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Post by ᴘᴀʟᴀᴅɪɴ ✧ on May 11, 2017 22:00:42 GMT -5
{ I've have made progress in my form besides the basics and I'm vvv proud that I've kinda gotten smth done even though I'm still not done
can anyone else relate to this or is it
is it just me qvq" }
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Post by alfred on May 11, 2017 22:04:50 GMT -5
(( i feel yah, black paladin. is was beaming before i even got glady's form done and i'd two more after that. ))
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Post by alfred on May 11, 2017 22:10:33 GMT -5
(( how does one join a coven? like, do they just stride up to a member and be all "i'm in" //nods and saunters away//? also, do witchs' names hold power here? or was that just a DW thing? ))
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Post by ᴘᴀʟᴀᴅɪɴ ✧ on May 11, 2017 22:10:49 GMT -5
{ ayyy
fingerguns
tbh i can tell i'm barely gonna finish this character. can't even imagine having three,,
respect, dude. }
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Post by 𝓑𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐫 ♥ on May 11, 2017 22:16:02 GMT -5
[ haha i have four forms to finish and a ton of job applications to finish, but! instead i'm playing battleship with my sssssnake of an ex ))) like hello new people, my name is Briar, and I make Bad Decisions IM ALSO KIND OF IN LOVE WITH GUSTAV <3333 (and ur avatar Pal, shiro = <3) ]
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Post by ᴘᴀʟᴀᴅɪɴ ✧ on May 11, 2017 22:23:05 GMT -5
{ hey there briar :oo
good luck with the job applications rip
and ty!! shiro is 10/10 and i love him best space dad }
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on May 11, 2017 22:24:11 GMT -5
{ psssssh. i don't actually know how one joins a coven. that's all up for interpretation~ as for names holding power, no not really.
i have so many character forms to finiiiiish. i'll get them done. eventually. }
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Post by servalstrike on May 11, 2017 23:32:17 GMT -5
(Hey Paladin i just looked at Aldwyn and i gotta ask, did you draw that picture of him? because if you did that's really cool)
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Post by koi on May 12, 2017 0:21:36 GMT -5
[ this is really embarrassing. like, really. i didn't actually know this was open. im so late to the party ]
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Post by alfred on May 12, 2017 0:29:43 GMT -5
(( nah, man. the party hasn't even started. legit, i think we're all still working on our forms. haha. ))
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Post by mags on May 12, 2017 0:32:14 GMT -5
( wow koi im so disappointed in u )
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Post by shades on May 12, 2017 1:58:20 GMT -5
[ I have the important parts of Charlie completed. Aka I figured him out so I can roleplay him later. Now. Tomorrow I finish Mitchie maybe. ]
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Post by alfred on May 12, 2017 3:00:38 GMT -5
(( my forms are done. i think. i've a few more charries in the works but i probably won't introduce them till later. ))
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Post by koi on May 12, 2017 3:04:14 GMT -5
[ imagine: me, happy, sleeping at decent times, not working on character forms when i'm dancing for hours tomorow, happy, not stressed, finished forms, happy, ]
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on May 12, 2017 7:56:30 GMT -5
{ oh koi <//3 you poor precious thing. don't worry about forms. just get some sleep and be happy <333 }
{ okay, so i'm gonna post a starter in a minute. i'm going over everyone's forms and, so long as you at least have your forms started, you guys can rp! }
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on May 12, 2017 8:11:37 GMT -5
{ here's the starter. i'll be back later today so don't get too crazy! }{ Beauchene Plantation;; midnight;; early summer }
Sourwood Road is a twisty, treacherous kind of road. More angry viper than road, as some creative sorts have described it. A narrow stretch of nothing but dirt and potholes. It bends and curves. Zigs in some places. Zags in others. All leading through ancient trees where the spanish moss is so long it could brush your skin like spider fingers. There’s only one house at the end of Sourwood Road, that’s how it’s always been. The plantation manor at the end of the road is the kind that conjures up an eerie, crawly feeling. Gives you chills on the hottest day in August. Makes skeptic folk have second thoughts about the existence of ghosts and demons and witches. They’d be right to have their doubts, but that’s not the Beauchene Plantation’s fault. That’s the world’s fault for being full of ghosts and demons and witches. Tonight the Beauchene Plantation hosts at least two of those three. Light flickers from within the first floor windows and at least one second floor window to the far right. An assortment of cars and bikes choke Sourwood Road. A shiny black motorcycle hordes a whole section of overgrown lawn all to itself. You can ask anyone about the Beauchene place and they’ll tell you they’ve heard of it. When curiosity or boredom strike the hearts of local troublemakers, they’ll dare their peers to take a peek at the place. Each one comes back with a different story and the same spooky feeling. But not one of them will be able to tell you who lives there. Everyone has a theory. They’re all wrong. The truth is, no one lives there. Unless you count a three-eyed hairless cat. Of course, if you told someone that tonight Beauchene housed three witch covens, a good few would be inclined to believe you. Those are the smart ones. The foyer is crammed with witches, its population overflowing into the adjacent dining and living rooms. Candles and oil lamps illuminate these rooms with steady orange light (a product of witches never getting around to installing electric wiring in a hundred year old house). The cloying scent of burning oil and dewy grass perfumes the air. Algernon sinks deeper into the overstuffed chair that commands the space by the only window overlooking the manor’s expansive porch, his gaze fixed on a fat candle flame gnawing greedily at its wick. Beauregard occupies the seat opposite of him. One leg sprawls over the armrest while the other taps out a steady rhythm on the dusty throw rug. The Gameboy in his hands casts his features in electric blue light. He glances a curious eye up at his brother occasionally, but this is about the only attention he spares Algernon. He was in one of his moods, probably thinking over the headlines that had been dominating the papers recently. MAN FOUND DEAD IN ALLEY.
