#SOLO.

[freddybeezy]

Shot by: Kobe Wagstaff Rafael Rios x Courtney Yates.

Sol-Angel 🖤✨ 21’-23’

[fengforhire]

This is a bad idea. She knows that it's a bad idea, with every internal alarm and voice of her ancestors screaming that this is the wrong path. But as Jac stares down at the faded piece of parchment in her hand, she has to wonder what makes it so bad. Because she's not asking permission? Because it's "forbidden"? Jac knows that all magic comes with a price. It's a lesson that was drilled into her from birth. Before, she never understood why some witches threw caution to the wind, to gamble everything on the chance that things might improve but now...

She uses wood ash to mark the circle on the ground, making a mental note to clean everything up before Lara gets home. It should be quick. A few muttered words, a brief trip to the astral plane and back again, and then her magic could be something other than a bargaining chip for other people to use against her.

If she repeated it to herself like that, then there was no time for the anxiety to creep in. Jac hurriedly lights the candles that she's gathered. This sort of ritual is not in her wheelhouse, though she's read up on plenty of them. She understands that the precise locations of each component of the spell has ramifications to how things play out, so she checks and re-checks each item. A piece of gauze weighed down by a quartz rock. A handful of salt and sand, grains tumbling against each other in a shallow bowl. The petals of a chrysanthemum, floating amidst a goblet of water.

Shakily, Jac pulls out a small silver dagger that she had taken from her mother's study, and she stares down at her reflection in the blade. She barely recognizes herself, between her recent fashion changes and the way the metal warps slightly, but she wonders if maybe she is just grasping for signs wherever she can find them. A reason to listen to those warning bells that she is so accustomed to hearing.

She slices the edge across her palm and yelps, surprised at how much it hurts even though she had been expecting it. Jac freezes, waiting for someone to come barging into her room even though she had confirmed with her roommate that she would be working tonight. Blood drips messily down her hand and the young witch rushes to make sure enough gets onto each of the necessary items, before dropping a few droplets into a mug that she had grabbed from the kitchen. After she wraps the wound haphazardly, Jac looks dubiously down at the mug that holds a non-insignificant amount of her blood. Her nose scrunches, imagining that she can smell the iron that makes her stomach roll.

"Come on, Lara does this all the time," she reminds herself under her breath. And it couldn't be worse than the Chinese herbal medicines she'd had to endure while growing up. Jac screws up her face and downs the contents of the mug.

Nope, no, definitely worse than the Chinese herbal medicines.

She gags and fights not to get sick, afraid that it would ruin all of her preparations thus far and she does not want to have to do this again. Instead, Jac forces herself to lay down in the center of the circle she's drawn and closes her eyes, counting backwards from thirty, but she doesn't feel anything, or hear any changes. She tries to fight off the disappointment that rushes through her body. What did she think? Some ancient spell buried in the back of a book no one has read in a hundred years somehow had the perfect answer to all of her problems? Even if the world worked like that, Jac knew she wasn't so lucky.

With a sigh, Jac opens her eyes and is taken aback when she sees nothing. She forcefully blinks several times, even nearly poking herself in the eye. Then she realizes she no longer feels the ground beneath her, or anything around her, and her body jolts in the nothingness. Like a dream, or a nightmare, Jac isn't sure yet, and she tries to steady her breathing as best she could. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn't this, but there was no turning back now.

While her consciousness delves deeper into this new unknown, her body remains on the floor of her apartment in Port Leiry, blood still sluggishly oozing from the cut on her hand. A sudden gust of wind swirls through the room, scattering the spell components about and it disappears just as quickly, leaving nothing but a mess and an unconscious Jac behind.

[huntedarte]

It isn't a full moon, yet the late night hours hold that same reverence that their bones recognize. They have learned to love this time of night and the peace that comes with it. A time when many are winding down for the day, and they are free to wander among their thoughts. No one is looking at them for answers or safety, and Arte feels a little like they can breathe again.

They have been splitting their time between Flick and August, barely sleeping between watching over the both of them. Their wolf fights to keep August contained, while Flick's injuries heal but they are no closer to finding who hurt her in the first place. It isn't uncommon for them to disappear in the early hours, either to go to work or to find some space. There seems to be no shortage of emergencies that demand Arte's attention lately, though that is part of what being an Alpha is.

It's the first of the year, yet Arte feels just the same as they had a day ago. This time last year, they had been spooked by the fireworks, and one of the old Eventides had to coax them out of a tree. Some days they still feel like that wolf, terrified and useless. It's just past 10PM when they find wander into a clearing not too far from Cham's house. They sit on the earth, cold and damp seeping through the seat of their pants as they stare up at the stars. It is quiet out here, and Arte exhales quietly as the stillness of night settles over them.

A haunting howl pierces through the night and Arte immediately rises to their feet, head turning this way and that to pinpoint where it came from. It's joined by another, then another and another until there is an entire chorus of howling wolves. A pack. Born wolves? The moon was barely a sliver in the sky and thoughts rocketed through Arte's mind like gunshots. The howls feels like they are all around them and they turn, uncertain which direction to turn. Finally, they decide to go back toward the cabin, taking barely three steps before they see the first wolf.

It is see-through, shimmering in the moonlight and Arte blinks rapidly, wondering if it's a trick of the low lighting. But one by one, more of them appear, blinking into existence until they are surrounded by the pack they lost.

"D...d-" They start to shake, but there is nowhere to run unless they go through the pack, and they don't think they have the strength to do that. Instead, their legs give out from under them and they hit the ground with a soft thud. It's a cruel joke, they can't think what else it could be as their father's wolf approaches them, transparent and faintly glowing in the darkness. A hand eagerly reaches up to touch and swipes through the figure and Arte's face crumples briefly before they have another idea. "W-wait... wait for me," they mumble, quickly getting up and moving toward a copse of trees, shedding clothes as they go.

The ghostly pack watches as they shift, bones snapping and elongating in a horrifically familiar way. As their mind blurs between human and wolf, all they can think about is the fear that when they open their eyes again, the pack will be gone once more. It's harder, when the moon is at the beginning of its cycle, only a shadow of its power, but Arte persists, screams turning into howls as they change.

In under an hour, they rise as a reddish-brown wolf, shaking off the residual ache in their joints. Arte circles back to the clearing, their own howl piercing the air desperately as they call for their lost pack. Silence answers them and their heart plummets, until a chorus of responses greet them, the same eerie echoes that they'd heard before. They dart through the underbrush, barking and calling out until they are running alongside them. Even if their forms aren't physically there, Arte can still hear and see them as they go sprinting through the trees.

An exhilaration fills Arte's chest as they bound through the trees with the pack, wind whipping across their face. For once, they are running, without feeling like they are trying to get away from something, and they'd forgotten what that felt like. Rather than terror pushing them forward, it's excitement, and Arte lets out another howl that is joined by the others and it buoys them forward.

