February 21st
Friday night is always a good night for going out on the town. Going to a bar and drinking your problems away or finding someone to hook up with for the night; catching a show if you're of a more "cultured" bent. Hitting up a nightclub and getting lost in EDM beats, house music atmosphere and the swaying pulse of humanity that comes to writhe and twist to one rhythm as one.
The latter is where Lena Reilly comes alive. She's a New Yorker by birth (and once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker), but she's found her home in Denver and the Denver nightlife is one that she's embraced as fully as she did her natural habitat of boroughs and subways. This is where the normally reserved (but friendly) woman that people know from her visits to the chantry and other such adventures fades away, and DJ Halcyon rises in its place. It's not quite as simple as all that, mind; she's not some sort of split personality a la Fight Club. But there is a distinct difference between the women that other Awakened individuals in the city have seen--quiet, guarded, even shy at times--and the woman who lives as one with the people on the dance floor and shares their joy, their breath, their heartbeat and their sheer, simple life.
At least, there used to be a difference.
Ever since "the incident," Lena hasn't been herself. Anyone who's seen her knows it. Her "co-workers" so to speak--bartenders, club owners, fellow deejays--they've seen the change in her that's perhaps more pronounced than has been seen by those who know she's more than just a talented spinner. She shows up and she's friendly and she does her job, and she's good at her job. She always has had a feel for the crowd and the way that it is leaning. Call it a sixth sense, call it a bit of Mind magic or just call it being thoroughly in tune with the music; living through the beat. But the person that works the booth isn't DJ Halcyon. It's Lena Reilly. And the least of the signs of the change is the fact that she doesn't go down into the crowd anymore, doesn't sneak down with a few extra tracks cued up in order to be part of humanity, even if for a few minutes.
It's just not her anymore.
And so she stands in the booth, while her remix of Kelly Clarkson's last (non-Christmas) single pulses and lights flash around her. She's a person in her own island. The music barely even registers to her. She's Sean with some red on her. Wesley Allen Gibson in Wanted. She's a Nine Inch Nails song, and as much as she smiles and acts like everything's fine, she knows it's not the case. Everyone--
EVERYONE
--knows it's not the case. But she's not close enough to any of them to be friends, and they have their own problems. So they let her be, and they talk behind her back.
And so it goes. For days. Days that turned into weeks. Weeks that turned into two months. Into now.
It's Friday night, and in a rare Friday night occurrence, she doesn't have a gig. This hasn't happened since the week that she vanished; she's worked every job she's been able to in order to rebuild her reputation for no-showing several dates (on Halloween, of all weeks). Tonight she's free, and normally she would be going to the Chantry to do what she can to help out there, or even just hanging out at the clubs. But she hasn't been back to the Chantry since the Hydra incident and her recent interactions with her friends (friends? Yes, friends) have, if anything, made her feel worse about the possibility. And hanging out at the clubs...
Well. You hang out at places where you live. Not at places you work.
So she finds herself, this night, walking through the back streets toward her hotel. She's wandering back here for a reason, and it's not because she's itching to get home. She wants to be with people, around them. That's something that one of those friends was right about, although perhaps it was taken too far in Lena's mind. Regardless, people are life and being alone is death. She can't be that close to death. But she can't be around people she loves. That's too dangerous for her, and she's already done enough damage. If she goes much further, she might just pass the point of no return with them, and then where would she be? So instead, she walks along the streets that most sane people wouldn't walk alone, her hands in the pockets of her jacket and her head down. She's not going anywhere specific, but she'll know where she is heading when she gets there.
The place that she finds herself, as it turns out, is a gathering. Denver may not be a place that most people think of when they consider rap and hip-hop music. New York, Detroit, Los Angeles...all of these places conjure up images. Notorious B.I.G. rhyming about slinging rock and the Beastie Boys bringing rock to the genre, or Jay Z delivering verses about growing up in Marcy Houses. Esham's acid rap and Eminem talking about 8 Mile. Death Row records, Compton, Kendrick Lamar. But one may be surprised to know that the Mile High city has quite the hip-hop scene itself. And like any city with a hip-hop community, there is an underground rap scene that includes the requisite battle rap gatherings.
Lena hears it before she sees it, and it draws her attention out of her own thoughts...a good thing, to be sure, considering where her thoughts go. The sound of the crowd can be heard as someone is making their way out of the club, and her senses zero in on it. Doldrumed or not, she's a musician and while rap isn't necessarily her genre of choice, she appreciates it as much as she does all music genres. She gives a quick, furtive look around (paranoia) and steps forward, opening the door and stepping inside.
