. Emerson and the rest of his siblings were always dragged along. Emerson hated it but looking back, he might have been able to learn a lot if he actually tried. But here we are. 'Not miserable. Tired.' was the intended meaning of his two, choppy and short sentences, although it came out more as 'No misery. Tired.' Yep, his mom would've fainted if he heard this preposterous attempt at her favorite language. This wasn't even an exaggeration - she said that the reason she had married their father was because of his surname: Latier meant "interpreter of Latin." And to be perfectly honest, Emerson might have believed her if it weren't for the fact that she didn't change her own last name to match his.
The ends of her lips quirk up into a tiny smile, icy blue eyes lighting up with familiarity. Always mommy's little girl, she had actually tried her best to listen and learn during their annual immersion courses and it had payed off - she was the only one who was anywhere near their mother's level. Camille looks up at him, answering in English but with plenty of corrections to make. "You're an idiot." She says simply, voice dripping with feigned sweetness. "It's nec miser - your conjugation is messed up and you know that you're not supposed to use non in that context. Second half is good but I would've gone with fessi if I were you."
"Tacē." The one thing he knew how to say correctly; shut up.
"Anyways, hi!" Camille ignores his comment and spins back to face Brooks. "Can I get a tall salted caramel mocha latte and-" She pauses, looking back at Emerson expectantly with her eyebrows raised. She'd apparently forgotten that she wanted to order for him; hell yeah.
"Just a double shot of espresso, thanks."
"Ristretto or lungo?"
"Uh..." Emerson blinks owlishly at Camille. Why was his sister speaking another language at him? "Just give me whichever is stronger." Please, dear God, he just wants some coffee.
"Ristretto then." She then smiles at Brooks again, though it's more of a mischievous little smirk than anything before pulling her card out from the purse on her shoulder. "Okay, did you get that? Yeah, do you mind doing the exact opposite of what he just asked for? Thanks!"
Emerson has to physically hold himself back from slamming his face into the nearest wall. He can't even say anything - he's done the exact same thing to her at Dunkin Donuts, 2013. "Drop the gloves." Emerson finally huffs in true hockey player fashion, bumping her shoulder with his own. He could've been a bit more intimidating, sure, had he not still been so groggy,
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Post by koi on May 21, 2017 23:37:07 GMT -5
brooks maloneconnelly coffeeBrooks has a set of very white, well-lined-up teeth with eye teeth a tiny bit too long, and sometimes when he smiles it appears he might devour you, because he is still his mother's son as much as he is Joshua Malone’s, but this is just an anecdote. Brooks has a couple of smiles--his stupid, almost-threatening-in-its-brightness smile (current), his confused-closed-lip [censored words are still against the rules] smile (a moment or two ago), and then, sleaze on a stick (which he saves for freaking out his step family because it looks like he’s about to either seductively lick his lips or, like, steal an entire store, and both are equally likely).
At first, Brooks had been sixty percent sure that they were dating, or something, because they have a familiarity that is shared either between bantering couples or bantering siblings, and within a few moments Brooks finds himself corrected--siblings. For a hot second, or, well, a lukewarm second that spreads into a moment, Brooks goes: this is kind of sad, because he realizes he and his sister are nothing like this, no familiarity anywhere close to this, no inside jokes, references, just annoying-older-brother and annoyed-little-sister pushing each other’s buttons blindly, unsure of which ones they are even pushing. His dark, dark eyes pass over the duo, wide, like a little boy seeing something fantastic and immeasurable for the first time.
“What language is that?” Brooks finds himself blurting, wondering aloud like a child, then starts entering her order into the machine, thinking to himself that she seems more like a cold drink kind of gal, doesn’t apologize for asking about the language thing even though it seems a little invasive. He glances up, then, at her brother, and his smile goes a little stale, confused around the edges, closed lips, and he knows, now, he has definitely seen him before. But it wasn’t here--he’d know, at least, what to order if Brooks has seen him in here before. He puts on his smile again, thinks to himself that he’ll figure it out when he’s at home and probably text Charlie excitedly about it even if it’s nothing to be excited about as he tries to mull over the options. Dog park? Passed him on a street? Grocery store? Twenty-four-hour corner store at 2am getting a pack of ramen noodles and singing to himself? Probably not any of those. He tries to let it go.
“So, tall salted caramel mocha latte--that’s a mouthful--and a double shot.” He sees the girl pull out a card from her purse and automatically passes her the debit machine, looking over his shoulder, grabs the tall cup and the short cup for the double espresso, glances back up at the two--”Names?”
Okay, well, Brooks really does not need to write down their names or anything, there’s definitely not enough people in the small store for that, but he needs to see if having a name to go with the face will make Brooks more inclined to remembering who the dark haired guy is.
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Post by shades on May 21, 2017 23:49:29 GMT -5
___________________________________________________ CONNOLLY COFFEE EARLY AFTERNOON
To his complete lack of surprise, more witches walk into the coffee shop. He doesn’t recognize anyone except the Abernathy-dude-who-almost-was-set-ablaze. It started out with the dark-haired girl, and then others after her. Charlie should make a t-shirt that says: “Hi, I am a Half-Demon and college student. End my life now.” He knows they would gladly do it.
Charlie finished serving the dark-haired I-say-daddy-for-everything girl her coffee when everyone began to file in one-by-one. He gave Brooksie a look, not that his friend would understand the ‘you got to be shhting me’ look, but maybe he would. Brooksie did have a natural knack of knowing the vague workings of Charles Fitzgerald, from the terrible luck to the pointed glances he throws every once in awhile.
“Hey, welcome.” He smiled at the blue-haired girl, fake of course because this was not a smile situation. In fact, this was a ‘groan loudly and slowly duck behind the counter’ situation. But unfortunately, that was unprofessional. “What can I get you?”
-- Phoebe’s comment is thrown lazily, haphazardly, and without bite. He is fairly certain she used it before in public, not sure when or in front of who. Mitchie didn’t care. Before it had offended him and the deep roots of his soul shook, he had plastered himself in front of a mirror wondering he wasn’t good enough looks-wise for the blue-haired girl. Batting his eyes, running his fingers through his hair and constantly attempting to make it more ‘perfect’ than it was. It was the grounding to the crush because he couldn’t figure out why her insults towards his looks disturbed Mitchell Keddie so much.
Now it was like a greeting to insult one another (in public, of course).
He smiled at Phoebe, but it was brief and soon glossed over with apathy and a slight scrunch of the nose. His finger twirling a single strand of hair.
“I see you look about ready for some Weeabo Con halfway across the country. I do hope I can’t smell you wherever it may be.” Mitchie sniffed dramatically, turning his gaze towards the menu for a brief pause. Liz had coerced him into buying her coffee, but he’d be damned if Mitchie didn’t get anything for himself. Treat yo self, amiright.
The door chimed. It actually chimed. Like ‘letting you know of a presence’ chime. Eyes turned, Mitchie’s narrowed fractionally when Beauregard Abernathy walked in. While the son of his Coven Leader took in the surroundings, Mitchell Keddie watched him carefully. He stalked in, first of all. Beau’s black-as-his-soul orbs zeroed in on Phoebe first, the Freckles behind the counter.
Their eyes locked and he knew he couldn’t ignore him (despite how much he would love to).
The Abernathy’s and Keddie’s were on the World’s Okayest Terms. By that, they were rather up there on the hierarchy where Mr. Keddie would once in awhile invite them over for tea or dinner, and they would talk of some of the more hush-hush of what is happening between the Covens.
Gossip. Their families gossiped like high school cheerleaders finding out who A was in Pretty Little Liars, exciting chatting with their heads down as the rest watched with confusion. Mitchell walked in once on a discussion about whether peppers would be hotter pickled or not. He walked out more stupefied then he did walking in.
“Beauregard.” Mitchell greeted calmly, taking a slight step in formality (he also placed himself in front of Phoebe nonchalantly like the A+ boyfriend he is). His voice suddenly turned into that tone he used at Coven Meetings or when his parents attempted to talk to him about family business and the future. It was a customer service voice, let’s be real. Mitchell Keddie never worked in retail, but he watched too many soap operas that revolved around it. “I see you’re out and about, and frankly I’m glad you’re not burnt to a potato chip by the miscreants.”
