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Post by ᴏᴡʟ on May 12, 2017 21:13:21 GMT -5
( why is that such a common trend with these characters why are they all street rats hiding in garbage cans and stealing food )
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on May 12, 2017 21:15:22 GMT -5
{ i'm learning the spectrum is Sunflower Child, Would Die For or Trash Mongrel, Has Rabies And Bit Me }
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Post by ᴏᴡʟ on May 12, 2017 21:21:25 GMT -5
( That is exactly the spectrum. )
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Post by koi on May 12, 2017 21:33:31 GMT -5
jessamine al-jarad --Jessamine thinks that maybe it’s a common thing to go through, from time to time, but there was a portion of his life in which he believed everything came down to Siddie. It was him and Siddie against the entire, wide world.
Siddie being Jasadja, naturally.
The thing is, Jasadja is not an easy name to say and by the time Jessa learnt how to spell, it became more confusing. Jessa, with a mild speech impediment at a young age, tried for the full name, the Big Deal, and instead spat out the abomination that is “Y’siddie.” From then, it morphed into Siddie, and from then on, it was only Siddie until things got serious, and then it was always the full name, always the blame-game, a squeaky voice insisting “it’s Jasadja’s fault, I didn’t do it.”
Now, Jessamine stands slightly in front of Jasadja, though not looming--and she has these curls that are a bit more unruly than his hair would be if he grew it out any more, and in the humid night air, stray hairs separate from the firmer locks, giving her a halo of frizz framed and lightened by the moonlight. He drops down next to her and the movement is more fluent than the simple term drops down--he slides, joints moving through joints, to his knees, reaches (without permission, of course, this is Siddie after all), fingertips brushing against the delicate paper, half-folded into the shape Jasadja was aiming for.
“Maybe he wanted to be a--” thinks for a second. Life is simple. He doesn’t worry much about the murmurs coming from the mansion almost eerie in sound (incoherent from this far away, simply sounding like the buzz of winged insects). “Maybe he wanted to be a moth.”
Same thing, he thinks to himself, but not really. Butterflies used to unnerve Jessamine as a child. A lot of things did, really, but that’s nothing to think of now.
(there’s nothing like a little murder on a weekend that brightens the spirit and weakens the knees.)
Jessamine pulls away from the little not-quite-a-butterfly-yet origami (so, a pupa? No, that sounds disgusting), eyes flicking up to Jasadja’s, to her brown one. His expression is guarded in a way that she would recognize is simple discomfort. He opens his mouth to respond, puts a hand into the grass to push himself up (the same smooth effect that overtook his kneeling earlier--Jessamine moves more like an elusive breeze than boy), words gathering at the tip of his tongue, words that get lost to the muggy air as her expression shifts, and Jessamine and Jasadja have that weird sibling thing where he can see the change in mood before it even comes. His eyeline follows Jasadja’s blue-and-brown (the colours of sea and muddy shore), and he does not like what he sees.
First off, is it rude to say that Jessamine has something strong in his resolve against Miroslav? Maybe it’s because he comes from a place of the victim’s side of things, as one of Beb’s primary...people? It’s more likely that Jessamine is just sensitive about people that decide that they’re going to wake up one day and be intensely rude to other beings. Y’know, thinking about it now, it’s a mixture of both.
Jessamine’s always been a mild person, anyway, so he does not storm over and take Miro by the collar and forcibly drag him away. His grandma had told him and Siddie stories of their father, the type of kid who would punch someone out if no one else was going to do it. She described blood streaming from noses into a stained-orange-toothed grin. Called him stupid in a fond way. Jessamine was not this type of person. So he and Jasadja watch as Miroslav walks away like he may as well be practicing a common waltz. And Jessamine’s face burns (angrily, not a warm blush but a simmering flush).