BODY FOUND ON BOURBON STREET.
GRUESOME NEW ORLEANS MURDERS HAVE NO LEADS.
The news kept rolling in, one bold-lettered headline after another. In fact, it was these very murders the coven leaders had gathered to discuss tonight. Because all the victims had one glaring thing in common: they were witches. A witch serial killer, the thought intrigued Beau with the same macabre fascination everyone harbored for dead things. There is a grim allure held by bones and bodies, one that Beau had become all the more keenly aware of in light of recent events. Algernon, on the other hand, didn’t delight in the same gruesome wonder as Beauregard did. The murders were weighing on him. Beau could see it in the shadows gathered beneath his eyes and the thousand-yard-stare that possessed him more and more frequently. Algernon wasn’t the type to space out or mentally wander off. He wasn’t a daydreamer. He was hardly a dreamer. Algernon was like their father in that regard. Thoroughly grounded in reality. Ambitions firmly set in the present. The nickname Absolon Junior was not unearned, Beau supposed. A tap on the window nearly makes Beau drop his game. He fumbles, catching the Gameboy just before it clatters to the floor. A sigh of relief brushes past his lips even as he shoots a glare towards the window. Ambrose stands on the other side, tapping an impatient finger against the glass. “Poor little fella,” Beau sighs, “This is why you don’t feed strays, Al, they’ll just keep coming back.” Algernon blinks, snapping out of whatever trance he’d been in for the past ten minutes. “Did you say something?” His brother frowns and Beau suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. “Nothing, just commenting on this house’s… Pest problem,” he shoots another pointed glare out the window. Ambrose returns his glare mockingly. Algernon quirks an eyebrow, lips thinning with a contained smile, “Will you go see what he wants.” It’s less a suggestion and more of a command, as he is prone to doing. The wording irks Beau, as he is prone to doing. The only thing Beau likes less than being bossed around is being bossed around by a brother only three minutes his senior. “You know what he wants, he’s sick of babysitting.” Beau leans back in his chair, opening a new game to immerse himself in. Demons aren’t allowed in the Beauchene manor, which meant they had to stay outside on the porch until the coven leaders were finished meeting. This time, it was Ambrose’s turn to partake in Official Demon Babysitter Duty. The last two times had been graciously taken by Algernon, and the time before that was Beau. Ambrose was long overdue. “Will you just go help him, Beau? What if Miro got away? Or Mikolt bit someone?” There’s an exasperated edge to Algernon’s voice that reminds Beauregard how lacking his brother is in their father’s knack for diplomacy. Begrudgingly, though, Beau concedes defeat, saves his game, and hands the Gameboy to Algernon. “We can only hope Miro got away. If we’re lucky, he’s drowning in the bayou as we speak.” He isn’t drowning in the bayou. That’s simply wishful thinking on Beau’s part. But a boy can dream. The task of weaving his way through the packs of witches swallowing every inch of floor space was no easy feat. A few have situated themselves in circles on the floor, crossed-legged with a pile of snacks━ chips, cheese puffs, pretzels, soda ━in the center like some sort of pagan offering. Beau wishes he had some sort of magic that would have allowed him to steal a bag of Cheetos. Unfortunately, he possesses no such magical ability and can only regret he hadn’t thought to bring his own snacks. These meetings were always drawn-out, boring affairs. He hated mingling with witches from other covens. At last, he stumbles out the front door and onto the porch where plenty of other witches were stuck babysitting their demons. The humid night air presses against his skin like warmth breath. It’s only marginally better than inside, where dozens of bodies are generously adding their own heat to the mixture of hot air and candles. Beau won’t admit he’s a little grateful to be out of that mix, especially not when he finally spots Ambrose leaning leisurely on the railing. “There you are!” A smug grin lights up his features, “Ready to switch?”Beau’s eyes narrow, lips thin into a fine line. “I don’t think you understand how this whole demon-sitting thing is supposed to work, Rose. We’ve got a system worked out. There is no switching.”Ambrose nods to the front lawn, the sight of which would have driven their mother mad. A frightfully overgrown mess plagued by an assortment of weeds, perfect for hiding snakes. But Ambrose is pointing out the mess of a lawn, his attention is on the sleek motorcycle sitting there. “Dare me to ride it?” There’s no point in daring him to ride it, Beau knows Ambrose has already dared himself and that kind of dare is worth an order from the President himself and a reward of a thousand bucks. “Oooooh! Now I get it! You didn’t want to switch places, you just wanted me, your dear brother, to witness you crash someone else’s motorcycle so I can tell the EMTs how wicked sweet it was when you spun wildly out of control. Well, you can count on me!”