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on May 22, 2017 12:54:14 GMT -5
{ Conolly Coffee;; early afternoon;; early summer }
“The miscreants have been dealt with. It was just a minor mishap. A slip-up on their part,” Beau assures Mitchie, glancing past him to Blue Hair and Freckles. He half-wishes he knew their names, but Blue Hair and Freckles suit him just fine. Beau doesn't elaborate on his dealings with the al-Jarad's, he doesn't bother to make up small talk either. What did Mitchell Keddie enjoy small talking about anyway? Cows?
Phoebe mimics Mitchie's dramatic sniff, turning her nose up and away from him. "I only wish I was going half way across the country. The farther I get from you, the better. I'd travel to Siberia if it meant I could get away from you." Really, she'd travel to Siberia if only Mitchie would be with her.
Phoebe starts, pulled back to earth by the barista. “What can I get you?” His smile is taut, strained as though the effort of tipping the corners of his mouth up is too much to bear. Some sliver of Phoebe━ some tiny, tiny shard ━is offended, as though his sour mood is her fault. It’s not. She knows that. How could it be? This is the first time she’s seen this guy.
“Just iced tea, please.” He takes a moment, and slides a bottle of Lipton Iced Tea to her. It’s a coffee shop after all, cold drinks are a second thought. She can’t imagine why anyone would bother with coffee when they start sweating buckets the moment the sun touches them. The humidity is thick enough to swim through. Phoebe pays him. Exchange complete.
She walks into a wall the moment she starts unscrewing the cap. A warm wall. With a heartbeat.
“Watch where you’re going,” a voice hisses.
She glances up, expecting to find Mitchie staring down at her with a plastered on smirk. Instead, abyss black eyes submerge her. Phoebe blinks, remembering the feeling of crashing her bike. Plummet and tumble. Frayed nerves. The girl steps back orienting herself.
“I’m sorry,” she offers the apology to Beauregard Abernathy. It's like offering an apology to junkyard dog.
He doesn’t seem to notice━ or care for ━her apology. Those bottomless eyes regard her briskly, landing on her iced tea. “You need to be more careful. You could have spilled that stuff on me,” he says it like a warning. Phoebe bristles, prickly and hot beneath his sudden scrutiny. His stare lingers, lasts too long, burns like smoldering coals. And falls on her knees. Her bruised and battered and scabbed-up knees.
“Do you need something?” Phoebe snaps at last, suddenly wishing she’d worn some longer pants. Or had at least re-bandaged herself.
“What happened to your knees? Too much time on them?” He asks at last. There’s a mocking hint to it. No sincerity. No concern. Beau’s already come to a conclusion himself, he’s just waiting to share.
Phoebe stiffens, keeping her gaze trained on Beau. She wants to look at Mitchie. Someone to ground her. Steady her. Root her in reality. She wants to, but she can’t. God forbid Beauregard Abernathy find out about them. Any other Serpent witch. Any other Raven witch. Anybody but Beauregard Abernathy.
“Look, I know what you’re insinuating━”
He cuts her off there, “Insinuating? You’re mistaken. I’m not insinuating anything. To insinuate is to hint at or suggest. I’m inferring. All the pieces are there, I’m just putting the puzzle together.” He leans down and Phoebe is reminded that he is nearly a foot taller than her, “The blue hair doesn’t help much either.”
She doesn’t know when it happened or how it happened. Before Phoebe can react, can even begin to defend herself, the front of her shirt and overalls are soaked with tea. She lurches back, pulling her iced tea away from Beau who watches her with amusement dancing in the black pits of his eyes like twin candle flames.
“You’re a bully!” She snaps, grinding her teeth to keep herself from punching him. An outright fight wouldn’t end in her favor. Beau was taller and, if rumors were to be believed, had studied martial arts at his stupid French boarding school.
“Bathroom’s that way,” he tips his head, indicating the doors at the back of the store.
Stiff upper lip, Pheebs. Don’t let him get under your skin. The reasons for letting Beau win this round were endless. Coven leader’s son. Penchant for revenge. No qualms over beating someone to a pulp. The list went on and on. A little tea on her shirt was mild by comparison.
She turns on her heel, finally finally glancing at Mitchie on her way to the bathroom. She smiles. The tiniest twitch of her lips. I’m fine, she wants to assure him, It’s just a little tea. I’ve had worse. She disappears into the bathroom.
Beau watches her go, neither noticing or caring for the attention the scene has garnered. He rolls his shoulders, popping his neck once, twice as though he’s been standing in line for eternity and it’s starting to take its toll on him. Some bitty voice in his head is disappointed in him but he squashes it without a second thought.
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Post by ᴏᴡʟ on May 22, 2017 21:54:44 GMT -5
BETHANY KHATRI ( The Golden Locust )
Algernon’s in charge of the Raven Coven now…?
Plucking a single stem of lavender from the cup she’d placed down, Beth couldn’t help but feel as if she might have been eavesdropping, as this single line of information went plucking at her attention.
Thanks to a chatty friend of her father’s, Beth and the rest of the Khatri’s had heard every little nitty-gritty detail of what had taken place at the coven meeting a few nights ago. They’d heard about the murders, the demons, and even about the fire-spliced argument between Jasadja Al-Jarad and Beauregard Abernathy. Usually, Beth would have felt a tiny knot of disappointment go curling up within her stomach at having missed the event; after all, coven meetings were always a good opportunity to meet new people and get new advice when you were struggling with your practice... but this time, as she’d sat there on the couch, listening to her father’s associate fumble with his words, she’d only found a cold sweat gathering upon her skin.
‘This is why I don’t like you going to those things,’ her mother had said. Upon hearing the news, Delores Khatri had immediately gone about wringing her hands, and scoffing in her own form of worry. Beth’s mother was a good person at heart- she knew this-but sometimes, she found that the woman was just too quick to look at the smaller picture, and forget the bigger one. She could see that then, as her mother had gone on, twisting a lock of her dyed black hair between her needle thin fingers. ‘I keep telling you all that magic is dangerous, but you never listen to me!’
It wasn’t as if Beth could exactly help the fact that she could perform magic… but she supposed her mother was a bit close-minded.
Anyways, it seemed that Delores’ disregard for the death of the Raven in exchange for the nagging of her family, had... not settled well with her father’s friend. He’d made a face- an immense, twisted one- and bounced his knee sharply in the quiet of the room. He’d glanced to her father, Manoj, who’d gripped his seat a little more firmly, and pursed his lips tight beneath his mustache.
‘... We’re sorry for your loss.’
Caught up within her thoughts as she twirled one of the thin purple flowers she’d created, Beth nearly jumped as the sound of the bell above the door went ringing throughout the space, and two newcomers came sliding in. Looking up- her usually lax eyes stretched wide for just a moment- it wasn’t long before the girl had settled into a smile once more, displaying teeth and a slender hand as she waved at the two in.
“Hello!”
With her voice a near chirp- something soft, yet lilting and clear- Beth briefly took a moment to study the two as she went about nestling the flower she held back into the cup she’d plucked it from. One of the two boys, she definitely recognized. She’d always been good about remembering faces, and that skill didn’t falter here, even with thoughts of her troublesome mother still lingering in her brain. The second boy, on the other hand, looked new to her, and stood in stark contrast of his company, all blue-jean denim and flannel.
He brought someone with him this time!
Grinning a little wider, she laced her hands happily before her- that is, until Algernon entered the scene.
Her smile faltering slightly as the Abernathy boy practically swept the stranger’s presence under the rug, Beth found a slight flame of disappointment go flickering within her stomach; partially because she hadn’t known the first’s name to be Isaac, even though he’d visited the shop before, and also because- well- it was no fun watching anyone get pushed into the background, if you asked her.
Pursing her lips, she frowned ever so slightly.
“Ah… Welcome to the Golden Locust.”
Speaking up from where she stood behind the counter, she quickly focused her gaze upon the stranger, and once again renewed the smile upon her face.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before... Is this your first time here?”
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Post by ɪɴᴛʀᴀɴꜱɪɢᴇɴᴛ on May 23, 2017 0:17:08 GMT -5
The Gemini Twins ;; Cassiopeia Maia Aten de Luca && Kale Pollux Aten de Luca “We’re getting coffee, and that’s final.” “I’m sorry, who died and made you queen of everything?” “It’s literally been four days, Kale, how insensitive can you get?”
