sɪɴɢ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴅs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴇᴡ

( writing things )

2011-12-13T03:12:18Z

“The best thing about dying is that you don’t have to face the grief of your loved ones afterwards. While others face the invariable tragedy of your passing, you succumb to darkness and become nothing while tears are shed, over and over, for the loss of your kind, sweet soul or your easy, disarming smile. When you die, there is no more responsibility, no need to please or cater to others. No one expects anything more from you. You become an object of sadness, a name and a memory that people promise to treasure forever. Death makes everything easier. At least for the lucky bastard who dies.”

It isn’t quite the start I expected. Smoke languidly swirls overhead, clogging the air in a heavy, claustrophobic haze. Against the sumptuous oak panelling and the rich scarlet paint it looks strangely at home, slowly sweeping around the expansive establishment as if following the sleepy lull of the piano in the background. I wonder if he asked me here in hopes that I would be distracted by my surroundings, but I’m far too taken in by the bitterness in his voice. I knew that death would always be a prominent topic within our conversation, but I didn’t quite think that that was where we’d begin.

“Death is a terrible thing.” Slim fingers fiddle with a cigarette, rolling it between his fingers, back and forth. “Most days I wish when I’d died I could have just stayed dead, but it’s one of those things you never expect to desire.” A thin smile with no trace of amusement. “Live forever. Such an enticing prospect on the surface, don’t you think?”

“Not really,” I answer, a little uncertainly, though quite honestly. He raises his brows. “You’ll just see history repeat itself, each time in slightly different ways, and chances are you’ll probably be alone.”

The last thing I suspect is his laugh. It would be a harsh and raucous one, I think, were it not for the fact that he subdues it, he pushes it down into the very depths of his throat, like he undoubtedly has been doing so for years. Brief and low. That’s all it is.

“That’s the problem with you modern kids,” he drawls, softly. “Everything has become so transparent and clinical. There’s no romanticism. At your age all I ever wanted was to be that way, forever, to live the same mistakes over and over again without having to care, run wild and carefree until the very earth itself turns to ash.” Every so often, I hear his age, despite his outward youth. It intertwines with his accent, his precise, enunciated English that seems too perfect to be genuine, and for a moment, the face of a man no older than thirty has a voice belonging to someone in his eighties. It’s always there, though, in his eyes. Every century is gathered there, in the cool blue irises. I can’t help finding his eyes a little frightening. His gaze upon me is not constant, but when our eyes meet I feel that something is gripping me from the inside. “Tell me again, why was it you wanted to speak with me?”

“You’re something of a legend,” I answer, with words I’ve been practicing in front of a mirror for days now. “Word gets around about you, and it looks like everyone else is too afraid to delve into any more detail.”

“How very brave of you.” He’s mocking me. It’s obvious, but I pay no attention to it. He is abrasive, fussy with his friends and often cold even to those he cares for. That’s what everyone else told me, and I did well to listen to them. “But I don’t believe that it’s just a passing curiosity.” His eyes, again. Looking straight at me. “I can tell, you know. You have Caroline’s hair, her pretty features, but you have his eyes.” Unexpected. Again. Another word to add to any description of César Augustin. Suddenly it explains his stare, it explains my discomfort beneath it. There’s bite in his words as he goes on. “I’m not an idiot, my dear.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you were,” I say, a little faintly, though it’s almost a lie. I didn’t think he would realise. “I didn’t know if you’d take to me very well.”

“I may not be a great friend of your mother’s, but you are half of your father’s blood,” he answers, tersely, raising his cigarette to his lips irritably. “That alone puts you in better books than most of the idiots I meet on a daily basis.”

“My mum would murder me if she knew I was here.” Quickly said, a gentle plea for secrecy. I suddenly feel like a hopeless schoolgirl all over again, sneaking around behind mummy’s back and doing all those things she warned me not to do, but there’s nothing dangerous about this. Of course, some might disagree, but I like to think I know better than that. I watch him carefully as I await an response.

“Dear god,” he breathes, “I have no intention of ever seeing your mother again, not even giving her a passing glance in the street, let alone tattling about your clandestine little visit. Your life and what you do with it is none of my business and none of my control.”

I can’t help feeling relieved to hear this, if not a little saddened as well. Part of me always hoped that perhaps I would find some desire for forgiveness, but I’m not entirely surprised that I haven’t. He hardly seems like the forgiving type, after all. I relax a little in my seat, lacing my fingers together in my lap instead of keeping my hands firmly planted on my knees, leaning back a little. It’s a very fine armchair, upright whilst simultaneously being the sort that one just sinks into without a thought. Everything about this place is fine, from the furnishings to the people drifting around the expansive room. It's very much like a strange dream, except full of expensive things, men and women alike with fragile and faraway faces.

i look outside, the sky's painting the floor

2011-11-08T04:11:48Z

There's a slightly groggy quality to the way that Jerry battles the key into the lock, taking a moment to pinch the bridge of his nose and rub his eyes, stifling a yawn even though there's no one to see him in the empty corridor. Old habits still die hard, even when you're feeling a little worse for wear following a long trans-atlantic flight, something he's never be able to get used to, regardless of the fact that he's never doubted how worthwhile each trip has been. He smiles to himself, though, when the key finally finds where it's meant to go; it's a symbol of something fitting perfectly. Despite the fact that he's used it many times over the past few months, after it appeared in his post with no note, no explanation, no nothing, just a little red ribbon tied neatly around it, there's still something special about the act of opening this door - Teagan's door. The ribbon was all he had needed. A little corny, of course, but then she had learned from the best. She told him on a fairly regular basis that he'd practically written the book on corny.

Inside, all he immediately registers is a slight chill. After the relative warmth of the corridor, it catches him off guard a little. Blinking dumbly for a moment, Jerry allows the door to fall quietly shut behind him, abandoning his suitcase in the hall as he tentatively moves along the perfect wood floors. The atmosphere's all wrong. Whenever he makes his own way to Teagan's apartment from the airport, in the interests of convenience or surprise, he's welcomed inside either by the constant, soft stream of music in the background, or the light floral scent of her favourite perfume, always lingering in the hall, when she isn't home.

"Teagan?"

His voice, gentle and maybe a little anxious, bemused, seems to bounce off the walls. If it were anyone else, maybe he would have taken it as a sign that they're not home, but it's Teagan. Jerry knows her, he knows her very well, he knows her ins and outs, he recognises the way she purses her lips when she's holding something back, the strain in her smile whenever she fakes it and even the little quirk of her brow she loves to give him when they're in public to tell him exactly what she's thinking.

"Teagan," he repeats her name as if he expects it to help, "are you in here? You said you'd be here when I arrived- not that you need to tell me everything you're planning, of course, but you know what I mean." It'd be silly to do this under normal circumstances, but when your girlfriend has the power of invisibility, it's always better to be sure. Inching slowly into the living room, he does a careful and attentive sweep of the entire room, brushing his hand against the panel on the wall, hoping that'll brighten the lights - Teagan's preference for impossible and complicated electrical systems has always escaped Jerry a little - and much to his relief, it does just that. The room is empty. Everything's neat and tidy as usual, that one space Teagan always keeps relentlessly clean to make up for clothes being dropped around every centimetre of floorspace of the bedroom every morning and for the disasterous experimentation area (occasionally known as the kitchen). She always says it's the sole piece of evidence that she isn't completely hopeless, and every time she does, Jerry makes sure to actively contest this fact.

Crossing the room, he gently pushes open the bedroom door, in case a particularly trying day at the office has already sent her stumbling to bed, but the room is empty. To his endless surprise, the room is also as immaculate as the living room. Not even a pillow is out of place. He spends a long moment frowning at the room, wondering if maybe he has genuinely stumbled into the wrong apartment by some crazy chance, one with the exact same lock as Teagan's, but he recognises the bedsheets, he can see the framed photograph of the two of them at the Order's - absolutely hectic and absurd - international Christmas party last year on the bedside table. It's the right place.

"I can't stop thinking about this." Jerry glances over his shoulder, as if in a faint daze, following the sound of Teagan's voice as it suddenly bursts into the unsettling quiet. She's standing in the furthest corner of the living room, where the massive windows meet the wall, her arms folded and eyes staring at nothing in particular. "I'm so scared. Is that really stupid?" She laughs, slightly mirthlessly. "Of course it's stupid. I can't believe I'm actually doubting this." Except she probably can, and it's obvious in the way she teeters backwards only moments later. "We've planned it all out, we can't go wrong, not if we play it right, not if fate decides that we definitely belong together - which we do - but all I can think about is the sickening idea that maybe we won't play it right and that fate has other ideas for us." She smiles, and there, Jerry can see it, that tightness in the corners of her lips, the stiff line of disbelief that belies just much she doesn't care for smiling right now. "I wish the Order could trust us."

"I don't think it's about trust, Teagan." It's the first contribution Jerry makes, soothing and quiet as he moves towards her. "Not just about trust, at least."

"What could we do?" A petulant note of annoyance creeps into her voice. "None of us could exactly go shouting about it in the street. Who'd believe some random fool mouthing off about a secret superpowered organisation running everything behind the scenes? The Order is more than capable of hiding itself from someone who'll be branded as a little bit weird by the rest of the world. It's such- it's such a stupid procedure!" Of course that's what she's talking about. Jerry had known all along, though he wishes he'd known a little in advance, specifically. "I know we're doing this together because... because we need to move on, because we can't keep jumping between continents all the time like it's nothing, because we reached that whole tipping point between work and us, but- God, you think they'd give us a bit of a break considering the reason why we're doing this!" There's a little tremor of emotion in her voice, and it's enough to encourage Jerry to close the distance between them.

His hands touch her elbow, her waist, before taking her hand and pushing a strand of hair away from her face, even though she keeps her eyes away from his. Jerry knows that he doesn't need to answer because Teagan already knows the answers to these questions. The Order can't take any risks. If it - if they were meant to be, then they would be once again. They had to relinquish the memories of being in the Order, they had to accept the "cover" memories, and that was it. No more Order in their lives. Teagan had made plenty of biting remarks on the truth of that sentence in the past month or so, after they had made the decision. Everything was so complicated. Flights here, flights there, the rare occasion where a teleporter would help with a quick jump across the pond, months spent relying on Skype and painful phonebills because of conflicting schedules and weeks where Teagan has to disappear to unspecified or secret locations and Jerry wishes he could see whatever and whenever just so that he can know she's alright. Maybe they both knew it from the start, that this day would come. This relationship was never going to be short lived.