The place isn't exactly a high-end establishment, but neither is it a trashy warehouse. This is a legitimate nightclub that caters to the community. The inside is well-lit, with a bar and a stage upon which two people stand with an MC between them, and a crowd filled with college students and more. All variety of people can be found here, from the fraternity dudebros and the sorority snots to the wannabe (and not-so-wannabe) gangstas, the musicians, the artists and even just people here to have a good night and watch some performance art. They cheer one of the two on as he delivers a freestyle slam on his opponent. It's verbal acrobatics, with the crowd reacting and feeding the energy that shoots through the rapper like lightning. Words roll out and hit the ground in rapid-fire format, tailor-made and personalized to his opponent. These are people who know each other, and Lena once again feels like an outsider.
But at least it's a comfortable feeling.
And then, just when she's about to turn and go--she sees the schedule written on the backboard next to the bar. Tonight is an Open Mic night. And as ridiculous as it might be to imagine of about this twenty-something EDM DJ who works with ambient and pop music and is the furthest thing you could think of from "hard"...she pauses there. Every muscle in her body just stops moving and she stares at it.
She's not a rapper. She's far from it. She's never done it in her life. She remixes, she doesn't make new stuff. Not that she hasn't done a few tracks of her own--she is an artist, no matter what those who sniff their noses at deejays might think--but that's a far sight from something like this. And if you asked her later she wouldn't be able to tell you why her feet started to move, taking her step by step up to the bartender and asking to be put on the list. The man looks at her askance, this pretty and quiet girl in a "Keep Calm and Listen to Armin Van Buren" t-shirt and a jean jacket over that, who curls her hair behind her ear and puts on a polite smile before she asks. But he nods a little, and he tells her she'll be up in a few.
"A few" is a long, long time to wait. The seconds turn into minutes in your mind, even when you're a Sleeper. When you're a mage whose Tradition specializes in the fluidness of time...well, seconds turn into hours. Every tick of the clock seems to stretch out, as she downs an Adios Motherfucker for liquid courage and waits for her turn. She used to me a much sturdier drinker, but that was whole other life ago.
The vodka, rum, tequila and gin combine in her stomach and send tingling warmth out to her extremities. It emboldens her...strips away those doubts by shredding inhibitions. They dissipate like vapor and vanish in the air, and in the meantime she studies those who hit the stage before her. She closes her eyes and listens to what they do, gets into the rhythm of it. She's not planning exactly what she's going to say; rather, she gets herself into the ebb and flow of the rhythm. The cadenced rise and fall permeates her mind and falls in synch with her heartbeat. Or does her heartbeat fall in sync with the beat? No…they were always the same, that world heartbeat from which music springs pure and transcendent. And in her mind, a seed begins to take form, to grow and expand into something more.
It's been said (usually with disdain) that members of the Cult of Ecstasy, for a Tradition that specializes in Time magic, let time get away from them with remarkable ease. That's not entirely true. They always know, but when Time is a fluid concept and entirely non-linear than what's two minutes, or twenty, or two hundred? They're all the same, really. Lena's eyes finally open finally, seconds before it's her turn. And she's rising to her feet as the loser in the battle before her is just finishing up. The last of her drink drains away and she steps forward, waiting for Halcyon to be called up.
Everyone else has had supporters in the crowd; people to cheer as they take the stage. This isn't something you do on a whim. When Lena steps up onto the stage, there are a few people who cheer—only because they're cheering for everyone. But it's remarkably silent otherwise. A few people who visit the clubs regularly recognize her name, but a contrary to popular opinion a DJ is not an MC. She doesn't pay it any mind, barely registers it when the host calls out the names. She doesn't look out at the crowd, doesn't grandstand. She's focused.
Her opponent, an experienced and fairly well-known competitor who goes by Arkane, starts it off. He knows of her, only vaguely. Her fame within the nightclub scene actually works to her disadvantage here, because it gives him just enough ammo to tailor something to her. He launches into an impressively intricate rhyme, playing on words to point out how she's soft and nothing but a rip-off artist who remixes other people's work. He spins a lyric about how she dropped off the earth for a couple of weeks, and that she's gonna need a month after she's embarrassed off this stage.