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Post by servalstrike on May 12, 2017 8:19:37 GMT -5
Jasadja al-Jarad - The witching hour should have been the quietest time of night. The time when the veil between this world and the next seemed to thin and blur and otherworldly creatures could pass the veil as they so pleased. This was the time when children would hide in their beds and patiently wait for the morning sun to rise and chase back the shadows. When the superstitious dared not make a peep for fear of attracting the attention of the unnatural. But Jasadja could hardly call it quiet or peaceful as the raucous from within the Beauchene Plantation drifted out and commanded the surrounding area, the voices mingled with the songs of frogs and cicadas and joined into a symphony.
Most sensible self-preserving people would not dare to be half as loud as the crowd that had gathered at the Beauchene Plantation, especially not in such a place with such a reputation for the supernatural. For fear of what they would call to their doorstep. But those who abounded at Beauchene tonight did not hold such fears. How could they? They were the creatures of stories and nightmares. They held no fear of the dark or the things the dark hid. They embraced it even. They were witches after all. Beings of power and the occult. And it was the witching hour, a fitting name for a time of night when it just so happened three covens were joining together for a meeting.
Jasadja, however, did not join in the anxious chatter that filled the inside of Beauchene Plantation. She had opted to stay outside. She almost always stayed outside, and that wasn’t just because she needed to keep Beb company, although he did need it. It was because she preferred it to the heat and the noise of the inside, that and people made her nervous. Somehow she always managed to say the wrong thing around people.
The truth was just that Jasadja never did well with other people. She always found one way or another to make a fool of herself or accidentally start a fight with someone twice her size because she bumped into him by accident, and the only reason he didn’t grind her face into pulp was because her good and soft-spoken and oh-so-graceful brother had stepped in and calmed the situation.
Not tonight though, Jasadja didn’t want to risk starting an accidental fight. Everyone was already on edge and wound tight as a drum, someone in there was probably just itching for a fight. Anything to ease the tension that damned to camp on their shoulders. Jasadja was no different, she too was looking for a way to calm her nerves.
What with the killings and all.
The headlines had been full of death for a while now. Tonight the coven leaders were to discuss the nature of the gruesome deaths, and contemplate if it meant the return of witch hunts. Dreadful massacres that had nearly pushed their kind off the cliff of extinction.
That was the rumor to it anyway. That some rogue witch hunters were now haunting the streets of New Orleans and were killing anyone that so much resembled a witch.
But Jasadja sat idly in the tall grass watching the fireflies flicker past as she folded a square of paper into an origami frog. One that mimicked the peepers that sang in the forest surrounding them. When she was finished she looked over she craftsmanship and offered a small smile to her new creation, before stuffing it into the front pocket of her sweatshirt.
The muggy air clung to her light a second skin over top of her clothes, which she had to admit she was a little overdressed for the weather in her red sweatshirt, skinny jeans, and laced-up boots, and the orange silk scarf wrapped around her head and shoulders that she kept fastened with a golden locust clasp. She was dressed like a living flame, and with the oppressive humidity she felt like one too.
As she pulled out another square of paper to continue adding to her growing collection of origami animals, she noticed flickering lights dancing father away. Fireflies kindled and floated over the grass like tiny night spirits. Jasadja let a smile curve her lips as she watched them, her hands worked over the paper while she only paid half of her attention to what she was doing.