"What if I decide this little hint to spontaneously get up and go somewhere isn't worth the trouble?" Teagan's cheeks are wet with tears and she's stopped trying to keep her voice level. "I want to say I'd never forgive myself, but I wouldn't even know that I'd need to. I'd be missing such a vital, wonderful part of my life and I'd never have the slightest suspicion." Jerry leans a little closer, their foreheads bump together. "It's pretty sappy, but I don't really want to imagine what it'd be without you."

"Then maybe you should stop talking about it?"

"Don't tell me you haven't thought about it too."

His silence is answer enough. Teagan sniffs helplessly and practically collapses into his arms, burying her face in his shoulder as he wraps his arms around her, protectively, reassuringly. Everything she has voiced has already gone through his mind a thousand times before, but to see it etched on her face, it brings everything back, and suddenly it's so much worse than before. Now they're those thoughts that have been making Teagan cry and sit on her own, invisible, in her apartment.

"We've got the week." He's trying to reassure himself as much as he's trying to reassure her now. "We'll go over everything again, we'll make sure it works. It will work, Teagan, I swear." Somewhat admirably, he manages to inject more confidence into his words than he generally feels. Teagan's hands dig into his shirt, at his chest, on his shoulder, before finally she lifts her head, and much to Jerry's relief, she's smiling for real this time. It's a small, gently curve, but it's familiar, and it warms him more than anything else could right now.

"Let me tell you about this stupid thing I did a while back." Jerry quirks his brow curiously, and does not interrupt. "Against my better judgement, I very foolishly fell head over heels in love with this really adorable loser, yeah? This loser was not only, as I've mentioned, an absolute loser, but he also happened to be Canadian, and now I'm determined to follow him just about anywhere. Ridiculous, isn't it?"

"Completely. What were you thinking?"

"I wasn't, obviously."

Their laughter melts together into one sound, quiet and tired, hopeful. Jerry kisses Teagan on the forehead, and takes her hand. She squeezes his a little, and allows him to tug her along towards her room. Time to sleep and calm down, before the morning, when they can cement everything, make sure everything's going to work. As he turns away, her face falls again, just for a moment, and her eyes shut tightly.

Let this happen again. Let his goofy smiles find me again, and let him love me again like he does now. Whatever happens and however it happens, just let it be this, in the end. That's all I want.

aaaand again

2011-11-07T04:19:50Z

s m o k e&m i r r o r s
v2.

Oh please, don't get me started on magic. Magic's the most overrated thing in this entire bloody world. Aren't that many people who'd disagree with me on that, by my reckoning, but there's still all this mystery and allure attached to the whole thing, and it's all bullshit. Every word of it. Don't whisper about it in empty corridors or in quiet corners of the pub, it makes you look like a first class moron, alright? Not worth the time, the trouble or the effort when all you get out of it are a couple of fancy tricks that might save your life whilst taking a swing at it with a huge metaphorical cricket bat at the exact same time. I'm a total hypocrite for telling you all this, 'cause like hell I'm going to give it up, but it's not like I'm telling you it's all great and fantastic, you know? More than I can say for some bastards. It's a drug, and it's bad. Magic's for that cocky little wanker who thinks he's hard 'cause he'll pretend get himself some books and some powders and tell everything he could be to go fuck itself with a cactus. If you're wondering, I did just describe myself to a T, good on you for not asking. Getting obscured by the smoke isn't an achievement. I'm a proper Grade A addict, me, and if I could go back and do it all again, I'd do it all differently, but I can't, so fuck that. My rivers have been cried and all that, let's move on.

No one knows where the hell magic came from. Every historian will give you ten million different theories and show you ten million more boring as you can believe books about it to try and sell his idea to you, but none of 'em are right, I'll bet. Who cares? It's not the point. No one needs to know when it popped up so long as they know when it fucked up. Or started to, anyway, because at first it wasn't half bad. 1965, time for change and progress and all that flowery stuff, so the government thinks, fuck it, let's try and make use of that crazy mumbo-jumbo. They started off good, there were restrictions and stuff in place. You can only have so many people practicing, only so many spells and incantations they can cast. It was a huge help to security services and stuff, you know? The police loved it. Made their jobs easier and helped people, really helped people. It wasn't some shitty scheme that pretended to help, there was a lot of good done by magic. The problem was that people started relaxing. Clearly the whole magic thing wasn't too bad, right? Yeah, it was fantastic, a few addicts appeared here and there, but they were rehabilitated, it was fine.

Smart people could see the collapse coming before the restrictions and limitations were even properly lifted. As soon as you start trusting something that's dangerous, it's going to grin a toothy little grin and fuck you over in a heartbeat. That's what magic did to us. Around 1979 magic becomes a bit more legal and the downhill tumble starts, and then it snowballs. Addiction soars, a huge black market starts circulating, and there you have it. The inevitable disaster. Magic wasn't made to be harnessed or tamed, it was made to be left alone.

It's not unique. It's not something that's inherited, it can be learned, and it's not rocket science either. Probably the worst thing about magic is how easy it can be. The simplest little spells can involve as little as muttering a couple of words and rubbing powdered quartz between your fingers, and there's the first step to a new skill and a new way of ruining your life. TO BE CONTINUED SHUT UP.
+c a s tYou lot can call me Knox. Don't need any first names or anything like that, you'll probably forget all about me by next week, and that's a-okay with me, yeah? Like I said, I'm a bit of a massive fuck up, but it wasn't always doom and gloom for me. Had a good job, had an amazing girlfriend, the best little sister in the world, I couldn't complain, not for a second. Then someone told me I'd be good with magic. Everyone said it was a bad plan considering the state of affairs, but that's damn flattering, isn't it? Half the imbeciles who were paid and employed to use magic were the most cack-handed fools I'd ever seen in my life, and I was a natural. No point in dancing around it, I was fucking good. Way too good. It was so tempting, right, to just make shit up, do my own thing, make standard procedure so much smoother and so efficient. Look at me, some scrappy London brat now a proper magic user. It was easy hiding the addiction up until the ban. After that, I had to disappear, you understand? Couldn't hang around when they were forcing people into that god-awful rehabilitation scheme. I didn't need to be even more fucked up than I already was.

Now this here's my little sister, Hilary. She's the kind of person everyone should aspire to be like, you hear? I'm not saying this 'cause I'm her brother - well, not entirely at least - but because she's genuinely ace. We lost our mum and dad when we were young, yeah, I was sixteen and she was eleven, but we looked out for each other. Strongest little kid you ever saw, I swear to you. She was only little, but she dealt with it. She got on with everything, she didn't let it break her down. Clever little kid, I always knew she'd outshine me in every way imaginable, but hey, I'm not bitter. I'm the proudest, yeah? I love that girl, and that's why I haven't seen her for about three years now. She doesn't need to be mixed up with the likes of me, which'd be fine and dandy if she didn't keep looking for me. Smart but stubborn as fuck. Completely against magic on all levels, thank god, but determined to get me home. I've been officially dead for almost a year and a half now, but she refuses to believe it. Which means she knows me too well. Got a bit of a mouth though, like me, and that's probably why she's going to land herself in trouble soon, which'll probably be a ruse to get me out of hiding 'cause she knows there's no way I'd let her get hurt. Stupid thing is it'll definitely work.

Oh dear god, this old coot. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you an esteemed former acquaintance of mine, North Blanchard. This grumpy bugger taught and developed all these fancy tricks of mine back in the magic heyday and all that. He's impatient as hell, and probably not the happiest guy in the world - last I heard, he'd somehow managed to stick it out through rehabilitation, though I'll bet you anything he fucking loathed it. Got a bit of a gammy leg, which used to be alright when he could sort it out with magic, but now the ban's in place... he's a stickler for the rules, this bloke, though I reckon he'd still use a bit of magic when he can. He was good with his magic, he was, and to be honest I can't believe he's sticking with the ban. Once when Hilary still tried sending me letters, she said she visited Blanchy every so often. Apparently he thinks I'm long gone, which is fine by me, but I don't think Hilary's pleased by the lack of faith. Also, never lets go of his bloody pipe, and that thing stank something fierce, Jesus.

Moving on, we have a someone who's definitely not on my To Meet list (to be fair it's an entirely empty list, though). Detective Inspector Christopher Saxon, anti-magic squad. They talk about this guy sometimes, in the gossip-y little circles of the grimy, reckless magic underworld - his sort of words, I'm assuming - but most of it is sensationalist bullshit on how he crushed some guy's arm with his bare hands. I've read files on this guy. Used to work in serious organised crime, divorced from a magic addict wife, tough as nails and even worse than my sister when it comes to condemning magic. Didn't even let them use magic to help him when he was temporarily paralysed from waist down, insisted on slogging through it through 100% traditional physio. I'm a cocky shit, I know that, but hell I don't want to run into this guy on my own, there'd be nothing left of me afterwards. He's one of them blokes with a strong sense of right and wrong, you know? Has a son floating around out there too, given up right after he was born. That's hearsay on the streets, but I know it's true.

Speaking of trouble, this guy is the definition. If ever a bastard has roamed the earth needed a good fucking punch to the face, it's him. Mr. Smooth, Slinky Fanatic himself, known as "Benedict" and nothing else. Think of the most blindly devoted twat in the world, and you'll get him. Hey, I'm no saint, we've established this repeatedly, but he's a on another level completely. I don't promote what I do, yeah? I know it's wrong and I know it's my own stupid fault, but this guy is so far gone that he doesn't believe in anything but the supremacy of magic. My theory is he found the perfect permanent fix, which of course fucked him up entirely, and now he goes around looking for idiots like me who're knee deep in addiction only to encourage it. What kind of fucking lunatic does that? He's got himself a bunch of followers now, it's always floating around in the news now that the government's starting the magic crackdown. Messes around with people's heads and gives them this really charming ultimatum: join him, or get yourself killed. You'd be surprised how many people don't believe him and end up found in a gutter sometime in the following week. This guy is beyond trouble, way beyond it.

sugaredsocks @ 2011-11-04T15:16:00

2011-11-04T15:16:44Z

s m o k e&m i r r o r s
Everyone knows that magic exists. It has done for decades, maybe a couple of centuries now, every historian will tell you a different story, show you a different book, this piece of evidence and that one too. No one knows for certain, but they all have their theories. It doesn't matter, either way, because everyone also knows that magic is dangerous. Magic is a drug. Magic takes the strongest soul and overpowers it until that soul wants nothing more than to keep feeling that thrum of energy and impossibility under their fingertips, their skin, on their lips. Addiction catches most, grabs them by the throat and squeezes.

The problem was always a paradox, because magic solved the problems. Lives were saved, tragedies averted, but in the end a life will probably fizzle out anyway, another tragedy will take place. Magic addiction is hard to fight, and its consequences are often dear. It's not a unique talent that some are bestowed with, it's something to be learned, like maths and chemistry. There is an art to it that some master with more skill, but with time anyone could wrap their head around even the simplest of incantations. Some can even twist and mould it into something that becomes their own; the right powders, the right incantation, the right tilt of a mirror can make something out of nothing. The more it becomes your own, the deeper it sinks into you. The more elaborate the spell, the better the fix.