Normally in battle raps, the competitor being lyricized about—the recipient, let's say—reacts to keep the crowd going. They'll wave off the disses and look unimpressed, and basically try to turn the tide against their opponent. Lena does none of these things. She stands there, staring at Arkane with her hands in her pockets. She lets her head nod a little bit, keeping herself within the rhythm of the flow, and she smirks a bit here and there when a particularly good dig comes in.
And then it happens. There's no way he could have known that it would affect her that way, but the man drops a line that tenses her whole body up. Listen, when you're building a line around slamming someone else you don't think about being politically correct. And you certainly don't discount lines that dance around hot-button topics that might piss someone off. So when Arkane spits out that "I'm killing you slow, like I'm giving you AIDS"…well, it's a decent line. But he couldn't know that it would do to her.
He's surprised when she shoves him, this girl. She doesn't look like she would be the violent type. And she's not…but she is a woman of passions, like the rest of her Tradition. And she's rediscovering hers, because she went without them for too long. She buried them deep inside, because passion meant a loss of control. And she could never lose control, ever. What happened in the Hydra facility…that just made her even more sure because nothing she did had any effect. Her Passions were for shit. But in this moment…she's letting her Rage go. And she's about to unleash some serious Hate.
For the record, she's already lost from that moment. There are rules about not getting physical, and she just broke it. But the host still needs a performance, and there aren't many people left on the call list. And what's more…she has a look on her face that says it wouldn't be wise to cross her right now. So when she reaches for the mic, he hands it off.
There's no playing to the crowd. There's no humor, no witty repartee. The words flow from the Cultist toward the man and while they do, so does the emotion. She doesn't even really do it consciously; it's something that comes from a dark place inside of her. All her anger, her hatred—everything surrounding how she feels about her condition—it transfers from herself into her poor, unlucky opponent as she begins to rhyme.
I'm standing right here and my lips are a bomb
You're standing over there with some sweat on your palms
Yeah, you can say you're not scared and maybe that's true
Maybe you're just sweating 'cause you came down with the flu
But I'm worse than the flu, I'm worse than meningitis
Fuck your vaccine, 'cause I'm stronger than a virus
I'll leave your ears bloody and I'll make your head ache
You getting chills Arkane? I think I saw you shake
Now you know what it's like, you're gonna cough up blood for sure
You're the sickness on this stage and I'm the motherfucking cure
It's not a refined rap. It's not even incredibly witty. It's more of an extended metaphor than anything else, set to a beat and a cadence. It would be a complete loser in a real battle—and this isn't a real battle because she's already lost. But the terrified, even agonized look on Arkane's face tells a different story. The quiet crowd, unsure of what just happened, tells a different story. Lena shoves the microphone at the host and walks off stage, and right out of the place. She's still radiating those waves of hate—albeit residual now that she's done performing—and she gets a wide berth as she stalks out of the club.
You would think that after an incident like that, where she expelled so much hatred, Lena would be over the moon. That's not the case…at least, not at first. The floodgates have opened, and someone in a neighboring hotel room hears the muffled sounds of rage and sorrow that come forth. They knock and ask if she's okay, and she smiles a bit through puffy eyes and says that she'll be okay.
And that's the thing…for the first time in months, she suspects that maybe she will be. She still has so much wrong. And she's not made things better with the way she's reacted—keeping people at arm's length. Sometimes lashing out. But maybe—just maybe—there's a bit of hope.
The night ends with Lena's laptop open, her tablet next to it. The latter has real estate listings. She needs to stop living transiently. It's an excuse to run, and she needs to stop running. The former has her mixing programs up, headphones snaking out and coiling around her head as she works on that same Kelly Clarkson song that she finished up her set weeks (Days? Months? Whatever man, it's all time) before. No…not works. Music isn't work. For DJ Halcyon, music is life.
Samael:
[[Mind 1: Empower Mind for multi-tasking toward focus/firing creativity on multiple avenues. Diff 4, -1 for specialty focus, WP]]
Roll: 2 d10 TN3 (1, 4) ( success x 2 ) [WP] VALID
jamie @ 12:52PM
WITNESSED
Samael:
[[Mind 2: Empathic Projection - Feel My Hate. Diff 5, -1 for spec. focus, -1 for Quint, WP]]
Roll: 2 d10 TN3 (1, 5) ( success x 2 ) [WP] VALID
niko @ 1:39PM
Witness!
Friday night is always a good night for going out on the town. Going to a bar and drinking your problems away or finding someone to hook up with for the night; catching a show if you're of a more "cultured" bent. Hitting up a nightclub and getting lost in EDM beats, house music atmosphere and the swaying pulse of humanity that comes to writhe and twist to one rhythm as one.