“Beb,” he starts, has a voice that’s more soothing than honey and a cup of tea on a good day, and he can thank his mother for that, can thank his mother for a lot of things but especially for the way Jasadja’s hands, gentle, run over Beb’s hair. He pauses, can’t remember what he was going to say, thinks to himself bad things about Miro.
“It’s not just teasing, Jasadja,” Jessamine says. Only Siddie until things got serious. “Don’t you remember when Miro bit him?”
Lets out a sigh, that teacher-like, ‘I’m not mad, just, disappointed,’ vibe rolling off of him in muggy waves. “Course it has to be the triplet’s demon too. ‘Course.” Makes a noise in another language--Arabic? and then leans down to thread his hand in Beb’s hair, soft like lambs wool, or like, well, fur. He looks down, sees something smeared into his palm--”What’s that in your hand?” he asks, genuinely curious, because he can’t make it out for the life of him.
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Post by ᴏᴡʟ on May 12, 2017 21:40:40 GMT -5
( koi your writing is so good that i can't tell if i'm overwhelmed with admiration or angry -AGGRESSIVELY TYPES BEB RESPONSE- )
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Post by mags on May 12, 2017 21:42:37 GMT -5
( i second owl on this koi ur writing is FREAKING BEAUTIFUL i love it so muchhhhh <333 )
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Post by servalstrike on May 12, 2017 22:05:50 GMT -5
(everyone here has such amazing writing!)
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Post by mags on May 12, 2017 22:14:32 GMT -5
manon beaumont - - - - - Night fell, and the moon rose gracefully into the sky, basking the grounds of the plantation in a light, silvery glow. Had her track not led across the Beauchene Plantation, perhaps she would have been able to see this night as tranquil, as serene. But, of course, Manon Beaumont was not naïve. She understood the legend and lore surrounding this place, and she understood just who would be gathering here upon this night.
The young witch walked carefully toward the house, keeping her tread feather-light upon the soft, dirt path which ended at the steps leading up to the mansion's front porch. The distinct hum of cicadas, the gentle swishing of long grasses on either side of the pathway, and the soft murmur of many voices conversing created a symphony of sounds playing on the light, summer breeze. The air was sweet. Humid, disgustingly-humid, but sweet. Almost like...jasmine. Or some other flower. (Manon was not exactly an expert in this particular field.)
Dark eyes slightly narrowed as she neared the house, scanning the porch and foyer for any familiar faces. Or actually. Just one, in particular. The one witch who'd told her about this meeting, in the first place. Her honey-brown gaze flicked from face to face, trying to pinpoint this particular female. To no avail, unfortunately. How typical. Now she would have to go in alone.
Now, she wasn't quite sure what she was getting herself into when she first crossed over the threshold of the house at Beauchene, in all honesty. So she chose to stick to the sidelines, clinging to the shadows as she carefully observed the scene unfolding before her. It wasn't that Manon was an introvert; no, on the contrary, she actually enjoyed being around people. But...something about this place, about this group of people all gathered together, made her a bit...uneasy. On edge, rather. Out of her comfort zone. No coven held her allegiance; she answered to nothing and to no one. And, at least for the time being, she intended to keep things that way.
Manon found herself eavesdropping on a couple of conversations, and an expression of pure, unadulterated boredom crept into her features. Her friend was certainly not known for her upstanding punctuality, but she would have hoped that tonight, she would have put in just a pinch of effort. Just a little teensy bit.
Minutes passed. Outrageously-long minutes. And finally, Manon felt a soft clap upon her shoulder. Eyes blazing, she whipped around, posture stiff and rigid, only to find a tall, blonde witch gazing down at her with a hint of a smug smirk toying with the corners of her blood-red lips.
"God, Rav," Manon huffed, exhaling a sharp breath of exasperation as she hugged her elbows, "do me a favor and maybe don't sneak up on me like that next time?"
Ravenna Lestrange. Cool, calm, and calculated Ravenna Lestrange. A long-time friend of Manon's. Someone she, at times, loved to be around, but also someone she loved to hate. Vehemently. Because while Ravenna was certainly bold and beautiful, she knew precisely how to push Manon's buttons.
Manon's response to her initial greeting elicited a smooth, silvery laugh from the blonde, and her little smirk broadened into a full-on grin of amusement. "Oh, stop. You know, for someone as powerful as you claim to be, you certainly scare easily."
The dark-haired female's brown eyes narrowed, and she pulled her braided hair over her shoulder, toying with the ends as her firm stare met her friend's again.
"What took you so long to get here, anyway?" Manon snapped, purposely changing the subject. Rather, moving Ravenna's target off of her own back, and pinning it onto something else.
Ravenna's head tilted ever-so-slightly to one side, causing her golden curls to tumble over one shoulder.
"Oh, um," she paused briefly, pursing her lips, "just Celina." She waved a hand dismissively as she spoke. "She takes forever to figure out what she's gonna wear and what she's gonna do with her hair. I told her that it was just witches and demons who would be here and to hurry the hell up, but," she shrugged, "what're you gonna do?" Ravenna exhaled a soft sigh of defeat as she finished speaking, flashing Manon an almost rueful smile.
Manon's brown eyes flicked around the room once more, as if she were trying to pinpoint Ravenna's younger sister.
"Where is Celina? She came with you, right?"
A sharp laugh, followed by a nod. "Hell if I know. But, yeah. She came with me."
A tone of bitterness echoed through Ravenna's words, as if even talking about her sister stirred some sense of animosity within her. And it wasn't like Manon was unaware of the dynamic between the two sisters. Perhaps that meant that Manon knew which of Ravenna's buttons to push, as well.
But then something else caught her eye.
Of course Manon recognized Leelah Veyera. She was one of the leaders of the three covens. And trailing behind her...the girl looked like some sort of lost puppy, eyes wide, following in the coven leader's footsteps with uncertainty in her own tread. Manon's sense of curiosity, of intrigue, was piqued at the sight.
So when Leelah left the girl alone, Manon decided to excuse herself from Ravenna, leaving her friend watching her with a single brow slightly raised. She began to weave her way through the crowd, keeping an eye on the girl in the center of the madness when —
Oh, boy.
Applejuice.
Notorious, three-eyed Rodney Applejuice came sauntering up to the girl, halting at her feet. Now she was truly interested to see whatever this particular interaction would entail. Shoving her hands in her pockets, she stepped forward, out of the shadows and into the dim, orangey illumination the room provided. She stopped beside the girl — Rhiannon, considering what she'd just heard from Applejuice — and she peered down at the cat standing at their feet with eyebrows slightly furrowed.
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Post by 𝓑𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐫 ♥ on May 12, 2017 22:22:01 GMT -5
Ivy Lowe _______________________________________One of the most bizarre feelings is that of a chill in the air when the thermometer reads 96 Fahrenheit. Ivy Lowe rubs the sweat off the back of his neck and feels goosebumps.
He is not looking forward to tonight; anxiety drafts around the town like a fine haze. There is a smell to it, faint and smoky and heavy, as if he were trapped in a sauna while the world around him burned. It is not a particularly pleasant sensation. Neither, though, is anxiety, so the young man supposes it makes sense.
The headlights cut through the darkness like moth wings, subtle, only a faint disturbance of the balance. Ivy has never liked this road – it makes him uncomfortable. He has only felt negative emotions on this road. The sensation reverberates now; twisting through the darkness like tendrils of a vine. It’s bizarre how common emotions magnify. Groupthink. One loses a bit of themselves in every person they come in contact with; in large groups it is easy for one to forget their individuality. It is easier to conform to the hive than activity produce independent thought. It’s an interesting feeling to experience from afar; the simultaneous wave of emotion, like a school of fishing moving as one defined whole. Ivy enjoys musing on abstract concepts like this – or, rather, concepts that would be abstract to anyone else but have a distinct shape to him. When you experience emotion as Ivy does each feeling has a sort of tangible quality to it. A taste, smell, color; aura, if you would. In large groups like this, where emotions become amplified to the point where he does not even have to touch, or even see, a person to tell how they are feeling it feels as if emotion is physical; a white noise in the back of his mind. Wading through knee high water.
