#【❂】ѕᴏ ɪт ɢᴏᴇѕ ❛threads

[misfortuning]

@ivakir │ тʜɪѕ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ɪѕ ɑ ѕтɑɢᴇ

It's odd, remembering death. Even after the dream filter of childhood fades, becomes worn enough for real memories to fragment together, it's still never going to really seem real, is it? Lack of experience, maybe. If witches are real, perhaps one can tell him.

The bus grumbles quietly as he descends its wizened steps. He's the only passenger, and the doors don't hesitate but slowly close behind him; no other travelers wait at the edge of Chukhlinka. The only evidence that there's a bus stop at all is the squat metal beast now trundling away. His grip tightens, loosens, tightens on the handles of his duffle bag, shoulders shift to adjust his backpack. The village is small, almost oppressively so, and he doubts anyone would recognize the face of rising star Isaiah Daniau. Doubts anyone would notice him even if he was Leonardo DiCaprio, aside from the fact that he's a stranger here. Part of him relaxes at that, and he takes a moment to appreciate being anonymous before refocusing on his goal at hand.

It doesn't take long to get directions to where the witch lives. In fact the first person he asks tells him right away, and he's taken aback by how easy it is, how normal it seems to be. True, he probably would have come here on baseless rumors anyway (although the things he's heard from sources he trusts have him hopeful), but he'd been expecting at least another day of digging for information. Instead, he reaches the witch's home before the day is fully over.

It's not as though he has any expectations for what a witch's dwelling looks like—moreso that what greets him seems to be fitting, or at least not too outlandish. For a witch, that is. Knuckles rap against the door in quick succession, thrice, the pause of a breath before a fourth knock. He takes a measured step back to give the door a respectful amount of space. And, as he's been doing since he started his search, he waits.

[misfortuning]

He realizes his second mistake only after the woman begins to shout and hurl the entire basket at him—it's not normal to run around naked, either. At her demand that he take what he wants, just cover himself, his semi-panicked brain siezes on the basket now lying amongst its scattered contents as just the thing. Stooping to grab it he automatically starts to pick up the mushrooms as well, his thoughts racing and chasing and crashing together. Survival instincts not entirely his own demand he get out while he can; with his luck she'll start throwing spells now that she's out of physical ammo, or whatever it is witches do in real life. Logic says that if he's made this bad of a first impression, she's probably more likely to want him out of the forest, right? And considering how she keeps missing him, she either doesn't actually want to hit him, or she has really bad aim. Either way it's in his favor.

(The slow growing ache that gnaws constantly in the space behind his ribs longs to know if she's met a woman who calls herself Noël, if she's ever encountered a being made of winter's raw and frozen heart itself.)

Before he can get too tangled in his snarl of thoughts, however, he's derailed by her next comment. A scowl reflexively settles upon his brow, deepening as he realizes that he can't honestly or even plausibly argue with her—as with nudity, bathing had ceased to be a problem the moment he abandoned living in proximity to other people. Or rather, humans. Now they seem like inane and foreign problems to him, but if it gets her to stop yelling and throwing things... Basket and bounty gathered together, he straightens, holding it at a strategic level so as to provide what modesty it can.

"I wasn't sneaking—and you're not too polite yourself," he replies bluntly, though he manages to bite back the temptation to make some rude comments of his own. No sense in making petty enemies with a witch in the middle of an unhospitable forest. His voice rasps slightly from disuse as he continues, "I don't want to be here either, you know. There's someone I need to find. She..."

He hesitates. Would she have kept her human form, now that they've been separated? Would she continue to use the name he gave her? She wouldn't give up on him, would she? No. A short, sharp shake of his head; he won't start doubting her, not when she's the only one who's accepted him for who he is. What he's become. "Her name is Noël. She's...not human. I don't think she's here, but...what's wrong with this place? Why can't I find a way out?"

@misfortuning

        When the wolf suddenly decided that the bony witch was not such a tasty prey, and disappeared into the bushes, Ivakir breathed a sigh of relief and began to descend to the ground. Probably, her secret mushroom technique was able to scare away this terrible beast. But as soon as in the bushes, where the wolf ran away, something rustled and completely different sounds began to occur, which you would not expect to hear in the forest, Ivakir quickly climbed the tree again.