Always studied but rarely practiced, there was no shift to involve magic in society until 1965. The United Kingdom made the first move, followed by most central European States, tentatively allowing magic to be integrated with security and police services in the interests of benefiting the people. Rehabilitation was developed and improved as time went on, with restrictions on magic use put in place to try and avoid addiction. For about a decade, it seemed to be working. Countries relaxed, lifted restrictions, trying to make magic even more efficient.

( still feel like we're fixing to die )

2011-10-22T21:30:47Z

( AU babbles and writans )

2011-09-30T01:57:27Z

Every so often, she feels a distinct sense of emptiness in London. It's ridiculous, of course, considering that the city seems to be alive at all hours of the day and night alike, but she can't help the feeling sometimes. It creeps up on her after an evening out with friends, returning to silent, still apartment, characterised by the light, woody scent of furniture that has never lost its newness and never become her own, by the soft scuff of her shoes and the clink of keys on the sideboard. It catches her in the mornings, in the lull between night and dawn, when she wakes without warning and stares for what always seems like an eternity through the gap in her curtains, watching the sky slowly lighten in the distance, delicate and precise.

It is a morning like this when Teagan rises, feet slipping across a cold, varnished wood floor as she slinks out of her room.

The apartment is very open and spacious, styled in a very modern way that suits her tastes, with minimal colours and a crisp, professional feel. Is it possible to balance those tastes with something more... domestic? She has lived in this apartment for nearly five years now and yet it still feels like she's moving in anew every time she walks in. There's absolutely nothing wrong with it. It has her mark, her touch, and yet at the same time it is very detached. It doesn't feel like a home, it feels temporary. Sometimes Teagan asks herself if she has always felt this way, or if it has been a more recent development. A brief glance at a picture frame situated on her bookshelf indicates that the latter is entirely likely.

Pausing by the sofa, she turns her attention to what was effectively the reason she got herself out of bed at 6:56AM on a Sunday in the first place: a navy sweater, quite big and a little old, draped across the back of the sofa. She considers it one of her best souvenirs. The fabric is not quite soft under her fingertips, more coarse from age and multiple washes, but as she pulls it over her head, drowning her figure somewhat in the process, she still thinks it to be one of the most comfortable things she has ever worn. No print, missing labels, no certainty as to where it came from.

Of course, she's terribly biased. It still has Jerry's lingering scent, and it has memories of chilly evenings where Teagan would rifle around his drawers just to find something that was suitably comfy for a bit of lounging. She would always find this sweater, and eventually, it simply found its way into her suitcase and it came back to England with her. All the maple syrup in the world couldn't beat this sweater as her favourite little bit of Canada. It immediately warms her, wrapping her up tight with sentimentality. A few months ago, she probably would have laughed at the idea of growing so attached to a piece of clothing, but now it seemed like an inevitable, natural process.

As she wanders across the living room, headed towards the full length mirrors she has always adored, her gaze briefly rests upon the telephone. There is a slight temptation to just grab it and dial, but a five hour time difference is a bit awkward when your local time is seven in the morning. She couldn't exactly blame Jerry if he was asleep by now, could she? He undoubtedly would be, at two in the morning. She tells herself she can call later. It can wait.

After a little while spent standing, Teagan's legs begin to feel sleepy again and she drops herself down onto the floor, not caring that it almost as cold as stone, crossing her legs and pulling the sleeves of the sweater over her hands.

In the November darkness, she sits surrounded by a flurry of memories and questions. The memories are welcome, but fleeting, access to her doubts. Realisation that this apartment only ever felt like a home when it had other people in it, when it had Jerry's familiar accent bouncing off the walls, and those were hardly commonplace. They are a rare and lovely treasure, just as her occasional visits to him are too. Or so she hopes, at the very least.

Teagan mournfully wonders why she never makes life easy for herself. It's all very well being in a relationship, but for God's sake, she just had to go ahead and tumble head over heels for a Canadian, of all people. She wonders, sometimes, if it would be any different if they spent all their time together. What if they didn't get along as well if they woke up facing each other every morning? The longest they'd ever spent together at once was two weeks, and it was hardly representative of an actual relationship. Teagan also wonders, on occasion, why she ends up so damn analytical about it. So far, every e-mail, every phone call, every flight has been worth it. Every return and departure has stung a little.

Does Jerry feel the same sense of absence? Teagan can't deny that from time to time, she worries a little about his power. When the future is somewhat more accessible to you than to most others, perhaps it softens the blow of parting, when you perhaps have some assurance of an impending return? She has never really asked him about it, and she's not sure if she has the courage to. She tries not to think about it, if only because she knows that eventually, it will cease to be a part of him. Eventually, they will both have to leave or retire from their respective positions - but with this comes the inevitability of your memories being altered so that you lose a significant part of yourself in the interest of national security. It's something of a vicious cycle. In order to feasibly spend more time together - God forbid, to move entirely to one specific location - it would also mean having to start again. In order to continue what they have, it means being separated by several borders and over three thousand miles.

Don't think about it, she tells herself. In two weeks, you will be at Heathrow with your heart practically leaping into your throat with excitement, and for several days you'll forget that you even thought about these things, because he'll be here and the technicalities won't matter when he smiles at you or creases his brow in that fondly exasperated way because you're being embarrassing again.

If anyone was to, for whatever reason, walk into Teagan's apartment in that very moment, they would have been under the impression that no one was home. Clean and tidy, as always, with a bed that was slept in but very much abandoned. Unwittingly, for the two and a half hours she will spend sitting by the window, Teagan will be quite invisible the entire time, where emotions and abilities bleed into one mixture of mild sadness and an unintentional manifesation of exactly how she feels.

sugaredsocks @ 2011-09-22T20:25:00

2011-09-22T19:25:23Z

leave a blank comment or set a scene,
request a character in the subject line or
leave it to chance and whims :)

( music, it's my substitute for love )

2011-09-12T16:11:56Z

s o u n d t r a c k s
adam & teagan

all i'm asking is to be a l i v e

001. damaged john lunn
instrumental.

002. auld lang syne mairi campbell & david francis
we twa hae run about the braes, and pu'd the gowans fine, but we've wander'd mony a weary fit, sin auld lang syne. for auld lang syne, my jo, for auld lang syne, we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, for auld lang syne. we twa hae paidl'd i' the burn, frae morning sun till dine, but the seas between us braid hae roar'd, sin auld lang syne.

003. c'est la mort the civil wars
swan dive down eleven stories high, hold your breath until you see the light. you can sink to the bottom of the sea, just don't go without me. go get lost, where no one can be found. drunk so long and deep until you drown, say your goodbyes, but darlin' if you please, don't go without me. ( femesi )

004. red elbow
come are you are, sweetheart, come as you are. you know you've got nothing to prove, i'll put you to bed, you can let it all go. you've been playing too rough lately. you burn too bright, you live too fast, this can't go on too long. you're a tragedy starting to happen. just as you are, perfect, just as you are. i'll give you the time you deserve. don't make those promises, don't tell me again. that dust is gonna settle your nerves. ( femesi )

005. you've got a friend mcfly
ain't it good to know that you've got a friend? people can be so cold; they'll hurt you, and desert you, and take your soul if you let them, oh yeah, but don't you let them. you just call out my name, and you know, wherever i am, i'll come running to see you again. winter, spring, summer or fall, all you gotta do is call, lord i'll be there, yes i will, you've got a friend. ( danny )

D O W N L O A D

001. monster charlotte martin
am i its mother, its brother and its son? am i a product of everything it's done? am i a woman 'cause i'm scared to be a man? i'm reaching deep inside with everything i am. one by one the voices make their rounds, i can't believe the monster i have hidden in my mouth, it has to scream.

002. heaven emeli sandé
will you recognise me, when i'm stealing from the poor? you're not gonna like me, i'm nothing like before. will you recognise me, when i lose another friend? will you learn to leave me, or give me one more try again? oh heaven, oh heaven, i wait with good intentions, but the day it always last too long... then i'm gone.

003. little beast elbow
the whole town's slippin' down a hill, like the spine of something dead. slide in shadow, cobble-creep, burn your mark and leave. (...) and fear is not respect, correct, but it's the best you're gonna get. sharp blow to the bridge of the nose, sharp blow and anything goes.

004. momentum vienna teng
always i am mistaken; i look for love, i find a stone. of all the seasons, winter befriends me. i come to you in friendship, and hold my breath against the snow. what are you thinking as i gaze into you? forgive me the confusion, forgive me as i realise my thoughts betray. you are the answer, cry and smile the same. ( jeremy )

005. human jon mclaughlin
all these ups and downs, they trip up our good intentions - nobody said this was an easy ride. after all, we're only human, always fighting what we're feeling, hurting instead of healing. after all, we're only human. is there any other reason why we stay, instead of leaving?

D O W N L O A D

sugaredsocks @ 2011-09-11T22:58:00

2011-09-11T21:58:06Z

John "Oxford" Buchanan for Bete Noire

IGNORE ME OR ELSE I WILL KILL YOU ( yes noodles i am talking to you )

2011-09-09T23:34:56Z

the ice inside your soul

Anselm. Small, isolated and surrounded by miles upon miles of seemingly endless sea, the island is a often treated as an inaccessible and mythical place, somewhere that keeps itself separate from the rest of the world without falling behind, always a close step behind the ever constant shifts and changes that humanity faces. The inhabitants rarely leave; those who do either flee home or never return. It is not forbidden for the people of Anselm to leave their home island, as many rumours would assume. Private and secretive by nature, even amongst themselves, those who do choose to travel away from Anselm rarely share knowledge of their history or folklore, which is said to be rich, though no one on the "mainland", as the Anselm people refer to the rest of the world, despite its mixture of separate landmasses and islands, can be entirely sure. The history of Anselm is not documented in any book or archive readily available beyond the island.