Arte doesn't know how much time has passed, or how far they have run when they realize that they no longer hear other wolves. They slow at the top of the next ridge and look around, but there is none to be seen. Tipping their head back, Arte calls out, and the howl echoes through the trees before fading entirely. They double back, paws pounding against the earth as they retrace their steps before trying again, but there is only silence. At the realization that the pack was gone, they let out a low, mournful sound and slowly begin to trudge back towards the city, feeling more alone than ever.

[bountyhaunter]

TIMING: January 6th, 2021 PARTIES: The Volkovs! LOCATION: Volkov family estate, dining room SUMMARY: A look into a nice, cozy christmas dinner with the Volkovs. CONTENT: Implications of (past) domestic abuse

Like most evenings like this, Christmas with the Volkovs was a method of showing off. Russian orthodox traditions were followed like paths shaped into the earth centuries ago, with little purpose besides repetition and glory. A visit to church is forgone, by now, though Alexei Volkov was wont to pull out the dusty slavonic bible and read a passage or two. Not about the birth of the savior, but rather the stories of guts and sacrifice. He thought very little of God, but old testament vengeance is up his alley. Besides, the house was at its best when all ears and eyes were laid on him. 

Still, the most important part was what laid on the table — spoils of another successful hunt. Only those that had contributed were allowed to sit around the table, and so there had been plenty of years in Daiyu’s childhood where she had not had a seat and eaten dinner in her bedroom, her plate lacking any and all meats. Her siblings would tell her excitedly about the food they had eaten and prepared, how they had stripped the skins of their hunts and learned how to roast, cook or grill them. 

But no longer was she a child incapable of shooting something first, so the past years Daiyu had sat at the full table, filling her plate with the meats of creatures killed by herself and the rest of her family. The pungent smells of meat and alcohol filled the room. The candles flickered softly. Something classical and dull played in the background. The scent of stale cigarettes stuck to her uncle like glue. Daiyu pushed around the meat on her plate. It would be a death sentence to say that a traditional American Christmas Turkey might be preferred over the tough meat of an aquasturge, but she sure was thinking it. At least the gravy helped. And the deviled stymphalian eggs? Those were a hit, every fucking year.

So logically, she got up from her seat, placed a knee on her chair and reached over the table to grab some more. Immediately, like a knife cutting through the muscles and sinew of the slayed bies (the centerpiece of the table, killed by Vissa), her father spoke up, “Have you lost your ability to ask for things politely, Daiyu?” It was the first thing said in five minutes. 

Her hand remained floating mid air, fork sticking from her grab as it pointed towards the plate of eggs. Her sister sat close to them, looking up at Daiyu with amusement in her eyes. Her immaculately painted nails reached for the plate, pulling it closer to her. How Inna’s manicure remained so perfect after a bloody and long hunt, Daiyu didn’t know. Hers chipped immediately after putting it on. 

Of course, she knew — you weren’t supposed to stretch your body over the dinner table to reach for something. Her arm was passing her brother’s face, obstructing his view. It was considered rude to do such a thing. But what the fuck did politeness matter, here? With people she’d known all her life and had shown her their ugly sides over and over? They had been shooting their bullets and arrows in living creatures for the past few days. She had elbowed Vissa in his stomach to get somewhere faster. Inna had messed with her rifle. Her father had demeaned all three of them on separate occasion for their many flaws and failures, in hopes of improving them.

God forbid, though, that she obstruct her brother’s view and didn’t ask her sister to hand her the deviled eggs.

Daiyu stretched her short body further, trying to stick her fork into the white of at least one of the eggs. Inna pulled it even closer. “Do you want something?” Her voice was honey sweet, her eyes blinking as if she had no idea what Daiyu was after. Her eyelids were smeared with glitter that looked bloody. Daiyu’s own eyeliner was already smeared onto her cheek. She hated how pretty her sister was. “Maybe I can … assist you? I don’t know.” 

It was just eggs, was it not? Vissa, quiet as always, now also turned his gaze onto his sister. She felt it burn into her, making her cheeks red. Daiyu had no alcohol to blame for this, only the history between herself and every single individual at the table. It was just eggs. She was just supposed to ask Inna to hand her the fucking plate so she could scarf down a few more of the eggs, but she had it in her mossgreen claws and was looking at her the way she often did. Like she was something small and helpless that simply needed a hand. Like it was so nice that Inna didn’t step on her throat every chance she got. As if she was so charitable, helping out her simpleminded, less capable sister when she simply could not. 

And Vissa? Her oldest sibling, her great and strong brother who had once seemed like a protector? He was the silent watcher, begging her with one crease of his brow not to cause a scene. 

“Sit,” her father said, a distant voice at the head of the table. Daiyu never understood why manners mattered to a man who locked humanoid beasts into cages, who was covered with blood in most of the memories she had of him, who’d treated her and her siblings in ways no polite father was supposed to. 

Daiyu did not address the demand, in stead staring daggers at Inna, “Give it.” 

Inna continued to look confused. “Give what?”

“You know what.”

She shook her head, “I don’t think I do.”

Daiyu was sure Vissa was begging Inna with his stupid eyes now, too. “You’re fucking touching it, you know —”

“Language,” said her father, who had taught her most of the swearwords she knew. Who thought there were places and time for such expletives, who saw the world as his design and figured this dinner table as a place of control. She wondered how long it’d take before he’d shove her back into the seat.

Her uncle drained his glass of wine and refilled it. He never had to reach for the bottle — it always seemed closest to him. Vissa was non verbally communicating with the younger sisters that had long stopped listening to any of his cues.

Inna picked up an egg and nibbled a tiny bit off it, not spilling any of the filling. She chewed thoughtfully and Daiyu sniffed angrily, wanting to go off on a tangent that was interrupted once Inna had swallowed her tiny bite: “Whatever do you want Daiyu? I’d gladly give it to you. But you’ll have to ask nicely.”

Daiyu raised herself to her full, unimpressive length. (At least Inna only had one inch on her, and not the ten her brother did.) Her fork was jabbing in the direction of the eggs. “The. Eggs.” 

Inna waited patiently, putting her nibbled egg on her plate and picking up the dish holding the eggs. She made no move to hand it over, though. Daiyu knew what she wanted to hear — that six second word that they had all been taught was a sign of weakness. Asking people for things was a concession, tacking on that pleading word was even worse. They had been drilled not to use it. You don’t ask for things. You take them when you deserve them. Unless, of course, it was at the dinner table of her father’s home. Then, suddenly, these human etiquette rules played a role again. Performance.

Daiyu let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Please.” A beat. “You bitch.”

As if it was choreographed, her father put down his glass like a punctuation to the insult. “Sit down and spare us the rest of your foul vocabulary, Daiyu. We have heard it enough times to know it by heart — and besides its obvious rudeness, it has grown tedious.” 

Daiyu considered flipping him the bird, but in stead continued to stare at Inna and the eggs. Her sister raised the plate, Daiyu moved the fork in her hand so that she could balance both plate and cutlery, and for a moment it seemed like it might all be okay after all. She had sacrificed some of her pride, but she’d get her eggs. 

And then Inna’s hand slipped and the eggs slid from the plate, falling face forward on the tablecloth. They made unimpressive sounds, but they might as well have sounded like falling bombs with how destructive this simple slip was.

“Whooops.” The plate followed the eggy avalanche, slamming onto the eggs and plastering them against the deep red of the cloth after shattering in three pieces. Daiyu stared at it for a moment. Vissa sighed the longest sigh known to men. Her uncle was fingering around for a cigarette. Alexei looked at both his daughters, wondering why they could not leave their feral behavior at the door, as if he had not taught them to be as feral as the creatures they killed.

The fork moved in her hand, finding its way back between her thumb and index finger and before Daiyu could think twice, she had pulled herself up straight and was throwing it at Inna. She squealed as she evaded the thrown fork, which ended up in stuck in the wood paneled wall, quivering like an arrow. 

And then, all notion of manners went out the window. Daiyu dove over the table to her sister, who met her attack with her own. Her claws pulled at her hair while her clever tongue rained an endless torrent of insults about her sister’s temper and immaturity. Her uncle lit his cigarette, as smoking inside was a smaller sin that brawling during dinner. Vissa looked at his father and apologized, as he was sure he could have stopped this and felt the burden of their misbehavior weigh on his eldest chest. Alexei pretended not to hear him as he unconsciously mimicked the child he thought himself least similar to: he took his glass and threw it at the same wall Daiyu had thrown her fork into. 

Glass flew and spat and this time, when he demanded everyone, “Sit down!”, they would listen. Because once Alexei forwent his beloved manners, all knew that the tide could turn quickly and nastily.

And so the Volkov’s Christmas fell into silence once more, as Inna wiped the glass from her chair and Daiyu observed the pluck of dark hair laying on the floor before returning to her seat. This time she took the long way round, sitting down quietly and returning to her dry aquasturge. The longing for a normal, fat turkey was even louder now.

[laurestcphens]

location: westriver gardens time: saturday night, post-masquerade

The week since the masquerade had been largely uneventful in her eyes. It seemed that most of the inhabitants in the city decided to remain quiet in its wake, though she imagined it wouldn't be long before something came along to rock the boat once more. But until then, Laure continued to place down the foundation for her plans.

The masquerade had given her plenty to think about, chief among them what she planned to do with Aria. Laure sees now that she had only been delaying the inevitable. In her delusion, she had wanted the girl to be someone she wasn't, and she's since realized that fate brought Aria to her not as a replacement, but as a vessel. Desmona confirmed that it was possible, even if difficult, and she had told the witch to begin preparing.

But that would take time. Laure has waited three years, she supposed she can wait a few more weeks if she must. She hasn't spoken with either Aria or Morgan since the night of the masquerade, fairly certain that neither of them are particularly happy with her at the moment. If she were capable of feeling regret, she might have tried to reach out to smooth things over, at least with Morgan. But obsession has taken over once more, thinking about how close she is to finally regaining what she has lost.

She leaves Westriver for the first time since the masquerade to hunt, unable to stay cooped up any longer. Laure is restless in a way that she detests, feeling unsettled and not entirely in control. Finding a victim is easy, some sad divorcée who wants to be pampered. Laure pays for their drinks, invites her back to Westriver, and leaves her in the sitting room while she fetches a bottle of wine.

Laure has gotten entirely too used to how quiet the house has become after Kiri's death. Music used to fill their home at all hours of the day, but she rarely has the desire to do so anymore. Instead, she has become familiar with the way the wood creaks in the wind, or the groan of the pipes. She knows what it sounds like when she is the only one in the house, and when she has a visitor.

She also knows what it sounds like when there is an intruder.

The bottle of wine is left forgotten as she speeds down the hallway. Long black hair obscures the attacker's face as it is buried in the human's neck and Laure moves forward without hesitation. One hand wraps around a throat while the other sinks into their chest, fingers wrapping deftly around a heart that no longer beats. Laure's eyes are black as she snarls into their face, unable to fathom that someone would dare to be so bold. In the next moment, she freezes as she stares into the face of her wife, whose eyes and fangs now match her own.

"Oh darling, don't tell me you still haven't taken my name off the title."

Laure is breathless, despite the fact that she has not needed to breathe in over six hundred years. Her knees tremble, threatening to give way, even as her hand is still inside her chest, wrapped around a heart that no longer beats.

"Kiri?"

[intxication]

Swing Set

It was a pleasant warm day with a slight breeze. Mathias could hear waves crashing on a shore and seagulls squawking above him. The swing set he was on faced the ocean as the sun dappled blinding light on the blue water's surface. It was an image right out of his memories. His family would take them to the beach when they were young, but never to swim. There was a tiny park that he and his brother would run around in while his parents watched.

It was one of the few good memories he had from back then.

Living in New York denied him of views like this. On the other side of the country, fall didn't feel too different than summer and the beach was still an option. It was so peaceful that Mathias couldn't think about anything else. He dug his bare feet into the warm sand beneath him as he swayed on the swings. In the first time in a long time, everything inside him was quite. It was a long lost feeling, one he felt before everything went wrong for him.

There was a creaking noise beside him, and when he turned he came face to face with a younger version of himself. He couldn't have been no more than eight. But on closer inspection, he realized it wasn't him. The Cain twins were indistinguishable unless you got really close and noticed the smaller details. Like how Ezekiel had slight freckles on his nose, or how Mathias' smile would pull to the left side of his face. It was even more noticeable now that their ages were different.

You're all grown up. Mathias couldn't see his brother's mouth moving, but he could hear his voice and he could see his eyes on him. Is this what I would have looked like? Mathias nodded his head, "I think so. I think people would have really liked you". The two twins swayed on the swings together as the ocean breeze blow through their hair in silence.

Memories Mathias pushed down came back. The night he had killed his twin didn't go down the way Mathias had believed it did. He thought it was done out of love but his brain made him forget the fear he saw in his brother's eyes. The instant feeling of regret when it was over. How he tried his best to make his brother breathe again to no avail. The way his mind forced him to justify what he did. Zeke wanted to die. He wanted to be free from the pain. Or maybe it was Mathias who wanted that. The act alone broke his mind to what it was today, and all he could ever do was sit back and watch it happen. Violence became the only thing he could do, and his poor parents suffered from it as well. There was a reason why no one would ever be able to know why he did it. The truth had been lost to everyone, including Mathias. He did it simply because he could.

The pain he felt made him double over on the swing and sob. He was a monster and there was nothing that would ever convince him otherwise. All the fighting he did to be something more was for waste and now he was set to serve eternity knowing that he was what everyone believed he was. It was hell.

He felt a small hand on his shoulder, pulling him out of his sorrow. You shouldn't cry Matty. There was nothing either of us could do. Forgiveness was something Mathias had learned from Jude. How some people can experience the worst treatment from others and still forgive them for it. But why? "It should have been me. You deserved to grow up and grow old. I deserved this...I've always deserved this". Now that he remembered things he understood why he was always marching towards death. It was because this life wasn't his to live. He wanted to be free of it all and end up on this swing set.

But you're living for the both of us. The words rang in his ears. You need to continue living for the both of us. Mathias whimpered as his brother spoke to him. I forgave you long ago, so now it's time for you to forgive yourself and live. Yeah, I'm waiting for you here, but there are so many more waiting for you out there.

Thoughts of the people in his life came back to him. They'd miss him, Zeke was right. He could see Lee's face in his mind, how sad and hurt he'd be. How even though they weren't related, it would still feel like someone took his son from him. How he promised his father that he'd always be at his side. He thought about Alex and Ric, and the others Mathias called friends. Would they feel empty like he did? Would they blame themselves for his end? Then he thought of Jude.

Jude.

He had only ever seen light in Mathias, and had only ever wanted to love him. They met at the right time, so there was no way they were only allotted such a brief moment in each other's lives. They need you as much as you need them. You have to let me go now, Matty. You have to let me go.

Mathias' hand in death was great. He had killed so many without any regard, moving them to the afterlife like a ferryman. He embodied it to the point where he stopped knowing who he was before. The deal he made was to continue raining death and in return when it was his time, he'd go without a fight. But here that fight was, bubbling inside him and begging to live. He had to live, if not for himself then for the people in his life. For his brother.

He gave one last look at Zeke, and suddenly they were both eight year olds on the swings. They were the inseparable brothers like they once were. Mathias smiled and reached for his brother's hand. He'd live. They both jumped off the swings and ran around for once last time. Playing like siblings did, enjoying their last moments together the way they should have long ago. Mathias laughed with his brother until his image faded away and the sounds of the beach morphed into a steady mechanical beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

When he opened his eyes there wasn't a beach and instead the ceiling of a hospital. He seized forward as if he was rocketed back into his body. His neck hurt and he still felt light headed as he took in panting wheezing breaths. He lived.

[nightmaretist]

PARTIES: Ingeborg LOCATION: Wicked's Rest TIMING: Current SUMMARY: Inge leaves town

Going away had become a staple in her life from the moment she separated from Hendrik and found her way west, to Amsterdam. In the four decades that had followed, Inge had left place after place, turning her back on cities and countries with increasing ease. But it was never really easy, no matter how lackadaisical she pretended to be. It was especially hard when it didn't feel like much of a choice. 

She'd been considering changing Wicked's Rest for a different city for a while now, admittedly. But the walls were closing in faster than she liked and the bloody bitemarks on her legs were just more proof of that. The amount of hunters who she figured were just lying in wait was too large as well and besides, what was there to do in this town that she could not do elsewhere? The teaching position was so-so, but it ate away from her time spent creating art. There were friends, but she had friends elsewhere too. There was the gap left behind by Debbie, a festering wound even more painful than those left by Wyatt's teeth. 

It was time, the way it was always inevitably time.  

It had been time, back in Antwerp, when Inge had witnessed a hunter chopping off Sanne's head. She had ran into the astral that time, rushing to a plane of existence where no axe could get to her. She had played it over and over again, that image, and only returned to their once-shared appartment to gather her most important belongings before fleeing south, to the crowds of Paris. In that capital she had stayed no longer than three months before there was the hot breath of hunters in her neck, so off to Nice she went. Bordeaux, next. Across the ocean to England and then across a larger ocean, to the Americas. In Mexico she'd enjoyed her time until her neck had been marred with the scar left there by Elena Cortez and she'd fled north again, with few belongings but her life. That was always the most precious thing to cling to. 

The years had continued on, as had the places she'd come and gone. Switzerland, Venice in 2003, and then copious of European capitals as she moved through them as Nika Beinhacker, famed sculpturer. That identity had to be destroyed eventually, though, and soon enough she was herself again. Inge de Jong, returning to the Netherlands, to the hospital and running away from the scene as soon as the funeral of her only daughter was concluded. 

She tried to collect something from each city, but it was not always an option. Sometimes she ran with just the clothes on her back and the few belongings in her bag, and memorabilia were discarded. These days she was clever enough to have a few storage boxes scattered around with some of her things, but even so. Things got lost in the wind. 

This time, though, she was doing it right. Quick, but right. She was gathering her things, ordering a moving van to drive the most precious materials up to New York, where she'd move in with Mona and delve into the vibrant nightlife that Dance Macabre could never claim to imitate. She was trying to say goodbye, though it was never really goodbye — at least not for those who would live as long as she did. It was a good thing, that most of the people she'd learned to value in Wicked's Rest were as undead as her, but there were a few she knew would come to grow old and pass while she remained unchanging. Maybe, then, it was best to leave now, before she grew all the more fond of Anita and her mourning would weigh even heavier than it inevitably would. 

And Inge intended to return periodically, she really did. As a mare it was easy to come and go as one pleased, but she needed her homebase changed. There were things lurking behind corners here. Crocodilian dreamers, hunters whose brothers she'd hurt or who'd deceived her, ghosts that killed indiscriminately. Wicked's Rest would just become a place she visited from time to time, making reappearances in the lives of Anita, Leila and Ariadne as she pleased.  

So her things were packed by the movers. Her appartment was empty. Her studio sold. Her contract at the university ended. She'd seen the people she cared for one last time as an inhabitor of Wicked's Rest and left them her forwarding address. All that was left to do was get in her car and drive off. 

In her car, Inge felt a level of uncertainty that came with saying goodbye. There was also, more dominantly, a feeling of concern. What if someone was to stop her from leaving now? If all her intentions to not die in this godforsaken town were for naught, and she'd still be caught underneath someone's axe or between someone's teeth or even that same sword once more? If she'd still had a functioning heart, it would have been hammering all the way through her drive out of town, but it remained as still as it always was. 

It wasn't until she'd moved past the Maine stateline that she felt comfortable enough to turn up her music and sing along as loud as she could, the next destination on her horizon a mirage full of promise and potential. 

[finalmere]

WHEN: A few days after her attack. WHERE: Meredith and Stevie's apartment. WHO: Meredith. WHAT: Meredith deals with her grief and increasing paranoia.

Paint swirled around on the paper plate Meredith was using as a palette.  She hadn’t done much of anything the past few days, smearing color against canvas had been the only thing keeping her from completely losing her mind.  Work gave her a few extra days off, it seemed being the sole survivor of a murder gave her a bit of leeway.  It was just as well anyway, no part of her was ready to face her coworkers and feel their eyes staring daggers into her back.  No one knew how to talk to her or approach the subject, she wasn’t sure how to either. Wicked’s Rest wasn’t exactly a stranger to odd goings-on, deaths and disappearances were a common occurrence.  But not only had Meredith never been a part of one of the stories that passed from ear to ear, she usually scoffed at them.  She assumed most of the sensational tales that spun around her university were hoaxes and jokes pulled by drunk college kids.  She never believed in Bessie or things that go bump in the night.  Now she didn’t know what to think.

A loud noise came from across the apartment and Meredith’s head snapped up.  Her paintbrush fell to the floor with a clatter and she tried to scramble to her feet and stumbled backwards.  A shaky hand reached for the kitchen knife that hadn’t been far from her side since she got home.  She inched towards Stevie’s bedroom door, her feet careful not to step on any of the creakier floorboards of the cheap Harborside flat.  She wasn’t sure she was ready to face her demons again- but before she had to make up her mind, a small feline came lumbering out the cracked door, loudly meowing up at Meredith likely in protest of the giant knife in her hand.

“Fucking hell,” she groaned, smacking the blade down on the kitchen island as she sighed.  “You’re back.”  In her death Stevie had left behind a cat.  He was a stray that seemed to be drawn to the apartment.  He’d somehow make his way on their fire escape where Stevie began leaving small plates of food.  Eventually she started propping her bedroom window open and he’d come and go as he pleased.  Meredith would start to come home to find them curled up on the couch together.  

“I wasn’t sure I’d see you again,” she told him, a pause lingering in the air.  “She’s not here.”  She couldn’t believe she’d avoided people for days and now she had to have this conversation with a fucking cat.  She felt a pang of guilt in her gut.  Mere had never considered herself much of a cat person, but she felt a sudden kinship to the creature who was likely mourning just as she was.  “Hang on, I think I know where she kept the food.”  She walked around the counter to find the cabinet that was stacked with small cans of cat food.  She cracked one open and dumped it on a plate, her nose scrunching in disgust.  “Here,” she said, placing the plate down in front of him.  “Bon appétit.” Mere sat herself on the floor next to him, her back leaning against the wall of the kitchen island.  Her eyes stared through the window across the room as she listened to the quiet noises of a hungry cat.  “She’s not coming back,” she said softly, and she swore for a moment he stopped to listen.  “But I guess I have nothing else to do with the food so I suppose I can keep putting it out for you.  Until it’s gone.”  Her head fell back, gently hitting the counter behind her.  After a moment, she felt the soft fur of the stray cat rest against her bare leg.  She took a second, then carefully scratched his head.  For the first time since the attack, she let a tear roll down her cheek.

[ohwynne]

TIMING: Current. PARTIES: Wynne & Mealla (NPB) LOCATION: Saol eile SUMMARY: A banshee invites a wandering Wynne over to tea and speaks of their impending sacrifice. It brings up memories. WARNINGS: Hints at abuse (cult), medical blood (vein mentions)

"You know, I have seen many people die. Have you ever? Seen the light leave their eyes, I mean. I have seen it often. Sometimes it’s almost peaceful, like our sisters in our pit who are giving themselves over to a slow death — but most often there’s something sharp in their eyes. Emotion! Oh, I cannot help but wonder what your eyes will portray. Fear or anger? Relief? Peace? I so love it when they look peaceful."

Every day Wynne woke from nightmares. The improvised beds were not comfortable, nor was the stench of death in the air but at the end of the day it was the lack of Ariadne that made them sleep most fitfully. It seemed they had grown too dependent on her ability to siphon away bad dreams and now they were left to play catch up on all the ones they’d evaded over the past months. 

So every day they woke from nightmares.

Most of the time they dreamed of home. The estate on the shore of Moosehead lake would merge with the estate the banshees called home merged with the barn. Irish lilts came from the mouths of their former loved ones. Their parents lived in white cottages and showed their fangs, ready to sink them in their neck. Nora’s head was ripped off clean. Wynne could not stop screaming. Regan rose in the air with inky eyes and an echoing, berating voice. Siors held his ceremonial knife and brought it down. Iwan pleaded, begging them to stay as he was bled out on the altar. 

Every day they woke from nightmares in an attic that seemed smaller every day and so every day Wynne got out. They walked the streets of saol eile hoping that an answer would come to them, that somehow they would find a solution to the situation they had gotten themself into. That they’d have an eureka moment and finally realize how to get Nora to want to leave. The right combination of words and facial expressions, the exact way to make her fold without doing some irreparable damage. 

They were supposed to leave in one day, but it was hard to feel optimistic. Nora was angry. Elias still was a tall man with a beard destined to die. Regan was nowhere to be found. Wynne was desperate.

So they kept walking and they kept hoping for a metaphorical hole in the fence. It was good to scope the perimeter — they had known exactly where and how to run when they’d left home because they knew the place like the back of their hand. It would be good if they knew the way. It would be good —

It would be good if they succeeded. But how much luck was one person allowed? How often was someone allowed to evade fate? Wynne should have died on an altar, but didn’t. Wynne should have died in the barn, but didn’t. Wynne should die here, but didn’t want to. Was want enough? Was determination? Was bravery? They were surrounded by a people that revered death and saw human sacrifice not as a necessary evil but more like a past time. How could it be enough?

But they kept walking anyway. 

That was until someone stopped them. 

Sometimes the banshees talked to them. Wynne regressed into a former version of themself when they did, cowering and gentle and submissive. Most of the banshees looked down on them, pushed them aside after a comment or two. They weren’t nice comments, but they also weren’t particularly mean — they just were aligned with the doctrine, odd and confusing but something Wynne was trying not to think about too much. They weren’t here to investigate the banshees. They were here for the hole in the fence and to find a way to convince people to leave.

But this banshee looked at them with wide eyes that went from inky to a dark brown, taking them in. “You are perfect.” They were ready to stammer something in response. They didn’t want to know how or why they were, nor did they want to argue. The banshee took their face in their hands before they could, though. “I will make you tea.” 

They were guided into the banshee’s house where a kettle whistled merrily and the walls were lined with mounted animals and bones. The banshee sat them down on a chair (Wynne was not sure where the control of their body had gone as they let themself be guided and pushed onto the seat, but they figured it might be best to remain pliable) and ran around to gather the things needed for tea.

It took a short three minutes and then there were two steaming mugs between the pair of them, a scent of a herbal mix filling the room. A small animal bone laid at the bottom of their mug of tea. Wynne knew better than to thank the banshee, so they just nodded.

“I heard — oh, you — yes, I heard about the arrival. We get so few of you that just arrive, that are this — this perfect.” The banshee was speaking in a tone that was euphoric, hands folded around her mug. “You know, I have seen many people die. Have you ever? Seen the light leave their eyes, I mean. I have seen it often. Sometimes it’s almost peaceful, like our sisters in our pit who are giving themselves over to a slow death — but most often there’s something sharp in their eyes. Emotion! Oh, I cannot help but wonder what your eyes will portray. Fear or anger? Relief? Peace? I so love it when they look peaceful. Oh!” She moved her hand and some of the tea sloshed on the table. Wynne noted a moment too late that she was extending it. “I’m Mealla.” 

With a bit of hesitation they shook it. “Alys.” Mealla was blinking at them and they realized that she was waiting for an answer. They didn’t know what their eyes would show when they were going to die. They didn’t want to know because they weren’t going to die.

Once, they had sat like this with the real Alys. She had been one of the elders back at home, one of the people closest to Siors and one of the people that Wynne sometimes got to spend one on one time with. When they did, it was special. It was special when an elder took time out of their day for you, to dedicate their energy to you. Whenever the real Alys had spoken, Wynne had listened with such intent and concentration that it sometimes gave them a headache. 

She had spoken of how their position was an unique gift. That dying in serenity was their gift to the commune. “Wynne,” she’d said as they walked the shores of the lake, “I need you to think about that moment. About every single second of it. You need to paint it in your mind’s eye. To imagine it in detail.” She’d made Wynne hold the jute rope that would tie their hands on that inevitable day, make them feel every fiber with their fingers. One time she’d wrapped the rope around their wrists, not too tight and mostly for show. Just to make them familiar with the sensation. “I need you to try and feel it already so that when it happens, you know how to respond. A prepared person cannot be afraid. You need to be calm. You need to give yourself over to it. You can do that, can’t you?” She’d halted and turn to Wynne then. “For me? For us? I know you can.”

Mealla was still waiting for an answer. “Peaceful,” they said. “I’m ...” Your death means more than all of ours ever will. You are so special. “Honored.” 

The banshee let go of their hand and returned to her tea, seemingly not minding that she’d spilled hot water over her table. “Yes! Ah — you did well to come here. You understand, do you? You — not so short sighted as other humans, thinking death the very sad end.” She mocked a human expression of sadness. It would be comical if Wynne wasn’t so scared. “Honor! Oh,” Mealla reached for Wynne’s face again, “You will bleed so beautifully. We can make it slow so you can feel the honor all the way through. Not many get such a death! Most die in boring ways. Old bones or weak hearts or someone driving a car badly or disease. You will get to feel it!” She pinched the meat of their cheek. “Do you have any preferences on where you are punctured? I hold some sway. I can arrange this for you. I personally enjoy the thigh, it’s so supple yet so very effective. It bleeds beautifully there. And the chest! It’s a canvas for carving. My si—” Mealla forgot herself as she nearly spoke of ancient family traditions not reserved for human ears. “You will make a very beautiful corpse, Alys.”

Wynne blinked. It seemed to go in slow motion, the way their eyelids made the world go smaller until it was nothing but a strip of light and then darkness. Then light again. The banshee was still sitting there. The hand was still on their cheek. They would make a beautiful corpse. They would be bled out. Not even on an altar, this time. Not even to save their community or spare their brother. Just because.

Once, at home, Siors had sat with them. This was even more rare than sitting with Alys. Siors was their patriarch — he was elusive and when he was present, he took center stage. He had a voice you wanted to listen to and when he turned all his attention to you, it felt like you were chosen. And though Wynne knew they were chosen, it was still different when it was just Siors across from them. It was exhilarating to have his presence be purely dedicated to them and so they’d sat upright and with all their emotions carefully wound up and put away. They’d breathed serenely. Alys and Padrig had taught them well.

On that day, Siors had shown them the ceremonial knife. They had seen it before, of course. Every ritualistic sacrifice was done by this knife. It had sunk into the necks of some thirty youths before them and hundreds of animals. It was something from back in Wales. Engraved and sturdy and sharp. Sometimes they’d catch him sharpening it as he watched his community. The day he’d shown them had been about a week before their sacrifice. Every day had been filled with preparation. 

“This isn’t something to flinch at,” he’d said, turning the blade in his hand. “It is part of us.” He hadn’t asked them where they’d like to be cut, slit or punctured. There had been tradition to honor. The demon had liked his sacrifices a certain way. Siors had guided Wynne’s hand to their throat which had bobbed nervously. “Calm yourself.” It was a demand that they had listened to reflexively. He’d pressed their fingers against their pulsing artery. “There.” He made them tilt their head so the artery was more accessible. “Alys has explained it, right? How it needs to be calm. You cannot squirm, Wynne, nor cry. You remember how quiet Jac was? How good? How dutiful?” He had tilted their head towards them, thumb and index finger holding their chin softly. “I believe you can do that too. I’ll be gentle.” He had looked so sure of it that any doubt washed away. “I will be so proud.” They would make a good corpse for him. For all of them. 

And now Wynne was staring at a woman who might have made them feel certain and special and chosen, had they not ran from that duty. Had they not come here with the intention to run again. But a lot had changed since they’d looked at Siors and Alys for guidance. They stared at her and felt her hand on their cheek and did not cry. They could not squirm nor cry — they had to press their feelings into a corner of their stomach and remain calm. They could not panic. If they panicked, they’d all know something was wrong.

“The thighs. I’d prefer that. It’s better than the neck.” Their voice sounded hollow. Their ears were ringing and it wasn’t because of all the screaming they’d heard. It was the overwhelming urge to run. The even more overwhelming urge to live, despite the threats that hung over their head like an ax. But they could not give the banshee an inch of fear or reluctance. To panic was to make them aware something was wrong. Nothing was wrong. They could only know something was wrong when they were gone along with Nora, Elias and Regan. So for now they remained seated. "Anything but the neck."

Mealla smiled. “You are right. the neck lacks creativity.” She pet their cheek. “Drink your tea.” Demonstratively she took a sip of her own. The tiny clavicle she'd dropped in it made music in her mug as it hit its corners. Wynne sipped their own. It was nice. At least the tea was nice. They wanted to drink more nice tea for years and years to come, but in stead Mealla continued to speak, “Do remember to enjoy the last of your days, Alys. It is beautiful that you are so open to death, but you must also remember that there is no death without life. The weather is nice.” It was raining. The weather had been very much misty and dark, as if spring was reluctant to come around. It would be better to die on a grey day — but they didn't want to die yet. Wynne was quiet, unsure of how to form words that weren't no and please and so filled their mouth with more tea. “Enjoy the last of them. Do this for me, and I will ensure it is your thighs we cut first.” 

[ascnsionismx]

Incident # 5

It was almost pathetic how Mathias knew exactly what would happen after the Winter Solstice party. Despite any efforts made, the Higher Ups eventually got wind of what happened and decided to take a corrective approach. Mathias was given one night to spend before shit hit the fan. Even up until the morning, he fought to stay in bed but it wasn't enough. When they came for him, it was a full force. Mathias wanted to laugh. Back then they would send maybe one or two people to collect him, but ever since the incident with Knox and Mr. DeLuc the amount of guards increased. Now Mathias was happy to see more than ten people. They were scared.

He went willingly, despite the desire to make things difficult. The faster Mathias got through the next several days, the better. He was whisked away to a location he still didn't really know, and there sat the Higher Ups. They were like a council, all dressed so sharply with expensive watches on their wrists and smelling of fancy cologne. There were Deathrunner members that were struggling to make ends meets, and then there were these fucks. They didn't care about anyone other than themselves and their goals. "Are you going to make this easy, Mathias?" One of them asked. He thought about it, wondering what his friends would want from him. "When do I ever?" He asked before lashing out. They subdued him after thirty minutes and the loss of several lives. Mathias had set the tone for the coming week.

It was hard, he wouldn't pretend it wasn't. The first few days were the punishment part of it. It started with forced possessions, they made Mathias open himself to unwanted spirits and let them run amok with his mental state. Then when he was weak enough, it turned to beating him down physically. They did all the could to break whatever resolve Mathias had. It was the same dance they always did whenever he fucked up. Once Mathias was too weak to do anything, they shifted to their experimenting and training.

The rest of the days were an unfortunate blur. Mathias felt the effects on his body and mind. He wasn't sure how long he was put through it, and he didn't even know what day it was. But one morning they came for him, putting a bag over his head, and hauling him into a vehicle. Mathias strayed in an out of consciousness during their travels, hearing a voice talk about rounding up people and sending a message. Then he passed out completely.

When Mathias came to again, he was being carried over someone's shoulder like a sack of rice. He recognized the floor though, it was the church. Then he felt presences that were familiar. One undead, one familiar, a shifter, and another necromancer. This is what they meant by rounding them up. Every action the Higher Ups took were intentional. The physical damage on Mathias was more to warn others rather than being a reminder for the necromancer. Because in the end, the Higher Ups did recognize that what happened at the party wasn't anyone's fault. They just wanted to get a leash on all of them.

Mathias was dropped to the floor, thudding to the ground with a grunt. His body ached and his mind swirled in a fog. He could feel the worry and anger coming from his inner circle. The desire to pounce and attack. The Higher Ups must have felt it too. "You all have a choice; revenge or help him. I assure you, you will only get one choice. You cannot pick both". It was a challenge and a threat. There was no way his friends could kill them all without dying themselves, and this wasn't even all of them. Then Mathias would be alone.

He heard his friends stirring, struggling with the choices. But then he felt hands at his side, comforting and familiar. They soothed over the bruises, and the black veins that were creeping up his neck. They ran through his dark curls that now had streaks of grey throughout it. Whatever the Higher Ups did accelerated the process. The bags under his eyes were dark and Mathias could barely keep his eyes open. He felt bad. He had spent so long telling them not to worry, that he'd be okay. It was evident that even he wasn't completely safe. But he was safe now. He was where he needed to be.

Mathias closed his eyes and finally allowed himself to slip into unconsciousness as he heard the footsteps of his tormentors finally walking away.

@sanguisxferox @frgdsecrts @undead-jude @kazimir-voronovitch

[razorsharpteeth]

TIMING: A few years prior. PARTIES: Samir & Pat LOCATION: Jacksonville, FL SUMMARY: The newspaper at Samir's work bears headlines of two murdered tourists. He's normal about it. CONTENT WARNINGS: Mentions of murder.

FLORIDA RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN: TWO TOURISTS FOUND DEAD.

JACKSONVILLE — The bodies of two honeymooners were found on the shore this morning by a local fisherman. “Looked like someone had gone to town on them. This freak’s gotta go,” he said, before going on to describe the ripped states of their bodies poking out of the sand. Local authorities have no answers yet.

Bex and Dawn were a newly married couple exploring the Keys on their honeymoon. The pair went missing the night before their planned departure a week ago and had not been seen since. Their bodies were found on the shore after winds blew the sand they’d been buried under away …

Samir shut the newspaper with force, hands clammy as he tried to neatly fold it and return it to its rightful place in the breakroom. Nausea took a hold of him as he shoved his chair back, a tremor spreading from his hands to his stomach to his lips. 

It had happened again. It had happened in the Keys, it had happened in West Palm Beach, it would happen if he went further north. What would they call him then? Would he still be the Florida Ripper when he ditched his state? Clammy hands ran through his hair, then over his face. He needed something cool, so turned to the drink machine and used a few of his last dollars to buy a can of coke.

Pressing that against his temple, he wondered for the umpteenth time if his DNA would match that of the wolf inside. He thought of the deaths that hadn’t been written off as murders, but rather as animal attacks. He wondered what was more accurate. Murder by man or animal.

The door creaked open, one of his colleagues slipping in the break room. “Alright?” Pat saluted, offering Samir a grin before seeing his slack and sweaty face. He looked like a melting wax figure, desperately pressing a cool tin can against his head. “Shit. Like, are you alright?”

A nod. “Yeah, the fuck’s telling you that I’m not?” Samir’s eyes flashed up, anxiety twisting into something more manageable. Anger was ever-present and poorly suppressed, especially in a moment of apparent weakness. He bristled. “It’s just hot out, yeah? Bitch-ass humidity. Can’t catch a break.” 

He tried not to look at the newspaper, which appeared to have not been touched. The headline was screaming at him from his periphery, but he kept his eyes trained on Pat for a moment, as if challenging him to say something. To give him an excuse to go off. What did it matter, anyway? He’d have to get out of town soon enough, find another place to do the same shitty work. Soon enough, he’d never see Pat or think of him again.

The other just held up his hands. “Relax, man.” Samir watched him sit down at the round table, fingers reaching for the paper. His stomach lurched. A drop of sweat ran down his back and he found himself straightening, fingers pressing in the can but not strong enough to do any damage. The monster inside would break it.

“Well, hey, gotta go. Break’s over. See you ‘round.” Exiting the breakroom before Pat could comment on Florida’s own local serial killer, Samir found himself outside in the humid, blaring sun. Steps were taken with haste, though none of it alleviated the tension that made his chest grow tighter, tighter, tighter. Not even throwing the can against a wall and watching it explode was enough to leash the rage inside.

[freddybeezy]

Sol-Angel 🖤✨🦀

21’ - 23’

Shot By: Rafael Rios, Kobe Wagstaff & Courtney Yates

[fengforhire]

The new year isn't as much of a holiday for the Fengs as it is for other people. Their bigger celebration generally comes later, following the lunar calendar. For Jac, it's seemingly just another day, dinner with her family where they go around talking about half-hearted resolutions for the months to come. But it's a family dinner that Jac is obligated to make an appearance at, even if now, she is regretting showing up at all.

She's on her longboard, faster than her normally cautious self tends to ride, just so she can feel like she is getting away. There's still anger and frustration bubbling in her stomach and Jac knows that if she stops, she will scream, so she doesn't. Pushing faster and harder to get anywhere else.

She had been getting ready to go back to the apartment when her mother stopped her.

"Jacqueline."

Oh good, the full name only ever comes out when she has something important to say. A part of her wants to continue pulling on her boots and walk out the door without acknowledgment, but even she isn't bold enough for that. Instead, she straightens up and turns toward her mother, eyes fixed on a point over her shoulder. She can see the older woman looking her up and down, taking in the way her wardrobe has darkened, the lack of glasses on her face. She can't read the expression on her face, but there's a flicker of something across her face before it smooths away into impassive blankness.

They stare at each other for a long moment, and Jac realizes for the first time that she's only half an inch shorter than her mom. It lights something in her and she doesn't slouch down, another departure from her usual behavior.

"How is your roommate?"

Jac resists the urge to roll her eyes. Small talk? Really? "She's fine." An understatement at the moment but it's not like her mother is actually asking about Lara. "We get along."

"Good good... I wanted to ask you about something."

She was naive, thinking that maybe her mother wanted to talk about her magic, talk about how Jac had actually proven herself the night that they'd gone on their foolhardy rescue attempt on Gravers' Isle. Iris was gone, but Jenny was home, and still her mother had yet to say anything about it to her.

"I think it's time for you to come home. We need to start preparing to announce the engagement."

The engagement. The stupid fucking engagement. Jac had almost forgotten about that ridiculous plan to marry her off so she could maybe have a kid that inherited her magic. Her vision gets blurry as tears form, and she doesn't see the small dip in the pavement before she is sent flying off her longboard and across the asphalt. Rather than getting up, Jac stays sprawled on the ground and lets out a scream. It's louder than any sound she ever recalls making in her life, and her throat feels scratchy as it fades away into the empty night air.

Finally, she sits up and inspects the blood slowly oozing from a few small scrapes on her palms. She hates it, the evidence of how fragile she is. Despite the magic that is in those crimson droplets, she feels more useless than ever. But this is nothing new, and a renewed determination sets in her bones. Just like before, she would seek out her own knowledge without anyone's help. She didn't need anyone's permission.

[bexstevie]

Name: steven park Date of Birth: july 17th, 2003 Height: 166cm

Preferred Company: n/a Performing Resume: 

received second place in a surfing competition in his sophomore year 

Inspirations: michael jackson, yoojung, yuna, tony hawk, tony alva, kelly slater, stephanie gilmore, goeun, kyle hanagami, my dad? Additional Talents/Skills: 

english fluency

skateboarding

surfing

cpr + first aid training

very adaptable, go with the flow

optimism & good energy

Why are you auditioning for NEXT GEN?

on christmas, this nice lady gave me a card to contact for auditions. and i didn’t go. stuff came up, i got sick, and i honestly thought she was just meeting quota. but she was nice, and i felt bad, so now i’m gonna try here! i never really thought about being an idol before. i like dancing, and i like making choreography. it’s the new year so...figured i’d try something new! i don’t have too much faith i’ll get in, but you never know until you try, right? 

Audition Tape: ( here )

[bountyhaunter]

TIMING: Current. LOCATION: WR general hospital SUMMARY: Daiyu tries to text her siblings while in the hospital, but decides against it. CONTENT WARNINGS: General hospital descriptions.

Daiyu shared a room with an elderly man called Robert, who she'd started calling Robbie the moment she'd gained enough strength to be a little shit. This had been surprisingly fast, according to all nurses present, who thought her annoying ways a little odd, given the traumatic injuries marring her body. It was impressive to a frustrating degree how quickly the patient used her damage voice box to make bad jokes and come up with bad nicknames, though Daiyu knew very little else to do. Robbie had to be playfully bullied. She had to do something besides lay in the relative silence of the hospital.

Of course, she could invite people. Robbie had visitors, who thought her both pitiful and annoying. It was a fair assessment, considering her bandages and solitude contrasted with her big mouth and lame quips. Daiyu wanted to call out to them in a way that was less provocative, to ask them what it was like to feel the urge to visit hospitalized visitors. To ask them to visit her too. She wanted one of those stupid helium balloons. But she did not ask Robbie's family, nor her own, nor the strange combination of acquaintances she'd made in town.

In stead, she kept her phone battery charged and went online. Snarked to some strangers, tried to cover the fall out of the Keep unsuccessfully, asked for help with her dog. Daiyu did not ask anyone to come, though. It was easier to keep it all online. To speak through text, rather than reveal her raspy voice and her leathery skin. To chat about eating cheeseburgers as if she wasn't nauseated by the medication and the smell of burning flesh that had not yet left her nose. It was easy to show bravado behind that silly profile picture while typing words, even if her arm hurt when she did so.

She heard that Rafael had been given a little wake at the bar and wished she could have been there. Mark Stanson was impossible to keep away from the hospital, but she figured it was only because he wanted to keep her patronage after all that had occurred, and not because he cared.

To be cared for was a notion beyond her understanding. The nurses did a good job of it, but they were paid to. The people who knew about her predicament might want to, but Daiyu kepther them. And her family …

There were a few moments where she opened her text messages with her sister and typed fervently until her broken arm was sore. Inna, she had typed, Do you ever think they should get hunter insurance? Like, I think that's totally something you should get into. Just charge other hunters a fuck ton so in the case they end up in hospital for some reason, they don't have to pay a fuck ton. But ofc most of us are too stubborn to go to hospital, so you'd turn an impressive profit. Been thinking about it lots but I don't feel like becoming an insurance mogul. But like, you can go for it. Take my idea and just give me 10% or something, lol. Oh, right, I was thinking about this because I am in the hospital. In Wicked's Rest, if you feel like coming East. JK, stay where you are. You smell too bad, they'd never let you in. But yeah, got into one of those situations where a first aid box and some staples ain't enough. Sucks ass, man. It's expensive here. And the food's shit, not that I feel like eating it. The guy next to me has people coming by every day. They use a Google calendar and everything to make sure he doesn't go a day without visitors. Would you come if I ask? Not that I'd ask, because again, you smell too bad. It'd be a health risk and I don't want you to embarrass yourself like that. But would you ever do that? A fucking Google calendar? Maybe I would, once you get old and sicky (in like three yrs). Anyway. Some fucking lavagirl jumped me. I didn't even start it! I know you won't believe that, but this time I'm so fr. I was just going to my car and she was killing another hunter who was also just getting to his car? Crazy shit. Anyway. They had to do skin grafts. NASTY! It's fine, though. My scars will look more bad ass than any of yours. You'd cry if you had these kinda burn scars, too. Ummm whatever. I'm fine, though. Just waiting for the right opportunity to make my escape. Don't forget my hunter insurance idea, it's a total get rich quick scheme. How's shit at home? Dad's still not croaked it? Damn huh, I thought

The message had been deleted before she could send it. She'd blocked her sister's number to resist the urge to text her in a moment of weakness and had unblocked her a few days later, just in case of emergency.

Vissarion had been met with a wall of unsent text as well, of course. Vis, you won't believe it. Lavagirl is real. She's probably a fae and also an absolute cunt. I tried to fight her and I lost but if you had tried to fight her, you would have totally died. I'm so bored though. Most boring part of being a hunter, am I right? Waiting for your fucking bones and skin to heal. Anyway, just thought I'd message you. Only because I'm bored to tears. Do you want to come hang out? I want to throw jello at you or whatever. You'd totally hate this town, it's quaint and cute and filled to the brim with weird shit. Have you spoken to dad? Lol who am I kidding you're probably sitting next to him right now and so I'm not going to send this because you'd tattle about me being hurt and that is NOT happening. You suck.

Vissa had received a Blingee gif in stead of the above message, which he left on read and didn't respond to, as was par of the course. Daiyu's finger had hovered over the call button, remembering a long time ago where Vissa had crouched across from her when she'd fallen and messed up her knees. She remembered, too, how he'd carried her from a den of werewolves similarly to how Mark had taken her from that parking lot. She never reached out more besides that one gif.

Her dad was not spared any impulse. She also refused to open her messages with uncle Nik, if only because she knew she'd reach out and that he'd come. That couldn't be.

The solitude was a self imposed consequence of getting hurt. It was how it was meant to be. You only showed people your teeth, never your bleeding gums. She'd put her scars on proud display, proof of having survived where Rafael hadn't, but she would never show the forming of said scars. The period before, where she watched Robbie receive another sister and a drawing from a young niece with a hollowness in her chest, where she longed in the quiet dark for Nugget's snout against her hand, where she heard the whirring and beeping of the hospital and had to wait until she could present herself again as brave and resilient, out in the real world outside that white room where she was alone, again.