      “Ahhh! Naked teen!” when a wolf didn’t appear from behind the bushes, as she had expected, but a very naked and very young man, Ivakir immediately covered her eyes with her hand. Teenagers. Much worse than wolves. They scream, they argue, they always want to seem smart and they had that weird thing which called “youthful maximalism”. Honestly, Ivakir would feel more comfortable if there was a pack of wolves. “Here! Take what you want, just for the sake of all that is holy, cover yourself!”

      The basket of mushrooms flew in the direction of the young man, but missed. What the hell was going on? Did she accidentally got into a forest where wolves and nudists lived? And, no, wait, even the damn squirrels didn’t live in this forest. Ivakir removed her hands from her face and looked at the stranger with such a look, as if she was accusing him of a crime.

      “You’re that wolf, are you, eh? You smell like a fog. I can even feel it from here.”

      The witch deftly descended to the ground. Putting her thumbs on her belt, she, however, kept aloof, as if she was afraid that the young man would immediately turned into a wolf again and attack her.

      Of course, you will not eat me, the witch thought, I will punch you in the teeth and you will eat soups until your last days.

      “What are you talking about? Not what, but who! My name is Ivakir, and I am a witch- actually, I’m just picking up mushrooms,” the witch answered confidently. At three in the morning. It’s just a hobby. “And we are in the forest, as you can see. Trees, grass - everything is like in the forest. And what are you doing here? You know, you should not be here at all. And you also shouldn’t have sneaked behing my back. It’s not polite!”

[misfortuning]

       @ivakir  │ ᴍᴜsʜʀᴏᴏᴍ ᴄʟᴏᴜᴅs ᴀɴᴅ sɪʟᴠᴇʀ ʟɪɴɪɴɢs 

       His tone was dubious; his expression is dubious; and although the witch speaks to reassure him with total confidence in herself, his skepticism only grows. It shows blatantly in an arched brow and quirked mouth, but according to her wishes he refrains from questioning further. It’s not as though he has many left in regard to the situation, anyway. In his opinion the first one covered all bases pretty thoroughly. Somehow, in a forest where seemingly no normal creature lived, she’d managed to obtain a chicken, finagle some boards and nails onto it, was preparing to work her mojo, and voila. She expects something good to happen? Alright. He isn’t the witch here.

       So he takes a few prudent steps away and watches, curious despite the foreboding feeling he has about all this, as she begins work her spell. 

       ...And doesn’t laugh when the chicken gouges at her hand and takes off into the underbrush. It’s a close thing—breath huffs through his nose, the beginnings of a grin touches his lips, but it’s quick to hide when her glare settles on him, turns into a frown as she accuses him of being the problem. Still, he’s been hanging around doing her odd menial tasks for a few days now, and he’s still hopeful that getting on her good side will lead to answers.

       “It’s a relevant question,” he argues, moving towards the shaking bushes from which disgruntled squawks are emitting, “And I’m pretty sure if you’d left it alone in the first place, that definitely wouldn’t have happened.”

       Pushing apart the branches from above he considers the chicken’s predicament. Although it successfully escaped the witch and found somewhat of a hiding place, with the boards still attached to it, it’s now gotten stuck in the cluttered undergrowth. The bright side is that it can’t run away; the down side is that neither can he easily extract it. Good thing there’s always the hard way. 

       With little regard for broken foliage, scratches, and the chicken’s feelings on the matter, the young man practically uproots a bush or two ‘rescuing’ the fowl. Eyeing the furiously struggling creature, he asks, “Where’d you even get it?”

[misfortuning]

@altarfated │ ɢᴜттᴇʀ ᴍᴜтт

       Low-cast light from the setting sun slants his long shadow ahead of him, a taunt or encouragement to run, run. Bare feet flying over the pavement far faster than should be possible but the strike of shoes is never far behind, gaining gradually, relentless. His lungs have started to burn, breath sharp and harsh against the back of his throat, how long has the chase been on? The others lost ages ago but not this one, not the man with eyes that he can feel between his shoulders; a hunter. Which makes him the prey.

       It’s a sick feeling that drives him to desperation, sends him darting between two buildings, nearly taking himself out against the wall in the process but just scraping by—until he rams full-tilt into the end of the alley, stars bursting behind his lids as the world careens into shattered chaos. Time vanishes in disjointed fragments as he forces himself onto his hands, struggles to find his feet. Metal and salt pours over his lips and his breath sputters ragged, liquid. Shoes appear in the tunnel of his vision and he squints hazily up at his pursuer, unable to focus properly through the pounding in his head.