The voices carried down the sidewalk, traveling along the nonexistent breeze, one notably much louder and much more irritated than the other. The sun was blazing down, steam seeming to rise up from the ground in heat waves, as if the sun was determined to soak every last bit of moisture from the face of the earth right here, right now. Which would’ve been believable if it weren’t for the absolute, unbearable, choking weight of humidity that made it feel as if you’d rather drown than continue to suck this air in. And right now, Cassiopeia rather did feel like drowning her brother. As usual, Kale was trying to throw his weight around to convince Cass that the quaint little Golden Locust was where they ought to go, but Cassiopeia was dog tired. She hadn’t been sleeping well lately anyway (more like ever, as this girl ran on about two hours a night, on average), but the drama that had happened recently had been enough to push her over the edge to sleeplessness. It had been nearly 48 hours since she had last attempted to sleep, and Cass was beginning to get a little…cranky.
“I want coffee, and literally everyone knows that Connolly Coffee is the place to go,” she huffed, staring at the much closer hole-in-the wall coffee shop. “Also, I really need to pee, and I don’t think I can walk the extra 57,489 miles to the Golden Locust anyway,” she huffed, face flushing slightly darker in irritation, pushing her mane of hair back over her shoulder exasperatedly. Kale snorted. “6 tenths of a mile, to be precise,” he said in that all-knowing, condescending tone of his, and Cassiopeia rolled her eyes, huffing once more. Why couldn’t she have been like one of those weird twins that absorbed the other in the womb? Of course, she would then have to carry all of Kale’s qualities with her all the time, and she could barely stand having him as a separate person. She loved him, fiercely, but it was aggravating at times to deal with someone so…
“Smart,” Kale mumbled, finishing her thoughts aloud as he pushed the door open to the coffee shop, the bell chiming as they entered. He rather enjoyed the little bell, and wondered how difficult it would be to put one on his door at home. He knew Cass would hate that more than anything, the constant chiming, and that might be enough to get her to barge in only a million times a day to interrupt him while he was working or reading or sleeping, or basically just living. Kale glanced around before pointing to a back corner. “Bathroom’s that way,” he said, and Cass was (yet again) grateful for her GPS of a brother who just a knack for simply knowing things, like distances and locations and random facts that were always, annoyingly, true.
Cassiopeia darted to the bathroom, moving swiftly past the odd clump of people, noting that there seemed to be some tension in the air, but didn’t have time to dwell on that, afraid that her bladder might burst. Which she, of course, knew couldn’t be true, but it was still enough to push her into the bathroom, barely glancing at the girl already in there. She wouldn’t have thought twice of her, as she locked herself in a stall, but she couldn’t help but swear she had seen a glimpse of blue hair? Cassiopeia had been intrigued, which wasn’t hard to do, since she was about as curious as every other cat, and had willed herself to relieve herself as quickly as possible so she could hopefully catch another glance.
She pushed her way out of the stall as quick as possible, practically hopping over to the sink beside the girl, smiling widely as she did, dimples popping out. “Your hair is by far the most beautiful and interesting thing I have seen all day,” she blurted out suddenly, that genuine honesty streak showing yet again. She washed her hands, turning her gaze to those as she made sure to meticulously scrub them, before moving around the girl to the hand dryer. She didn’t say anything for a moment, then waited for the hand dryer to cut off before speaking again. “It looks like that’s going to stain, but I might have just the thing to fix it,” she said, pulling her little knapsack type purse to the front of her, beginning to rummage through. Kale always joked that Cass overpacked for everything. Cass always liked to throw it in his face that at least she never had to worry about not having enough clean socks and underwear on vacations. Grinning triumphantly, Cass pulled free her weapon of choice and wielded it victoriously like a magic wand: A Tide to Go stick.
“And my brother says I always over pack. Hah, who’s overpacked now?!” she smirked slightly, grinning at the girl affably. “The name’s Cassiopeia, but you can just call me your personal savior, AKA Cass. These overalls are just too cute to let them get ruined by…what is this, tea?” she asked, eyes glowing excitedly and already starting to help the girl apply the fast-acting laundry detergent, not even thinking this was probably quite strange and even a little frightening for the other girl.
Kale, meanwhile, ignored the growing tension in that aggravatingly always slightly aloof way he had. It was not intentional, usually, but he had other things to focus on. Like deciding what to order, and what Cass would want (because he just had a feeling she would be in the bathroom for ages. Probably socializing, as Cass deemed anytime anywhere was an appropriate place to make a friend). He didn’t know who anyone was in here, although most of them looked vaguely familiar. Okay, so he did know them, briefly at least. He knew they had been at the Plantation four days prior, and that they were obviously a bit shaken still themselves-could he blame them? He got jittery all the time now, it seemed. More absent-minded than usual. Too distracted by thoughts of what might happen and incredulous possibilities that consumed his thoughts for hours, plaguing him with new fears at any given moment, though his facial expression always remained calm and slightly detached.
He blinked, allowing his gaze to flicker around, sizing them all up. It seemed that literally everyone had been there. Wonderful. He knew for certain that Cassiopeia had certainly socialized with many people, but he also knew somehow that she hadn’t socialized with any of these people, and that she found that one man-Abernathy, was it?-rather irritating. Probably because he’s just as headstrong and stubborn as her, he thought, a smile itching at the corner of his lips slightly as he turned his gaze back to the board over the counter with the coffees and their prices, back to deciphering Cass’s afternoon desires that were making her oh so cranky.
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Post by shades on May 23, 2017 14:17:41 GMT -5
___________________________________________________ CONNOLLY COFFEE EARLY AFTERNOON
After Phoebe ordered, Mitchie stepped up right away with a usual rye smile. His dark eyes dancing across the menu overhanging behind the counter. The other guy, his name badge read “Charles” but his face read “don’t call me Charles or I’ll kill you” was waiting patiently while hopping from one foot to the next, ready for what Mitchie wanted.
“An iced caramel macchiato, please.” Mitchell blurted, turning to look over his shoulder at the interaction between Phoebe and Beauregard Abernathy—who was quick to be rude and lacked the empathy to apologize. His and Phoebe’s eyes lock, Mitchie peering past at Beau with a slight, unnoticed narrow. Daring the Abernathy to continue on with how the conversation was going, knowing the other Serpent Coven member would go there.
Mitchell couldn’t get involved. 1) he and Phoebe both knew that a relationship between Serpent and Raven Coven members were not illegal, but also not recommended. Ostracizing them both would not be a good idea at this age and time. 2) Mitchell Keddie could never punch someone no matter what the other person did to deserve it (that was all Phoebe). 3) However, there was a certain amount of pettiness that Mitchie had that deserved the nickname Petty Waptm he would enact onto the Abernathy without hesitation. He was not above ruining his presentation for the revenge of others.
Grabbing the coffee after paying and a small "thanks" to the barista.
He stood a little away from them, one hand in his pocket and the other gripping the iced caramel macchiato in a slackened grip. A thoughtful look present on his face. He was watching Phoebe and Beau but his eyes met a strangers and he raised a brow.
There was a thin smile as Phoebe stomped towards the bathroom, the front of her shirt drenched with the tea she just bought. He watched her go, before turning back to Beau and making his way over casually—fiddling with the top of the iced caramel macchiato. “A very interesting display of dominance Beauregard.” Mitchie only took his eyes away from ahead to glance at the other Serpent.
The iced caramel macchiato top was officially unscrewed. Mitchie took a sip.
He hated caramel.
It was a misjudge of stepping, really, that led him into Beauregard’s side. The drink tipped with a slight of the hand, dumping precariously over the front of the Abernathy’s probably-expensive shirt and shiny shoes. If you looked carefully, Mitchie’s face didn’t even react for a split second as it happened—a hardened look of determination. The cup fell from his grip and spilled onto the floor. The caramel macchiato freely flowing over the tiled surface in a pool around the drenched party.
Quickly though, it transformed into complete commiseration. “I’m -I’m sorry Beau.”
He’s not.
“I didn’t mean to douse you in caramel macchiato.”