The clear night sky gave way to bright shafts of moonlight that illuminated the world, casting it in shadows and blue light that made it feel like a mock day. A shadow play of the daytime. But where the sun’s light could batter and burn, the light of the moon was a gentle embrace and a song about stars and fireflies. Oddly enough Jasadja always found the nighttime to be full of light. Flickering candles, fireflies, moonlight, even nightlights that chase away the monsters that lurked beneath the beds of children.
“Ouch,” she hissed and pulled her hand back, a corner of her paper had bit into her thumb while she wasn’t looking and sliced her. Shoving her thumb in her mouth to catch the blood she glared at the paper.
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Post by Bloodrose on May 12, 2017 9:56:25 GMT -5
((Holy wow I think I need to join this!!! I've got work tonight though so I'll be back later for definite omg it looks amazing!))
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Post by mags on May 12, 2017 10:00:32 GMT -5
( hon and serv, ur writing always kills me. i love it so. much. <33 im on my way to practice rn wish me luck guys it's freaking Cold )
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Post by koi on May 12, 2017 10:35:11 GMT -5
[ i love both your writing my friends <33 and i am so excited for these characters!!
jassameen is on his way and then i'll whip up another post later on ]
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Post by koi on May 12, 2017 10:44:36 GMT -5
jessamine al-jarad --Mingling is good for a person, or, well, that’s what Jessamine told himself last weekend in preparation for this, but it hasn’t really stuck. Mingling is also a really strange word that Jessamine can’t write down without staring at it for a little too long (distraught and dazed, as he most often is, when criticizing his own work).
Jessamine (or, Jessa, as he has called himself for the past however-many-years, as he did not go through a full name and no nicknames phase and only ever called himself by a nickname) has been trying to mingle, thank you very much, and it’s been going great, thank you very much-er. But no matter how Jessamine presents himself, which is very well, by the way, he still only engages in skin-deep small talk and awkward laughing and “Sorry, I have to go find my sister, she tends to wander.” Sentences woven correctly, voice even and clear, Jessamine is decidedly pleasant. He’s tall but not stupid tall, sculpted nicely, looks like the spitting image of his mom in some lighting but is enough like his dad in other lighting that he isn’t feminine, just pleasant in a very—Jessamine way. It’s easy to call a boy named Jessamine beautiful. His grandmother (dad’s side, one Viktoria Valeska) always waxes poetic about he and his sisters looks, anyway.
This distaste for shallow social interaction may or may not be the reason why Jessamine is currently moving to the outside of the manor, searching for his sister who can be so very elusive for someone who literally conjures fire as her witchcraft.
He can’t believe the fact that there’s still small talk even with all these murders going around (and his eyebrows furrow, gather like two kayaks colliding), and it further proves Jessamine’s theory that even if the world were falling apart there would still be people who think that a conversation consisting solely of “Hello, how are you?” “Good, how are you?” is worth the time and effort. This all makes Jessamine sound like a really awful person, but you know what? He’s kind. Real nice. He promises. He probably wouldn’t be a dance teacher to small children if he was a huge giant snob.
(the thing is, Jessa comes off as being a Huge Giant Snob. It’s the whole, “I may be six-feet-even but I will still hold my shoulders back and my nose in the air because, like, I’m cool” thing he has going on even though he’s really not that cool. It’s more of a shyness thing, an awkwardness that he hides by coming off as too introverted.)
Under the guise of I Have To Go Find My Sister And Our Kid (and by kid he means baby goat, AKA, Beb), Jessamine walks out to the yard, away from most of the “party” (as much as you could call this tamer-than-he’s-seen gathering, consisting of only witches on the inside, as the demons have been cast away to the outside, because not everyone’s demon is as tame—but not as unintentionally chaotic—as the little peach thing that had been passed onto the al-Jarad family), with an air to him that begs not to be bothered or stopped, unless it is to tell him that the demon he’s supposed to be joint-custody-responsible for has chewed through someone’s favourite pair of shoes. Wait, no. That would be uncharacteristic of Beb. He is probably curled up to Jasadja’s side in a softer space of grass out on an expanse of lawn.
The night air is actually as humid as it is inside, with all the people swirling around, mixing like leaves in an autumn wind. The air doesn’t really hit Jessamine as a more wintry day would, instead generously coats him like a sweater, not uncomfortable but not crisp, not refreshing. Jessamine walks with his hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans, a rather odd place to be but better than fidgeting aimlessly at his sides, and he tips his head back, freckled and sloped nose pointed up towards the sky, studying the stars, the moon; he listens to the sounds of the Earth for a short moment (the air is still, mostly, and for someone so afraid of volatile weather, it unnerves him, when he can’t feel the world’s natural push and pull on the powers he has. He could always create small gusts of air that would usually wrack the Earth naturally. He doesn’t feel inclined to be so chaotic, however), but pauses, head dropping towards a sound in the night not so unlike insects chirping under moonlight—
“Ouch,” he hears his sister say, a voice more recognizable to Jessamine al-Jarad than his own, something quiet and organic that wouldn’t be easy to hear over the sounds of the world if you were not searching for it. But Jessa, subconsciously or not, was searching for it; so his head turns, as follows the line of his vision, and he finds Jasadja sitting a fair amount of strides away, just centered in tall grass like a deer curled up to nap, illuminated roughly by the downcasted moonlight, fireflies to the side of her, looking like a mythological vision.
“Hey, Siddie,” he says, as a way of greeting, walking over to her, voice low in the night, like there is something on the edge of the property that he does not want to wake. His eyes drift over the origami in her lap, eyebrows knitted together as she nurses a finger. “Papercut?”
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Post by shades on May 12, 2017 11:11:55 GMT -5
[ I haven't even finished Charlie's starter and I'm already cackling at this poor, small son. Also I probably will start Mitchie at least. ]
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Post by 𝓑𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐫 ♥ on May 12, 2017 11:26:46 GMT -5
[ oh sheet metal ya'll are such good writers, gotta put together a starter now. i'm like. pretty in love with jessamine right now. and all the abernathy kids. dang dang diggity dang]
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Post by ᴏᴡʟ on May 12, 2017 12:32:15 GMT -5
-rides in on tricycle- miro shall arrive soon~ ... or at least i hope.
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Post by 𝓑𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐫 ♥ on May 12, 2017 12:32:41 GMT -5
Rhiannon Markell (and the curse of the rushed starter)
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Disjuncture, /disˈjəNG(k)CHər/, noun, a separation or disconnection.
Use in a sentence: Rhiannon Markell feels a great disjuncture between herself and the mosquito-thick crowd she is surrounded by. Small talk flutters around the mansion like the buzz of insect wings. It’s an annoying background noise – Rhiannon catches snippets of conversation, a name tossed in here and there, none that she recognizes but several she hears over, all coagulating into one general orgy of noise. She isn’t sure if it’s the humidity or the body heat or the fact that she thinks she just saw a dog walking on two legs, but something about this building just feels off. There’s a tension nearly palpable.
As she wanders through the crowd, staying close to the back of the woman she is following (lucky, she thinks, that Leelah Veyera is tall, not just for a woman but in general, because if she got lost it does not seem too improbable to assume that the crowd would simply swallow her up; a house swept under by floodwater.) You see, Rhiannon Markell does not belong here. That’s a kind of obvious that goes unspoken; everyone else in this room is affiliated with a coven, the closest she knows to that is her dad’s family of like, twenty. (Grandpa was a hoe, so now family reunions are, like, super fun. Rhiannon loves children. Particularly the screaming and running kind.) It’s not the crowd that makes her uncomfortable; Rhiannon Markell is not an introvert. She is not afraid of social situations, thrives in them really, and people do not scare her.
There is something different in the air here, though. Like chiggers crawling in the Spanish moss, a kind of biting unknown simmers, hidden in the tangles of people, curling like lichen across the floor of the room. The undelations of the crowd are almost beautiful, in a way. Rhiannon looks around, not spending more than a few moments on each person, wondering who exactly they are. What their stories were. It is almost second-nature when she reaches into her pocket to check on her notebook (as if it would have magically disappeared in the last two minutes) eyes still drifting amongst the crowd.
(She wonders, for a moment who were the significant people amongst the crowd. People tend to congregate around those they are either comfortable around, or want something from. As Rhiannon follows the older woman around she notices how eyes seem to move in their direction as if magnetically. Leelah smiles. Rhiannon wonders if Leelah ever stops smiling. It’s kind of scary, honestly. No one is that happy all the time. Rhiannon considers herself rather savy at reading body language, but Leelah’s grin is so piecing that it seems nothing but genuine. Which makes it even the more terrifying.)
Rhiannon is a writer. She always keeps the book on her – it is more an extension of her body than simply paper at this point. Another thing to know about Rhiannon Markell: there is a cat sitting on her shoulder. I guess that’s more of an observation than a point about her in particular, but it’s important, nonetheless. Considering that she is among a group of witches and demons and the sort, Enid, who is no more than a small gray tabby, adorned with no extra eyes or wings or even a toe or two, probably fades into the background. Nevertheless, Rhiannon Markell walks the crowded halls of Beauchene House with an immortal cat balancing on one shoulder, gazing around rather nonchalantly, more comfortable than her current owner apparently was. Rhiannon reaches up, touches the cats back comfortingly, mistakenly believing that she was reassuring the animal when, instead, it was more of a grounding action for her.