[misfortuning]

@xjelani │ ɴᴏ ʀᴇѕт ғᴏʀ тʜᴇ ᴡɪᴄкᴇᴅ 

       This time, he comes to her. Finds her on the second try at one of the many bars they’ve been to, places he can never remember the names of because the where doesn’t matter as long as there’s booze. He doesn’t even come for that, really; before Lucy he never got drunk and now that he can, while a novelty experience, it holds little appeal. It was just somewhere to go when he was tired, the sort of tired that weighed his bones and echoed the hollow sky he usually preferred. When he needed grounding and would settle for trapping himself with four walls and a ceiling, because that was close enough.

       Tonight, he’s tired, and it reads in the lines of his body as he sinks into the seat next to her. It’s a greeting and a question and neither. 

[misfortuning]

@wildtenacity │ᴍɪѕѕɪɴɢ ᴘɪᴇсᴇѕ

       One foot in front of the other. That’s all he can think of now, head bowed in pain and exhaustion, hardly even seeing his steps. At first he’d tried to watch out for people, distinctly aware of how much smaller they all seem—and how they crowd around him, before and beside and behind—but everyone ends up avoiding him just fine on their own, skirting a generous distance out of his way and he’s thankful for it. (He assumes it’s his height, having no memory of his been-to-hell-and-back appearance, unaware of his feverish complexion and the dried blood camouflaged in his hair.) The space is good, though. It lets him breathe, and the less attention he has to pay the less it feels like he’s scraping the insides of his skull for every fragment of focus. He’s at least managed to stop staggering like a drunkard—until the impact of bumping into someone nearly knocks him flat down.

       “Sh—” Reflexes he doesn’t know he has take over, grabbing a nearby street sign with strength he certainly doesn’t feel, managing to stay on his feet (he isn’t sure he’d make it back up again if he fell). Adrenaline washes briefly through his veins, sending spikes of pain into his head that he shuts his eyes against tightly, free hand rising to his temple for all the good it does. “S...sorry.”

[misfortuning]

@fxlsemoon │ ғɑʟʟɪɴɢ ɪɴ; ғɑʟʟɪɴɢ ᴅᴏᴡɴ

       The winter sun has always been a burr among the order of celestials. The court enjoys their traditions, the ancient rhythm, slowly marching along in the patterns set before them smooth as clockwork. The winter sun, too, has his role, follows his path as dutifully as the others. But he does not fit the uniform. He is the sun, but he is cold and harsh and offers no comfort; He is winter, but he shines far too brightly. He should be ashamed of himself, yet he strides across the sky with not a hint of apology, sharp tongued and icy eyed. He has never behooved himself to make allies, choosing to remain remote as he has no patience for the tiresome politics of the court. If that were the end of it, perhaps his presence would have continued to be tolerated. Resented, bemoaned, a constant source of complaint, but ultimately ignored.

       Unfortunately, the winter sun is too harsh for his own good. After crossing a few too many lines and driving many of the winter constellations to a near frothing rage, as well as somehow managing to offend more than a few of the planets, an alliance is forged with a single goal: To cast the winter sun from the celestial realm, stripping him of his power and trapping him in the mortal world. He fought the whole way, a losing battle, and in the end found himself on the physical plane, powerless, wounded, dying. No longer held by his own gravity and at the mercy of another’s, he stumbled, fell. Despite watching over it every winter, the ground beneath him was unfamiliar; painful enough to be driven so far from his post. He was out of his element as well, practically in the heart of summer, and he was suffering even more for it. 

       They did this to him. Hands clench, fingers digging into sand and finding the cool depths, a pitifully small reprieve. His teeth are bared around a mouthful of blood, and he almost wishes they had followed him to gloat just so he could spit it in their faces. But of course they hadn’t; he had been forced into the physical against his will, not even using his own power, and it had still drained him into a shadow of his former self. If they had chased after him to jeer and sneer, they would be no better off than he. Pitiful. Weak. 

       A growl bubbles in his chest and he forces first one foot, then the other under him. It feels suddenly incredibly difficult to pull his hands from the sand, as thought the grains are trying to draw him into the earth, but he persists and struggles and curses and is finally standing. He sways, foreign gravity tugging at him, but he ignores it and takes a step. Almost falls and feels a rush of dizzying blackness which he also ignores in favor of taking another step. It is agony. He perseveres. 