As it is located in some of the furthest northern reaches, just within the boundaries of land considered safe for human life, Anselm is a place that breeds sturdy and resilient individuals who spend at least three quarters of their year facing snowfall and bitter cold, though the summer months - fleeting and short - are said to be wonderfully warm.

pictures ideas and madness

2011-09-09T02:23:13Z

what the water and the ice gave us,
castles on the water and lands hidden from plain sight

( writing ) adam and femesi

2011-09-08T02:38:16Z

Occasionally - only occasionally - he allows himself to think about his situation in a little more thoroughly, not immediately locking away his opinions and emotions somewhere where she can't find them or reach them. Is this worth it? Are the warm body and gentle touch reasons enough to risk hours of intensified pain and punishment? As the external scars become even more numerous, does the contrast soothe those that are deeper, more painful, internal? Sometimes he's too caught up in the act of receiving affection to really care or think about the consequences. The sensations are so new and so lovely that in the heat of the moment, he thinks, briefly, that of course it's worth it, it always will be, but the glowing effects die away. The colour that floods his cheeks, the spark of enthusiasm, the crooked, genuine upwards curve of a rare smile, it never lasts. Caught up in hands and skin that don't make his stomach turn, there is always the trace of the boy he could have been: cheeky, good tempered, effortlessly friendly and charmingly awkward. It fades away. It always fades away. Her image comes swimming back into his mind, her petulant girlish frowns and furious boyish glares, asking how dare he defy her, how dare he let someone else touch him. Raking nails down his skin, pulling at his hair, bruising him, hurting him until he's whimpering for forgiveness.

Adam hates thinking about it. He wouldn't think about it, he supposes, if he didn't have a beautiful, strange young man appearing around him, holding him, asking permission before soft, feather-like kisses. His stomach twists in a whole different way at the slightest memory. Watching his parents fight each other tooth and nail over the slightest of things as a boy was already enough to make Adam dubious about romance, about physical relationships, and though sometimes he had wished to prove himself wrong - to fall in love, to find someone he could cherish and appreciate and who would do the same for him - it all seems to be childhood naivety, now.

He never tells Femesi that he doesn't believe in love anymore. He hates it when that gorgeous mouth is turned down, upset, even when sometimes he can't stop the miserable and cynical things that slip from his mouth. He hates himself for hating that. It implies attachment. He shouldn't be attached.

In the end, it all boils down to the fact that Adam has never really been treated tenderly by another individual. That's what he tells himself, at least. That's why he wants Femesi to be there, to open his arms and invite Adam in. He reasons that it can't be love, because it doesn't exist and because it's silly, isn't it? Their meetings have been few and scattered... but every meeting still sends a thrill up Adam's spine and no matter how much he mutters and moans, he could never say no to Femesi's touch, perhaps because for the first time in his life, he doesn't actually want to. It's quite terrible, to be honest, that the attention he would always reject is the the one that he'll never be able to avoid. The attention he has spent all this time craving comes with a question - may I? Yes, Adam thinks, intoxicated on some distant dream of a life he is certain he can't have. Always, always, you may.

It is always followed by regret, and then by a little resentment. Femesi is almost like some kind of drug to Adam; he can never have enough, but he's certain that in the end too much will lead to something terrible, something awful. When they aren't together, Adam has a momentary withdrawal, suddenly exposed to something so wonderful that he just wants a little bit more of it, to revel in this secret, newfound intimacy. But Femesi will leave. People always leave, because they don't belong, because they have more important things to do, because they are bored. His mother left because she had more important things than her family, some obscure calling to fulfill. His father left because he died, but that's still leaving, isn't it? That man, Danny, he has his own Adam, someone happy and nice, someone who is far more worth his time than some miserable shell of a frightened boy trapped in an adult body. The boys before her, they got bored too. They had to leave him behind, discouraged by his timidty and uncertainty, never giving him enough time to get comfortable and become a different person. Femesi will surely leave as well, Adam knows it, he's so certain of it. If he resists enough, maybe he'll become impatient, maybe he'll grow tired, maybe he'll give up. It's just hurrying up the inevitable.

And then there's her. She is a category all of her own, because when she finally gets bored, then that's the end of the road, isn't it? She won't just give him a shove and tell him to get lost. She'll devour him, make sure that no one else could ever have her little pet. Just because she's no longer interested in him, that doesn't mean another someone could take him, does it? He spends most of his days waiting for it. He waits for his songs to stop delighting her, for his listless warbling to become a tedious activity. He used to love singing so much. It would be a little moment to escape and think about someone else's adventures and misfortunes in such a beautiful way. When was the last time he sang with feeling? When did he last sing for something that wasn't empty? He can't remember. It has been far too long.

The thought of her ever finding Femesi makes him sick. There have been enough close calls, with Danny, with others, events that have mercifully ended without violence, and others that haven't. As far as Adam knows, Femesi is merely an unusually beautiful and odd boy, with an interesting way of speaking and open to displaying his emotions as clear as daylight, he's sure that Femesi would crumble beneath her vicious touch. He doesn't want to be responsible for that kind of pain. If he is to suffer inevitable loss, then he would rather be abandoned than watch her sink teeth into skin.

When he finds his cheeks wet with tears again, he rubs them away impatiently, practically scratching at his own skin. Weakness. Endless weakness and useless emotion. Tears will get him nowhere. Tears do not soften her. Tears inspire pity. He wishes he never met Femesi. He wishes he didn't think about him, that he had never been given the chance to experience what he was missing, because it makes every other day that much harder to live through.

Yet Adam knows that he would give everything to Femesi if asked, and he feels pathetic for it. His reasoning that it's not because of deeper emotions, that it's just a selfish physical desire to be wanted and treated nicely, it makes the self-control (or lack of it) a sign of weakness. He can't resist. It's so needy and desperate, it's a little disgusting in its own way to Adam. But those hands, touching his shoulders, his chest, his hips, those lips dragging across his cheek and his jaw, the curve of their bodies together... he just doesn't know how to reject it. What he wouldn't give to fall asleep curled up in those arms, try to chase the dark circles away with something that actually might prove restful. He spends so much time in the darkness nowadays, staring at nothing - which is what his life is, the way he sees it - and so little time sleeping. He wants to be kissed and touched and appreciated, and he wants sleep.

It's too much to ask for. It always has been.

sugaredsocks @ 2011-09-06T01:25:00

2011-09-06T00:25:43Z

leave a blank comment or set a scene,
request a character in the subject line
or leave it to chance and whims :)

sugaredsocks @ 2011-09-04T17:57:00

2011-09-04T16:58:47Z

leave a blank comment or set a scene,
request a teagan in the subject line or
leave it to chance and whims :)

notes on a scandal

2011-09-03T13:43:54Z

ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ɴᴏᴛᴇs ; ʙɪʟʟ ʜᴀʏᴅᴏɴ

from Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy by John le Carré
first published in 1974 by Hodder & Stoughton
edition used published in 2011 by Sceptre
The Circus has already suffered a bad defeat, and the result was two bullets in a man's back. But a bigger threat still exists. And the legendary George Smiley is recruited to root out a high-level mole of thirty years' standing - though to find him means spying on the spies.

ǫᴜᴏᴛᴇs

'Known a a lot of Bills. They've all been good 'uns.'
pg. 8, Jim Prideaux to Bill Roach

He imagined also that, like himself, Jim had had a great attachment that had failed him, and which he longed to replace. But here Bill Roach's speculations met a dead end: he had no idea how adults loved each other.
pg. 18

... Roach appointed himself Jim's guardian; a regent guardian, was how he thought of the appointment; a stand-in replacing Jim's departed friend, whoever that friend might be.
pg. 19

'Don't flirt, George. I'm an old trooper, you forget. You and control were just like that.' Briefly the plump hands made a token marriage. 'That's why you were thrown out, don't deceive me, that's why Bill Haydon got your job. That's why he's Percy Alleline's cup bearer and you're not.'
pg. 24, Roddy Martindale to George Smiley

'It was the Czech scandal that put the final nail into Control's coffin, I suppose. That poor fellow who was shot in the back and got himself into the newpapers, the one who was so thick with Bill Haydon always, so we hear.'
pg. 25, Roddy Martindale to George Smiley

'Dashing Bill Haydon, our latter-day Lawrence of Arabia, bless him; there you are, it's Bill, your old rival.' Martindale's tongue poked out its head again, reconnoitred and withdrew, leaving a thin smile like a trail. 'I'm told that you and Bill shared everything once upon a time,' he said. 'Still he never was orthodox, was he? Genius never is.'
pg. 26, Roddy Martindale to George Smiley

'Of course St Antony's is redbrick, it makes no difference there's a little bit of sandstone in the same street, even if he [Roy Bland] was your protégé. I expect he's Bill Haydon's now - don't tip him, it's my party, not yours. Father to them all Bill is, always was. Draws them like bees. Well, he has the glamour, hasn't he, not like some of us. Star quality I call it, one of the few. I'm told the women literally bow down before him, if that's what women do.'
pg. 27, Roddy Martindale to George Smiley

They [Scalphunters] had been formed by Control on Bill Haydon's suggestion in the pioneer days of the cold war, when murder and kidnapping and crash blackmail were common currency, and their first commandant was Haydon's nominee ... they weren't gradual and they weren't gentle either, thus reflecting Haydon's temperament rather than Control's.
pg. 35

'Well today everything operational is under one hat. It's called London Station. Regions are out, laterlism is in. Bill Haydon's Commander London Station, Roy Bland's his number two, Toby Esterhase runs between them like a poodle. They're a service within a service. They share their own secrets and don't mix with the proles. It makes us more secure.'
pg. 35-36, Peter Guillam to George Smiley

character ideas

2011-08-31T13:09:39Z

( monsters! )

the fatherdelvesar a monster trying to hunt down his children. thorough, vicious and merciless, he wants to find the hybrids he fathered that he could deem worthy of his mentorship, take them under his wing, fashion them into the monster they could be. he's found quite a few of them already. those that are too good, too weak? he plans to kill them, weed out the imperfection children he made.

his children

the best of friends
charmingly named one, two, three and four at the moment (respectively), these four have been the best of friends for as long as they can remember. three and four are siblings, who've always had a strong bond since the death of their parents, after which they were taken in by one's family. one's parents were known as eccentrics, running a halfway house that allowed all manner of individuals temporary or long-term board at their large family home - even one wasn't their biological son, but the first child they adopted, raised as their son. two is a hybrid who popped up and became firm friends with the other three, AND THIS SOUNDS SUPER BORING FUCK THE WRITEUPS

( writing )

2011-08-29T21:14:57Z

innocence is seen as weakness
Age, decay, rust. These are things that she recognises, things she identifies, even if she cannot name them. There are many things she sees that she can’t name, small, quick creatures with too many legs that she knows move in the same ways depending on their shapes. Erratic but slick, those are the largest and the scariest, whilst the small, the wiry ones, they move with more purpose, sometimes slower, sometimes a little faster when they sense danger. She never asks what they are. Gripping a small shoe, the eight year old girl simply takes a deep breath and hopes that she doesn’t miss.