The latter is where Lena Reilly comes alive. She's a New Yorker by birth (and once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker), but she's found her home in Denver and the Denver nightlife is one that she's embraced as fully as she did her natural habitat of boroughs and subways. This is where the normally reserved (but friendly) woman that people know from her visits to the chantry and other such adventures fades away, and DJ Halcyon rises in its place. It's not quite as simple as all that, mind; she's not some sort of split personality a la Fight Club. But there is a distinct difference between the women that other Awakened individuals in the city have seen--quiet, guarded, even shy at times--and the woman who lives as one with the people on the dance floor and shares their joy, their breath, their heartbeat and their sheer, simple life.
At least, there used to be a difference.
Ever since "the incident," Lena hasn't been herself. Anyone who's seen her knows it. Her "co-workers" so to speak--bartenders, club owners, fellow deejays--they've seen the change in her that's perhaps more pronounced than has been seen by those who know she's more than just a talented spinner. She shows up and she's friendly and she does her job, and she's good at her job. She always has had a feel for the crowd and the way that it is leaning. Call it a sixth sense, call it a bit of Mind magic or just call it being thoroughly in tune with the music; living through the beat. But the person that works the booth isn't DJ Halcyon. It's Lena Reilly. And the least of the signs of the change is the fact that she doesn't go down into the crowd anymore, doesn't sneak down with a few extra tracks cued up in order to be part of humanity, even if for a few minutes.
It's just not her anymore.
And so she stands in the booth, while her remix of Kelly Clarkson's last (non-Christmas) single pulses and lights flash around her. She's a person in her own island. The music barely even registers to her. She's Sean with some red on her. Wesley Allen Gibson in Wanted. She's a Nine Inch Nails song, and as much as she smiles and acts like everything's fine, she knows it's not the case. Everyone--
EVERYONE
--knows it's not the case. But she's not close enough to any of them to be friends, and they have their own problems. So they let her be, and they talk behind her back.
And so it goes. For days. Days that turned into weeks. Weeks that turned into two months. Into now.
It's Friday night, and in a rare Friday night occurrence, she doesn't have a gig. This hasn't happened since the week that she vanished; she's worked every job she's been able to in order to rebuild her reputation for no-showing several dates (on Halloween, of all weeks). Tonight she's free, and normally she would be going to the Chantry to do what she can to help out there, or even just hanging out at the clubs. But she hasn't been back to the Chantry since the Hydra incident and her recent interactions with her friends (friends? Yes, friends) have, if anything, made her feel worse about the possibility. And hanging out at the clubs...
Well. You hang out at places where you live. Not at places you work.
So she finds herself, this night, walking through the back streets toward her hotel. She's wandering back here for a reason, and it's not because she's itching to get home. She wants to be with people, around them. That's something that one of those friends was right about, although perhaps it was taken too far in Lena's mind. Regardless, people are life and being alone is death. She can't be that close to death. But she can't be around people she loves. That's too dangerous for her, and she's already done enough damage. If she goes much further, she might just pass the point of no return with them, and then where would she be? So instead, she walks along the streets that most sane people wouldn't walk alone, her hands in the pockets of her jacket and her head down. She's not going anywhere specific, but she'll know where she is heading when she gets there.
The place that she finds herself, as it turns out, is a gathering. Denver may not be a place that most people think of when they consider rap and hip-hop music. New York, Detroit, Los Angeles...all of these places conjure up images. Notorious B.I.G. rhyming about slinging rock and the Beastie Boys bringing rock to the genre, or Jay Z delivering verses about growing up in Marcy Houses. Esham's acid rap and Eminem talking about 8 Mile. Death Row records, Compton, Kendrick Lamar. But one may be surprised to know that the Mile High city has quite the hip-hop scene itself. And like any city with a hip-hop community, there is an underground rap scene that includes the requisite battle rap gatherings.
Lena hears it before she sees it, and it draws her attention out of her own thoughts...a good thing, to be sure, considering where her thoughts go. The sound of the crowd can be heard as someone is making their way out of the club, and her senses zero in on it. Doldrumed or not, she's a musician and while rap isn't necessarily her genre of choice, she appreciates it as much as she does all music genres. She gives a quick, furtive look around (paranoia) and steps forward, opening the door and stepping inside.
The place isn't exactly a high-end establishment, but neither is it a trashy warehouse. This is a legitimate nightclub that caters to the community. The inside is well-lit, with a bar and a stage upon which two people stand with an MC between them, and a crowd filled with college students and more. All variety of people can be found here, from the fraternity dudebros and the sorority snots to the wannabe (and not-so-wannabe) gangstas, the musicians, the artists and even just people here to have a good night and watch some performance art. They cheer one of the two on as he delivers a freestyle slam on his opponent. It's verbal acrobatics, with the crowd reacting and feeding the energy that shoots through the rapper like lightning. Words roll out and hit the ground in rapid-fire format, tailor-made and personalized to his opponent. These are people who know each other, and Lena once again feels like an outsider.
But at least it's a comfortable feeling.
And then, just when she's about to turn and go--she sees the schedule written on the backboard next to the bar. Tonight is an Open Mic night. And as ridiculous as it might be to imagine of about this twenty-something EDM DJ who works with ambient and pop music and is the furthest thing you could think of from "hard"...she pauses there. Every muscle in her body just stops moving and she stares at it.
She's not a rapper. She's far from it. She's never done it in her life. She remixes, she doesn't make new stuff. Not that she hasn't done a few tracks of her own--she is an artist, no matter what those who sniff their noses at deejays might think--but that's a far sight from something like this. And if you asked her later she wouldn't be able to tell you why her feet started to move, taking her step by step up to the bartender and asking to be put on the list. The man looks at her askance, this pretty and quiet girl in a "Keep Calm and Listen to Armin Van Buren" t-shirt and a jean jacket over that, who curls her hair behind her ear and puts on a polite smile before she asks. But he nods a little, and he tells her she'll be up in a few.
"A few" is a long, long time to wait. The seconds turn into minutes in your mind, even when you're a Sleeper. When you're a mage whose Tradition specializes in the fluidness of time...well, seconds turn into hours. Every tick of the clock seems to stretch out, as she downs an Adios Motherfucker for liquid courage and waits for her turn. She used to me a much sturdier drinker, but that was whole other life ago.
The vodka, rum, tequila and gin combine in her stomach and send tingling warmth out to her extremities. It emboldens her...strips away those doubts by shredding inhibitions. They dissipate like vapor and vanish in the air, and in the meantime she studies those who hit the stage before her. She closes her eyes and listens to what they do, gets into the rhythm of it. She's not planning exactly what she's going to say; rather, she gets herself into the ebb and flow of the rhythm. The cadenced rise and fall permeates her mind and falls in synch with her heartbeat. Or does her heartbeat fall in sync with the beat? No…they were always the same, that world heartbeat from which music springs pure and transcendent. And in her mind, a seed begins to take form, to grow and expand into something more.
It's been said (usually with disdain) that members of the Cult of Ecstasy, for a Tradition that specializes in Time magic, let time get away from them with remarkable ease. That's not entirely true. They always know, but when Time is a fluid concept and entirely non-linear than what's two minutes, or twenty, or two hundred? They're all the same, really. Lena's eyes finally open finally, seconds before it's her turn. And she's rising to her feet as the loser in the battle before her is just finishing up. The last of her drink drains away and she steps forward, waiting for Halcyon to be called up.
Everyone else has had supporters in the crowd; people to cheer as they take the stage. This isn't something you do on a whim. When Lena steps up onto the stage, there are a few people who cheer—only because they're cheering for everyone. But it's remarkably silent otherwise. A few people who visit the clubs regularly recognize her name, but a contrary to popular opinion a DJ is not an MC. She doesn't pay it any mind, barely registers it when the host calls out the names. She doesn't look out at the crowd, doesn't grandstand. She's focused.
Her opponent, an experienced and fairly well-known competitor who goes by Arkane, starts it off. He knows of her, only vaguely. Her fame within the nightclub scene actually works to her disadvantage here, because it gives him just enough ammo to tailor something to her. He launches into an impressively intricate rhyme, playing on words to point out how she's soft and nothing but a rip-off artist who remixes other people's work. He spins a lyric about how she dropped off the earth for a couple of weeks, and that she's gonna need a month after she's embarrassed off this stage.
Normally in battle raps, the competitor being lyricized about—the recipient, let's say—reacts to keep the crowd going. They'll wave off the disses and look unimpressed, and basically try to turn the tide against their opponent. Lena does none of these things. She stands there, staring at Arkane with her hands in her pockets. She lets her head nod a little bit, keeping herself within the rhythm of the flow, and she smirks a bit here and there when a particularly good dig comes in.
And then it happens. There's no way he could have known that it would affect her that way, but the man drops a line that tenses her whole body up. Listen, when you're building a line around slamming someone else you don't think about being politically correct. And you certainly don't discount lines that dance around hot-button topics that might piss someone off. So when Arkane spits out that "I'm killing you slow, like I'm giving you AIDS"…well, it's a decent line. But he couldn't know that it would do to her.
He's surprised when she shoves him, this girl. She doesn't look like she would be the violent type. And she's not…but she is a woman of passions, like the rest of her Tradition. And she's rediscovering hers, because she went without them for too long. She buried them deep inside, because passion meant a loss of control. And she could never lose control, ever. What happened in the Hydra facility…that just made her even more sure because nothing she did had any effect. Her Passions were for shit. But in this moment…she's letting her Rage go. And she's about to unleash some serious Hate.
For the record, she's already lost from that moment. There are rules about not getting physical, and she just broke it. But the host still needs a performance, and there aren't many people left on the call list. And what's more…she has a look on her face that says it wouldn't be wise to cross her right now. So when she reaches for the mic, he hands it off.
There's no playing to the crowd. There's no humor, no witty repartee. The words flow from the Cultist toward the man and while they do, so does the emotion. She doesn't even really do it consciously; it's something that comes from a dark place inside of her. All her anger, her hatred—everything surrounding how she feels about her condition—it transfers from herself into her poor, unlucky opponent as she begins to rhyme.
I'm standing right here and my lips are a bomb
You're standing over there with some sweat on your palms
Yeah, you can say you're not scared and maybe that's true
Maybe you're just sweating 'cause you came down with the flu
But I'm worse than the flu, I'm worse than meningitis
Fuck your vaccine, 'cause I'm stronger than a virus
I'll leave your ears bloody and I'll make your head ache
You getting chills Arkane? I think I saw you shake
Now you know what it's like, you're gonna cough up blood for sure
You're the sickness on this stage and I'm the motherfucking cure
It's not a refined rap. It's not even incredibly witty. It's more of an extended metaphor than anything else, set to a beat and a cadence. It would be a complete loser in a real battle—and this isn't a real battle because she's already lost. But the terrified, even agonized look on Arkane's face tells a different story. The quiet crowd, unsure of what just happened, tells a different story. Lena shoves the microphone at the host and walks off stage, and right out of the place. She's still radiating those waves of hate—albeit residual now that she's done performing—and she gets a wide berth as she stalks out of the club.
You would think that after an incident like that, where she expelled so much hatred, Lena would be over the moon. That's not the case…at least, not at first. The floodgates have opened, and someone in a neighboring hotel room hears the muffled sounds of rage and sorrow that come forth. They knock and ask if she's okay, and she smiles a bit through puffy eyes and says that she'll be okay.
And that's the thing…for the first time in months, she suspects that maybe she will be. She still has so much wrong. And she's not made things better with the way she's reacted—keeping people at arm's length. Sometimes lashing out. But maybe—just maybe—there's a bit of hope.
The night ends with Lena's laptop open, her tablet next to it. The latter has real estate listings. She needs to stop living transiently. It's an excuse to run, and she needs to stop running. The former has her mixing programs up, headphones snaking out and coiling around her head as she works on that same Kelly Clarkson song that she finished up her set weeks (Days? Months? Whatever man, it's all time) before. No…not works. Music isn't work. For DJ Halcyon, music is life.
"Hey, this is not a funeral
It's a revolution, after all your tears have turned to rage
Just wait, everything will be okay
Even when you're feeling like it's going down to flames"
It's a revolution, after all your tears have turned to rage
Just wait, everything will be okay
Even when you're feeling like it's going down to flames"
Samael:
[[Mind 1: Empower Mind for multi-tasking toward focus/firing creativity on multiple avenues. Diff 4, -1 for specialty focus, WP]]
Roll: 2 d10 TN3 (1, 4) ( success x 2 ) [WP] VALID
jamie @ 12:52PM
WITNESSED
Samael:
[[Mind 2: Empathic Projection - Feel My Hate. Diff 5, -1 for spec. focus, -1 for Quint, WP]]
Roll: 2 d10 TN3 (1, 5) ( success x 2 ) [WP] VALID
niko @ 1:39PM
Witness!
"The anger of a good man is not a problem. Good men have too many rules."
"Good men don't need rules. And today's not the day to find out why I have so many."
"Good men don't need rules. And today's not the day to find out why I have so many."