       He cannot say how long he continues on, one impossibly heavy step after another. He can feel himself dying, knows he will not survive without help and that he has no one to help him. Never has. So it is not hope that drives him; it is rage and spite, a stubborn refusal to let them be the ones to kill him. He won’t give them the satisfaction. He would sooner stumble off a cliff or drown himself in the ocean. He does neither, marching on unsteadily.

       Eventually he comes to a line of trees, vividly green, undergrowth dark with shade. Anything is better than the endless, burning expanse of sand, and so he stumbles into the grass, hardly conscious of his own decision. Continues to stagger between the trunks, grateful for them when he almost falls and has to support himself, for if he does, he knows he won’t be getting back up. On and on, until suddenly, the trees are gone. He isn’t prepared, reaching for something that isn’t there, and then he’s tipping off balance, too far forward, crashing to the ground. He doesn’t hear the gasp, lost in his own hazy thoughts that curse the constellations, the planets, the celestial realm itself, and the god damn trees for disappearing when he need them.

       He does, however, feel the hands that appear from nowhere, skimming across his back, finding his shoulders and turning him over. The light is blinding when he opens his eyes, only then realizing they were closed, and his gaze wanders drunkenly before finding anchorage on a face. A strangely familiar face...

       “Oh.” His voice is weak, hardly more than a breath, and he’s unaware that he spoke aloud. He recognizes the woman kneeling over him, expression tight with concern and something like...indignation? Is she mad that he’s dying in her yard? 

       For it’s unthinkable that she might feel anger on his behalf; she who is the summer moon, perhaps the most beloved in the celestial realm. She who would occasionally appear in the same sky, watching curiously the lives of humans in the daylight. He, in turn, would sometimes watch her, though they spoke at most a handful of words. She was not there for him and he was reclusive by nature, unused to interacting with the court in a non-hostile manner and uncaring to learn. Still, she only ever had a kind smile for him, eyes bright as she observed the going-ons of mortals. He discovered he didn’t mind the company, distant as it was. Maybe it was the distance that allowed it to feel so peaceful.

       He finds himself thinking that, of all the ways to die, perhaps with her is not the worst situation in which to go. And then his eyes are closing, and his tenuous grip on consciousness slips away into nothing.

[misfortuning]

@seigneurdesentrailles │ ѕᴇᴇɪɴɢ ʀᴇᴅ

       It hits him suddenly. One moment his left-field of vision is shitty-but-functioning, normal, and the next it just shuts down without warning. A blackout. His steps falter, stopping in the middle of a busy sidewalk (need to get to somewhere safe), hand going to his eye when he bumps someone (he’s shaken, too scattered, needs to get it together) and he opens his mouth to mutter some form of apology when his fingertips meet something slick on his cheek, copper in his nose. 

       “Shit. Sorry—migraine—” which is a lie, there isn’t any pain which is exactly why it caught him off-guard but it’s an excuse that allows him to keep his hand to his face, hopefully keep the blood from being noticed “—I’ll get out of the way...” 

       Somewhere safe, somewhere safe, somewhere safe.

[misfortuning]

@lightningdreamer │ ѕтᴏʀᴍ тʜᴇ ѕтʀᴇᴇтѕ

       Another night—another and another and another. Endless days that blur together, indistinguishable save for sun and moon, but he no longer cares for time. No longer cares for much, not the people he saves nor the aggressors whose lives he extinguishes. He could hardly remember them if he tried. He never does.

       And yet recently, or so it feels, something has pierced through the comfortable numbness, prodded his sleeping mind. Sometimes he will find a victim, inexplicably saved in a instant by—what? It flickers at the edges of his senses, glowing streaks at the corner of his eye that leave afterimages across his vision; he smells ozone, waits for the thunder, the rain, but it never comes. It is these lightning-struck nights that have gradually carved a place in his memory, lit a spark of curiosity. He thinks it’s been a long time since he felt such a thing.

       So in the heart of another night he finds himself waiting with the patience of a statue, eyes open, ears keen to the telltale crackle of electricity, lungs hoping for that familiar breath. He waits for the ghost of a storm—and in time, it finds him. A bright path zips its way through the city, here, there, gone, closer now. Scuffling in an alley, a thin cry for help, and lightning flashes over the asphalt less than a second before the thud of a body as it hits the ground. Fast. 

       He drops from his perch, half-expecting to see a trail seared into the street with burnt footsteps, but there’s no such thing. The night’s victim scurries from the dark, glancing back and around and completely missing his presence in their panic to get home, to safety. He, too, hardly notices them, intent upon the mouth of the alley, approach leisurely. Prolonged curiosity leaves a sweet something in the back of his mind; it’s been a long time indeed. Finally he reaches the edge of the shadows, can practically taste the ozone, takes in the red-clad form not 20 feet away. Whatever this is, it’s certainly not disappointing.

       He himself is dressed simply in black, thin layers of surprisingly tough body armor hidden beneath the cloth, hands hidden beneath gloves but face exposed, a knife at his leg and sturdy boots at his feet. His hair is cropped short and around his throat (though perhaps it is hard to see in the dark) lies a black brand of thorns. He stands there, takes in the unconscious-but-breathing form of the aggressor near the red figure’s foot, waits for words to come to mind—but it’s been too long, he can’t think. Is still in limbo between timelessness and lightning nights. Continues to wait, breathing the storm.

[misfortuning]

@tiptoes-through-glass │ ᴘɪстᴜʀᴇѕѳᴜᴇ 

       The day is, perhaps, a bit threatening; silver light through a veil of clouds, a wind that rises and falls but never truly goes away. It’s the kind of threat that Isayah appreciates, a heralding of storms that discourages most of the general populace from flooding the park—his current location, as his current companion is one who prefers the people places, loves the smells and attention and, on the rare occasion, treats. 

       Vin zigzags back and forth across grass and path, unleashed and unbothered by the weather, tail waving triumphantly. Isayah follows somewhat, though not in the same manner. At times something will catch the dog’s attention and he’ll be off, racing away until he’s almost out of sight and the man must call him back to his side; and so the cycle begins again.

[misfortuning]

@newspapcr │ (ʜᴇɑᴅ ɪɴ тʜᴇ сʟᴏᴜᴅѕ)

      The man stands in the middle of the sidewalk, utterly unaware of his surroundings, gaze sky-bound. Perhaps he’d caught sight of a bird and become lost in the brilliant, boundless blue above, or forgotten something just as he remembered it and now struggles to recall it once more. A tumble of white hair brushes his neck, supporting the lost memory supposition with suggested age, yet his build and posture imply youth and strength. 

      (The man stands easily, unwisely, statuesque. With face upturned his eyes focus homeward—what he knows as home. But it is closed to him now, now until he has fulfilled his duty, burned into him as surely as he has burned from the day he was brought into existence. As surely as this gravity shackles his form, holds him down.)

[misfortuning]

@deadxheads │ ᴍᴏɴѕтᴇʀѕ? ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴍʏ вᴇᴅ?

       Isayah knew it was a mistake the moment Lucy showed up at his door. He knew it was only going to get worse after he agreed to let her stay. And lo-and-behold, when he arrives home it’s to an unlocked door and unfamiliar smells. (Thank fuck he got everyone out of the house; even the dogs had been temporarily evicted, though the cats still remained.) 

       Immediately a flare of anger sharpens itself in preparation, but just as quickly he buries its edge in his own gut. He was angry, but was he surprised? No. And that meant that he could very well accept and deal with whatever bullshit was left behind in the mess he’d helped create. Temper dismissed, he purposefully opens the door, closes it with the same controlled manner. It’s the only hint that remains of his fouled mood.

       Motionless now, he focuses; listens, breathes, taps into that strange, almost sixth sense he has (though he’d never call it that aloud). Lucy’s gone. He’s not entirely sure how he knows this or if he really knows it at all, but he’d certainly be surprised if she was still around. And yet...the house doesn’t quite feel empty. Or maybe it feels too empty. Too quiet. Like something lying in wait. 

       Bone-deep exhaustion helps smother the coals of rage, and he shoves a hand through his hair wondering why he invites these situations even when he doesn’t want them. Especially when he doesn’t want them. Drawing the silence into his lungs, he breaks it cleanly on the exhale.

       “...A’ight. Whoever you are, I don’t care. But get out of my house.” Now why didn’t he just do that to Lucy? Isayah reminds himself that it’s not the stranger he’s got a problem with, nor the stranger with him. “...Please.”

[misfortuning]

@deadxheads │ (ᴍɪɴᴅ'ѕ ᴇʏᴇ)

      He’s being studied.

      There’s not even an attempt at subtlety; the strange, turquoise stare is fixed blatantly on the fext, has been for nearly a minute. But though it is certainly attentive, ponderous (and is that a hint of...sorrow?), there’s no trace of threat or wariness. In fact, dressed is worn, plaid pajama pants and an ill-fitting argyle sweater, socked feet free of shoes, the observer could simply be an odd homeless man. 

      And yet, his eyes. Bright, piercing, level. Sight clear enough to see through—anything, maybe. Everything, potentially. Or perhaps nothing at all. (The physical is such a limited organ.)

[misfortuning]

@maljefe │ ғʀᴏᴍ

       Twining with the wind and rhythmic river waves he’d heard the splashing, choked struggles of someone in the god damn river, was tossing his sweatshirt (which was only for show; the odd looks he got wearing a t-shirt in the winter bothered him more than the cold) and leaping off the bank without a second thought. He’d found her in little over a minute of strong swimming, hauled her out in a little less, but as he spit the icy water that had slipped into his mouth he knew that even that had been too long.

       “Shit,” he mutters, casting about for his discarded hoodie, hearing the jagged and chopped word that forces its way from between teeth. Why weren’t there any fucking light posts out here? Who the hell jumped (for she must have jumped if she couldn’t swim) into the river at night? Why the god damned shit did he have to wear such dark clothes—he finds it, rumpled in the grass a ways upriver from where they’ve emerged.

       Within a breath he's back—and finally getting a good look at her. Are those ears? And..a fucking tail? Shit. Well, whatever, he’s committed. Carefully lifting her into an approximation of sitting, he peels off her soaked top with clinical, gentle hands, quickly replacing it with his sweatshirt. He hesitates for only a second before removing her shoes, pants, and socks as well, all with swift, practical motions—wet clothes would leech what little body heat she had left faster than cold air, but it still didn’t give him much time. 

       Thoughts race even as he picks the woman up (small but compact, like a fighter), sweatshirt hem easily reaching just past her mid-thigh, holding her close to block what he can of the wind and ignoring what words her cold-clenched jaw mutilates. The fact that she has ears, a tail, and, he finally notes, rather wicked-looking claws immediately dismisses the option of a hospital. Besides, he’s spent so much time avoiding them that he's not even sure where the closest one would be. That leaves two options, and he heads for the nearest.

       Arriving at his friend’s apartment he doesn’t bother knocking, simply going to open to door—only to find it locked. Shit! God dammit, sorry about this I’ll pay for it later— His wrist tenses, tendons flex, and the knob twists with a crack, door swinging open. No deadbolt, must be out. Kicking the door shut behind him, he heads straight for the couch and settles her with the same careful handling he’s used from the start. Pulling the throw blanket over her, he disappears into the bedroom and returns with more blankets (and even a pillow), depositing those before beelining to the kitchenette and starting some hot water.

       From the moment he jumped in the river to current time, Isayah has not stopped moving; now, standing a few feet away from the clearly inhuman stranger he’s brought directly to his friend’s home, his protector setting is able to organize itself, reorient from the previously paramount saveher-saveher-saveher and realize that he may have been a bit hasty. But, no, he shouldn’t decide so quickly. Unless she’d just finished killing his friends before taking a dive, pulling her from the river and getting her to a warm place hadn’t been a mistake.

       Still, he’ll let her make the first verbal move. Amber gaze is unwavering as he watches her, oblivious to the fact that he’s dripping water all over the floor. It’s obvious what she is; but can she sense that he’s more than he seems, too?

[misfortuning]

@xjelani │ ᴅʀɪɴк ʏᴏᴜʀѕᴇʟғ тᴏ ѕʟᴇᴇᴘ

       The bar isn’t particularly nice, which is just a nice way of saying that no respectable person would be seen there. Of course, such niceness doesn’t belong in a shit pit like that—and so.

       The man sits at the far end of the bar; dark, distant, and more than likely dangerous, everything from his placement to his body language stonewalling even the idea of being approached. He’s here to drink, alone.

       (And so far it’s worked out, but anything can happen.)

[misfortuning]

 @blasianbutterfly ʟɪкᴇᴅ

       The bakery door opens.

       It’s the elevator man, all loom and doom and gloom as per usual.

       He’s back for more sweets and treats.