The house is a labyrinth of ruin. Some doors to empty, damp rooms barely hang off their hinges, and the bathroom is a sickly sight, grey tiles that might once have been white streaked with muddy red, exposed pipes visible everywhere, like some unspoken threat. As she grows older, she notices these things more. She has never known anything else, but she is becoming aware of the structure’s slow decomposition, aware of its frightening sounds and the way everything screeches and moans when you touch or step upon it. Was it always like this? She peeks at the corridor in the overcast morning half-light, nervous, dubious. Why is it that I’m afraid now? That’s what she’s asking herself. Something stirs in her stomach, foreign and uncomfortable. She retreats from the doorway, and crawls back underneath her covers, where she feels, for at least a little while, protected.

Agitation has gripped her, and it does not let go. She does not stir for a little while, but soon enough she sits once again, a small, pale hand pushing at the flimsy curtains of her window. Staring past the murky glass, her attentive blue eyes flick from each corner of the garden, to the shrubbery, to the old shed surrounded by nettles and mud. How is it still standing? It looks like it ought to fall apart where it stands. Sometimes when the wind is strong and it howls all around the house, she can hear it as it sways, old wood and metal shrieking, resisting, begging. She stays by the window for a long while, her forehead creased in a sad, resigned frown, like she expects something terrible to suddenly emerge from the undergrowth, from the distant trees, and begin to wreak unspeakable havoc. Is it normal for such a young girl to imagine such things? Maybe not, but you’d be hard pressed to find normality these days. It is not even a luxury, merely a dream.

Something creaks, deep within the house. Seized by sudden terror, the little girl dashes back to her bed, her tiny footsteps so light that they don’t even whisper across the wood. Buried underneath stiff sheets, she listens carefully, frightfully, waiting for something. That something that will cause chaos and turn everything upside down.

It never arrives.

When she hears faint birdsong somewhere in the distance, beyond the glass, beyond the walls, that is when the fear begins to subside. It is a simple pleasure, a natural reaction. As the natural world becomes more apparent to the little girl, the imagined terrors surrender to reality, and they leave her be. Finally, she relaxes. Her sleepy eyes, already marked by fatigue, flicker open and shut, a wave of exhaustion washing over her as her young mind finally lets go of consciousness, allows her to be at rest for a few more hours.

While she sleeps, creatures with too many legs stir in different corners of her room, skittering across old, rotting wood and hiding amongst the remains. In time she’ll learn that they are called spiders, and she will maintain a wary regard of them, she will pay them less attention, eventually. In time she’ll learn a great many things, things that will sicken and tire her, things that will delight her, but perhaps the sense of dread she felt this gloomy morning is not at all unnatural, not for her.

After all, she already feels it, churning and sluggish. Wrong. It’s a wrong feeling, she knows that much.

When she wakes again to her mother’s warm touch, she will forget all about the early morning. She will forget the cold fear swelling in her throat as she looked upon the distant woodland as thought it was a gate to some hellish world, each tree an iron bar in her imagination, the gates of a failing prison. It will all become some distant, hazy memory, part of a dream that she will discard from her tiny little thoughts and her tiny little mind. The premonition will be gone. A brief figment of the imagination. It will never soften the truth.

( part one ) the road beneath my feet

2011-08-26T18:14:51Z

Danger will follow me, now, everywhere I go.
It’s one of those days when nostalgia seems to tug at her from every direction. For a moment she thinks that some familiar scent of England tickles her nose, but just as she breathes it in, it disappears again, teasing, making fun of her. She purses her lips, a little annoyed. Irrationally so, of course, since feeling that way over some phantom sensation is pointless, it changes absolutely nothing. Stopping, she rearranges her scarf and pushes her hair back, away from her face, before shoving her hands into her pockets and simply staring forward. How long has she been walking along this road? She can’t tell if it’s been hours or days. Day and night seem to melt into one mass of time when you have no real direction or purpose. How long has it been since she last opened her mouth, or spoke to another human being? Definitely days. She clears her throat, a little self-consciously, tempted to speak just for the sake of hearing her own voice, just for a moment, but even when alone she feels silly.

Littered with auburn and gold autumn leaves, the road looks almost like a postcard. There’s a lonely beauty to it, with thick trees framing either side of the tarmac, the implication that this place sees little life, little humanity, despite the fact that it is a road, a pathway to somewhere, some place that might be one person’s salvation and another’s hell.

It briefly occurs to Teagan that she has no idea where she is. The last city she’d seen was New York, and even that was from a distance. Well, it doesn’t matter, either way.

As she resumes her walking, she tries not to think about it. It’s still some kind of strange mystery of her own mind, why she chose to leave England. She doesn’t know what made her get on that plane with no way of trusting the pilot, the other passengers, what made her take this leap of faith. Almost seven years had passed since then, and it’s now that regret starts creeping in around the edges of her mind, seeping into her heart. The United States haven’t been any more fulfilling than England. Sure, there are a lot more roads here, more ground to cover, but the people are the same. They’re scared, they trust no one, their prejudices remain. Sometimes these things even seem to be magnified.

Teagan no longer takes to maintaining her identity a secret for as long as possible. She’s honest and upfront if asked, and as a result she has had to negotiate her own freedom on more than a few of occasions. It never seems to do her nerves any good, despite the repeated practice; each time she still feels fear clutch at her heart even when she has to calmly explain that if people don’t want her here, she’ll go. In such circumstances as theirs, it’s not a simple matter of persuasion. Some people are quite happy to grab a rifle and point it right at her as soon as they find out what she is. It’s a matter of a life and death, sometimes of responsibility too. If you let a hybrid go free, you’re condemning someone else out there to death. You might see it as your duty to rid the world of one more blight, one more danger.

Sometimes the outcome of these encounters isn’t very pretty. There are those who are prepared to settle matters quietly, privately, either to give you some vicious warning or try to manage a very low key execution, and then there are those who prefer to make it into a public holiday and get the whole town involved. Teagan is, on occasion, glad that human tactics and violence don’t really leave any lasting marks. She wonders if she’d have any skin left, otherwise, or if she would have even survived. So far the external marks are few, including those on her cheek and others that she prefers not to think about, though the internal scars are many. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, they say. It leaves you with a hundred miserable memories and interweaving patterns of someone else’s disgust. Still, it’s not enough to completely disillusion her. She has made her peace with certain things, even if she’s still battling others.

The afternoon wears on, and the light begins to fade, darkness slipping into the sky behind her, chasing after the remains of day. Night no longer scares her the way it used to, particularly not here. It’s easier to find long expanses of land where you won’t meet a single other soul. Humans and monsters and devils and slaves alike are scattered amongst all the states, hidden in cities, in mountains, in endless forests and behind their picket fences, with a shotgun by the door, a knife under the pillow, whatever means they choose to protect themselves. Despite her general lack of concern regarding the oncoming sea of navy and stars, Teagan walks a little faster, with more conviction. She wouldn’t mind finding somewhere to spend the night, preferably somewhere with a roof - and if she’s lucky, hot water.

Two hours later, her hopes are answered. She meets the first road sign she has seen in a long, long while, and sure enough, New York is in the direction she just came from. A few more miles, and she will hit a small town.

The town is indeed small, and very quiet. Teagan assumes that the population has dwindled considerably from what it was before, as it has in many places. She lingers on the road for a little, though, right on the town’s threshold, breathing in the earthy, overgrown scent of the place. No recent traces of anything that seems particularly dangerous, not even another hybrids. A lack of activity, though, can be just as suspicious as an abundance. There is a human scent, somewhere very nearby, but she can’t see who it belongs to.

“Take another step and I’ll shoot ya, lady.” It’s a somewhat rough voice, aged and hardened by years of cigarettes, Teagan assumes, but it is unmistakeably a woman’s. Peering into the darkness, with her torch still hanging limply by her side, Teagan obligingly awaits further instruction. “Friend or foe?”

“Friend,” Teagan answers firmly, standing her ground, “though you might have other ideas. I’m a hybrid.” There’s a little pause, where she readies herself to leap if she hears anything that might suggest someone’s about to shoot her. “If you don’t want me around, then just say, and I’ll go. I’d be very grateful if you weren’t to jump the gun, so to speak.”

“I ain’t jumping any guns, lady, just doing my job.”

“Admirably. I couldn’t properly pinpoint your location until you started talking.”

“Yeah, well, this town ain’t one of the safest in the state without me being pretty damn good.” The noise of boots scuffing the ground follows the woman’s words, and a body becomes apparent in the shadows. “Ya from England or something? Got the accent and all that.”

“I am.”

“Then ain’t ya that chick we’ve been hearing about? The hybrid that hunts monsters? I heard she was foreign or British or somethin’.” Teagan is surprised. She had no idea that her reputation preceded her at all, especially when it wasn’t much of a reputation at all. There had been three occasions during the past year and a half where she had faced a monster; none of them were pleasant, they still made her feel a little sick, and each time she had had an audience. Before now, no one had ever seen Teagan kill, she had always made sure that incidents were as isolated as can be. She had had no choice, of course. She knew that devils could kill monsters by somehow “trapping” them within their own bodies - not something she had ever witnessed, more a rumour she had heard many times over - and she knew that monsters could be eaten. It had been the only option.

“The word “hunt” is an exaggeration, I’m afraid, but yes, I guess so.”

“That sure sounds convincing.” Finally visible, Teagan gets a good look at the woman, who could have easily shot her by down, chased her away, gotten rid of her. She’s short, a little plump, perhaps in her late thirties or early forties, with searching eyes and a wary frown. Under her gaze, Teagan honestly feels a hit small and humble, despite being a good head and a bit taller than her (an unexpected growth spurt aged nineteen had suddenly sent Teagan from 5’4” to 5’9” in an alarmingly short amount of time). “Ya got a good face. I’ll take a chance on ya this time, but if ya start causing us trouble, there’ll be hell to pay, got it?”

“Thank you.” Teagan can’t help smiling with bright relief, exhaling a little, softly. “I promise I won’t be any trouble, really.”

“Yeah, yeah, promises’re just words, lady. Ya got a name?”

“Teagan.” It's clear that this is knowledge the woman already possesses, but it never hurts to be totally sure.

“Right. Keep walkin’ down this street, ya’ll find a big house with a white circle on the door. Knock three times, and tell ‘em Lacey sent ya. Don’t miss out on the whole hybrid business, y‘hear? I’m feeling ya ain’t about to keep it a secret, since ya told me, but just to be sure. Grant’ll give ya a room.”

With another word of thanks, Teagan and the woman - she must be called Lacey, if that’s the name she’s supposed to give on the door - part ways. The town has a somewhat ghostly quality to it, the streets are just so empty and silent. The only sounds that Teagan hears are leaves being scattered across the pavements by the light, chilly wind. It seems like a typical, normal sort of American town. The pavements are broad, and so are the roads, with a feeling of more space and less squishing, as was often the case in more rural areas of England. No wiggling little roads with sweeping curves that pop out of nowhere, practically no shops that look like they’ve simply been squeezed into what little space remained between other buildings. It’s a lot more practical. It has its allure, certainly, but walking down the street only serves to fill Teagan with another stabbing notion of homesickness.