Helped Rhiannon remember why she was here in the first place.
Covering her first murder mystery seemed a much better idea when she was curled up in the University of Washington library than it did now. People really didn’t give Nancy Drew enough credit.
She supposes she should be thankful for this opportunity. She supposes she is. Her other father (Rhiannon has gay dads; it’s like, super progressive – unlike them, ironically) has a lot of weird connections. How Gray Markell knows the leader of a New Orleans coven is beyond her. Rhiannon still questions all of her fathers ‘friends’, she’s a nosy little prick, Google probably thinks she’s some kind of stalker…. which she isn’t, not really, just a curious mind… but she’s still in the dark most of the time. It’s unfortunate. Not for her, but for someone, she’s sure.
Leelah Veyera, on the other hand, is too busy looking for someone in particular to be distracted by the crowd. She walks with a purpose. Rhiannon flutters behind. The other girl is so quiet in comparison to Leelah’s own rapacious self the older woman almost forgets about her.
“I have something to attend to”, she turns around to glance at the smaller girl (and Rhiannon is short, not like, short short, shorter than both her biological mother and father which is saying something, but not child-short) providing the vaguary as more of a ‘shoo’ than a truth. “So this gives you the opportunity to – socialize – for a bit. I’d tell you that no one here bites, but the demons can get a bit mouthy at times. Just watch yourself and you’ll be fine.”
And then Leelah Veyera walks away and Rhiannon is left standing in the middle of a group of people she does not know in a place she is unfamiliar to with a family name that might raise a few eyebrows be it spoken and a cat on her shoulder.
And for a moment she regrets everything.
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Post by alfred on May 12, 2017 13:44:50 GMT -5
(( baaahhh. everyones starters look amazing. like, seriously. really hecking awesome !! i'll have mine posted in a few. probably sometime tonight, unfortunately. xp but i'm excited !! can't wait to see more. ))
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Post by ᴏᴡʟ on May 12, 2017 16:37:56 GMT -5
MIROSLAV & BEB
Now, yes, it would certainly be wise to assume that Beb was somewhere, curled up upon the lap of his master or mistress; that he rested with his head tucked against their side, his nose buried into their clothes, and his limbs held close to his chest. Perhaps he would even be napping, as he so often did when these events came rolling around- ignoring the plantation din, and sleeping through the sound of deep south mosquitoes biting at his skin... But no, tonight was strange, because for once, he was doing something completely uncharacteristic of himself.
Beb was exhibiting a faint streak of independence… Not that he was being particularly adventurous with it, though.
Stretching out a pair of long and delicate arms, the small creature that was Beb didn’t seem to be doing anything special at the moment. With his fingers tangled in the grass, he sat but a few yards from his mistress, who folded paper in her lap, and made what he viewed to be magic out of nothing. Little animals of white sheet paper that tumbled from her pockets like zoo animals, on occasion; he knew she called it ‘origami’, but to him, it seemed more like another one of her supernatural talents- something ordinary hands just couldn’t conjure up. Certainly, he couldn’t create something so fantastic, and truly, he did see it as just that amazing… but he wasn’t really focused on that, at the moment.
With his dark eyes tracing the path of fireflies through the heat clouded air, he absently plucked a handful of clover from where he sat, his legs crossed and tucked. Lately, he’d felt like something was off with the witches in town. Things had felt tense, like everyone was keeping their jaws clenched, and eyes keen, and while he wasn’t smart enough to understand the exact reason, he certainly felt like something raw and dark was tensing in the background… and he didn’t like it- not one bit. It made his hands work faster as he pulled apart the weeds at his fingertips.
“Hey…! Peach-face!”
And there was another thing he didn’t like.
Now, considering the temperament of a creature such as Beb, one could assume that he didn’t particularly get along with others that displayed themselves as completely the opposite. He was easily intimidated, quickly pushed to tears, and as needy as a frantic puppy. He liked quiet rooms and soft environments, and speaking in anything above a gentle murmur was enough to frighten him to the point of nearly wetting himself. Miro, on the other hand, was not like this in the slightest. Miro was also standing right behind the poor little demon that was Beb.
“Nervous? You look like you’re about to piss yourself.”
Watching with now pursed lips as the older (looking) of the two devils came sauntering around to face him, Beb couldn’t help but openly display a look of distaste as his peer went and sat himself down before him. Dressed all in black, with even the horns on his head matching in tone, the chalk white of the other demon’s skin was practically blinding in the hazy moonlight- unnervingly so. That was another thing about Miro that Beb didn’t like- his appearance. He was always just a bit too sharp looking; all in black and white and red, with a set of knife sharp teeth in every grin he played with. It was like looking at a ghost with a shark mouth to pair.
“Not talkative, huh?” With his lips pulled thin in a toothy smile, Miro sat with his hands propped behind him, and his legs extended loosely. With his gray eyes half-lidded, he watched his peach-colored company like a cat with a mouse- watched him squirm in discomfort, and felt a small shriek of a laugh come crawling up his throat. Of course, he restrained it; after all, he had a feeling that that would drag Ambrose over, and maybe even Jasadja or Jessa, because after all, a Miroslav laugh always meant trouble and tears; but damn, wasn’t it funny to watch the little guy tear up? It would almost be worth it. Almost.
Tilting his head back, his observation done, he puffed out a quick sigh, and drummed his fingers upon the ground. Miro always found these coven meetings a bit on the boring side, and if it wasn’t for the other demons that got dragged along for whatever reason, he was sure that he’d probably shrivel up and die from just how dull it got out here, with all the sitting, waiting, and heat… not that heat really bothered him. He was dressed from head to toe in the color of coal- a jacket, sweater, and pants- and yet he didn’t look even the slightest bit steamed. How he managed that, the world might never know. How he could be so mean, the world might be better off not knowing anyways.
“So, did you hear about those murders everyone’s talking about?”
His thick brows raised, he watched as the smaller demon seemed to perk where he sat, his moon sized eyes stretched impossibly wide. “Murders?” Came Beb’s smaller voice. Briefly Miro took a moment to note that his pronunciation of the word was like a foreigner's hesitant testing of something newly learned, and after a time, he let his gaze slide to the side. Catching a glimpse of Ambrose, and then Jasadja before them, he lingered for a moment before answering. If they caught him even speaking in a bad tone to this guy, he was sure he’d be in for a hell of a lotta trouble... but then again, he always was. What difference would this one time make?
Tongue in cheek, he glanced back towards the waiting expression of the peach-colored demon in front of him.
“Yeah, the--”
“There you are!”
Jumping in a move that made his company flinch back in response, Miro couldn’t help but snap his head to the side in search of the voice he’d then heard, like a child caught in the act. Before Ambrose, who he had observed only moments before, now stood Beauregard, of which Miro had a… special, sort of relationship with. One could describe it as Miro being the thorn in the witch’s side, and he would wholeheartedly agree with this statement. Beau was also the one most likely to absolutely flip his top if Miro did something, and… well, he didn’t really want to deal with one crying Beb, and a screaming Beau. At least, not at the moment.
“You know, what? Forget it. Nothing you need to worry your fluffy little head over.”
Pushing himself up into a standing position, he briefly grinned at the confused mess before him. “I gotta go hang with the triplets for a bit, but could you hold out your hand for me, real quick?”
“... W-... Why…?”
“Just do it.”
Hesitantly, a soft hand was extended.
His grin stretching, Miro briefly searched the soupy air, and after a momentary hunt, he snatched up a firefly as it went flickering past him; then stepping back towards the small figure, he quickly took his wrist.
SLAP!
“See ya!”
Darting away and towards his masters, he felt a quick laugh escape from him as a shriek went flying up into the night, and Beb was left with nothing but the glowing remains of a smashed firefly in his palm.
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Post by alfred on May 12, 2017 19:07:58 GMT -5
Gladys Marie Winslow ;;
Nights like these were the reason Gladys prefer her spot indoors more than anything else. Though reasonably cool, it was humid as hell. The air was thick, heavy with water from broiling swamps and murky waters. It clung to your clothing and your skin, plastered strands of hair flat against your neck. Like moths to flame, this attracted an array of insects. Pesky little gnats flew in clouds over your head and mosquitoes dove for any spare inch of exposed flesh. It was warm and nauseating and above all, disheartening when you wanted nothing more than the comfort of this quiet and spacious expanse.
In part, it was her fault for not dressing accordingly. Fond of warm attire, Gladys dressed for colder weather. It would seem that she expected it whenever she left the house. Modest to the extreme, her collars always reached for her jawline and her sleeves never rested above her elbows. Her skirts combed the floor and shorts were entirely out of the question. Tonight, she was the ideal exhibit of someone prudent, unreasonably so. Not that she was by any means -- prudent -- just favorable of the restrictions her attire supplied. As if it was the only thing holding her together, keeping her from falling to bits.
With half the mind to waltz back inside, Gladys turned to look at the daunting stately home. It glowed eerily, pulsing like a giant, living beast. The breathless chatter that seeped from its gapping maw was ceaseless, filling the night air with a quiet hum. It muddled with other nightly noises, the insects and critters which roamed the surrounding plantation. Though the electric growl of motorcycles and other rumbling vehicles still found their way done Sourwood Road, most of those expected to arrive had done so already.
The house was full, the hour had come, and she was standing alone in the grassy lot of Beauchene Plantation.
Pulling in a trembling breath of air, Gladys crossed her arms over her chest and made her way to her vehicle. She'd no intention to leave but also none to head back inside either. Not until the meeting had started anyways. She was wary of the folk, of this news and how it weighed like stones in her gut. It was all very. . unnerving, to say the least. It wasn't a stress she could afford with classes and work, her grandfather's ailing health and her future at Anton's firm. She found herself backed into a dark corner, unable to escape or defend herself from the onslaught of formidable possibilities.
Finding her car, she popped open the passenger's side door. From it, a large and wooly, dark dog pounced, hitting the ground quietly as he circled around the vehicle. Reaching for the middle console, she gathered a small pack of cigarettes and her plastic lighter before taking both to the front. There was no wind to hide the flame from so she lit her first cigarette with ease, setting the pack and her lighter down on the cool metal hood.
If Lorne were any ordinary dog, he might have bound off to investigate the surrounding field, the display of cars and the people who still lingered in the lot. However, he was not -- ordinary. Not by any means. He was of magic and that made him extraordinary. Pulling in long drags, Gladys paced. Lorne laid beside her car all the while, his head rested on his paws as he watched her carefully.
She'd been on her third cigarette when the car appeared. It rolled down the road at a leisurely pace, fashionably late and nearly alone in its journey. Fixing it with a cool stare, she dropped the butt of her cigarette and stamped it out with the toe of her boot. Collecting her things, she hid them away in the car's dash before holding the door open for Lorne. It was a wordless command and one he followed without fault. Jumping back into the car, she shut the door behind him and headed toward the drive.
- - - Anton greeted her with the same formal disposition he'd greet anyone with. Val had one hand hooked around his arm and the other outstretched to cup her face. They didn't say a word as they strode toward the house, Val's fingers trailing along her chin as they left. Turning to face the third party, Gladys greeted him with quaint smirk.
"You guys always so stereotypical?" Holly beamed, his smile sly and inviting. No matter the hour, he always looked so full of energy. "I could be in bed right now."
Gladys snorted softly at his mild humor and held her arms out. Their embrace was quick, the greeting of two people not fully aquatinted with each other. "Where's Virgil?" It wasn't unusual for her to address her relatives by name, no matter the relation. It was custom amongst their family, one Holly had found quite odd when he'd first arrived. Now, though, he was unfazed.
"Home." He started and ended the explanation there. Tightening her jaw, she lowered her gaze to the ground. In truth, that was all the detail she needed. Val had probably given him a sleeping tonic after some spell of his. She hadn't been home in nearly four months and all she could picture was him bedridden. Probably not the case but she always assumed the worse. Seeing her worry, Holly decided on a more proper explanation, still vague but reassuring. "He's fine. Just couldn't make it is all." Nodding, he gestured toward the house, following after the Winslow couple. "How about you -- you fine?"
Gladys only nodded, her face a pool of placid emotion. "I heard you were suspended." She fixed him with a cool look as they walked, one he attempted to ignore.
"All for good reason," he tried with a timid laugh. "Isaac pretends he's disappointed but I secretly think he's grateful." He stepped forward a few steps and turned to face her, walking backwards. "I've got my last week off and we get to leave early. . I've done a great service here."
Gladys shook her head and fought a smile by pursing her lips together. "If you say so."
"I know so." He tilted his chin up proudly, smiling coyly as he looked at her from the corner of his eyes. Turning back around, he dipped his head again toward the house. "This thing important?"
Snorting her surprise, Gladys raised both eyebrows, staring ahead at the crowd gathered outside. "I think so. Anton told you about the meeting, right?"
"A bit. Three parties meeting at this joint to discuss some grisly murders," he breathed in suddenly and stared toward her wide-eyed. "I'm intrigued, Gladys," he said with feigned seriousness. Pushing at his shoulder, she sent him stumbling a few steps. Quickly, he was right back at her side. "Imma be real, though. This feels like a game of Clue."
Gladys's expression fell as they walked. "I wish you wouldn't joke about this, Holly." She staid quiet after that, hugging her frame loosely as they neared the porch.
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Post by ᴏᴡʟ on May 12, 2017 19:23:30 GMT -5
Dear lord i've found myself in the presence of a writing prodigy named alfred
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on May 12, 2017 19:28:51 GMT -5
{ GUESS WHO'S HOME! i had a super long day, so i'll read through posts and reply when i find the energy. i'm so tired ;---; }
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