Being an empath isn’t exactly fun, you see. His mother once joked (but only half so) that he should become a clinical psychiatrist, “imagine how much renown you’d get” she wasn’t looking at him, making dinner, distracting herself with a seasoning of happiness to cover the fear that manifested every time her husband entered a room, “I wouldn’t even have to worry about my retirement fund!” And Ivy had smiled at her like he tended to do. It was easy to please people when you knew exactly they felt; the more familiar with a person Ivy becomes the easier their emotions are to read. It’s like becoming acquainted with an instrument. He doesn’t even need to think to play Over the Rainbow on his Ukelele anymore – after years it’s become second nature. Ivy smiled at his mother because she was making a joke and wanted a positive response. He was rewarded with a flash of happiness from her (manifested like sunlight, drifting and soft and also blinding).
Ivy could never see himself in a career where he worked with emotions, though. He’d probably rather die, to be honest. People are depressing.
Which is another reason Ivy does not like big crowds. He can’t read thoughts, thank god, if there is one, but large groups of people are like a one man operated call center after a city wide blackout; everyone is complaining about the same thing in a different voice in a different area and he can’t get to the phones fast enough and he knows their words before they even trail out of the receiver. Ivy’s phone buzzes and he ignores it. Headlights cut through darkness and he ignores that too. Just keeps driving because he has to – maybe that confounded three-eyed cat had the foresight to put out a punchbowl. And maybe someone else had the sympathy to spike it.
As Ivy pulls the car round the bend to the Beauchene Plantation he’s greeted with the familiar cluster of vehicles usually spattered on the lawn during such meetings. Some kid Ivy had never seen before was just exiting his vehicle (Ivy couldn’t get a read on him; the thing with being around big groups of people is that it interfered with his reading of other people. It was hard enough to get an accurate read on strangers without physically touching them; with such a flurry of anxiety and pep coming from inside the building This Kid was just static. A minor annoyance.) With the exception of Mr. Blue Button Down and Nervous Hand Movements, there weren’t many people out front of the house. A couple kids on the lawn - wait.
Those weren’t kids. Those were the al-Jarad’s – who were still kids, that was a lie, they weren’t any kids would be the more proper response, but Ivy wasn’t going to police his own grammar. That was a level of petty that even his ex-girlfriend had never achieved (he’s not bitter, nope). Ivy thinks for a second that he sees the motion of a demon or two on the lawn too – which made sense. The al-Jarad’s had a lil’ thing that they kept around, if he remembered correctly. Sweet bugger. Ivy didn’t know it’s name. Had never really cared. The Abernathy’s would be here too, and they had a couple of their own.
(Ivy had a particular fondness for Beauregard Abernathy – and his extremely pretentious name – solely derived from the fact that the boy was unreadable. Completely. The physical iteration of a lack of cell signal; Ivy had once brushed by the boy, let his shoulder linger a second too long so it was more a bump than a brush, just to see if he could pick up anything. But no. Kid was completely immune. It was wonderful. If only more people were completely apathetic it would be nice and Ivy would maybe be able to breathe.)
A lot of New Orleans families had demons, actually, now that he thought about it. He had always found the custom of keeping a sentient being around as a Slave rather uncouthe. But that was just him; maybe the whole empath thing gave him a look on others that could never be completely understood by those who remained trapped in their own heads. (Ivy was stuck in so many at once) But that was beside the point. Ivy Lowe was at this meeting for a reason.
That reason was because the Raven Coven had told him to.
He doesn’t have much of a private agenda besides like, eating tomorrow. And this meeting was more of an idle use of his time than anything he considered important. From the banter echoing from inside the mansion, Ivy presumed that everyone was still ‘small talking’. Ivy never much liked small talk. He wasn’t good at it – too cold of a person, or whatever. Never really had the political knack that his father did. But he would at least try.
His target: eh – why not try dress shirt boy. Proximity and all.
“Hey”, slick, Ivy, slick, “You know if they’ve started the meeting yet?” the answer was obvious, no, Ivy knew this, had even mentioned it in his monologue like, what, a paragraph ago. It would be interaction, though. And that’s what the kid was going for.
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Post by ᴏᴡʟ on May 12, 2017 22:36:33 GMT -5
JASADJA, JESSAMINE & BEB
For the longest time, it seemed that the poor, peach-skinned demon simply didn’t know what to do with himself; with himself, or the once blinking insect that was now smeared across his palm. With wide eyes, he’d sat there with clovers and grass tangled in his spare hand, and his flesh suddenly cold against the Louisiana heat, looking completely, and utterly... horrified. Of course, most people wouldn’t be so utterly perturbed by such a little death, but Beb had never been like most people. He wasn’t even a person- he was a demon, and one made up entirely of soft hair, and even softer feelings, and this was far beyond what he was capable of handling.
Clearly, he wasn’t capable of handling much, if anything at all.
Gazing down with eyes like pale green saucers, his face suddenly twisted as the insect gave one final kick, with just like that, Beb’s sense of calm went straight out the window. With a quick scream leaving him once again, it wasn’t long before the shrill noise went spiralling down into one bubbling sob, and with his arm shooting out before him, he began to fling his hand about, attempting to rid himself of the bug’s decimated remains. “Jasadja!” He wailed, his voice flying like a dart through the air; and as if on cue, there fell a hand atop his head.
Lifting his gaze quickly, his eyes dark with welling tears, the demon released a sharp whimper as he took in the image of his mistress’s face, all soft and warm and pretty. With a voice like sweet summer nights, and fingers that gently brushed the wild static from his hair, the very presence of the witch beside him was enough to subdue just a bit of his snivelling, leaving him quiet and trembling, and searching for her warmth, like a kitten would it’s mother. Then there was Jessamine, who came trailing after the girl; a tall and fluid shadow, who spoke in a way that once again further quieted the demon.
For as long as he could remember, Beb he had always adored these two voices; he loved the way they spoke to him; loved how they murmured to each other in a way that the rest of the world would never be able to understand. He loved the soft brush of Jasadja’s whispers, and the low rumbles of Jessamine’s murmurs; loved the hands that came to comb through the soft white of his hair, and the fingers that gently brushed by his horns.
With a sniffle, he quietly leaned into the sibling’s gentle touches, nuzzling each in turn.
“It’s… I-It’s a firefly…”
Sitting back, he blinked away some of the tears that threatened to go streaming down his cheeks and water the ground beneath him. With his spare hand, he took a moment to wipe at his face, now flushed and dark with evening heat. To be honest, it was a bit odd to see someone of such an inhuman skin tone blush... particularly because Beb didn’t blush pink- he blushed orange; orange, and when his eyes “reddened”, the pale green sclera of his gaze would darken to something leafy and undiluted.
“Miro caught one and…”
Pausing, he briefly looked down at his hand once again, and upon seeing the mess it held, his chest quickly rose and fell, while a noise like a cry only half formed momentarily pulled from his throat.
“He caught one and then high-fived me with it…!”
Sucking in a breath, he let out a small hiccup before the waterworks once again resumed, tears now spilling freely from his eyes as his slight frame trembled amongst the grass. Slumping where he sat, his head dropped quickly, his horns knocking a firefly straight out of the muggy air as they swung forward.
“A-And he said something about… m-murders,” he then continued, a sniffle breaking up his word, “but then he wouldn’t tell me anything else! Did someone get murdered? A-Are you guys going to get murdered?”
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Post by koi on May 12, 2017 22:54:41 GMT -5
[ beb is such a ;-; SWEET HEART. I COULD DIE. SOMEONE SAVE HIM and i love manon too!! HER NAME
also im thinking i should maybe write another post for another character but? maybe i should finish forms first and then let myself freely roam ]
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Post by ᴏᴡʟ on May 12, 2017 23:01:59 GMT -5
( i love how this is only my second post and he's already crying and how miro biting beb it now canon i mean he does legitimately bite people and now apparently even beb has fallen victim beneath his SHARK TEETH
his excuse "I'm sorry, but have you seen him? He looks like an orange creamsicle, and his tears are hilarious."
but yeah, nah-- I'd recommend finishing the forms first, just so you don't potentially overwhelm yourself. )
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Post by mags on May 12, 2017 23:04:40 GMT -5
( im gonna be that one bad influence friend(tm) forget the forms. just write. forms are a Big Pain anyway )
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Post by ᴏᴡʟ on May 12, 2017 23:07:04 GMT -5
( gosh darn it mags but also not, because I can't argue with the phrase 'just write'. )
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Post by servalstrike on May 12, 2017 23:07:50 GMT -5
(BEB IS TOO DANG PURE! #protecthim the al-Jarad's are gonna have to have a talk with the Abernathy's. i'mma a type up something for Jasadja and Gustav!)
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Post by koi on May 12, 2017 23:11:04 GMT -5
[ jessamine tries to have a talk with the abby boys. instead, he ends up blurting "when you guys did that contemporary number back in 2015, you weren't together for that count of eight when you did the arm canon." and dissolves ]
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Post by ᴏᴡʟ on May 12, 2017 23:13:21 GMT -5
( beb's just a soft peach with a face
and jessamine that's completely beside the point beb's just gonna end up getting bit again at this rate )
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Post by mags on May 12, 2017 23:15:55 GMT -5
( u guys. my mom is painting our shed in the backyard. she didn't tell me that she was moving the paint into the garage and i just walked into the garage and was like "i dont need lights bc i know where im going" and. i stepped in an open can of paint. right in it. why do i do these things i need help )
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Post by ᴏᴡʟ on May 12, 2017 23:18:18 GMT -5
( I-- ... do-- ... do you need... a towel... help call mom. )
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on May 12, 2017 23:21:22 GMT -5
{ BEB! HE'S SUCH A LITTLE FAWN <3
speaking of forms. let me know when you guys are finished with your forms. i don't want to be the only one with characters on the character page anymore }
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Post by ᴏᴡʟ on May 12, 2017 23:23:45 GMT -5
( Incorrect. Beb is a peach, and or baby cow.
-DOES A KICK FLIP- HERE, OR ON THE JOINING PAGE? CUZ. I FINISHED MINE... )
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Post by koi on May 12, 2017 23:28:16 GMT -5
[ ......dead. i didn't know there was a character page ]
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on May 12, 2017 23:31:58 GMT -5
{ there is here is the link because i'm lazy and keep forgetting to put it on the front page
just tell me here or there, owl. it doesn't really matter. but if you're done you can post your characters on the character page }
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Post by ᴏᴡʟ on May 12, 2017 23:33:59 GMT -5
( Oh, sweet! Okay! Question though- i left the backstories blank on all but beb, because i just don't have so there wasn't really a need to write anything. Should I delete that section, or no? )
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on May 12, 2017 23:37:00 GMT -5
{ hmm. i'd delete it, just so it looks neater }
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Post by ᴏᴡʟ on May 12, 2017 23:37:45 GMT -5
( That's what I was thinking. Got it. >v< )
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Post by mags on May 12, 2017 23:40:36 GMT -5
( just letting u know for the next few days (until thursday, probably) im prob gonna be p spotty bc wednesday is my deadline for having all of my work done for all of my classes and, being the master procrastinator i am, i still have a crapload of stuff to do oops so ill probably be around to chat a bit but im not sure how much rping ill have time to do until then?? )
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Post by servalstrike on May 12, 2017 23:42:19 GMT -5
Jasadja al-Jarad- Her expression was hard and taut, her lips drawn into a thin line. Taking Beb's hand between hers she wiped away the dead insect, being sure to be ever-so-careful with it so he wouldn't be further upset that she was either smearing more of the creature on him or not being respectful of it's life. Once she had it all cleared away she turned his hand over and kissed his knuckles. "There," she said she spoke softly trying to choose words her Mother would say in a situation like this, "His soul is free to wander." Their Mother had always been good at comforting others, even it sometimes what she said didn't make a lot of sense. But when it came to situations like these Jasadja tended to be too much like her Dad. Clamming up and unsure of what to say, accidentally saying or doing something that made it worse. Jessamine was better at it, not by much though.
But Beb was a creature of compassion, he had the tendency to feel things too deeply. Even the death of an insect brought him to mourn for too long. Jasadja didn't fault him for it, it's what made him Beb and she loved Beb. She hated to see him so upset. It made her physically ache when she heard him cry out like that. Far too often did she forget what he was and that he was far older than either she or her brother and that he would outlive both of them and whatever grandchildren they had.
With a tender touch she cupped his face in her hands and touched her forehead to his. A gesture from her Mother. "You're okay now, okay?" A different sort of noise lilted from her throat- something in Arabic that even she didn't fully understand.
Inclining her head towards her brother she drew her lips into a line. "I'm aware, Brother." Of course she remembered when that toothy beast sunk his teeth into poor Beb, and how Beb wailed and it took hours to calm him down even long after they had bandaged it and the bleeding had stopped.
Turning back to Beb when she heard what he had to say next. Her face dropped. Unsure of how to respond without upsetting him she shook her head and knelt down to him again. "No, no Beb of course we're not going to be murdered." Beb was too soft to handle the news of the killings. An upside to demon's not being allowed in the house was that Beb couldn't hear the news second-hand, unless a certain jerk demon told him and only drove him to tears. "We're safe and you're safe. No one is going to be murdered. Miro was only saying those things to mess with you." A slight frown tugged on her lips.
Continuing to stroke Beb's soft hair as she stood up, to keep him calm, she fixed her eyes on Jessamine. "It won't help Beb to get mad about it though, it will only upset him more. Let's just go over there and talk to the Abernathy's."
Easier said than done when the boy's whose demon bit your demon were the son's of the leader of your Coven and also wealthy and gorgeous beyond belief. And jerks.
She fixed the pin on her scarf and smoothed out her hair "We can be rational about this. Civil. Calm, cool, and collected. We go over there and ask them to make Miroslav apologize to Beb. Like what Mom would do."
Yes, like what Mom would do. Except that Jasadja wasn't her Mother and if one of those boys tried to start something Jasadja might accidentally kick one of them in the teeth, or run and hide, she wasn't sure which but she was about to find out.
She turned on her heel and strode over to where Ambrose Abernathy and Beauregard Abernathy stood. Two pillars of pure power basking in the moonlight. Jasadja pushed her own power into her boots, willing them forward, bracing every step against the ground as she straightened her posture like she was on a warpath. Until she found herself facing the boys. She crossed her arms and cleared her throat. "Ambrose. Beauregard." she said by way of greeting. "Your demon he..." too long of a pause. She wasn't sure which one to face. "Miroslav killed a firefly on Beb's hand and it...it upset him deeply. We demand an apology."
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Post by koi on May 12, 2017 23:47:24 GMT -5
[ "Miroslav killed a firefly on Beb's hand and it...it upset him deeply." JASADJA IM SOBBING. i love her <3 ]
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Post by ᴏᴡʟ on May 12, 2017 23:48:36 GMT -5
( I flippin-- Mama Jasadja for president. )
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