She finds the house that Lacey told her about easily; it is by far the largest along the street, and she figures it must have once been some kind of bed and breakfast type place. There are now signs around it, and the windows are all shuttered, undoubtedly locked from the inside. It’s a veritable fort, complete with cabin-like charm.

She knocks three times, as instructed, loudly, and then she waits. It’s a little while before she hears heavy, slow footsteps approach, accompanying a gruff, tired sounding voice.

“Who’s there?”

“My name’s Teagan. Lacey sent me-” she pauses. “-I’m a hybrid.”

There’s a long moment of silence on the other side of the door, before Teagan finally hears the deadbolt lock slide open, along with a variety of others, and even something that sounds like a chain. She takes a careful step back, waiting patiently.

The man in the doorway watches her very critically, silently, silvery eyebrows creased in a deep, thoughtful frown. Teagan meets his eyes, not trying to stare him down, but trying to show that she has nothing to hide. Running a hand through his thick, greying hair, he shrugs and steps aside, waving her inside. Unconcerned by his scrutiny, she nods to him in thanks, glad to be met with a rush of warmth after the outside cold. She was never too good with the cold, even if she’s grown better at dealing with it over the years. The front hall is broad, with some kind of grand charm to it. The walls have wood panelling, and the ceiling is high, arching proudly overhead. A set of wide stairs sits in the middle of the hall, fanning out at the bottom, with curled banisters that must have once been sleek looking, but now look worn, a little scratched and worse for wear. Teagan takes a moment to admire the building. It has the sort of look she has only ever heard of and glimpse in the occasional book or photograph. There’s a piece of history preserved in his building, a memory from a time that people are starting to forget.

“So what’s a gal like you doing in a wasteland like this, huh?” There’s a stiff quality to the man’s voice - Grant, Teagan supposes - and it’s clear that he isn’t one hundred percent happy about her presence.

“I don’t really have anywhere else to be,” she answers, quite truthfully. For the past seven years the longest she ever stayed in one place was six months. The rest of the time has been spent travelling, meeting people, brief friendships that have ended in loss, pain or sometimes in amicable separations. When the man seems to have no other response for her, she adds, a little tentatively, “Look, I know my word isn’t much to go on, but I’m not dangerous. Not by conventional standards, at least.”

“I know you’re not dangerous. Lacey wouldn’t’ve given you her name if she thought you were up to something, and she’s got a nose for these kinds of things.” An interesting choice of words, and Teagan tries not to smile at it a little. “Y’know. Intuition. She came up here from somewhere down south a few years back, and since then things’ve been running far smoother for us.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Her tone is genuine, and so is the smile that joins her words. It’s always lovely, warming to hear that places outside of cities are still thriving, in some way. The man seems a little caught off guard by her sudden softness, giving her a bit of a weird look as he walks past, towards the desk by the stairs. Teagan follows him, silently, her eyes still wandering about the building.

“How long d’you plan sticking around here?”

“A few days, maybe? I haven’t really stopped anywhere properly for a week now, I could do with a break. If that’s alright, of course. I can leave in the morning, if that’s preferable.”

“Aw, jeez.” Thumping the desk lightly, the man exhales heavily. “How am I supposed to be suspicious of you when you’re being all nice? If it’s an act, you’re doing pretty damn well.” Teagan can’t help but laugh a little, protesting her innocence. “Feel free to stay here as long as you need, girl. We’ve got plenty of rooms to spare, and this area’s quiet. Not enough people around, probably, to get much trouble. The name’s Grant, by the way.” Curious, ageing eyes glint in the low light. "Wouldn’t happen to be that hybrid people’ve been talking about from time to time?” He casts a curious eye over her, leaning an elbow on his desk. “A pretty name like that won’t be easily forgotten, y’know.”

“The one with an apparent trend for hunting monsters?” She smiles, a little wryly. She can smell a human scent nearby somewhere, but pays no attention to it. She’s feeling far more relaxed, now that she’s inside and breaking past some barriers. It’s always a relief to find those who’re a little more willing to accept her and her condition, like a bright ray of light upon her mood and her weariness. “It’s not entirely true, I’ll be the first to admit that. I’ve had my moments, and I have certainly… disposed of a few monsters, but I’m not sure if I want to make a habit of it. I don’t know if I have it in me.”

“Hell, girl, if you’ve taken down a few monsters, that’s still more than most people can say.” Once again, Teagan laughs a little, gently and modestly, because in truth it isn’t really much of a laughing matter. “Here, take a key. This room’s down at the end of the corridor on the right, up the stairs. If the key jams in the lock, just wiggle it around and give the door a good little kick. The locks aren’t perfect, since we added them long, long after this place was built, but it shouldn’t give you too much trouble. It’s one of the rooms that we didn’t have to remodel, so you needn’t worry about a wall collapsing in the middle of the night or something.”

“Always a relief,” Teagan murmurs, amused, taking the key as Grant’s warm hand presses the cool metal into her palm.

( letters ) to antonia, jerry, riley, jeremy, salem, patience, jack.

2011-08-26T02:01:56Z

ᴅᴇᴀʀ ᴍᴜᴍ,

I'm so sorry. I know that if I ever told you that, you'd tell me that I have nothing to be sorry for, but I do. You never told me about how I came to be, about what happened to you, and I never thought to ask. You were always there for me, but I wasn't there for you, not like I could have been. I know I was still pretty young when we were separated - I'm still pretty young, of course, but you know what I mean - but I wish you'd told me. I wish I could have given you the encouragement and the support that you gave me, because it was never supposed to be a one way street. I should have been able to give it back too! It shouldn't matter that I was twelve years old, I understood my own condition, I could have understood yours, too... or at the very least my fierce little hugs could have meant just that little bit more.

Also, thank you. You gave me more than I could have ever asked for, including your love and protection. I never took the chance to tell you how much I appreciate everything you ever did for me, from the horrible things for which I couldn't take responsibility at first, and for teaching me everything that I know now. It's still hard to live by your rule, that "even the good can't always control themselves". I don't want to let you down, but it feels like every year I feel less and less like a good person. There's only so far you can go before the excuses and the apologies stop meaning anything, and I still can't justify the fact that I have to kill people on a regular basis. It's so horrible every single time. It never gets better. I've lost count now, of how many it is, but that alone makes me feel sick every time it crosses my mind. I wish I still had you here with me to help me get through it... and through the anger. It's a pretty useless tactic, but it's the best I have. It started happening after I lost you - I tried to ignore the hunger, and it started to take over my personality. I can't tell you how many things I've broken or destroyed in all that rage. Now I try to hold off the hunger for as long as I can, but it never lasts longer than at least a week. I don't know if it's a lack of willpower or determination, or if it's simply physically impossible.

I miss you so much. More than I could ever say in words or writing or anything. I want you to know, wherever you are, that I love you, and that no matter what I'll always try to live to what you taught me. I hope you're safe. Please, please, be safe. I love you.

ᴅᴇᴀʀ ᴊᴇʀʀʏ,

I'm not going to say the "s" word, because I said I wouldn't, and that's a promise. You've heard it enough times from me, anyway, and I don't want to make it mean any less. You're an incredibly good person, and despite the way that I act, the times I question you, you should know that I appreciate your friendship so much. It wouldn't really be a stretch to call you my best friend, even if I'm not a great friend in return half the time - I know, I know, I'll stop that, but it's true, I'm just saying - and I suppose above all else I should thank you. Thank you for not giving up on me. I hope, I really, really hope, that I will give you real, solid reasons not to give up on me in future, too. Your patience is really something else. The terrible things that I've said to you, I never meant them, and I never will. Thank you, for being there, for everything.

ᴅᴇᴀʀ ʀɪʟᴇʏ,

I want to say for the record that you're still an absolute bastard for what you said to me, no matter your feelings on what I am. You and I were together practically for a year, and if that wasn't long enough for you to understand that I'm not a complete monster, then I don't know what is. I gave you all of myself, and I realise that was quite silly, now, I won't lie - to extent I regret it a little. I suppose I should thank you for helping me grow up... even if I'm not sure anymore if that's the case.

That said, I would apologise to you until the end of time, for everything I did to you. I think I understand better now how unfair I was to you. I should have told you, I shouldn't have let you believe I was someone that I wasn't, and I definitely should have never hurt you like I did. Of all the horrible things I've done in my life, I feel the worst for that, because I had a choice. I don't, usually, when it comes to what I do, but that day I did, and I picked the wrong one. I doubt that we'll ever see each other again, and I doubt even more that you would ever forgive me, and I don't think there are really any suitable words to convey just how sorry I am. You were a great person, one of the best that I've known, and I did love you. I loved you so much. I hope that you find happiness in the future, I really do.

I know that I hurt you, but you hurt me too. The only thing I really wish I knew, I guess, is whether or not you would agree with me about that now.

Thank you for letting me feel loved, even if it wasn't quite real, and even if it wasn't for long.

ᴅᴇᴀʀ ᴊᴇʀᴇᴍʏ,

There are so many things I want and need to tell you, and none of them are pleasant or charming or anything of the sort. I don't know how you're going to react to any of them, because I know you're not the older you, you're just... you're just you. Is it silly that thinking about your reaction sometimes keeps me awake? It probably is, but I think it's also kind of natural to worry about things like this. I know we haven't known each other for that long, but you mean a lot to me anyway. You smile so genuinely at me, and you make my knees feel so, so wobbly sometimes. I thought I could be more mature about having feelings for someone, but apparently not. I guess we're both still at the point where we're learning about each other and finding our comfort zone. I don't get nervous easily, I really don't, but you make me a bit nervous. No, that's a lie, you make me very nervous sometimes, but that's not a bad thing. Again, natural, I think. Here's hoping that we'll last long enough to move past this, and here's praying that you will give me the chance I'm looking for. I won't blame you if you tell me you never ever want to see me again.

I have my fingers crossed so tightly that you'll forgive me, though. You have no idea.

ᴅᴇᴀʀ... ɪ sᴛɪʟʟ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴀᴍᴇ.

I'm sorry that I killed you. You know this, and I've told you. I'm sorry that you were there and a convenient target, but I don't want anything to do with you. Play your twisted game with someone else, and stay the hell away from me. I don't want to hurt you again, but I'm scared that you'll try to put me in a position where I have no choice.

ᴅᴇᴀʀ- ɢᴏᴅ, ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜʀs ᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ.