Translation: don’t ever bully Phoebe again or next time it will be a poison. Poisons are just as easy to make as potions, you soggy bagel.
Mitchie picked up the cup, tossing it in the nearest trash bin. Looking down, his own clothing was speckled with bits of the coffee. His periwinkle blue button-down a mess, his Vans also covered in coffee. Thankfully his khaki shorts were spared. A penance for his Pettywisetm behavior and slight karma perhaps, Mitchie supposed, his eyes turning towards the workers (the brown haired one had his eyes raised to heaven, looking like he was silently praying for the shift to be over).
“Can we use a mop?” He asked briskly, motioning to the mess.
“Ooh right” The barista turned to the back room, nodding towards his co-worker, disappearing into the back room.
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on May 23, 2017 15:20:57 GMT -5
{ Conolly Coffee;; afternoon;; early summer }
The bathroom’s empty. A small mercy.
Phoebe studies herself in the mirror, ghost of a frown creasing the edges of her lips, her eyes. She doesn’t let it take shape, not entirely. Phoebe wants to say she’s had worse, that Beau was nothing compared to Mitchie. Except that was a lie. Even when they hated each other, even when the insults and jabs had been real, Mitchie’s taunts hadn’t been fueled by the same pure malice.
She probes the stain on her shirt, pursing her lips as she examines the damage. Light brown bleeds into white t-shirt, bleeds into jean overalls, bleeds into hurt pride. Not too bad. Nothing a little laundry detergent, maybe some bleach, couldn’t fix. It was just one shirt anyway. On the bright side, she still has plenty of iced tea left, so it wasn’t all being soaked up by her outfit.
Some part of her wishes she were a frog, so she could just drink the tea through her skin and not be forced to waste it. A different part of her banishes that idea the moment it forms because wow, that’s really weird.
If it had been anyone else Phoebe would have decked them. But this was Beauregard Abernathy━ emphasis on the Abernathy. He feared nothing. Most people who faced off against him came away with the short end of the stick. If there were two things Beau was not above it was beating people to messy pulps and petty revenge. She settles for scowling in the mirror, gaze darting between the stain and the faucet until her shirt is soaked with a mixture of tea and water, water and tea.
She vaguely registers the girl walking in, firmly fixated on the task at hand. Phoebe all but leaps out of her skin when the girl pipes up, complimenting her hair. Taken off guard, Phoebe manages a smile, stumbling over a flimsy explanation of “oh, thanks, I dye it myself”. It was half-true. Mitchie mixed up some potions specifically to make the color blend better, last longer, and look natural. Store-bought dyes didn’t do the trick anymore.
Her eyes brighten like twin suns at the sight of the Tide-to-Go. The girl talks like a runaway train, too fast for Phoebe to keep up with the manic fountain spewing at her. She’s grateful though. Maybe now she won’t have to walk around smelling like tea all day. Phoebe finally finds a pause long enough for her to scootch in and say her piece.
“Yeah, iced tea to be precise. I had a…” Her mouth screws up, briefly, barely, “Mishap. No big deal.”
She waits until the girl has finished cleaning her shirt, “I’m Phoebe, by the way. I should probably getting going. Wouldn’t want to hog the bathroom, y’know?” Phoebe skirts past Cass and out the door. A few more people have entered Conolly Coffee. The line has grown, but too many are engrossed in a particular scene to care for the wait.
Beauregard stands at the center of attention, dripping from shirt to shoes in what can only be coffee. Phoebe’s attention skims over him, landing squarely on Mitchie. Her stomach does a somersault. Half overwhelming pride, half fear. She can only hope he was subtle in his execution. Outright invoking Beau’s wrath was a death sentence. Especially for a member of his father’s coven. She glances behind her to see if the girl from the bathroom has followed her before approaching the scene.
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Beau’s gaze switches between Mitchie, the coffee, his shoes, his shirt, Mitchie’s shoes, Mitchie’s shirt. Dark eyes flashing, glinting like a switchblade. His composure holds firm, a lighthouse battered by frenzied waves, seeking to drown him. He looks inward, seeking the thread of respect he keeps reserved for Mitchell Andrew Keddie and considers it, considers snapping it in half. A memory surges up. Laying the grass outside the Keddie house, staring up at hazy stars and listening to the swell of cricket music in the fields while his mom and dad talked with Mr. and Mrs. Keddie inside.
No. No, not today. He decides at last, steeling his composure and retaining his respect for Mitchie.
Beau writes it off as an accident. That’s all it could have been. As far as Beau know, Mitchie hated Raven witches as much as he did. Besides, it would require a good stretching of the imagination to think that Mitchie did it on purpose because he liked Blue Hair. That would just be downright ridiculous. Beau shrugs it off, then goes about assessing the damage.
Oh boy. Ooooh boy, Mitchie’s macchiato sure did a number on him, didn’t it? Combined, the shirt and shoes cost more than any employee in this coffee shop could hope to make in a year, and they were both officially ruined.
Sighing, “You’re lucky I like you, Mitchell. Consider this a debt to be paid in something other than money. I’m thinking a favor, but the details can be discussed later.” He’s staring Mitchie down with those glittering fang eyes when Blue Hair returns, dripping wet, but otherwise clean. Her gaze sweeps over him.
The amused gleam in her eyes and the suppressed laughter thinning her lips doesn’t go unnoticed. Beau holds it together, feeling the waves crashing and crashing and crashing, looking to bring down the lighthouse. “Something you wanna say, Blue?”
Blue Hair’s laughter dies on her lips and in her eyes. She blinks, breathes, and “I have other places to be.”
"You shouldn't have washed it off. Tea looks good on you, brings out your eyes." She says nothing.
She edges past him, out of the coffee shop, onto the street, Lipton Iced Tea still in hand, still mostly full. He wishes he’d dumped the whole thing on her.
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Post by ᴘᴀʟᴀᴅɪɴ ✧ on May 24, 2017 18:38:21 GMT -5
"Latin!" Camille pipes up, swiping her card before entering her security code into the keypad. "It's kind of dead though, so that's always unfortunate." She trails off, brows furrowed for a moment before the smile returns. "But then I can mess with people by pretending I don't know English and the likelihood of them being able to reply is slim to none. And that's way more fun than you'd ever expect, honestly." She snaps her wallet shut, neatly tucking it back in the side pocket of her purse.
"Our mom was very particular about teaching all of us Latin - or trying to. Professor and all." Emerson adds absentmindedly, the words coming out of his mouth hardly a complete and articulate thought. One arm placed across the front of his body, his other hand went up to grasp the elbow and pull it across without twisting his torso. The tension in the front of his shoulder woke him up a little, vaguely reminding Emerson of when he wasn't lazy and liked to wake up early to jog, then go to the gym. He belongs to a 24-hour gym and there were hardly any visitors between the hours of 10 PM to 6 AM or so. Which yes, meant he would sometimes get up at 5 in the morning just to get to the squat rack first. Whatever happened to his dedication? It hasn't wavered one bit, though one might argue differently. See, the thing is, he was 'getting old' and by that, he means that he had recently begun to appreciate sleeping in for the first time in years. Sleep was good, sleep was great, Emerson thanked his alarm clock for letting him sleep in late. He glances up - like, literally glance upwards because Brooks is taller than him and I just? - at Brooks, seeing the eyes widening with almost child-like wonder, then seeing the default friendly-barista-please-buy-something smile of his falter for a second. Emerson cocks his head slightly to the side, quirking a brow in a challenging sort of fashion. Kind of like he was daring Brooks to... I don't know, think negative thoughts about him.
"That's right. Took Basic Latin my freshman year and pretended not to know anything before acing all the tests." Camille says with a whimsical little sigh, "My teacher thought I was cheating though, so they set up a meeting with the principal and Emerson because they couldn't get a hold of our parents. You'd expect Emerson to do the good big brother thing and try to cover for me a bit more but nooo, he was all like-" She deepens her voice in a terrible impression of him, "There's been a mistake, Camille shouldn't be in Latin 1, our mom taught us Latin when we were toddlers, Camille is fluent, looks like there's an enrollment error, blah, blah, blah. Got me stuck in Advanced Latin." She snatches a few too many napkins from the nearby dispenser, rolling brilliant blue eyes because she's a teenager with a big brother and it's allowed. "But unlike Emerson, I'm nice so I'll let him have what he wants." Wow, Camille talks a lot. He's taking your order, not your life story, thank you very much.
"Best sibling ever."
"Best sister ever." She prods gently, looking up at her brother hopefully. Either he's ignoring the look on her face, just bad at taking hints, or both because he merely repeats himself.
"Nah, best sibling, just like, in general. By default. You're the only one."
Camille frowns and turns back to Brooks. "Sorry. It's Camille and-"
"Emerson. Don't make a joke about how you don't know if she," He nods in Camille's direction, "is Emerson or Camille." He's defensive, his tone suggesting that some other baristas or just servers in general have done so in the past. Which it has. Emerson is currently banned from an outlet mall's Starbucks for lunging at said barista when they took it too far for his liking.
The duo then glances over at the spectacular scene of insults, spilled drinks - so wasteful, godamn guys -, and ruined clothing and share a look. Coven witches.
Emerson just wanted to get his dang coffee and to get the heck outta there because this witchy nonsense was TOO MUCH and he was missing his bed dearly. © ᶤᶰᵗʳᵃᶰˢᶤᵍᵉᶰᵗ 2017
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Post by alfred on May 24, 2017 22:08:43 GMT -5
Isaac Ira Winslow ;;
Cuppa tea, cuppa tea.
It was all he wanted. Last night had been a long one and his brain still felt groggy. Hazy with cobweb dreams and muddled thoughts. The music, the lights and some great mess of indecipherable movements and faceless bodies. That's all he remembered. His mind was bleached white from one drink too many, one hour too long. If he'd had it his way, he would have staid in bed. Slept till mid afternoon. Till his brain hurt from lack of proper use and his body felt like rubber. Perhaps he'd feel better then. Not the half dead, meandering zombie he was just now. He'd be attentive and know better than to have set foot inside The Golden Locust.
However, Holly seemed determined to ruin his day. The boy had been up at an ungodly hour, singing just loud enough for Izzy to come storming into the bathroom in a fit. In half the mind to strangle the idiot, he'd merely opted for the more civil and passive aggressive -- dare he say petty? -- option of simply raining hellfire down on his unsuspecting victim. He'd sat with mild satisfaction in the kitchen, Lorne at his feet as he watched creamer swirl around his mug of coffee.
He was here now, though. Leading Holly into New Orlean's most renowned tea shop. Well, renowned to those who shared its secret. Covens, witches, the whole shebang. No matter how hard he tried to steer clear of this side of his family's life, he somehow found himself in its midst. Some lost fool with no real idea of the magic that filled the room, the endless possibilities and senseless drama. Though, he supposed that was to be expected from a bunch of power hungry, hormonal teenage witches. Too many people thinking they've got a one up in the world because they've got the ability to pull a rabbit out their rear. It'd be enough drive most anyone away.
Stopping shortly after entering the shop, Isaac stood with his hands buried in his pockets, his eyes sweeping the group before him as he waited for Holly to catch up and stop gawking at the street lamps and morning traffic. As usual, the GL was frequented by a few regulars -- witches and the likes. He'd play it cool, pretend he didn't mind being ignored by a few familiar faces, buy his cuppa and get out. However, he was instead greeted by one of Abernathy's boys. Rose, Bow-Bowie? No, wait. There were three, right? Alger-something?
Taken aback, Isaac barely registered the man's words. Up top, he was a flustered mess of mixed emotions and hurried thoughts. As far as he was concerned, though, the man was a stranger so he couldn't be sure why he spoke to him so nonchalantly. As if he knew him, had said more to him than just these few words today. Steeling his expression, he sucked in a quiet breath as he followed the man's gaze behind him to Holly. Giving him a sideways glance, his eyes narrowed suddenly as he offered him a one word explanation. "Class." His tone was all speculation, a question in disguise. A sly, "What's it to yah?" "And you are. .?"
Holloway Mumford Ingles ;;
For lack of a better analogy, if it were possible to be any more excited, Holly'd be a bat. He'd beat his wings in a frenzied manner as he swooped in at people's heads. They'd swipe at him with a broom and he'd make it a game, his laughter a shrill screech as he dived again to pull at their hair. He wanted to feel engaged in this chaotic display of city life and magic without the hassle of getting to know any of it. Like a kid pressed up to the window of his favorite toy store, his face smushed and eyes wide as he breathed cloudy circles onto the glass. The toy of his desire was just there but just slightly out of his reach.
What held him back now was that same excitement. It drove him mad, made him stir crazy and obnoxious. So much so, he found himself getting frustrated by his own actions. He didn't need anybody else telling him he was annoying, he already knew it. Just couldn't control it was all.
Stepping into The Golden Locust, the bell that chimed at his entrance set a bounce in his gait. As though he was seconds away from skipping in and twirling his hands around like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. Isaac, you social butterfly you. He man was already engaged in awkward conversation with someone Holly didn't recognize. Gripping his elbow in one hand, he cupped his other hand over his mouth as though to keep himself from interrupting.
His smile obscured, he merely occupied his time with the sight that was the great GL's beautiful falcon. All thoughts of health code violations and The Birds were quickly put to the side as the beauty extended its wings in a small wave before settling again. Holly only smiled wider, holding his hands close across his chest to keep from petting the creature like a dog instead of some majestic bird of prey.
There were a few greetings and he nodded curtly to each one, half distracted and half appreciative of the kind gestures. As one employee behind the counter took her time in saying hello, Holly skirted his way over to her, staying clear of the looming crowd. Returning her smile with one of his own, he stuffed his hands into his pockets as he peered into the neighboring display case. "It is," he replied, shooting her small glances. "Indeed," he said more slowly.
Straightening his posture, he stepped in front of the counter, focusing his attention. "Any recommendations?"
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Post by koi on May 25, 2017 3:12:41 GMT -5
brooks maloneconnelly coffeeFor a moment, while Brooks watches Camille and Emerson, Brooks wishes he were closer to his sister.
It’s a short moment, obviously, as Camille starts talking his ear (no, both. Both his ears) off, excitedly, and he’s too distracted by what she says to think more than that, but when the thought does hit him, it’s strong. Brooks grew up, mostly, as an only child--and when he did end up with a baby sister (she was so tiny when he first held her, and he’d freaked out thinking that he’d drop the thing and smash her head into the ground or something, even though his mother’s arms had been under his arms, supporting her head), he wasn’t sure how to interact with her. Even now when the opportunity comes up, he thinks that he must be a pretty sh*tty brother. The thought hits him like a fast car, and departs just as swiftly. He blinks the meandering thoughts away.
“Whoa,” Brooks says, simply, eyes wide. “I can barely speak English.” It’s true--he almost failed English his first year of highschool. He had a tutor, for, like, two years. He only payed attention to half the words that came out of her mouth but her mom made the most wicked cookies that she would bring to his house, like, they rivaled Joshua Malone’s cookies. “How many languages do you guys speak?”
The girl says her brothers name, then--Emerson. Brooks tries really hard to scrape his brain of where he may have seen him, connects the name to face and gets--blank. Is it because he poured out half of his coffee on his shirt before coming into the store this morning? Probably. He smells like if Axe made a new body spray supposed to attract broke college students and caffeine addicts: Caffeine Temptation Axe Cologne. Brooks would any day take that over whatever the hell the chocolate one was.
He pulls a Sharpie out of the pocket of his apron, full lips quirking at the story Camille rattles on about, gets to writing their names down on the respective paper cups, trying not to let his writing become an indescribable scrawl on the slant of the side of the cup. He writes Camille’s name first, jots down how he thinks it’s spelled, how a girl at school spelled it (and it’s gladly, correct), then, pauses at Emerson’s cup, glances at him across the counter as he banters idly with his sister. Would it be too much to write down Emily instead? Would it? Is he tempting fate and another cup of coffee poured down his front?
“Don’t make a joke about how you don’t know if she is Camille or Emerson.”
Brooks raises both eyebrows, writes down the correct name, left hand making sure the lettering is clear. Thank god he hadn’t done that one. It’s fun, sometimes, writing down dumb things on cups, like when he handed Charlie a cup saying “mutherfukin Uhhhhhhhh” on it, or “big b*tch”, or “Mr. Guy”, or “small biceps”, or “bambi *ss face”. Or that time he drew a dog on his cup, or that time he made him a latte with questionable art drawn into the foam. He has a handful of examples. Sometimes it’s fun being a barista, seriously.
He hears a noise from the middle of the store, and he looks past Emerson and Camille, and between the tables is Beau Abernathy drenched in coffee, Mitchell Keddie with an emptied cup in hand. Brooks Malone’s heart grows three sizes in response. He’d seen absolutely nothing beforehand, because Brooks is classically not a very observant person, and he’d probably had been thinking about food or something, or staring blankly at the back of Charlie’s head with that woman singing about guacamole playing on repeat in his head, but he already knows,
1. That was not a mistake. It’s actually hard to spill an entire cup of coffee on someone unless you really, really try to. 2. Beau is pissed. 3. Beau is pissed. 4. Brooks thinks Mitch is kinda cool.
Brooks remembers at the coven meeting when Beau had obviously picked a fight with those al-Jarad kids (what Brooks doesn’t know is that it was sort of the other way around, but big whoops), how quickly that situation had escalated. His dark eyes a little widened, he glances at Charlie, who is watching the situation a little dumbfoundedly. Charlie would’ve had no idea who any of these people were had this occurred only a few days previous—now he does, simply because Brooks slam dunked him head first into the environment, made him witness a murder, and it very belatedly occurs to him that Charlie watched someone die because Brooks is an idiot who decided to bring Charlie to meet the Witch Squads™. And then, equally belatedly, he starts feeling really, really bad. He should make him, like, a cake. Something nice with frosting on it saying “Can I Get A Mutherfukin Uhhhhhh I’m Sorry”.
Brooks is just staring awkwardly at Charlie, really wanting to apologize for making him a witness to Bad Times At The Witchy House when he nods briskly at Brooks, and turns and walks to the back room, probably in search of a mop.
Brooks turns his attention back to his paying customers who are, y’know, waiting for food—”Sorry. Big yikes, hey?” he says, raising an eyebrow towards the mess the two serpent coveners made. He starts on the drinks, then, with the two cups he’d written on, turns back to the two with the drinks warm in his hands, puts them on the counter, ready to be all cool bye have a nice day while I help my co-worker clean up a mess he, for once, did not have a part in making, when he makes eye contact with Emerson, and very suddenly, but not startlingly, like taking a breath, says “Sh*t.”
He feels as if he should explain himself, face getting hot under the freckles. “Sorry, this whole time I thought that I might know you, or something, but. I couldn’t figure out from where? But you were at that—thing the other night, right? Few days ago?” Brooks does not want to put it into words, not in front of the whole coffee shop nor in front of his sister, for some reason or another, worried that somehow Brooks’ words are going to screw everything up.
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on May 25, 2017 22:58:17 GMT -5
{ Abernathy Cabin;; early evening;; summer }
It’s a cabin in name alone. Well, a luxury cabin, as Absolon will be sure to correct you. Nestled in the thickest part of the forest on the shore of either a small lake, the Abernathy cabin dominates a good portion of the lakeside. Orange light pours from the windows, spilling out over the rippling waters. Two stories of pale timber beams and glass. The inside is no different. Rustic opulence. All antlers and bearskin rugs and the smell of wood varnish and pine sap. Even the flat-screen tv mounted over the stone hearth does little to chip away at the carefully pieced-together facade of woodsy comfort. Beau hates it. He’d abandoned his brothers the moment they stepped over the threshold, leaving them with instructions to “keep the termites out of my room”. Termites being guests. Algernon shrugged it off and set to work on making the cabin suitable for more than a family of five. This meant rearranging couches and chairs and stocking the fridge with refreshments his mother had deemed “age appropriate”. Juice boxes. Pre-approved, fruit-flavored juice boxes. When the guests finally begin arriving, Ambrose is lounging in one of the plusher chairs, sucking down a pre-approved pineapple juice box and scratching a brindle greyhound behind the ears. The dog’s lanky body takes up all but one couch cushion, leaving enough space for one optimistic soul to squeeze into. Algernon shifts between frowning at the dog, welcoming guests, and pointedly eyeing Ambrose. “Did you have to bring her?” He says at last, chewing his lip as his brother tosses aside his third empty juice box and moves to grab number four. “Who?” “You know who. The dog,” Algernon’s tone edges on exasperated. Hopefully no one has any dog allergies. “Last time I checked, Miro was a ‘him’ not a ‘her’. I also don’t think he’s a dog, but you’ll have to fact check me on that one.” “Ambrose. Can’t you put her outside?” Silence. Releasing a defeated sigh, Algernon gives in, “Ambrose, can you please put Racecar outside?” Ambrose’s eyes brighten, lit with realization. The greyhound lifts her slender head at the sound of her name, ears perking slightly. “Oh! You mean Racecar! Why didn’t you just say so?” Algernon’s mouth pinches with a suppressed scowl, a gesture reminiscent of their mother when she’s trying to get them to behave. “I did. Several times.” He doesn’t push the matter, for which Ambrose is thankfully. He doesn’t move to stand up, to take Racecar outside. Instead, he reaches to the other side of his chair, pulling an empty glass bottle out of seemingly nowhere. He twirls it in his fingers, a grin peeling back over perfect teeth. “You know, I was thinking we could play a game or two. Whaddya say, Al?” Algernon frowns━ again looking very much like their mother. He glances around the room slowly filling with every witch Beau had ever wronged, hesitant. “You mean, like spin-the-bottle?” Ambrose shrugs, scratching Racecar’s chin and neck, “Kinda. I had something a little different in mind, though.” Algernon’s hesitance blooms into opposition. Ambrose raises a hand, fingers splayed, “Hear me out, hear me out. Dare To Spin The Seven Minute Truth Bottle━” “I already don’t like where this is going.” “━okay, listen: everyone sits in a circle. Someone spins a bottle and whoever it lands on they have to choose between truth, dare, or seven minutes in heaven.” Ambrose’s grin has spread to his eyes, glittering like gasoline waiting for matches. “Ambrose can you just━” “Hey! Who wants to play a game?” Ambrose shouts over what he knows is an oncoming lecture. Put the bottle away, Ambrose. Get Racecar off the coach, Ambrose. Stop ruining my “get-together”, Ambrose. As if! He isn’t going to let tonight turn into a slumber party. And by that, he means he isn’t going to let things get boring. Algernon was only technically the boss of him. For now, at least. ----------------- Phoebe takes up residence along the shore, among a cluster of oak trees. Water licks hungrily at her bare toes as they root through the soft mud where lake meets shore. She isn’t interested in the party━ er, get-together, as Algernon preferred. She considers rejoining later, but for now, the tranquility of the lake scenery beckons her for a closer look. Sunset bleeds over the treetops, gilding the lake with molten gold and violet hues. Gathering nightfall unspools the lengthening shadows. Stretching them. Thickening them until they meld together, knitting the fabric of what will soon be night. The clouds of mosquitoes are thickest around the lake, unfortunately. They buzz and hum in Phoebe’s ears, driving her to near-lunacy. The growing chorus of frogs drowns out the usual symphony of cricket song. The whole setting is a welcome change from the bustling cityscape of New Orleans. Being out in the woods is a breath of fresh air for Phoebe, especially in light of recent events. Her only hope for the evening is that Beau stays out of sight. She wasn’t surprised to find him entirely absent from the get-together’s workings. She had arrived with the first trickle of guests, still jittery from testing the new car on country roads. Algernon had briefly described his rules and policies━ don’t wander too far, you can go swimming but be careful, don’t wander into the woods, don’t go into Beau’s room, you’re free to leave whenever you like. It was all pretty straightforward. She leans forward, draping her arms over her knees as she drinks in the view. The party isn’t exactly bumping and she’s sure Algernon wants to keep it that way. Phoebe doesn’t mind. It’s nice to find a bit of peace every now and then. She just hope Mitchie shows up soon. She’s texted him at least three pictures of the lake so far.
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Post by servalstrike on May 26, 2017 0:34:32 GMT -5
Jasadja al-Jarad Jasadja is struggling. Wrestling with the idea of going to the cabin. It’s not that Jasadja didn’t want to go to the Abernathy’s little “get together”, it was just that the last time she went to a gathering of witches she lost her cool and threatened Beauregard and people were murdered in cold blood and demons declared war on witches. So the shaking in her hands was to be expected. And the way she kept glancing at the clock watching the hours and minutes winnow past as she fidgeted and paced. She could have worn a path through the house with all the pacing she did. Back and forth in the same hall, twice she had stopped to fix a pick that had not been out of place. A few times she’d walked into the kitchen and opened the cupboards and fridge only to not eat or drink anything. All the while she ran through every scenario of the night to come. Most of them were bad. Awful. In two of them she set the cabin on fire and it one of them that demon came back and engulfed the cabin in those sickly green flames and killed them all. A few deep breaths and a drink of water later and she had banished those thoughts. After much deliberation, back and forthing between going and not going. Wondering if she’d seem rude if she refused to show or if it’d be more trouble if she went. Jasadja finally found herself in front of the cabin. Her jaw dropped in awe at it. What she’d been picturing was something from a horror movie with a creaky door that barely fit the frame and dusty cracked windows. But she had not been expecting the beautiful home that sat in the middle of the forest like a slumbering giant. She tried to contain her surprise and delight as she entered the cabin. As her jaw practically hit the floor she quickly tried to mask her admiration for the Abernathy’s wealth. The whole house radiated opulence. “Is this place not gorgeous, Yessa?” she spoke in a low tone and used the nickname that she gave her brother when he went through a phase of pronouncing his name as “Yessamine”, the way the J’s in her name were pronounced as Y’s. "I knew the Abernathy's were rich, but not this rich," a delighted grin light up her face as she turned to Jessamine, "Perhaps they would like to invite us over for Christmas sometime." The varnished wood the house was built from gave the lighting a buttery sort of glow. The scent of pine tickled her nose. Jasadja strode toward one of the couches and rested her hand atop of the soft fur blanket, letting her fingers sink into the plush fur. “I would very much like one of these,” she said to no one in particular. She uncurled her fingers from the fine blanket and she looked up to see Ambrose. “What kind of game?” she asked as she stepped forward. Jasadja was glad to see that Beau was not in attendance of Algernon’s party. Part of her wondered if he had simply refused to make an appearance or if he had not been allowed. She didn't dwell on it too much, however, maybe for fear that thinking of him or saying his name would draw him out of wherever he was hiding.
Gustav Jung Gustav leaned against a tree with his cigarette between his fingers as he watched the colors of the sunset bleed over of the water. It reminded him of the many, many paintings of sunsets he’d once seen. The sun was good at making people yearn for it. What with it’s pink and lavender sunrises and dramatic exits that consisted of reds and golds and purples. People were often sad to see it go but loved to watch it leave. He breathed tendrils of smoke out his nose and shut his eyes for a moment to listen to the lapping of the waves. The frogs and crickets were being their nightly serenade. Fireflies flickered to life out over the lake. Gustav propped open one eye and watched the blue haired girl wade into the water. Part of him wanted to ask her if there were leaches in there, his lips twitched in silent amusement when he pictured a reaction of her freaking out and quickly backtracking. But she didn’t seem like the type to spook easily so he left her be. No point in bothering her if he didn’t feel like talking to anyone anyway. He turned his head as voices drifted out from the house. He saw people moving in the windows, mere silhouettes to him as he didn’t bother to look much closer than the fact that they were there. Gustav had to admit, though not to anyone’s faces, that the cabin was impressive. It was as lavish and spoiled as the family that owned it and though he had no real interest in taking part in Algernon’s boring little play date he wasn’t opposed to admiring the place. He also wasn’t opposed to taking a tour of the house by himself, the Abernathy’s surely wouldn’t miss a forgotten piece of jewelry or unattended figurine here and there if they had the type of money to even own a place like this.
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Post by mags on May 26, 2017 1:02:46 GMT -5
ingrid wiesel the abernathy cabin - - - - - Now. Ingrid had no idea what the heck she was getting herself into when she had made the kinda-sorta-last-minute decision to attend this little "get-together" of sorts. No. Freaking. Idea. But did that stop her from throwing on a chunky sweater that was way too hot for summer and her favorite pair of jeans and driving on out to the lake? Nope. It most certainly did not.
Because if Ingrid Wiesel had one fatal flaw, it was her uncontrollable sense of curiosity. When she got an idea into her head...it could be very difficult to talk herself out of doing that particular thing. So. With a little leather bag slung over her shoulder, she hopped into her car (his name was Brandon and he was a trooper, okay? Ingrid's mom had given the kinda-beat-up-yet-strangely-lovable silver civic to her as a sixteenth birthday present and now, all these (not too many but Ingrid had always been one to exaggerate) years later, she couldn't bear to part with him. He was part of the family. And yeah, sometimes he smelled like moth balls, don't ask).
It didn't take her as long as she originally anticipated to reach the cabin (and, boy, was that the understatement of the century. When Ingrid pictured a "cabin in the woods near a lake", as it had been described to her, she imagined, well, maybe a little log shack. Cute and quaint, but nothing too special. And this? Ha. This was more luxury lodge than cabin. Not that Ingrid was complaining. Heck to the no). She allowed herself a moment (as Brandon continued to idle, as she hadn't turned off her car) to simply take in the scenery around her. The soft glow of orangey-gold light reflecting against the still, glassy surface of the water. The sun's waning light casting long shadows over spindly branches of oak and cypress trees. How...beautiful.
She slowly stepped out of her car and clicked the lock as she closed the door. Squinting her blue eyes, she spotted a small group of people gathering at the lake's edge, and one figure, one with soft, gently-wavy blue hair, caught her attention. And she recognized Phoebe from the tea shop, remembered how sweet she had seemed, remembered how Beau had treated her. Gave her another reason not to trust that kid, and to avoid associating with him.
And yet, here she was. At his family's (she felt weird calling it a cabin) lakehouse. Striking up conversation with Beauregard Abernathy was certainly not on Ingrid's bucket list.
Her eyes, again, were drawn to the group at the water's edge. And Ingrid thought she would join them...but she wanted something to drink first. So, she averted her path and began moving toward the house, toward the sounds of conversation and laughter. And she found herself thinking that maybe this wasn't a mistake, after all. Maybe this would be, dare she say, fun.
She spotted the juice boxes right away, and her whole expression brightened. (Mostly because she was secretly a teeny tiny little twelve-year-old who still had those cravings for a good ol' fashioned strawberry-kiwi juice box. Sue her.) Ingrid made a freaking beeline for the counter, scooping the drink right up and poking a hole through it with the straw in an instant. Her gaze flicked from person to person, recognizing the faces of most people who had arrived so far. And her eyes fell upon Ambrose Abernathy as he asked about a game.
And just like that, all thoughts of having a nice, quiet night by the lake drained from her mind. Because the young witch was now rather intrigued. So she began to walk over to the little group forming beside Ambrose and Algernon and the cute little brindle greyhound. Standing beside Jasadja and nodding a small "hello" (after their brief introduction at the tea shop, Ingrid felt as if she were at least a familiar face in a crowd), Ingrid waited for Ambrose to elaborate, juice box still in hand.
But, yes. Her curiosity was now piqued. That was for certain.
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Post by koi on May 26, 2017 2:32:28 GMT -5
jessamine al-jarad abernathy lake house
The time that has passed has given Jessamine time to cool down—or, well, considering Jessamine was never that awfully tempered in the first place, time to collect himself and his thoughts. It’s still only been a handful of days since that coven meeting that made the entire al-Jarad family and many other primarily witchy families anxious and on high-alert, but already the memory seems distant, sectioned in a faraway place of memories in Jessamine’s mind.
He’s embarrassed, really, that he had showed so much of his discomfort that day in the tea shop, had showed how much the Abernathy boy had gotten to him. He thinks back on the way Beth had gently told him he was acting out of character and he blushes so vividly he thinks he should be coloured like cherries, but his outward appearance doesn’t change much (except, he decides to actually brush his hair, y’know). He wonders if that’s how Jasadja must still be feeling about the Beau incident—he figures her guilt is a little worse, simply from the way she holds herself around their mother, presenting herself like a scolded young girl in her presence. Dad is a little softer on her, had simply swallowed down something that looked like misplaced pride and said, stuttered but simply, “Well, as long as you didn’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” like he wouldn’t have minded had she hurt someone else as long as it seemed justified. At least, that’s what Jessamine figures.
But it had taken a lot of guts to go to this little ditty tonight, regardless of the passage of time that had helped clear both their heads.
It was being held by the Abernathy boys, which already had Jessamine on edge. Contrary to popular belief, to the only belief, Jessamine is not a stranger to parties. There was a phase—it was a short one but it had still happened—in which Jessamine was friends with a few more rambunctious people who had the tendency to drag him along to parties with them, or wander the streets late at night, dare each other things, Jessamine’s never very good, but they humoured him because he was pretty and shed his baby fat a few years previous. Jessamine doesn’t like thinking of those times very much—it was a shallow sort of existence, one he figured out he didn’t care much for—but he gets reminded of it now, at the Abernathy’s very nice lodge on the lake.
The house is rich, and Jessamine means it in the delicacy-sort-of-way—it’s rich like molasses, really, and as he looks around, almost on edge, jaw set, he breathes out a laugh. “Invite us for Christmas?” Jessamine parrots incredulously, in a hush, as if Beau is going to hear him from under a floorboard, or something, humour interlacing with his features. “Siddie, you almost set one of their children on fire.”
Jessamine’s dark eyes part from his sister then, expression tightening again, wrist-in-hand in front of his body modestly, eyes passing over all of the furniture, the air of the house. It is, in all honesty, quite beautiful, a place Jessamine would love to live in. He looks up, studying the ceiling, warm lights like honey across everything, until he ducks his head back down in an almost dramatic snap, hair rustling out of place in the frantic motion.
“Oh no. Oh, no no no. I am not playing a game,” Jessamine says, even more hushed now, just for Jasadja’s ears. Jessamine is not one for party games (unless it is Twister, in which case he gets competitive, and in which case he Wins). “Siddie. Don’t get involved. Siddie.”
But it’s a teeny bit too late—Jasadja steps forward and asks about the game, and Jessamine wants to slam his head into his palm. But he doesn’t, because he actually thinks before he does things (sometimes, but more often than not, he promises).
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Post by ɪɴᴛʀᴀɴꜱɪɢᴇɴᴛ on May 27, 2017 17:55:10 GMT -5
The Gemini Twins ;; Cassiopeia Maia Aten de Luca && Kale Pollux Aten de Luca
Fact: Cassiopeia loved a good party. She’s very much a people person, and loves to get out there and make new friends. The thrill of socializing and just shooting the ball with whoever or whatever was available. Cassiopeia has never turned away from a good time, and didn’t plan on it now. On the other hand, Kale was not as enthusiastic when it came to parties. Kale preferred to sit back and just take it in rather than be forced to meet others, but at the same time, Kale wasn’t exactly averted to making friends either. He preferred less bombardment than a party usually provided, whereas Cassiopeia thrived in the chaos. What a duo.
However, as Cassiopeia was the more adamant of the two, Kale finally relented. And Cass could hardly wait. She decided to get showered, scrubbing out her long locks, humming quietly before hopping out. She wrapped herself up in a towel, then one for her hair, before darting to her room, leaving the empty bathroom and barely lukewarm water for Kale. Kale hopped in, much quicker than her, hopping out and heading to his room as she returned to brush her teeth and comb out her hair, the curls stretching down way past her waist with the moisture. Soon enough, she was skipping out, locks air drying as Kale replaced her to follow suit.
And then, they were off, Cassiopeia driving, windows down fully of course, in some hopes that the false breeze created by them would be enough to mask some of the heat. They arrived, not too long after they departed (as Cassiopeia liked to pretend she was a NASCAR driver, and Kale prayed ever more the fervently that seatbelts really do save lives), and Cass was astonished. She turned to Kale, not needing to say a word to know he was thinking the same thing: holy shht. Cassiopeia parked the jeep on the grounds near a silver civic, pushing her hair back over her shoulder as she jumped out, Kale following a little less enthusiastically behind her.
“Can you believe it Kale! It’s like a movie,” she gasped, and Kale snorted, shaking his head. “Cass, you’re far too easily impressed,” he chuckled, earning a poked out tongue and scrunched up, speckled nose from his sister. When they arrived, Cassiopeia made a beeline for the juice boxes, eyes glittering excitedly as she peered through the flavors, trying to decide which one she would prefer while Kale wandered through the house, fingers trailing across the woodwork of the walls as he wandered from room to room, noting the heights of the ceilings and the details in the floor boards. Lavish, indeed, He mused before returning to find Cassiopeia finishing her second juice box. He pulled her towards the living room as she threw away the empty two and grabbed a third, pulling her arm free with a light shove to him, blinking excitedly as her ears caught onto Ambrose’s question.
“Oh c’mon Kale, even you have to admit this sound like fun,” she said, eyes glowing and cheeks already pink with excitement. Kale shrugged, tilting his head slightly to the side, “hmmm”-ing under his breath. “Well I suppose it can’t hurt,” he relented and Cass giggled, turning to Ambrose. “We’re in!” she exclaimed, eyes warm as she took in everyone all at once, eyes roving over them hungrily. “Cassiopeia, you’d best behave,” he mumbled, nudging her for her rude and blatant staring. “Oh, would you lighten up? It’s a party after all,” she snapped, eyes glinting sharply, eyebrows knitting together a bit in frustration at her brother before returning her staring, though a little less obviously. Cassiopeia had never seen this many witches gathered together at once. Rather, she meant, for fun. Kale sighed, shaking his head lightly. “Remember Lindsay’s party back in ’09?” he mumbled and Cass’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I do! Yeah, okay, I’ll behave,” she snickered, shifting her weight, her long legs stiff from work that morning, but she was good to party none the less. Her eyes lit up, however, at the sight of the dog on the couch, and she was pulling away from Kale, leaving him with her half finished juice box as she bounded over, greeting the new dog with all the gentleness of a new born baby: a little too loud but still just as adorably sweet. She began to the pet the beautiful dog all over, praying only for a moment that this was OK by Abernathy standards before deciding that she didn't really care.
Kale wanted to die.
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Post by Bloodrose on May 27, 2017 20:07:05 GMT -5
((Why does writing a novel take away so much of my creativity and muse ugggghhhh sorry for sh*t replies, Intra.))
LUCIFER AND AZAZEL DE'MORTE
Lucifer De'Morte had been pleasantly surprised when he'd been invited to go to the Abernathy's cabin. When he's told Azazel, his brothers immediate reaction was to explosively inform him on what happened to people who went to cabins in the middle of nowhere.
Lucifer had told him he'd been watching too many horror movies.
They pulled up in front of the cabin on their motorbikes, Lucifer's mouth agape at the grandeur of the damn thing. Like. Cabin? Cabins were supposed to be humble and small- this was a nature sprites palace!! His and Azazel's tiny flat couldn't even compare to the size of the place. Shaking his head he dismounted his bike and locked it up with Azazel's, before the two entered the cabin. The first thing he noticed was the attempt at creating your generic cabin atmosphere and decor. The second thing was the amount of witches gathered here. This made him slightly nervous- especially considering everything that had happened- but he'd have to deal with it.
Azazel was beyond a ball of seething anxiety, his sharp eyes glancing everywhere with discomfort. He didn't want to be here; he wasn't safe here, and he could already sense that something might go wrong. He felt his stomach drop as one of the brothers suggested they all play a game- and, of course, his idiot brother eagerly agreed, half-skipping over to join the group. Hissing his own discomfort, Azazel followed Lucifer, and sank down to sit beside his baby brother. 'I really hate you for bringing me here.' He muttered under his breath.
Lucifer batted large eyes at his brother. 'You know you love me.' Shaking his head, Azazel wearily gazed around, curiously watching as a girl fussed over a dog. Ew. He shuddered at the sight of the mangy thing, and shuffled a little further away from it, and closer to the boy that had came with the dog girl. He looked like he wanted to die. Azazel thought; 'same,' and examined him with a wary expression. 'You get dragged here too?' He sighed. He'd never been one for starting conversation, but when somebody looked just about as miserable as him? Hell yeah.
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