I think it was pretty clear from our last meeting that you disliked me, you disliked me a lot, and don't worry, the feeling's very mutual. I want you to know, though, that everything you said, all the words you tried to shove down my throat, your own justifications for hurting me, they were all lies. I don't think of myself as any better. I don't think I deserve to live any more than the people I've killed. You're a hybrid too - you know that you have to give into that hunger eventually. I don't know what made you feel like it was your duty or right to hurt me like that was, and to be honest, I don't really want to know, not anymore. I know that I'm so far from perfect I might as well fall off the scale, but whatever hatred you have for other hybrids, and for yourself, by extension, it's not fair. Our world isn't exactly in the business of doing things "fairly", you and I both know that, but I'm sorry that I don't loathe every single thing about myself. Maybe I don't deserve other people's love or friendship, but I have it anyway, and what little I have, I cherish it.

You're not a bad person, or at least, I don't think you are. What you tried to do to me showed that... I think. You wanted to get rid of me because I am a dangerous thing, I am something "evil". If that's how you feel about your own condition and existence, then I believe you don't deserve the hatred you give to yourself. If I wasn't completely terrified of you, I'd want to show you that you don't. I'd want to be your friend, even if you don't seem like the kind of person who welcomes friendship with open arms. I wish I could help you understand the way I see it, but these things are never black and white, and very subjective. My mum raised me on the phrase "even the good can't always control themselves". I'm sorry that you feel the way you do, and despite everything, I hope that something might change your mind one day, or help you find the closure that you need. Or something like that. I've never been very good at talking about these things... but I suppose I wish you luck.

ᴅᴇᴀʀ "ᴊᴀᴄᴋ",

This shouldn't be news to you, but I don't want to know you. We have nothing to share, no benefit to each other. Just keep away from me.

ᴡɪᴛʜ ʟᴏᴠᴇ, ʀᴇɢᴀʀᴅs, sɪɴᴄᴇʀᴇʟʏ, ʏᴏᴜʀs, ғʀᴏᴍ
ᴛᴇᴀɢᴀɴ

( concept planning )

2011-08-23T19:59:07Z

THE AELAJAH | THE "ORIGINALS"

They presented themselves to the humans as a peaceful race. Beautiful, gentle and desperate, they were a dying breed of humanoid beings who were willing to pledge immediate allegiance to the humans, to share technological advances and resources from their homeworld with properties that humans could only have imagined in their wildest of fantasies. Of course, the humans were initially wary of aliens bearing gifts, but the benefits were too phenomenal to refuse, in the end. An alliance was made, a new friendship that would be prosperous for all. The Aelajah would have an ally against the enemy trying to wipe them out, the humans access to intelligence that was far beyond them. It was perfect.

Emirayja | the Aelajahn homeworld.

The Aelajahn homeworld is largely characterised by its greenery and vitality. Emirayja is as stunning as its inhabitants, with only a few cities scattered amongst its lands, and few rural settlements. Ambassadors and delegates from Earth who were invited as guests to Emirayja were shown the vast array of natural splendor that the world possessed, with so much of it untouched; the Aelajahn population is small, it was explained, due to the numbers lost in their war against the Sarrites. Amongst the endless finery, there were remnants of destruction. Somewhat reluctantly, the humans were allowed to see the fallen cities, areas of infertility, death and ruin. The Aelajahn were ashamed of their perceived weakness and how much they were asking of the humans, but they were left with no choice but to reach out. In the end, it is said that Earth was drawn to the Aelajah through sympathy rather than the promise of material rewards.

Despite the fact that the Aelajah have a perfectly humanoid appearance, there are key differences between the phsyiology of humans and Aelajahns. The most obvious, perhaps, is that the Aelajahns are a race of incredible physical beauty, with an average height notably taller than most humans. This is supposedly part of the way in which they adapted to the atmosphere of their homeworld, where the pull of gravity is stronger than that of Earth's, meaning that Aelajahns as a result also are distinctly lighter in weight than most humans. However, if you were to place an Aelajahn amongst a group of humans, there is no discernable way of distinguishing the two races.

In terms of personality, Aelajahns seem to be a race that is very calm and not at all predisposed for violence. They are used to a certain level of comfort and luxury their world provides them, and as a result seem very harmonious. Many Aelajahns are very proud of their heritage, and because of this some find the human race a little too rough around the edges, a little too unpredictable for their tastes, but this has not generally hindered humans being allowed on Emirayja, and Aelajahns are similarly allowed passage to Earth. By human standards, it might be said that the vast majority of Aelajahns appear "stuck up" and a little cold, but this largely stems from the fact that good manners and polite behaviour are very much ingrained in Aelajahns, and they place great emphasis on keeping public and private spheres separate. Once an Aelajahn has formed a friendship with an individual, be they human or of their own race, they tend become more open with their emotions and opinions. A lot of their behaviour is centred around keeping up appearances and personal dignity. Scandal is rarely found amongst the Aelajah, and if it occurs it is dealt with very, very quickly.

In recent years it has been clear that keeping the two races from mixing genetically was never going to be a realistic goal, and it has since been explicitly stated that Aelajahns and humans are allowed to marry and begin families, et cetera, but a condition of this is that the Aelajahn involved must relocate to Earth, and not the other way around. There have been mixed reactions to this amongst the humans, but it has generally been accepted as a simple condition that must be adhered to.

Aelajahn crystal | a material unique to Emirayja.

Basic Facts

er i will get to this
eventually...

images used belong to daniel dociu and are not
exact designs, but concept designs to give a feel
to how the world is supposed to look.

( writing ) one word prompts

2011-08-02T21:48:32Z

ᴇʟʟɪᴏᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ǫᴜʏʟʟᴜʀ; sᴛᴏʀʏᴛᴇʟʟɪɴɢ.

The loveliest evenings are the quietest, during the summer, in the cool and balmy air, when the only sounds to be heard are distant birdsong, the rustle of leaves and the hum of insects. These are spent together, quite alone, nestled beneath the endless stars - “Never quite as beautiful as you are,” Elliot likes to say, and he never means it any less - beneath one of many coarse but warm blankets that Elliot seems to have hidden around his home. Spun by sprites in the Cotswolds, he tells Quyllur, his voice a quiet, content murmur by her ear, sometimes a little hazy when he gets distracted by the softness and scent of her hair, the way that she shifts slightly in his arms, the warmth of her cheek pressed against his skin. Yes, his blankets, they were spun by sprites in the Cotswolds, as he was saying, suddenly remembering his voice as Quyllur nudges him gently; cheeky, lively little sprites, the only ones who know the ancient blend of grass, wool and, if you can believe it, sandstone dust that makes these wonderful blankets. Of course, they are not without their magic, the incomprehensible incantations that sprites use to weave them, mixtures of Gaelic dialects and archaic magic languages.

“It appears that in the magic realm, we rarely do anything simply.” The smile is quite apparent in Elliot’s voice, his loving, protective hold on Quyllur tightening just a little as a chilly breeze dashes past them. “We like to go about our matters with… “flare”, I believe the word is. Everyone infuses their individual wares with their own specific magic, and by extension, a little pride. Then again, I am sure it is not simply a quality of the magic realm. The more love and care we put into our creations, the better they are.”

At first, it was a little difficult. As talkative as Elliot was (and he was certainly a very talkative fellow), he was never a storyteller - “That is a task more suited to the nymphs,” he had admitted, a little tentative, his cheeks bright with a self-conscious, modest blush, “they observe a great deal through their habitats…” - and although he doubted his talents in telling tales, he could never find it in himself to say no to Quyllur’s innocent, curious eyes. “Shy” is perhaps not a word one might attribute immediately to Elliot, but he has his moments. Many pink cheeked encounters later, telling Quyllur stories slowly became natural, a normal part of their interactions. Part of Elliot was very aware, albeit subconsciously, that in the one hundred and thirty odd years he had been alive, he had seen many wonderful things, in his own realm and others.

He can always tell when Quyllur is starting to drift towards sleep. It is one of those little, intuitive things that he likes, being close enough to her to understand the way that she and her body work. His murmurs grow quieter and quieter, until he hears her breathing slow into the rhythmic pattern of slumber. Always carefully, always ever so gently, he bundles her up in the blanket, gathers her into his arms and carries her home, a small, feather-light shape in his arms that makes a wealth of warm and affection bubble up inside him.

Tomorrow night, he will surely play the role of storyteller again. In all honesty, he couldn’t imagine a better way to spend his time.

( writing ) teagan, jerry and a not so miserable future

2011-08-02T00:00:32Z

Sometimes she wakes in the middle of the night for no reason. At first she told herself it must be fairly normal, to be filled with intermittent insomnia or experience shifts the way her body operates, it’s all natural, obviously, but as the months drift by and the physical changes become more obvious, a creeping feeling slips into her mind, a ring of darkness around her (slightly forced) positive thoughts. Sometimes for minutes, sometimes for hours, she stares at the ceiling, or she stares at the man next to her, her expressions slipping from blankness to faint smiles of love in the darkness. Sometimes sleep gathers her up all over again and she sinks back into a dreamless, peaceful slumber, whereas at other times all she can do is lie around and wait, all the while trying to block the doubts and the uncertainties that seem so unfortunately present nowadays.

Beneath the sheets, Teagan rests an oddly tentative hand on the fairly prominent curve of her stomach. Four months already feels like an eternity, one full of spending the early hours of the morning locked in the bathroom, hanging over the edge of the toilet, emotional imbalances that send her usual, hunger related anger straight into the category of “relatively minor”. She wonders how Jerry manages, how he doesn’t get frustrated or completely fed up with the hormone induced tears and affections and rage. Well, she knows why, of course, but she appreciates his patience regardless. She wishes she didn’t always notice this appreciation whenever she couldn’t really express it to him. It’s not as though she’ll wake him now just to tell him that she is so thankful for him, that she loves him. It seems a little counterproductive.

Gently rolling onto her side, so that she’s facing Jerry, she spends a few more minutes gazing at the visible outlines of his face, illuminated in the faint light slipping through the gap in the curtains. Her intention is to focus on the positive; she likes to think that, at the very least, their kid will have a good mix of genes. It’s an odd, silly comfort, especially since her perceptions of her own appearance never really went beyond “well my hair’s a mess again” before she met Jerry.

He made her strangely conscious of herself, which had been surprising and a little unsettling at first, but ultimately she accepted that it wasn’t a bad thing at all. Throughout the years, he had always made her feel like she was just right, that she wasn’t “too” anything. Self-assurance had slowly set in, changed her, a little. Teagan is, even now, an effortlessly scruffy woman, with unruly hair and a taste for stealing Jerry’s sweaters, sinking into their boyish spaciousness, but it’s a matter of comfort now, rather than a want to obscure her figure in some way.

Jerry, in Teagan’s opinion, has always been handsome. As much as she had liked him as a person, when they had first met, she couldn’t exactly deny that there had been an attraction too. She liked the shape of his jaw, the way his face would scrunch up into all his characteristic expressions, his smile. She feels the stiff arm and wooden hand laid across her stomach ease and relax.

This can’t be bad, she thinks. It can be scary, it can make me worried and stupid, but it can’t be a bad thing. This’ll work because we’ll make it work. She frowns to herself, exhaling softly. Shut up, Teagan. Go to sleep.

* * *

She passed exhaustion a long while ago, and instead entered a state of hazy consciousness that she has since been incapable of leaving. Despite this, she can’t find the will to sleep. All she really wants to do is stare at her daughter, smiling in such a stupid way it might even put Jerry to shame. Safely cocooned between her parents on their bed, Alexandra sleeps quite peacefully, oblivious to Teagan’s close and loving scrutiny.

Mother and father had spent most of the evening like this, murmuring to each other, smiling foolishly, marvelling delightedly at the way Alexandra would curl her tiny, lovely hands around one of their fingers, the way she would gurgle and smile and cry. A week on, the routine was proving tough, in terms of adjustment, but neither Teagan nor Jerry seemed to care. In fact, their elation just continued to grow. It was a new kind of happiness, one that was fantastic and indescribable. Maybe it just hadn’t hit them yet. Teagan couldn’t adjust to the idea that she was a mother, even though she had had nine very obvious months to think about it and take it in.

There is something stupidly perfect about it, she thinks. Something improbable and perfect. How long had she spent telling herself that this was a life she would never live? How many times had she wondered about it, gone into a quiet, miserable sulk about it? Don’t bring any more danger into the world. Don’t risk creating another life like yours. Don’t think about it. Don’t think you can have it all. Don’t wish you could have it all. Some childish part of her still thinks she might wake up any moment from an amazing dream, but she banishes the thoughts. Alexandra’s soft, newborn skin is real. Jerry’s leg pressed against hers is real too. It’s all very real, vivid, it’s there. “Love” does not seem like enough anymore. It doesn’t quite encompass the way she feels, the emotion that wraps its warm, gentle self around the room, around Jerry and Alexandra.

Jerry has long since fallen asleep, a faint trace of his smile still very apparent on his face, nestled close to Alexandra. Teagan has grown used to her own unusual sleeping patterns, the inability to sleep even when she desperately needed to, her bleary eyes trying to focus on how unspeakably lovely father and daughter looked together, even though from time to time they were swimming with tiredness. She had always known how much it meant to Jerry to start a family, and she had always been afraid that her own reluctance and fear were slowly crushing part of him. Alexandra was, by no means, a planned addition to their life, someone they expected to join them, but Teagan is very aware that she no longer cares about that. She remembers, a little painfully, how frightened she had been, when she had realised (considerably later than Jerry) that she was pregnant, how streams of tears rolled down her cheeks without end as she apologised to Jerry for her reaction and tried to justify it all at once. The memories of the way he’d held her, so tightly, so protectively, seemed to be imprinted so strongly in her mind that even now she can feel the pressure of his arms around her.

Somewhere in the midst of her half-awake, half-asleep state, Teagan realises that she is crying once again, except this time her mouth is still curved in a smile. She makes no effort to stem the flow. It’s not like she could see much anyway, her eyes being so blurry and so weary already.

She barely registers the fact that Jerry has stirred, blinking senselessly at him when she feels his thumb brush across her cheek, wiping away the tracks of her tears. He says nothing. He doesn’t need to. He knows that they aren’t the same waterworks of months and months ago. As he leans across to kiss her temple, it’s as though he flicks a switch in her head. She smiles, as brightly as she can feasibly manage, her eyes closing.

The last thing she feels before she falls asleep is the gentle touch of Jerry’s fingers intertwining with hers.

( application )

2011-07-22T19:12:28Z

WARNING!
Extensive spoilers throughout for "Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy".

[PLAYER INFO]
NAME: Maria
AGE: 18
JOURNAL: necklaces
IM: il pleut des cordes
E-MAIL: m.pluzhnikov04as at gmail dot com
RETURNING: N/A

[CHARACTER INFO]
CHARACTER NAME: Bill Haydon, though he is known by various "job" names throughout his career.
FANDOM: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, a novel by John le Carré.
CHRONOLOGY:
CLASS: Someone who would conduct himself as neither hero nor villain, he's most suited to observation above all else. His morals are at times questionable and somewhat ambiguous.
SUPERHERO NAME: N/A
ALTER EGO:

BACKGROUND:
What is your character’s world like? What is their role in it? In what major canon events did your character play a part, how did your character affect these events, and vice versa? If applicable, what important relationships do they have with other characters in this series?

This doesn’t have to be terribly detailed, but we’d like a good picture of their canon to draw from, so please make sure you explain anything particularly series-specific or that we might not understand, and also that it’s in your own words.

PERSONALITY:
What is your character like, in at least two paragraphs? What are their dreams, their fears, their general quirks and the issues that make them, them, and does their personality shift in any way after or before the point you are taking them from? If they are from a different or alternate universe, or if their personality radically shifts due to events during the point in time that you are taking them from, how is their new personality different from their normal one?

POWER:
What is/are your character’s superpower(s)? If they have abilities in their canon source, please list them here. If they do not, please create some! Every character brought into the City must have at least one power, though this may be as useful or as useless as you wish. Please indicate which abilities are canon for your character and which are not.

Additionally, each character is permitted an upper limit of three separate powers. At our discretion, we may request that you reduce, readjust, or otherwise redefine your character’s powers in order to acclimate more readily to the game setting. Characters from more Eastern-style sources are to have their powers adapted to a Western setting – for example, characters from the series “Naruto” would turn their most prominent ninjutsu into the super-powers they receive upon arriving here.

[CHARACTER SAMPLES]
COMMUNITY POST (FIRST PERSON) SAMPLE: How your character will be addressing the game at large. This sample should follow the same rough format as Cape&Cowl proper — a first-person, text/audio/video-based, intentional post to an internet community. Preferably more than a paragraph in length, this sample is to show us your character's unique voice. If you can make us laugh or outright scare the pants off us, you’re doing a good job!

LOGS POST (THIRD PERSON) SAMPLE: The name of the game is introspection, folks. This sample will both showcase how you will play in the logs community, and how well you understand your character’s motivations, hopes, dreams, quirks, etc. This sample should be a bit longer than your first, and, again, make us cry, make us laugh, or make us never want to meet your character in a back alley and you’re doing a good job!

A note: In the cases of both first person and third person samples, we do NOT accept links to samples written at other games. If, however, you are a returning player applying for a character that you have played previously at Cape&Cowl, you are allowed to link to posts made by that character in this game.

FINAL NOTES ABOUT YOUR CHARACTER:
Is there anything else about your character that you feel we should know, that isn't covered in any of the earlier sections? This field is optional.

( application )

2011-07-22T10:28:44Z

PLAYER

✧ NAME: Maria
✧ LJ USERNAME: necklaces
✧ CONTACT (EMAIL, AIM, MSN, PLURK, ETC.):
AIM | il pleut des cordes
EMAIL | m.pluzhnikov04as at gmail dot com
PLURK | sparklings
✧ CURRENT MUSE LIST: N/A

CHARACTER

✧ NAME: Giles Noah Puckett
✧ SERIES: Original Character
✧ HISTORY:
✧ TIMELINE:
✧ PERSONALITY:
✧ ABILITIES/POWERS:
✧ TIME OF ARRIVAL:

✧ MASK DESIGN:
✧ PLACE OF SOLACE:

SAMPLES

✧ FIRST PERSON: ~150+ words
✧ THIRD PERSON: 300+ words

✧ ORIGINAL CHARACTER QUESTION:

( application )

2011-07-22T10:22:52Z

Player Information
Name: Maria
Personal Journal: necklaces
Contact Info:
AIM | il pleut des cordes
EMAIL | m.pluzhnikov04as at gmail dot com
PLURK | sparklings
Other Characters: N/A

Character Information
Name: The City of Oxford; otherwise known as "Eleanor".
Age: Very old someone help me.
Setting: The world that Oxford comes from is not very different from any normal Earth based setting. It is largely normal beyond one key factor; that individuals such as Oxford exist. She is, as all her fellows are, a humanoid manifestation that is spiritually tied to his or her city, someone who exists purely because the city exists. Oxford, for one, has been around since the 8th century BC, making her one of the oldest cities in all of England, and over time she has grown and matured alongside her city, though her physical appearance has changed little over the past millenia. In all she has aged little more than fifteen years, though her personality has shifted considerably. She does not, in any way, represent specific stereotypes about her city, reflect its inhabitants or have anything to do with local politics or how the city is run.
History:

Personality: While she is by no means an unpleasant or unkind person, Oxford is certainly a difficult individual, and perhaps not the easiest to get along with. She is, first and foremost, driven by pride and a want of attention. As most cities, she has a deep attachment and love for her own city, meaning that criticism or any form won’t be tolerated, and will be met with a cold and sullen attitude. Her city is renowned for its stunning architecture, its cultured and classy atmosphere, its university, and naturally she wouldn’t be able to find fault in it for a moment. On a more private level, she likes to owe her own intelligence and physically attractive features to the academic excellence and beauty of her city, though she doesn’t make too much of a song and dance about that, unless she’s feeling exceptionally catty.

Oxford is a woman of natural charm, someone that likes to ooze sophistication and classiness, and as long as you are not on her bad side, that is exactly what she will ooze at you, whether you are a stranger or a casual acquaintance. Those closer to Oxford, however, will know that although the charm is very much genuine, she’s quite a mouthy individual with an opinion on everything, and has a rather mischievous, youthful quality to her that belies both her physical and actual ages. Although outwardly appearing to be a woman in her thirties, her personality is more suited to a freshly graduated university student, energetic and almost a little immature. She loves to tease and is incredibly playful - for example, she might pretend to have airs and graces and mature sensibilities if you were to suggest a water balloon fight on a hot day, but she'll be "swayed" soon enough.

Although “charming” is Oxford’s default setting, if she decides that you are in any way deserving or her scorn, boring or irritating, that side of her will quickly be replaced by one of several others. She feels no need to be particularly warm to people she has no interest of maintain a close relationship with,

Abilities: Oxford has no specific abilities beyond the fact that her ageing process is practically halted and she is immune from death as long as her city stands; hypothetically speaking, a stabbing in her world would do her little harm, a quick trip to the hospital, stitchs and a "miraculous recovery" would see the end of it. However, in the Gardens I imagine that since Oxford exists away from her city, she will be more physically vulnerable to harm, which might be a bit of a blow to her more reckless side.

Sample: