http://forums.woddenver.com/ Mon, 22 Jun 2026 09:47:42 +0000 MyBB http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=990 Thu, 06 Aug 2015 21:05:04 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=990
It's around three in the morning, and the smell of fresh paint lingers inside Verna's underground concrete cell.

Her sire has recently seen fit to grant her some small measure of self-determination, in the form of a redecorating budget. The shower in the corner has received a shower curtain with a picture of cherry blossoms on it, and the bare metal drain and fixtures have been scrubbed with a wire brush until the rust was gone. There is now a nice overstuffed leather chair and a nice table in the room and a clock on the wall to tell her when it's time to retire to the cot, which she has done up as best she can. It's a cot. There's not much one can do about that. But it has a crisply-folded quilt (useless as that is) atop it, and the pillow is down-filled. A rug sits on the spot on the floor just in front of the steps where her body, perforated and limp, had once left a stain.

It doesn't look like the same room anymore. And that was the point.

Part of the process, this. Cover over the real with a new coat of paint, hope nobody thinks to lift up the rug and ask questions. Hope you don't find yourself lifting up that rug one night, staring at it like some vacant Lady MacBeth obsessed with her own murder. (Oh, but that happens sometimes. She should nail it to the floor.)

She's making a list at the desk now, scratches of a pen on paper on that table on that rug on that stain. David didn't make her do this. David doesn't go far enough sometimes.

It goes like this:

Verna Gardner's

Good Behavior Chart

1. Makeup. When outside, always wear (quality!) long-last lipcolor to cover up the grayish hue. Eye makeup a must to avoid comments about looking sick. Go for fresh-looking.
   
2. Nails. Polish a must to cover the grey quicks. No chips.
   
3. Smile! [The hearts drawn here have little curliques at the bottom and are decorated with radiant lines.]
   
4. No touching allowed. If they get handsy, go away. Consider pocket hand warmers?
   
5. Ask people questions about themselves. People love talking about themselves, and it will keep the topic of conversation off of you. Don't answer questions they have with anything specific.
   
6. Breathe. Practice regular breathing habits when in public.
   
7. Move. The stillness can be distracting.
   
8. Don't stay out too late. Watch the time. [This entry she wrote slowly, forcing herself to write it.]
   
9. Don't try to eat anything. Remember the incident with the cheese!
   
10. If they don't look very appealing, don't. Remember the incident with that horrible-tasting woman.
    
11. Costume fangs sewn into hidden pocket of purse. Can pretend to be LARPing? Or engaging in role play of another kind which will remain unmentioned?
    
12. Don't go and see mom and dad. [There, a pause one can read in the indent of page where the period stabs its way through. She'll never see her parents again, with any luck. It sparks another memory...]
    
13. Don't ever go back on campus.
    
14. See a friend, walk away. If they spot you first, excuse yourself. [Again, a pause. She thinks of Marie. Of how she must have died. Of her son, a smiling face she can barely remember from photographs.]
    
15. Don't cry. Wet naps for emergencies in purse.
    
16. Stain remover. Must have for those little accidents. One in purse, one emergency stick in glove compartment.
    
17. Stay away from animals.
    
18. Dress weather-appropriate. No heavy coats in summer, no sandals in the snow.
    
19. Don't hurt people.
    

After the list is a grid of straight lines, marked with days of the week, and numbered according to the list. She can give herself good marks every night, and if David ever sees it, he'll know how she works at keeping the laws he taught her -- laws that he's failed miserably at. Laws that say they both have to die.

That won't happen. She won't let it happen. She'll give them no reason, because she'll do everything right. She'll get solid good marks every night, and it won't happen. They'll see how good a choice she was, even if she wasn't chosen. They'll see there's no reason to kill anyone. It'll be okay.

She rises from the chair, takes her crisp sheet of paper over to her new cork board on the wall, and pins it up with shiny gold tacks on each corner. When she steps back to check the straightness, that heart-festooned reminder to smile looks her in the eye.

So, her chart gets a smile. It's a smile like pastel indigo-purple paint on the walls of a tomb. A smile like a rug over the bloodstain that will never come out.]]>
It's around three in the morning, and the smell of fresh paint lingers inside Verna's underground concrete cell.

Her sire has recently seen fit to grant her some small measure of self-determination, in the form of a redecorating budget. The shower in the corner has received a shower curtain with a picture of cherry blossoms on it, and the bare metal drain and fixtures have been scrubbed with a wire brush until the rust was gone. There is now a nice overstuffed leather chair and a nice table in the room and a clock on the wall to tell her when it's time to retire to the cot, which she has done up as best she can. It's a cot. There's not much one can do about that. But it has a crisply-folded quilt (useless as that is) atop it, and the pillow is down-filled. A rug sits on the spot on the floor just in front of the steps where her body, perforated and limp, had once left a stain.

It doesn't look like the same room anymore. And that was the point.

Part of the process, this. Cover over the real with a new coat of paint, hope nobody thinks to lift up the rug and ask questions. Hope you don't find yourself lifting up that rug one night, staring at it like some vacant Lady MacBeth obsessed with her own murder. (Oh, but that happens sometimes. She should nail it to the floor.)

She's making a list at the desk now, scratches of a pen on paper on that table on that rug on that stain. David didn't make her do this. David doesn't go far enough sometimes.

It goes like this:

Verna Gardner's

Good Behavior Chart

1. Makeup. When outside, always wear (quality!) long-last lipcolor to cover up the grayish hue. Eye makeup a must to avoid comments about looking sick. Go for fresh-looking.
   
2. Nails. Polish a must to cover the grey quicks. No chips.
   
3. Smile! [The hearts drawn here have little curliques at the bottom and are decorated with radiant lines.]
   
4. No touching allowed. If they get handsy, go away. Consider pocket hand warmers?
   
5. Ask people questions about themselves. People love talking about themselves, and it will keep the topic of conversation off of you. Don't answer questions they have with anything specific.
   
6. Breathe. Practice regular breathing habits when in public.
   
7. Move. The stillness can be distracting.
   
8. Don't stay out too late. Watch the time. [This entry she wrote slowly, forcing herself to write it.]
   
9. Don't try to eat anything. Remember the incident with the cheese!
   
10. If they don't look very appealing, don't. Remember the incident with that horrible-tasting woman.
    
11. Costume fangs sewn into hidden pocket of purse. Can pretend to be LARPing? Or engaging in role play of another kind which will remain unmentioned?
    
12. Don't go and see mom and dad. [There, a pause one can read in the indent of page where the period stabs its way through. She'll never see her parents again, with any luck. It sparks another memory...]
    
13. Don't ever go back on campus.
    
14. See a friend, walk away. If they spot you first, excuse yourself. [Again, a pause. She thinks of Marie. Of how she must have died. Of her son, a smiling face she can barely remember from photographs.]
    
15. Don't cry. Wet naps for emergencies in purse.
    
16. Stain remover. Must have for those little accidents. One in purse, one emergency stick in glove compartment.
    
17. Stay away from animals.
    
18. Dress weather-appropriate. No heavy coats in summer, no sandals in the snow.
    
19. Don't hurt people.
    

After the list is a grid of straight lines, marked with days of the week, and numbered according to the list. She can give herself good marks every night, and if David ever sees it, he'll know how she works at keeping the laws he taught her -- laws that he's failed miserably at. Laws that say they both have to die.

That won't happen. She won't let it happen. She'll give them no reason, because she'll do everything right. She'll get solid good marks every night, and it won't happen. They'll see how good a choice she was, even if she wasn't chosen. They'll see there's no reason to kill anyone. It'll be okay.

She rises from the chair, takes her crisp sheet of paper over to her new cork board on the wall, and pins it up with shiny gold tacks on each corner. When she steps back to check the straightness, that heart-festooned reminder to smile looks her in the eye.

So, her chart gets a smile. It's a smile like pastel indigo-purple paint on the walls of a tomb. A smile like a rug over the bloodstain that will never come out.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=987 Tue, 28 Jul 2015 23:52:14 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=987 "You think God be in yo' corner?"
"You think the hate go 'way when you weep?"

"You think the Lord is my shepperd and he be my saviour,
And he gon' listen 'fore you goto sleep?"

"You think denial be a weapon mos' perfect?
"You think the danger ain't wrapped up for keeps?"

"You think this shit is too crazy to listen to,
So you go duck your head down in the deep?"

"I got news for you son,
Don't think I'm even reach for my gun,
You ain't got no time left,
No righteous, superiority when I'm done
This is mah anthem, my warcry,
My mic check army counting to One!"

~Zachary 'Red Letter' Demount, Brujah, MC~

Mob deep.
Sirens in the distance.
Someone was crying nearby, lost in the emotion of the moment, survival chewed down to nothing but a desperate cry for empathy. They were broken, gnawed on and suffering and no few of them were used to that. This was different though. Separate. Red rimmed it all and the hate made a slithering motion it hadn't before.

The Bloodstains had taken a week to clean and still showed through in bright light. He installed lower watt bulbs in all the fixtures and pawn-shop lamps that cast 70s illumination. The rugs had been thrown out, impossible to do anything with and new ones taken from nearby neighbourhoods that threw the slightly frayed, slightly used or just plain replaced mats out onto the corner for anyone to pick up on a garbage day.

He sent some boys around to scuff, scrap and hammer out some of the worst on the walls. Gouge marks, scraping claws and violence had made some hallways a noticeable battleground. After they were done, it just looked like another shit slum, cheap on the renovations.

He promised repairs to the worst, for those who stayed around. Said the money and the labour would roll in soon.

He put the boiler in the basement onto full blast for three days straight, cooking bodies and bones to a fine and brittle black that was easily crushed under a heel and a hammer.

He helped those who wanted to move, had no choice and too many memories on the wrong side of 'Grief' to be able to stay. Packed their things in u-hauls or shitty trucks and watched each head out onto the road, for a sister or an uncle's house where they could rethink life.

He paid a visit to each child that didn't have the words, the thoughts or anything resembling comforts to process what was going on or what had happened and reassured them with a stare. Told them that no bogeyman was scarier than he was and that each and every one of them was a deadman that just forgot they were dead.

He'd be the reminder from then on.

He put a family into his Mother's old apartment, because their's had burned and wasn't fit for anything living anymore. He moved what few things he owned into that crisped and charred hovel and called it a brand new home.

He made a map. Taken from a gas station, of the surrounding landscapes and staked out lines in crayon. Marked 'X's for the places of threat, and 'O's for recent events and 'Y's for locations he needed to keep in mind. He was making a lot of 'X's.

...And he was sitting in his chair a lot, with a bucket off to one side. A soup spoon in the other, big enough to hold an apple. He was scooping things out of a skull, wiping them clean with garbage bag mittens and sloping the remains in the buckets.

He was bathing them in a mixture of vinegar and water, dunking and scrubbing with steel wool pads and dirty rags for hours. Particle by particle cleaning. Meticulous.

He was laying them out next to the others, broken jawed and polished clean, flecks of red still caught between fracture points. Five on the window sill, the pane replaced by cardboard to blot the outside from view.

He was lost inside his little room of charred walls, plastic and burned civilization stink. Cleaning up the trophies of those who'd thought royalty didn't feel as good as that fresh, first wake-up into a second life. Digging out the brains they didn't deserve in the first place and mounting them on the window sill where they could stare for a while at what they'd done.

He put the last one next to the others, the teeth broken and shattered, all save for bits and pieces of the wisdom teeth at the back. It looked at him with a crooked brow, as if the bone had shaped itself around a permanent scowl or grimace.

He flicked it between the eyes.

"....Fuckin' Shovelheads."]]> "You think God be in yo' corner?"
"You think the hate go 'way when you weep?"

"You think the Lord is my shepperd and he be my saviour,
And he gon' listen 'fore you goto sleep?"

"You think denial be a weapon mos' perfect?
"You think the danger ain't wrapped up for keeps?"

"You think this shit is too crazy to listen to,
So you go duck your head down in the deep?"

"I got news for you son,
Don't think I'm even reach for my gun,
You ain't got no time left,
No righteous, superiority when I'm done
This is mah anthem, my warcry,
My mic check army counting to One!"

~Zachary 'Red Letter' Demount, Brujah, MC~

Mob deep.
Sirens in the distance.
Someone was crying nearby, lost in the emotion of the moment, survival chewed down to nothing but a desperate cry for empathy. They were broken, gnawed on and suffering and no few of them were used to that. This was different though. Separate. Red rimmed it all and the hate made a slithering motion it hadn't before.

The Bloodstains had taken a week to clean and still showed through in bright light. He installed lower watt bulbs in all the fixtures and pawn-shop lamps that cast 70s illumination. The rugs had been thrown out, impossible to do anything with and new ones taken from nearby neighbourhoods that threw the slightly frayed, slightly used or just plain replaced mats out onto the corner for anyone to pick up on a garbage day.

He sent some boys around to scuff, scrap and hammer out some of the worst on the walls. Gouge marks, scraping claws and violence had made some hallways a noticeable battleground. After they were done, it just looked like another shit slum, cheap on the renovations.

He promised repairs to the worst, for those who stayed around. Said the money and the labour would roll in soon.

He put the boiler in the basement onto full blast for three days straight, cooking bodies and bones to a fine and brittle black that was easily crushed under a heel and a hammer.

He helped those who wanted to move, had no choice and too many memories on the wrong side of 'Grief' to be able to stay. Packed their things in u-hauls or shitty trucks and watched each head out onto the road, for a sister or an uncle's house where they could rethink life.

He paid a visit to each child that didn't have the words, the thoughts or anything resembling comforts to process what was going on or what had happened and reassured them with a stare. Told them that no bogeyman was scarier than he was and that each and every one of them was a deadman that just forgot they were dead.

He'd be the reminder from then on.

He put a family into his Mother's old apartment, because their's had burned and wasn't fit for anything living anymore. He moved what few things he owned into that crisped and charred hovel and called it a brand new home.

He made a map. Taken from a gas station, of the surrounding landscapes and staked out lines in crayon. Marked 'X's for the places of threat, and 'O's for recent events and 'Y's for locations he needed to keep in mind. He was making a lot of 'X's.

...And he was sitting in his chair a lot, with a bucket off to one side. A soup spoon in the other, big enough to hold an apple. He was scooping things out of a skull, wiping them clean with garbage bag mittens and sloping the remains in the buckets.

He was bathing them in a mixture of vinegar and water, dunking and scrubbing with steel wool pads and dirty rags for hours. Particle by particle cleaning. Meticulous.

He was laying them out next to the others, broken jawed and polished clean, flecks of red still caught between fracture points. Five on the window sill, the pane replaced by cardboard to blot the outside from view.

He was lost inside his little room of charred walls, plastic and burned civilization stink. Cleaning up the trophies of those who'd thought royalty didn't feel as good as that fresh, first wake-up into a second life. Digging out the brains they didn't deserve in the first place and mounting them on the window sill where they could stare for a while at what they'd done.

He put the last one next to the others, the teeth broken and shattered, all save for bits and pieces of the wisdom teeth at the back. It looked at him with a crooked brow, as if the bone had shaped itself around a permanent scowl or grimace.

He flicked it between the eyes.

"....Fuckin' Shovelheads."]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=960 Sat, 11 Apr 2015 13:03:55 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=960
A message is left behind.

A man is speaking. His voice is professional but not brisk, with a tone that seems more companionable than staccato, more handshake than gesticulations.

"Hi, Ms. Pogorelc. My name is Arthur Cotton. I speak for Mallorie Knox at Simple Events and we're throwing a bit of a hush-hush 'do. We're hoping to book you for a performance. I can tell you you'll have a month to come up with something new or to rework an old piece. I can tell you the organization who has been so impressed with your work will be booking a castle to host it. It's an exciting opportunity for you, and I'd just love it if you made my life easier and called me back to discuss the deets. Number is ###-###-####, extension ###. Call any time after ten am. Look forward to hearing from you, Ms. Pogorelc."]]>
A message is left behind.

A man is speaking. His voice is professional but not brisk, with a tone that seems more companionable than staccato, more handshake than gesticulations.

"Hi, Ms. Pogorelc. My name is Arthur Cotton. I speak for Mallorie Knox at Simple Events and we're throwing a bit of a hush-hush 'do. We're hoping to book you for a performance. I can tell you you'll have a month to come up with something new or to rework an old piece. I can tell you the organization who has been so impressed with your work will be booking a castle to host it. It's an exciting opportunity for you, and I'd just love it if you made my life easier and called me back to discuss the deets. Number is ###-###-####, extension ###. Call any time after ten am. Look forward to hearing from you, Ms. Pogorelc."]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=959 Fri, 10 Apr 2015 22:21:56 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=959
Nobody wants to be called out as a mystic or a woo-woo practitioner or anything even approaching the specter of religious dogma. Careers have been killed for less. And yet, they still profess to be politically void, to the bitter end.

Verna is a physicist. But it's not musing on the beauty and elegance of Noether's Theorem that's going to put her mind back together when the world has broken. Well -- it's either the entire world or just her mind. Either way, something isn't right.

Sometimes David leaves her alone, in the room where he brought her back from the dead. It's an underground, concrete-walled bunker with scattered, sheet-covered furniture and a rusted-out shower in the corner and a feeble little light to see by. It's her 'living' space. Her blood still stains the floor in places -- remnants from when she was still alive.

At first, it was a relief when he'd leave. Without him around, she wouldn't have to wonder each second what he was going to do to her next. Now, she finds herself longing for him when he goes away. She's emptied out. Gave everything. Even her blood, even her pierced heart. And it is a wounded heart that David snared, for all his effort. Her forced-love for him feels like a stake in the chest, and she would know, wouldn't she, David?

David, David, David! He hollowed her out and filled her up again with him, and it's hard to think on anything else. He wants her to snap out of it. She knows that. He wants her to behave, and to think the right thoughts, and believe the right things, and stop fearing that she's drugged or insane or both. And since that is his wish, she must sit in his nice leather chair in his dark concrete box, still as the corpse she is, unbreathing, thinking.

In her latest imaginings, she fears she's stuck in an asylum, her arms wrapped down and her face masked to keep her from biting the other inmates due to her vampiric delusions. How would she know if these experiences were a lie? Especially when they seem so unreal -- so scientifically unexplainable.

The brain is a chemical and electrical signal processing organ. It can be fooled. It can be manipulated. It can be diseased or modified, and suddenly perception and measurement cease to have meaning. Philosophers have taken this idea a step further (as they are so wont to do) and wondered if we are all being lied to by the outside world. How would we know? If we could not test the outside from the inside, there would be no method to be sure. We could inhabit not bodies, but chemical baths, feeding us information that says what the world is. We could be momentary self-aware entities arising out of the random fluctuations of primordial chaos, complete with memories and a brief instant of sensation before winking back into the nothingness that spawned us. There are some who say that the latter is actually the most likely scenario.

And yet, we still live out our lives as if we are not brains in vats or quantum chance coming together and creating a split-second of awareness out of literally nothing. We have no proof of this. It's a thing we take on faith. We all like to believe in something -- even physicists. We want to believe that we are not simulacra, but have substance and meaning. And why shouldn't we?

To believe oneself as a brain in a vat being fed lies is much like believing oneself to be straitjacketed in 'reality' and living in a dream. She could have been in such a state her whole life and never really known for sure. The world could have been just as broken a few weeks ago, and she'd just never seen it.

The leather under her cold fingers feels like leather. She hasn't taken a breath in hours, but now she does, and her brain tells her the smell is leather. She is hungry. It's so quiet inside, without a pulse or digestion or any other noise of life. And there is someone very very important in another room somewhere in this place who wants very much for her to trust in those subjective experiences.

She brushes a finger across the grain of the chair under it, the first movement out of her in quite some time, and marvels at the realness. She rises, steps toward the little refrigerator by the wall, kneels on the concrete floor next to it, and pulls open the door. She takes a bottle of what she is finally trying to accept as human blood, and closes the door again.

Either she has gone mad, or the universe has. But does it matter? We all accept what our brains tell us is happening, even in the absence of evidence, because otherwise, what would be the point?

And her brain tells her, oh it sings to her, as chilled blood flows down her throat, feeding the desire within. This is as close to something viscerally real that she can get.]]>
Nobody wants to be called out as a mystic or a woo-woo practitioner or anything even approaching the specter of religious dogma. Careers have been killed for less. And yet, they still profess to be politically void, to the bitter end.

Verna is a physicist. But it's not musing on the beauty and elegance of Noether's Theorem that's going to put her mind back together when the world has broken. Well -- it's either the entire world or just her mind. Either way, something isn't right.

Sometimes David leaves her alone, in the room where he brought her back from the dead. It's an underground, concrete-walled bunker with scattered, sheet-covered furniture and a rusted-out shower in the corner and a feeble little light to see by. It's her 'living' space. Her blood still stains the floor in places -- remnants from when she was still alive.

At first, it was a relief when he'd leave. Without him around, she wouldn't have to wonder each second what he was going to do to her next. Now, she finds herself longing for him when he goes away. She's emptied out. Gave everything. Even her blood, even her pierced heart. And it is a wounded heart that David snared, for all his effort. Her forced-love for him feels like a stake in the chest, and she would know, wouldn't she, David?

David, David, David! He hollowed her out and filled her up again with him, and it's hard to think on anything else. He wants her to snap out of it. She knows that. He wants her to behave, and to think the right thoughts, and believe the right things, and stop fearing that she's drugged or insane or both. And since that is his wish, she must sit in his nice leather chair in his dark concrete box, still as the corpse she is, unbreathing, thinking.

In her latest imaginings, she fears she's stuck in an asylum, her arms wrapped down and her face masked to keep her from biting the other inmates due to her vampiric delusions. How would she know if these experiences were a lie? Especially when they seem so unreal -- so scientifically unexplainable.

The brain is a chemical and electrical signal processing organ. It can be fooled. It can be manipulated. It can be diseased or modified, and suddenly perception and measurement cease to have meaning. Philosophers have taken this idea a step further (as they are so wont to do) and wondered if we are all being lied to by the outside world. How would we know? If we could not test the outside from the inside, there would be no method to be sure. We could inhabit not bodies, but chemical baths, feeding us information that says what the world is. We could be momentary self-aware entities arising out of the random fluctuations of primordial chaos, complete with memories and a brief instant of sensation before winking back into the nothingness that spawned us. There are some who say that the latter is actually the most likely scenario.

And yet, we still live out our lives as if we are not brains in vats or quantum chance coming together and creating a split-second of awareness out of literally nothing. We have no proof of this. It's a thing we take on faith. We all like to believe in something -- even physicists. We want to believe that we are not simulacra, but have substance and meaning. And why shouldn't we?

To believe oneself as a brain in a vat being fed lies is much like believing oneself to be straitjacketed in 'reality' and living in a dream. She could have been in such a state her whole life and never really known for sure. The world could have been just as broken a few weeks ago, and she'd just never seen it.

The leather under her cold fingers feels like leather. She hasn't taken a breath in hours, but now she does, and her brain tells her the smell is leather. She is hungry. It's so quiet inside, without a pulse or digestion or any other noise of life. And there is someone very very important in another room somewhere in this place who wants very much for her to trust in those subjective experiences.

She brushes a finger across the grain of the chair under it, the first movement out of her in quite some time, and marvels at the realness. She rises, steps toward the little refrigerator by the wall, kneels on the concrete floor next to it, and pulls open the door. She takes a bottle of what she is finally trying to accept as human blood, and closes the door again.

Either she has gone mad, or the universe has. But does it matter? We all accept what our brains tell us is happening, even in the absence of evidence, because otherwise, what would be the point?

And her brain tells her, oh it sings to her, as chilled blood flows down her throat, feeding the desire within. This is as close to something viscerally real that she can get.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=948 Sat, 07 Mar 2015 16:03:44 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=948
An interview and a couple of articles are making the rounds on all the usual social media standbys, shared and forwarded by hundreds and then thousands and then hundreds of thousands, a modestly interesting but well-marketed pieces written with pizazz all about the SECRET POTENTIAL OF DIAMONDS (gentlemen, get ready for the new hottest thing in engagement wear - nerdchic, y'all).

Clarion Dynamic's own Albert Campion has discovered a cheap and affordable way to etch the surface of a diamond, write your sweetheart's name, it's love, because diamonds are f'ing love. Campion is on record stating that this new technique means extremely exciting things for the future of information technology, and he spins quite the utopic vision of what-all might be accomplished.

In one of the articles, he gives slight credit to the eureka moment coming once he'd received a pack of old letters he'd once exchanged with a little known "but brilliant, in his own way" physicist from Chicago. The letters had been returned to him as part of the physicist's estate and going over them he'd realized he might try X experiment and "well, the results speak for themselves."

--

There is no mention of a graduate student. But why would there be?

--

ooc: If you want more information, let me know via e-mail or over AIM. ]]>
An interview and a couple of articles are making the rounds on all the usual social media standbys, shared and forwarded by hundreds and then thousands and then hundreds of thousands, a modestly interesting but well-marketed pieces written with pizazz all about the SECRET POTENTIAL OF DIAMONDS (gentlemen, get ready for the new hottest thing in engagement wear - nerdchic, y'all).

Clarion Dynamic's own Albert Campion has discovered a cheap and affordable way to etch the surface of a diamond, write your sweetheart's name, it's love, because diamonds are f'ing love. Campion is on record stating that this new technique means extremely exciting things for the future of information technology, and he spins quite the utopic vision of what-all might be accomplished.

In one of the articles, he gives slight credit to the eureka moment coming once he'd received a pack of old letters he'd once exchanged with a little known "but brilliant, in his own way" physicist from Chicago. The letters had been returned to him as part of the physicist's estate and going over them he'd realized he might try X experiment and "well, the results speak for themselves."

--

There is no mention of a graduate student. But why would there be?

--

ooc: If you want more information, let me know via e-mail or over AIM. ]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=919 Tue, 27 Jan 2015 01:14:25 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=919
Perhaps eventually, she will understand such tells as perfect penmanship, unnatural stillness, and a predatory stance as things to be wary of, but for the time being, Verna remained blissfully unaware of what such things meant. He was obviously classy, and obviously interested in her. The way he looked at her -- like a lion appraising a gazelle -- this was desire.

She thought she knew what he desired. She did not.

Her friends over at the bar laughed among themselves, but she strode up to them like a conquering hero, prize in hand.

"Ver-na," Flor said, drawing out her name in lazy drunkenness. "Who was that guy?"

Verna waved the paper in the air. "Cipriano Santos-Augustine," she said, butchering the supposed-to-be trilled r like a good American. "Got his number."

"Ooh, Verna's got herself a Latin lover," Angela added, as Verna slipped up onto a barstool beside her.

"It's not like that. We just played pinball and talked," she said, in such a way that it implied the opposite.

"What about?" asked Flor, with a suggestive smirk.

"Physics," Verna said, nose up in the air, and yet amused. Yes, girls, she talked about physics with an actual cute guy and he actually wanted to listen. That hadn't happened since...

Angela giggled into her appletini. "Gettin' physical already, eh?"

Verna rolled her eyes, but blushed in spite of herself. "It's not like that, ugh!"

----

They were insufferable. But they had been right. She had needed this. And it had been a profitable waste of time too. The man had not asked her out on a date, no. He'd offered his help with her little 'problem'. The one thing that Cipriano Santos-Augustine wanted to do for her was to kill, and to teach her how.]]>
Perhaps eventually, she will understand such tells as perfect penmanship, unnatural stillness, and a predatory stance as things to be wary of, but for the time being, Verna remained blissfully unaware of what such things meant. He was obviously classy, and obviously interested in her. The way he looked at her -- like a lion appraising a gazelle -- this was desire.

She thought she knew what he desired. She did not.

Her friends over at the bar laughed among themselves, but she strode up to them like a conquering hero, prize in hand.

"Ver-na," Flor said, drawing out her name in lazy drunkenness. "Who was that guy?"

Verna waved the paper in the air. "Cipriano Santos-Augustine," she said, butchering the supposed-to-be trilled r like a good American. "Got his number."

"Ooh, Verna's got herself a Latin lover," Angela added, as Verna slipped up onto a barstool beside her.

"It's not like that. We just played pinball and talked," she said, in such a way that it implied the opposite.

"What about?" asked Flor, with a suggestive smirk.

"Physics," Verna said, nose up in the air, and yet amused. Yes, girls, she talked about physics with an actual cute guy and he actually wanted to listen. That hadn't happened since...

Angela giggled into her appletini. "Gettin' physical already, eh?"

Verna rolled her eyes, but blushed in spite of herself. "It's not like that, ugh!"

----

They were insufferable. But they had been right. She had needed this. And it had been a profitable waste of time too. The man had not asked her out on a date, no. He'd offered his help with her little 'problem'. The one thing that Cipriano Santos-Augustine wanted to do for her was to kill, and to teach her how.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=910 Tue, 06 Jan 2015 16:10:02 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=910
The whole apartment is pitch black and cold when Verna arrives, but she can hear the heater humming on full blast. Odd, that. She tries to turn on the lights, but they're malfunctioning. And that's when the creeping sense that something is truly wrong begins to filter in.

She makes her way to the kitchen in the dark, feeling for walls, and tries that light. No success. But there is a smell in there, like something rotting, that both turns the stomach and makes her hungry. Hard to explain, that.

Her phone's in her purse, so she pulls that out and goes for the flashlight app that comes in so handy, and the first thing she notices is that her sugar jar is broken. Looking around, nothing else seems the matter, except than when she steps forward, it is to a scraping, crunching noise. She's stepped on the remains of her light fixture and the bulb that was inside it. All right, now it's panic time. Someone has broken into her apartment and smashed the lights.

The first thing she grabs is a long, evil-looking, serrated bread knife with a forked tip. Everything else in her knife holder just doesn't have that 'wow' factor. The second thing she does is make a beeline for the door, and she holds that knife up all the way out to her car.

Dad's going to be pissed. But there's nothing she can do about that. On the phone with him, she sounds weak, scared, childlike. She calls him 'daddy' and makes her voice shake. So of course he's there in twenty minutes, despite having to drag himself awake.

On their way through the apartment, looking for monsters under the bed, he goes first and she won't let go of that bread knife for anything. They find no monsters. It's just that every single piece of glass in her entire apartment has been smashed.

In the ruin of her bedroom, she discovers another nasty smell: her broken perfume bottles, their contents combining in ways that flood the apartment with eau de fashion mag. They were thorough, whoever they were. On her dresser sits a memory from long ago, when Verna wanted nothing else than to wear pretty dresses and a tiara and pink. It's a lacquered wooden music box with a velvet lining and places to put rings and other valuables. When she opens it, the light from her flashlight comes sparkling back to her face in a thousand facets. Her jewelry isn't missing. The music plays, and a pair of dancers spins slowly in the middle, on a carpet of broken mirror.]]>
The whole apartment is pitch black and cold when Verna arrives, but she can hear the heater humming on full blast. Odd, that. She tries to turn on the lights, but they're malfunctioning. And that's when the creeping sense that something is truly wrong begins to filter in.

She makes her way to the kitchen in the dark, feeling for walls, and tries that light. No success. But there is a smell in there, like something rotting, that both turns the stomach and makes her hungry. Hard to explain, that.

Her phone's in her purse, so she pulls that out and goes for the flashlight app that comes in so handy, and the first thing she notices is that her sugar jar is broken. Looking around, nothing else seems the matter, except than when she steps forward, it is to a scraping, crunching noise. She's stepped on the remains of her light fixture and the bulb that was inside it. All right, now it's panic time. Someone has broken into her apartment and smashed the lights.

The first thing she grabs is a long, evil-looking, serrated bread knife with a forked tip. Everything else in her knife holder just doesn't have that 'wow' factor. The second thing she does is make a beeline for the door, and she holds that knife up all the way out to her car.

Dad's going to be pissed. But there's nothing she can do about that. On the phone with him, she sounds weak, scared, childlike. She calls him 'daddy' and makes her voice shake. So of course he's there in twenty minutes, despite having to drag himself awake.

On their way through the apartment, looking for monsters under the bed, he goes first and she won't let go of that bread knife for anything. They find no monsters. It's just that every single piece of glass in her entire apartment has been smashed.

In the ruin of her bedroom, she discovers another nasty smell: her broken perfume bottles, their contents combining in ways that flood the apartment with eau de fashion mag. They were thorough, whoever they were. On her dresser sits a memory from long ago, when Verna wanted nothing else than to wear pretty dresses and a tiara and pink. It's a lacquered wooden music box with a velvet lining and places to put rings and other valuables. When she opens it, the light from her flashlight comes sparkling back to her face in a thousand facets. Her jewelry isn't missing. The music plays, and a pair of dancers spins slowly in the middle, on a carpet of broken mirror.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=909 Mon, 05 Jan 2015 17:51:27 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=909
Let It Go: The American Woman, an interview with Magdalena Pogorelc
by Helen Montgomery

[candid shot of Magdalena in the middle of a mobile-thing from her last performance, Ascent, HDub welcome to expand on it if she likes! Her face is half-hidden]

In person, Magdalena Pogorelc - or Pogorelc-Smith, as she still was when we met for wine and cigars - does not match the picture of intense performance artist whose performances have on more than one occasion incited her audience to violence. She is a diminutive bottle blonde with doe-like eyes and a bright, even effervescent, sincerity. Yet if you're in the know and you've heard anything about Pogorelc's performances you've heard that Pogorelc's work is a challenging, and above all intense, experience. And maybe you've heard about the time an audience member, inspired by her recreation of Marina Abramovic's famous Rhythm 0 1974, flung a pot of boiling water directly at her.

"Many of the pieces I have performed in Denver have a strong audience participation aspect," Magdalena says, in a misleadingly innocent voice. "In many of my original pieces, audience members are encouraged to participate as they see fit, and sometimes people are very angry, or see it as permission to be cruel?" Magdalena often speaks in the form of questions. "But they must live with their choices. I have had stitches before from performance pieces, but," she laughs, "not as many as I have with working in clay. So all art has the potential for danger."

"Art comes from inspiration, and is made because the act of keeping it in hurts. […] Giving it to an audience is taking the private and vulnerable piece of yourself and offering it to others. You always wonder how audience will react, but you are sharing personal truths with people. Even in pottery."

The Poland-grown artist is surprisingly eloquent in English, her second language. I noted that most of the conversations her art seems to provoke seem to be themed around the idea of 'letting go.' What does Pogorelc want to let go?

Her answer: "The conversation of pottery is one grounded in purpose, while performance, fleeting, focuses more on the higher strata of Maslow's hierarchy of needs […] which ties in to what I would like to let go. I came to this country with the idea of what being an American woman meant. That I needed fancy hair and nice husband and that having this privileged life would make me realize the concept of the dream people have when they come here. I came seeking my happiness and my prosperity and my husband and I would have our perfect life, but I would like, most of all, to let go of my selfishness."

What does Pogorelc think it means to be an American woman now? "[…] I believe that American womanhood is to embrace being empowered and having choices. Poland is very traditional about what women do and […] do not do, being a woman in eastern Europe is not sunshine. American womanhood is choice and embracing choice and being unashamed of having ownership over one's self. I love Marshall, but there comes a time when, even though you love someone, you realize that they can not love you as a woman and instead love you as what the idea of a woman is. And his idea of wife is not wife who is partner. We were never equals."

Even with the shadow of divorce and some uncertainty about her status in this country, Magdalena remains upbeat. "If I cannot legally stay I will go home and try to come back again. I love Denver," she says, with a big smile.

And, sitting in Pogorelc's presence, musing on the contrast between what one expects and what one is faced with, one doesn't doubt her sincerity.

She has not yet immersed herself in the Colorado art scene but she does not hold herself aloof from it either. One doubts that Pogorelc can be aloof as she talks about fellow artists who inspire her. "I have a friend, she is a friend now," she says, with emphasis, "but she did keep an audience member from maiming me [and] brought about summer and winter on the walls of the stage I'd made. And she goes by Lux. […] Her painting takes my breath away. […] Killian at Juniper Leaf gallery, he painted portraits of Persephone in pomegranate juice […] I was Andromeda galaxy for an installation. He is a delightful man."

Her future plans include recruiting like-minded artists for a traveling exhibit for a few months. To this end, Pogorelc has given the paper permission to post her contact information, found at the bottom of this article. "I love art," Pogorelc says, "because it is synthesis of my wants and the act of giving to others. Performance creates a sense of us with dozens of strangers."

[January 5th, 2015]
[Helen's blog and e-mail address]
[Magdalena Pogorelc's name and e-mail address]]]>
Let It Go: The American Woman, an interview with Magdalena Pogorelc
by Helen Montgomery

[candid shot of Magdalena in the middle of a mobile-thing from her last performance, Ascent, HDub welcome to expand on it if she likes! Her face is half-hidden]

In person, Magdalena Pogorelc - or Pogorelc-Smith, as she still was when we met for wine and cigars - does not match the picture of intense performance artist whose performances have on more than one occasion incited her audience to violence. She is a diminutive bottle blonde with doe-like eyes and a bright, even effervescent, sincerity. Yet if you're in the know and you've heard anything about Pogorelc's performances you've heard that Pogorelc's work is a challenging, and above all intense, experience. And maybe you've heard about the time an audience member, inspired by her recreation of Marina Abramovic's famous Rhythm 0 1974, flung a pot of boiling water directly at her.

"Many of the pieces I have performed in Denver have a strong audience participation aspect," Magdalena says, in a misleadingly innocent voice. "In many of my original pieces, audience members are encouraged to participate as they see fit, and sometimes people are very angry, or see it as permission to be cruel?" Magdalena often speaks in the form of questions. "But they must live with their choices. I have had stitches before from performance pieces, but," she laughs, "not as many as I have with working in clay. So all art has the potential for danger."

"Art comes from inspiration, and is made because the act of keeping it in hurts. […] Giving it to an audience is taking the private and vulnerable piece of yourself and offering it to others. You always wonder how audience will react, but you are sharing personal truths with people. Even in pottery."

The Poland-grown artist is surprisingly eloquent in English, her second language. I noted that most of the conversations her art seems to provoke seem to be themed around the idea of 'letting go.' What does Pogorelc want to let go?

Her answer: "The conversation of pottery is one grounded in purpose, while performance, fleeting, focuses more on the higher strata of Maslow's hierarchy of needs […] which ties in to what I would like to let go. I came to this country with the idea of what being an American woman meant. That I needed fancy hair and nice husband and that having this privileged life would make me realize the concept of the dream people have when they come here. I came seeking my happiness and my prosperity and my husband and I would have our perfect life, but I would like, most of all, to let go of my selfishness."

What does Pogorelc think it means to be an American woman now? "[…] I believe that American womanhood is to embrace being empowered and having choices. Poland is very traditional about what women do and […] do not do, being a woman in eastern Europe is not sunshine. American womanhood is choice and embracing choice and being unashamed of having ownership over one's self. I love Marshall, but there comes a time when, even though you love someone, you realize that they can not love you as a woman and instead love you as what the idea of a woman is. And his idea of wife is not wife who is partner. We were never equals."

Even with the shadow of divorce and some uncertainty about her status in this country, Magdalena remains upbeat. "If I cannot legally stay I will go home and try to come back again. I love Denver," she says, with a big smile.

And, sitting in Pogorelc's presence, musing on the contrast between what one expects and what one is faced with, one doesn't doubt her sincerity.

She has not yet immersed herself in the Colorado art scene but she does not hold herself aloof from it either. One doubts that Pogorelc can be aloof as she talks about fellow artists who inspire her. "I have a friend, she is a friend now," she says, with emphasis, "but she did keep an audience member from maiming me [and] brought about summer and winter on the walls of the stage I'd made. And she goes by Lux. […] Her painting takes my breath away. […] Killian at Juniper Leaf gallery, he painted portraits of Persephone in pomegranate juice […] I was Andromeda galaxy for an installation. He is a delightful man."

Her future plans include recruiting like-minded artists for a traveling exhibit for a few months. To this end, Pogorelc has given the paper permission to post her contact information, found at the bottom of this article. "I love art," Pogorelc says, "because it is synthesis of my wants and the act of giving to others. Performance creates a sense of us with dozens of strangers."

[January 5th, 2015]
[Helen's blog and e-mail address]
[Magdalena Pogorelc's name and e-mail address]]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=768 Sun, 10 Aug 2014 14:48:01 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=768 I've changed.

Molly admitted this silently to herself before the mirror one Thursday after work. She stood in a thin robe, hair still wet and hanging damp on her shoulders and neck. Not in any physical way, though. The reflection that stared back at her was the same Molly that she's known for a while now. The skin under her freckles was light, but with the peachy-pink tone of life, not the ashen pallor of near (or true) death. Her eyes were still very much blue, hadn't cast themselves red or anything so cinematic as that.

The changes were deeper than the superficial, and she'd discovered them in the weeks to follow the night at The Bluebird Theater.

That night. Recalling it, Molly glanced back to the floor of the tub, visible with the curtain still drawn back. It had taken her all day once she'd recovered, and more bleach than she'd used in her life, to scrub the red ring from the tub. Too weak upon returning home, she couldn't shower the blood away from her skin and clothes, but had to climb numbly into the bath tub and soak. A concerned canine companion had nudged her way into the room and nipped her cheek and ear when she'd fallen asleep and dipped to her chin in the water.

It was astounding she'd made it so far as to bathe and get herself into bed as it stood. The Man of Madness, the draw and the reason behind the suffering that had shaken her bones and very foundation, had suffered enough guilt to see to it she made it home. He may even have been pitious enough to assist her up the four flights of stairs to her apartment. He had drained her of her fucking blood and left her barely strong enough to walk without swaying, after all.

Ah, but you had asked, hadn't you? None of this would have happened if you didn't have to snoop and push and pry.

She'd noticed that she was different a week and a half later, when she'd returned to work from her sick leave and was analyzing a patient. An older woman had come through the doors with a broken leg. Molly had been administering pain killer when she heard an irregularity in the pull of blood through a heart valve. Without a stethoscope. Molly'd talked the doctor into checking the woman's heart with a few additional scans. The tests came back showing of mitral stenosis-- that would have no doubt led to an attack or other severe complications if left unchecked for much longer. It probably would have remained that way-- unchecked-- if Molly hadn't suddenly discovered herself able to hear past the ability of what human beings are physically capable of.

She played the discovery off, claimed to have been using the proper tools and had a hunch based on a small irregularity, but went home grim faced and introspective.

Abraham's blood had to replace some of what he stole away, and that necessity to keep her from dying was responsible not only for the heightened sense she'd discovered, but for where her mind kept wandering. Back to him.

With a heart-heavy sigh, Molly straightened up and tipped her head forward so she should begin to towel-dry her hair. Her eyes drifted to where her phone sat on the edge of the sink vanity. Several times a week she found herself holding the device, considering a call or a text, wondering what she should say, why she would want or need to say it.

Because you're a Ghoul, she thought bitterly to herself, and her reflection curled its lip back at her. The word, heavy enough to require capitalization, was sour in her gut and curling in her heart. She couldn't even trust herself now, and she had to come to terms with that. It's why she'd not yet given in to the urge to call.

But, inevitably, she would. She knew that. Since her eyes had been opened, since her dreams were filled with only one thing that sometimes even the Valium couldn't block out, she had a better grasp of inevitability.

In time, she'd call.]]> I've changed.

Molly admitted this silently to herself before the mirror one Thursday after work. She stood in a thin robe, hair still wet and hanging damp on her shoulders and neck. Not in any physical way, though. The reflection that stared back at her was the same Molly that she's known for a while now. The skin under her freckles was light, but with the peachy-pink tone of life, not the ashen pallor of near (or true) death. Her eyes were still very much blue, hadn't cast themselves red or anything so cinematic as that.

The changes were deeper than the superficial, and she'd discovered them in the weeks to follow the night at The Bluebird Theater.

That night. Recalling it, Molly glanced back to the floor of the tub, visible with the curtain still drawn back. It had taken her all day once she'd recovered, and more bleach than she'd used in her life, to scrub the red ring from the tub. Too weak upon returning home, she couldn't shower the blood away from her skin and clothes, but had to climb numbly into the bath tub and soak. A concerned canine companion had nudged her way into the room and nipped her cheek and ear when she'd fallen asleep and dipped to her chin in the water.

It was astounding she'd made it so far as to bathe and get herself into bed as it stood. The Man of Madness, the draw and the reason behind the suffering that had shaken her bones and very foundation, had suffered enough guilt to see to it she made it home. He may even have been pitious enough to assist her up the four flights of stairs to her apartment. He had drained her of her fucking blood and left her barely strong enough to walk without swaying, after all.

Ah, but you had asked, hadn't you? None of this would have happened if you didn't have to snoop and push and pry.

She'd noticed that she was different a week and a half later, when she'd returned to work from her sick leave and was analyzing a patient. An older woman had come through the doors with a broken leg. Molly had been administering pain killer when she heard an irregularity in the pull of blood through a heart valve. Without a stethoscope. Molly'd talked the doctor into checking the woman's heart with a few additional scans. The tests came back showing of mitral stenosis-- that would have no doubt led to an attack or other severe complications if left unchecked for much longer. It probably would have remained that way-- unchecked-- if Molly hadn't suddenly discovered herself able to hear past the ability of what human beings are physically capable of.

She played the discovery off, claimed to have been using the proper tools and had a hunch based on a small irregularity, but went home grim faced and introspective.

Abraham's blood had to replace some of what he stole away, and that necessity to keep her from dying was responsible not only for the heightened sense she'd discovered, but for where her mind kept wandering. Back to him.

With a heart-heavy sigh, Molly straightened up and tipped her head forward so she should begin to towel-dry her hair. Her eyes drifted to where her phone sat on the edge of the sink vanity. Several times a week she found herself holding the device, considering a call or a text, wondering what she should say, why she would want or need to say it.

Because you're a Ghoul, she thought bitterly to herself, and her reflection curled its lip back at her. The word, heavy enough to require capitalization, was sour in her gut and curling in her heart. She couldn't even trust herself now, and she had to come to terms with that. It's why she'd not yet given in to the urge to call.

But, inevitably, she would. She knew that. Since her eyes had been opened, since her dreams were filled with only one thing that sometimes even the Valium couldn't block out, she had a better grasp of inevitability.

In time, she'd call.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=689 Thu, 29 May 2014 08:56:05 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=689
She's the first to the lab, because she always is, except it looks more like a crime scene.

The front door is a mangled mess, folded in on its reinforced hinges before they finally gave up holding on. Its edges are crumpled where they'd been forced through a steel frame purposely smaller than its door because isn't that how doors work? Isn't that how security doors, that secure important places like this, keep out the outsiders that don't understand what goes on inside?

[ A Perception + Investigation roll would be called for as soon as Verna gets to the warehouse. ]]]>
She's the first to the lab, because she always is, except it looks more like a crime scene.

The front door is a mangled mess, folded in on its reinforced hinges before they finally gave up holding on. Its edges are crumpled where they'd been forced through a steel frame purposely smaller than its door because isn't that how doors work? Isn't that how security doors, that secure important places like this, keep out the outsiders that don't understand what goes on inside?

[ A Perception + Investigation roll would be called for as soon as Verna gets to the warehouse. ]]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=684 Sat, 24 May 2014 11:40:36 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=684 May 21st, 2014

In whatever dark corner of the city that the Nosferatu known as Jack resided in, he would find himself with a voicemail on his phone when he got around to checking it. The missed call was from Molly. This wasn't uncommon, they texted and spoke often, after all.

What was uncommon was the message itself.

"Jacky, I have some very exciting news."

Pause for effect.

"Your reflection's trying to come home. I think. Either way, it was in my apartment just now. It's... I, ah." She faltered here. Even if she wasn't speaking to him, just leaving a message, she must have found what she was trying to explain next difficult to do.

When she spoke again it was with a bit of sympathy staining her tone. That couldn't be good. "There's something about it, though, that you ought to know. I think we should meet. I'll talk to you soon, bye."]]> May 21st, 2014

In whatever dark corner of the city that the Nosferatu known as Jack resided in, he would find himself with a voicemail on his phone when he got around to checking it. The missed call was from Molly. This wasn't uncommon, they texted and spoke often, after all.

What was uncommon was the message itself.

"Jacky, I have some very exciting news."

Pause for effect.

"Your reflection's trying to come home. I think. Either way, it was in my apartment just now. It's... I, ah." She faltered here. Even if she wasn't speaking to him, just leaving a message, she must have found what she was trying to explain next difficult to do.

When she spoke again it was with a bit of sympathy staining her tone. That couldn't be good. "There's something about it, though, that you ought to know. I think we should meet. I'll talk to you soon, bye."]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=681 Tue, 20 May 2014 01:45:37 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=681
What a normal day. Does Amber already feel like the important things happen at night? That her world's not centered until nightfall? There's a coffee shop she's found which hits the spot every time not too too far from a house that she has turned or is turning into a home. There a barista who's come to know her by name looks distinctly nervous as soon as she comes in but has her drink or her muffin in order. The barista, an olive complexioned young woman with nappy hair short and dredded into medusa twists, gives her the wrong change, which never happens, but what of it? Doesn't chat as usual, seems unsettled and unfocused. Swallows.

There's a flier on Amber's sweet piece of red car-flesh next time she sees it. The edges are lifted by a wind, seems to be for a Korean nail and spa joint. Photocopied with the cop-out of a design scrawled over the words in black sharpie, a certain agonizing and vivid-angry artfulness to it - makes everything but the address and a time for free consultations [late at night] difficult to read.

You've been chosen! One of few! Crumple it and throw it away or don't.

[ooc: feel free to roll Intelligence + Streetwise for the flier and/or if Amber is so inclined Perc + Empathy for catching the barista vibe.]


Tuesday, May 20th

A dead sparrow on her doorstep, its neck neatly broken. Poor little thing, didn't have a chance, just a bit of empty fluff, a husk.

But it's missing a wing.]]>
What a normal day. Does Amber already feel like the important things happen at night? That her world's not centered until nightfall? There's a coffee shop she's found which hits the spot every time not too too far from a house that she has turned or is turning into a home. There a barista who's come to know her by name looks distinctly nervous as soon as she comes in but has her drink or her muffin in order. The barista, an olive complexioned young woman with nappy hair short and dredded into medusa twists, gives her the wrong change, which never happens, but what of it? Doesn't chat as usual, seems unsettled and unfocused. Swallows.

There's a flier on Amber's sweet piece of red car-flesh next time she sees it. The edges are lifted by a wind, seems to be for a Korean nail and spa joint. Photocopied with the cop-out of a design scrawled over the words in black sharpie, a certain agonizing and vivid-angry artfulness to it - makes everything but the address and a time for free consultations [late at night] difficult to read.

You've been chosen! One of few! Crumple it and throw it away or don't.

[ooc: feel free to roll Intelligence + Streetwise for the flier and/or if Amber is so inclined Perc + Empathy for catching the barista vibe.]


Tuesday, May 20th

A dead sparrow on her doorstep, its neck neatly broken. Poor little thing, didn't have a chance, just a bit of empty fluff, a husk.

But it's missing a wing.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=680 Mon, 19 May 2014 16:34:20 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=680 Nathan Marszalek, you have mail!

Date: Mon, 19 May 2014 at 1:34 am
From: 2ndpersonpresenttense@hotmail.com
To: (e-mail attached to his blog)
Subject: Fact checking

Hello

I don't know how to begin so I'll just jump right in and hope you don't think I'm crazy or too cagey to be worth your time. I just don't feel comfortable divulging my concerns over e-mail. My concerns are re: an incident which occurred around DU re: the an1m4l + pol1ce. I know your probably very busy but I promise I will make a meet up worth your time. You cn check me out on facebook if you must. Please reply at your earliest conveneince.

Jay Rodriguez

[Jamie: you don't have to roll investigation or anything to know what incident Jay is referring to. Just tell me whether or not Nate would look into it before he replies to / if he replies to her.]]]> Nathan Marszalek, you have mail!

Date: Mon, 19 May 2014 at 1:34 am
From: 2ndpersonpresenttense@hotmail.com
To: (e-mail attached to his blog)
Subject: Fact checking

Hello

I don't know how to begin so I'll just jump right in and hope you don't think I'm crazy or too cagey to be worth your time. I just don't feel comfortable divulging my concerns over e-mail. My concerns are re: an incident which occurred around DU re: the an1m4l + pol1ce. I know your probably very busy but I promise I will make a meet up worth your time. You cn check me out on facebook if you must. Please reply at your earliest conveneince.

Jay Rodriguez

[Jamie: you don't have to roll investigation or anything to know what incident Jay is referring to. Just tell me whether or not Nate would look into it before he replies to / if he replies to her.]]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=679 Mon, 19 May 2014 16:33:49 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=679 Verna, you have a phone message

Sunday, May 18th and Verna gets a call from one of her friends at the call center, a woman in her late thirties with tired skin but the enviable ability (or madness) to be optimistic at all times. The woman was one of those who'd dragged Verna to a strip club not too too long ago and giggled at Verna's consternation re: events that were to follow. Oh Verna.

She sounds tense on the phone. "Verna hi. I'm sorry but I really need somebody to watch my kid this weekend. I would ask somebody else but I'm really desperate. I'm really," there's a little bubble-pop, heavy breathing. "Verna please. Call me back." A laugh that sounds helpless.

Click.

and a gift

Monday, May 19th, before going to work that morning Verna finds a dead sparrow caught by the throat under the windshield wiper of her car. Fluffed out feathers sad little empty thing.

Unless she doesn't drive. Then it's rolled up in a newspaper on her doorstep, caught under the plastic sleeve protection.

[Noel: if you'd like you may roll me awareness re: gift and, if you'd like, perception + empathy re: phonecall.]]]> Verna, you have a phone message

Sunday, May 18th and Verna gets a call from one of her friends at the call center, a woman in her late thirties with tired skin but the enviable ability (or madness) to be optimistic at all times. The woman was one of those who'd dragged Verna to a strip club not too too long ago and giggled at Verna's consternation re: events that were to follow. Oh Verna.

She sounds tense on the phone. "Verna hi. I'm sorry but I really need somebody to watch my kid this weekend. I would ask somebody else but I'm really desperate. I'm really," there's a little bubble-pop, heavy breathing. "Verna please. Call me back." A laugh that sounds helpless.

Click.

and a gift

Monday, May 19th, before going to work that morning Verna finds a dead sparrow caught by the throat under the windshield wiper of her car. Fluffed out feathers sad little empty thing.

Unless she doesn't drive. Then it's rolled up in a newspaper on her doorstep, caught under the plastic sleeve protection.

[Noel: if you'd like you may roll me awareness re: gift and, if you'd like, perception + empathy re: phonecall.]]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=660 Sun, 04 May 2014 12:35:44 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=660 April 30th, 2014

Soon as Molly had closed her apartment door behind an Undead man she'd seen out she slumped into one of the two armchairs in her living room. If she'd been entertaining a man with a pulse then the chair would still be warm from the heat of him-- this having been the chair Flood was seated in several minutes before. She didn't turn on any electronics, no television or laptop to keep her company in the quiet of her home. Instead she was left to her own thoughts; they had been vying for attention for some time now anyways.

Eventually, after finishing her glass of wine, Molly went to bed.

Getting to sleep was difficult. She tossed and turned, and was only eventually able to drift after she'd cracked her window and kicked the comforter down off her body.

The sheets that covered her, as well as the night clothes, would be twisted with sweat and discomfort three hours after Molly had fallen to unconsciousness. Behind closed eyes, within the dreams of a woman who dappled too much in a world not her own, worries and stresses and horrors made nightmarish shows to put on display for their owner. Images of bodies torn asunder, reconstructed into household items to be neatly displayed in a room of red. The clenching terror of being stalked and not knowing how dangerous the thing following you was, the stomach-sick that came from being on edge for your life accompanied these pictures, spaced with pale-faced and sharp-teethed beings whose faces were familiar and then turned to something awful.

Molly woke all at once, saved from the swift death of having her throat ripped in her dreams. Upon finding the safety of consciousness and her apartment around her once more, she did three things:

Cried.
Threw up.
Made an appointment for herself in her phone calendar.

And then, with the help of a second glass of wine, Molly fell back to sleep.

May 2nd, 2014

It was mid-afternoon and Molly was standing in line at the pharmacy, hands clinging to the strap of her purse to give them a place to be while she waited her turn. Her prescription had already been faxed over for the pharmacists to fill, so by the time she reached the counter the transaction was quick and pleasant enough both.

"Name and date of birth?"
"Molly Toombs, June 1st, 1988."
"Let's see..... The diazepam?"
"Yes ma'am."

The pharmacist went to fetch the prescription from the storage bins for filled bottles and tubes and other such containers, and Molly pressed her lips together and sighed but was quiet while waiting, not glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone behind her recognized what that word meant.

She'd blamed the stress on her involvement in a recent explosion, possibly a bomb, still under investigation. Details carefully protected from the media on account of the curious circumstances and the condition of the body found on scene. Molly had been present for the whole thing, one of the first to see the gruesome remains of a man murdered by something yet to be decided whether it was human or animal yet. Between this and the bombings around town it wasn't difficult to convince her general practicioner to get her a script.

Acute Stress Disorder, they were considering it.

Molly thought they weren't too far off point, really. She was acutely stressed, but not so much by the bombings or the body that she and a firewoman had found on scene. It was the doubt, the manipulation, the puppets and string pulling and threats and promises, the shadows and the knowledge of what lurked in them and what they would be happy to do to her for all of the secrets that she kept in her mind.

"That's twenty dollars with your copay, miss," the pharmacist snapped Molly out of her thoughts when she returned, and the nurse smiled politely and handed over her debit card and identification both.

Tonight would be the first in some time that she made it through to bed without spending any time feeling her chest crush with the weight of the worry she kept.]]> April 30th, 2014

Soon as Molly had closed her apartment door behind an Undead man she'd seen out she slumped into one of the two armchairs in her living room. If she'd been entertaining a man with a pulse then the chair would still be warm from the heat of him-- this having been the chair Flood was seated in several minutes before. She didn't turn on any electronics, no television or laptop to keep her company in the quiet of her home. Instead she was left to her own thoughts; they had been vying for attention for some time now anyways.

Eventually, after finishing her glass of wine, Molly went to bed.

Getting to sleep was difficult. She tossed and turned, and was only eventually able to drift after she'd cracked her window and kicked the comforter down off her body.

The sheets that covered her, as well as the night clothes, would be twisted with sweat and discomfort three hours after Molly had fallen to unconsciousness. Behind closed eyes, within the dreams of a woman who dappled too much in a world not her own, worries and stresses and horrors made nightmarish shows to put on display for their owner. Images of bodies torn asunder, reconstructed into household items to be neatly displayed in a room of red. The clenching terror of being stalked and not knowing how dangerous the thing following you was, the stomach-sick that came from being on edge for your life accompanied these pictures, spaced with pale-faced and sharp-teethed beings whose faces were familiar and then turned to something awful.

Molly woke all at once, saved from the swift death of having her throat ripped in her dreams. Upon finding the safety of consciousness and her apartment around her once more, she did three things:

Cried.
Threw up.
Made an appointment for herself in her phone calendar.

And then, with the help of a second glass of wine, Molly fell back to sleep.

May 2nd, 2014

It was mid-afternoon and Molly was standing in line at the pharmacy, hands clinging to the strap of her purse to give them a place to be while she waited her turn. Her prescription had already been faxed over for the pharmacists to fill, so by the time she reached the counter the transaction was quick and pleasant enough both.

"Name and date of birth?"
"Molly Toombs, June 1st, 1988."
"Let's see..... The diazepam?"
"Yes ma'am."

The pharmacist went to fetch the prescription from the storage bins for filled bottles and tubes and other such containers, and Molly pressed her lips together and sighed but was quiet while waiting, not glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone behind her recognized what that word meant.

She'd blamed the stress on her involvement in a recent explosion, possibly a bomb, still under investigation. Details carefully protected from the media on account of the curious circumstances and the condition of the body found on scene. Molly had been present for the whole thing, one of the first to see the gruesome remains of a man murdered by something yet to be decided whether it was human or animal yet. Between this and the bombings around town it wasn't difficult to convince her general practicioner to get her a script.

Acute Stress Disorder, they were considering it.

Molly thought they weren't too far off point, really. She was acutely stressed, but not so much by the bombings or the body that she and a firewoman had found on scene. It was the doubt, the manipulation, the puppets and string pulling and threats and promises, the shadows and the knowledge of what lurked in them and what they would be happy to do to her for all of the secrets that she kept in her mind.

"That's twenty dollars with your copay, miss," the pharmacist snapped Molly out of her thoughts when she returned, and the nurse smiled politely and handed over her debit card and identification both.

Tonight would be the first in some time that she made it through to bed without spending any time feeling her chest crush with the weight of the worry she kept.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=657 Wed, 30 Apr 2014 08:49:53 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=657 [ April 29th, 2014 ]

BREAKING NEWS: POLICE IN HIGH SPEED CHASE WITH DOWNTOWN BOMBING SUSPECT

At approximately 11 AM a Denver homicide detective radioed in for backup after cornering a suspect in the bombing that took place earlier this month in downtown Denver near Capitol Hill.

The suspect was reportedly staying at the Fairfax Motel in East Denver. An explosion was reported at the motel and a car chase ensued with two cruisers taken out by what appeared to be improvised grenades thrown by the suspect. Five officers are reported injured, two of them critically.

The chase is reported to have come to a halt on a utility road outside of the Crescent Valley residential community, a suburb of Denver two miles from the motel.

We have live video from the scene...

* * *

[ System post ]

Kragen is gained upon, the front bumper of the SUV crashing into his rear, but the sturdy little junker manages to hold up and hold its own, keeping traction as it continues kicking up dirt and speeding along the dirt road that's quickly becoming little more than a cattle run. It's the kind of chase that would make them Duke boys proud.

Luckily the rolling hills are tapering off into a valley, the place where the residential neighborhood sprouts out of the dry wilderness, and the car is able to continue making its way closer.

The shooter, a police officer in the passenger seat of the pursuing Denver Police SUV, cracks off a round that slams into Kragen's shoulder. At least the shooter is consistent. It bites deeper that an earlier one and as he wills vitae to stitch the wound shut he tosses another plastic wrapped piece of ordinance out his window with his good arm.

The SUV manages to survive yet another onslaught of exploding gunpowder and metal shrapnel. It crashes once more into the back of Kragen's escape car and this time it means business. Under the power of its own wheels, now having lost their grip on the fundament below, its rear spins out and Kragen finds his own vehicle crashing into a ditch in a manner similar to the cruiser he'd left many-a-football-field behind.

The sharpshooter, still trembling in pain, finds the strength to steady his weapon one last time and crack off a round through the back window of Kragen's vehicle. This time it opens up the side of his jaw, leaving him bleeding in the driver's seat, body now struggling to continue functioning under the trauma coupled with the violence of the crash.

But it can function. And the neighborhood is no longer so far in the distance. It's less than a quarter mile away, fenced in backyards and long paved driveways of cookie cutter homes. There lies the possibility of freedom, tempting to a ghoul of Kragen's mindset.

* * *

[ Shayla post ]

Apparently these police weren't quite as pathetic as Kragen had imagined them to be, perhaps the shooter was ex military, and it would seem the driver had no concern for his, or his partners well being. Regardless it was commendable. Though commending them as he crashed out, spinning and lodging in the ditch was the furthest thing from his mind.

He lay there, bleeding and in pain for several long moments as he recomposed himself and looked out at the cops. He knew he had to play a different sort of game, a different battlefield came next.

What came from the man in that moment was a laugh, deep and terrible before he pulled out his weapon and tossed it onto the dirt outside his car, he also threw the shotgun out before raising his hands to his head, and continued to chuckle to himself.

“I surrender officers, take me away.”

* * *

[ System post - the view from on high ]

The quiet wind blowing over the open plains is broken by the sound of helicopter blades. One helicopter has the emblem of the local news station on its side, the other that of the Denver State Patrol, and they both converge on the scene as more SUVs do the same. Some of them are painted the black and white of conventional law enforcement vehicles, others with government plates and all jet black, and along with them come three ambulances and one large bus that says BOMB SQUAD in plain white lettering along its side.

* * *

[ System post - on the ground ]

The surrender doesn't come quickly. As more officers arrive, Detective Cutter's car among the first on the scene, more gun sights fall on the car. Cutter is informed by the driver of the point SUV that Kragen had thrown his weapons from the window and surrendered.

After some more time has passed a man with a bullhorn begins shouting through it at the car, ordering Kragen to remove his shirt, to strip down to his bare chest, and to step out of the car. A squad of officers approach the car almost fifteen minutes after the chase had ended, hidden behind thick ballistic shields as they advance on Kragen, ordering him to lace his fingers behind his head and step backwards away from the car.

Further.

Further.

Dammit, further, and it's only when they are clear of some imagined blast radius they advance to shackle the man. Moments later the lone bomb squad technician makes his way in that unwieldy padded moon suit to check the vehicle and if it is rigged to blow.]]> [ April 29th, 2014 ]

BREAKING NEWS: POLICE IN HIGH SPEED CHASE WITH DOWNTOWN BOMBING SUSPECT

At approximately 11 AM a Denver homicide detective radioed in for backup after cornering a suspect in the bombing that took place earlier this month in downtown Denver near Capitol Hill.

The suspect was reportedly staying at the Fairfax Motel in East Denver. An explosion was reported at the motel and a car chase ensued with two cruisers taken out by what appeared to be improvised grenades thrown by the suspect. Five officers are reported injured, two of them critically.

The chase is reported to have come to a halt on a utility road outside of the Crescent Valley residential community, a suburb of Denver two miles from the motel.

We have live video from the scene...

* * *

[ System post ]

Kragen is gained upon, the front bumper of the SUV crashing into his rear, but the sturdy little junker manages to hold up and hold its own, keeping traction as it continues kicking up dirt and speeding along the dirt road that's quickly becoming little more than a cattle run. It's the kind of chase that would make them Duke boys proud.

Luckily the rolling hills are tapering off into a valley, the place where the residential neighborhood sprouts out of the dry wilderness, and the car is able to continue making its way closer.

The shooter, a police officer in the passenger seat of the pursuing Denver Police SUV, cracks off a round that slams into Kragen's shoulder. At least the shooter is consistent. It bites deeper that an earlier one and as he wills vitae to stitch the wound shut he tosses another plastic wrapped piece of ordinance out his window with his good arm.

The SUV manages to survive yet another onslaught of exploding gunpowder and metal shrapnel. It crashes once more into the back of Kragen's escape car and this time it means business. Under the power of its own wheels, now having lost their grip on the fundament below, its rear spins out and Kragen finds his own vehicle crashing into a ditch in a manner similar to the cruiser he'd left many-a-football-field behind.

The sharpshooter, still trembling in pain, finds the strength to steady his weapon one last time and crack off a round through the back window of Kragen's vehicle. This time it opens up the side of his jaw, leaving him bleeding in the driver's seat, body now struggling to continue functioning under the trauma coupled with the violence of the crash.

But it can function. And the neighborhood is no longer so far in the distance. It's less than a quarter mile away, fenced in backyards and long paved driveways of cookie cutter homes. There lies the possibility of freedom, tempting to a ghoul of Kragen's mindset.

* * *

[ Shayla post ]

Apparently these police weren't quite as pathetic as Kragen had imagined them to be, perhaps the shooter was ex military, and it would seem the driver had no concern for his, or his partners well being. Regardless it was commendable. Though commending them as he crashed out, spinning and lodging in the ditch was the furthest thing from his mind.

He lay there, bleeding and in pain for several long moments as he recomposed himself and looked out at the cops. He knew he had to play a different sort of game, a different battlefield came next.

What came from the man in that moment was a laugh, deep and terrible before he pulled out his weapon and tossed it onto the dirt outside his car, he also threw the shotgun out before raising his hands to his head, and continued to chuckle to himself.

“I surrender officers, take me away.”

* * *

[ System post - the view from on high ]

The quiet wind blowing over the open plains is broken by the sound of helicopter blades. One helicopter has the emblem of the local news station on its side, the other that of the Denver State Patrol, and they both converge on the scene as more SUVs do the same. Some of them are painted the black and white of conventional law enforcement vehicles, others with government plates and all jet black, and along with them come three ambulances and one large bus that says BOMB SQUAD in plain white lettering along its side.

* * *

[ System post - on the ground ]

The surrender doesn't come quickly. As more officers arrive, Detective Cutter's car among the first on the scene, more gun sights fall on the car. Cutter is informed by the driver of the point SUV that Kragen had thrown his weapons from the window and surrendered.

After some more time has passed a man with a bullhorn begins shouting through it at the car, ordering Kragen to remove his shirt, to strip down to his bare chest, and to step out of the car. A squad of officers approach the car almost fifteen minutes after the chase had ended, hidden behind thick ballistic shields as they advance on Kragen, ordering him to lace his fingers behind his head and step backwards away from the car.

Further.

Further.

Dammit, further, and it's only when they are clear of some imagined blast radius they advance to shackle the man. Moments later the lone bomb squad technician makes his way in that unwieldy padded moon suit to check the vehicle and if it is rigged to blow.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=656 Tue, 29 Apr 2014 16:16:13 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=656
But there is more to Finch than that. He keeps his nose to the ground and his ear to the wind. He's listening to the words people are speaking and the rumours that so easily spread like wild fire among the undead.

He's begun leaving things at various sewer entrances too. Trinkets that a rat might appreciate. Day old bread and fruit, all of the local newspapers. Maybe a CD gets tossed down the grate or crumpled up bits of paper with awful Haiku's written on them.

[... freedom comes
after warriors clash
precarious peace

... your destiny calls
and you refuse to pick up;
your in-box is full. ]

The Toreador is a man on the street. He moves in and out of VIP rooms and rubs shoulders with some of the most talented artists in the Denver area. He even parleys with a few of the local 'thinkers', the boys and girls that worship Anonymous and follow in their foot steps.

[...this is a time when brave men and women like yourselves must don masks and fight for your freedom without renown or regard...]

He even found a chess group on meetup.com and spends a few nights there.

No matter what curse has been laid upon the Sword or the Tower or anyone beneath, above or in between ... Finch is still being Finch, fabulously.]]>
But there is more to Finch than that. He keeps his nose to the ground and his ear to the wind. He's listening to the words people are speaking and the rumours that so easily spread like wild fire among the undead.

He's begun leaving things at various sewer entrances too. Trinkets that a rat might appreciate. Day old bread and fruit, all of the local newspapers. Maybe a CD gets tossed down the grate or crumpled up bits of paper with awful Haiku's written on them.

[... freedom comes
after warriors clash
precarious peace

... your destiny calls
and you refuse to pick up;
your in-box is full. ]

The Toreador is a man on the street. He moves in and out of VIP rooms and rubs shoulders with some of the most talented artists in the Denver area. He even parleys with a few of the local 'thinkers', the boys and girls that worship Anonymous and follow in their foot steps.

[...this is a time when brave men and women like yourselves must don masks and fight for your freedom without renown or regard...]

He even found a chess group on meetup.com and spends a few nights there.

No matter what curse has been laid upon the Sword or the Tower or anyone beneath, above or in between ... Finch is still being Finch, fabulously.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=651 Tue, 22 Apr 2014 23:54:41 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=651
She keeps strange hours, staying awake through the night and sleeping in the earlier hours of the morning before going off to that job, only to repeat the cycle all over again. Her time in the home she shares with the Lasombra known as Flood is occasionally spent in the company of her domitor, but for the most part her time is her own. She does with it what she will.

And for some time, what Amber does with her leisure time is exactly what she does in her work time. She paints. This is no ordinary painting, though, this is a painting done with special materials. The paints, the easel, the brushes, these were given to her by a friend and as soon as they were in her possession Amber knew what she wanted to do with them.

More than a week later Laurel will find a box leaned up against the door to her apartment. The dimensions are not overly large, the box itself is a little bigger than a foot and a half by two feet, and only a few inches thick. There is no shipping information, whoever left it for her brought it themselves, left it themselves, just who was it? There's a note (along with a gift card with a significant amount on it for a local framing shop), haphazardly folded in an envelope taped to one of the sides.

"You're place is too fucking bare.
- Amber"

Open it up, and it's Laurel's face staring back at her, captured in paint and put on a canvas, only it's not the Laurel that she's been seeing in the mirror lately. It's Laurel's face without the worry, without the unsettled feeling that rests in the pit of her stomach. There is darkness all around a face that is fucking luminous. The darkness, it looks like it's ready to swallow that golden glow, that light, snuff it out, but that face.

Laurel's face.

Laurel.

Is proud. Is strong. Is defiant.

And with no Amber around to hand it over, the woman can't try to refuse it, can she?

]]>
She keeps strange hours, staying awake through the night and sleeping in the earlier hours of the morning before going off to that job, only to repeat the cycle all over again. Her time in the home she shares with the Lasombra known as Flood is occasionally spent in the company of her domitor, but for the most part her time is her own. She does with it what she will.

And for some time, what Amber does with her leisure time is exactly what she does in her work time. She paints. This is no ordinary painting, though, this is a painting done with special materials. The paints, the easel, the brushes, these were given to her by a friend and as soon as they were in her possession Amber knew what she wanted to do with them.

More than a week later Laurel will find a box leaned up against the door to her apartment. The dimensions are not overly large, the box itself is a little bigger than a foot and a half by two feet, and only a few inches thick. There is no shipping information, whoever left it for her brought it themselves, left it themselves, just who was it? There's a note (along with a gift card with a significant amount on it for a local framing shop), haphazardly folded in an envelope taped to one of the sides.

"You're place is too fucking bare.
- Amber"

Open it up, and it's Laurel's face staring back at her, captured in paint and put on a canvas, only it's not the Laurel that she's been seeing in the mirror lately. It's Laurel's face without the worry, without the unsettled feeling that rests in the pit of her stomach. There is darkness all around a face that is fucking luminous. The darkness, it looks like it's ready to swallow that golden glow, that light, snuff it out, but that face.

Laurel's face.

Laurel.

Is proud. Is strong. Is defiant.

And with no Amber around to hand it over, the woman can't try to refuse it, can she?

]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=643 Thu, 17 Apr 2014 09:15:48 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=643
The earthquake did little to curb the recent outbreaks of violence in the area with a number of shooting and domestic violence calls leading to police investigations.

Police will be escorting inspectors and other officials to assess the damage to the foundations of buildings in the coming weeks and check gas lines for possible damage. A number of shelters, churches, and local schools have opened up their spaces for those left on the streets after the earthquake.

Sources with the mayor's office say local government officials have been inquiring with regional military installations and universities to identify the cause of the quake in order to help predict future disturbances.]]>
The earthquake did little to curb the recent outbreaks of violence in the area with a number of shooting and domestic violence calls leading to police investigations.

Police will be escorting inspectors and other officials to assess the damage to the foundations of buildings in the coming weeks and check gas lines for possible damage. A number of shelters, churches, and local schools have opened up their spaces for those left on the streets after the earthquake.

Sources with the mayor's office say local government officials have been inquiring with regional military installations and universities to identify the cause of the quake in order to help predict future disturbances.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=642 Thu, 17 Apr 2014 07:33:44 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=642
The slender little snake pulled her unconscious burden from the ground and tossed him unceremoniously over her shoulder, so that she could make her way quickly to a place down the block, where in a matter of minutes it would take a nondescript car to pull up. Then she dumped the body of George Phipps unceremoniously into the back seat. Ah, to put him in the trunk, but too many potential eyes, see? The curious are more likely to notice a body dumped in a trunk than they are tossed into the backseat of a car. Jade closed the door, quickly made her way around to climb into the front passenger seat, and away they went.

Liam does the heavy lifting from there. They go to the place where Jade has her ceremonies. It is an interesting little room. Maybe once it was a boiler room, or a storage room, or something. It's certainly a very convenient little room, located somewhere underneath a section of downtown Denver, with a discrete entrance one practically has to know about in order to find. On the walls of the room are painted figures and emblems. There is a table in the center of the room, with bindings because not everyone likes to be strapped to an altar, do they?

It pains Jade to use this room for this, but who knows? Perhaps by the end of the night she will have the opportunity to use it for its intended purpose, and she will leave this place glutted with information and vitae alike, and won't that be just delightful?

Is Phipps awake by the time they reach this room? Is he awake and struggling? Is he pliant? Whatever the situation, Liam is a big, strong man. If Phipps is prepared to be cooperative, Jade will be as well. There is a chair for him to sit upon, free and unbound. If not, well, there is a table with bindings right there, and a great big strong ghoul from Ghana right over there, ready to put him on it.

"Hi there!" she says when all is ready. There is a smile on her face, and when Jade smiles it's all charm and sweetness. "You'll have to forgive all this cloak and dagger shit, but I wanted to talk to you and well, honestly, things were a little intense back there. I thought we could do with some privacy, hm?" Jade is not sitting in a chair, she is dressed still in her dark clothes meant to blend into shadows, her long dark hair pulled back to the nape of her neck so that it's out of her face.

"There are some things I'd like to know. Your name for starters." Liam moves to stand behind George's chair, an imposing presence bearing down from behind the man. "And who you're associated with."]]>
The slender little snake pulled her unconscious burden from the ground and tossed him unceremoniously over her shoulder, so that she could make her way quickly to a place down the block, where in a matter of minutes it would take a nondescript car to pull up. Then she dumped the body of George Phipps unceremoniously into the back seat. Ah, to put him in the trunk, but too many potential eyes, see? The curious are more likely to notice a body dumped in a trunk than they are tossed into the backseat of a car. Jade closed the door, quickly made her way around to climb into the front passenger seat, and away they went.

Liam does the heavy lifting from there. They go to the place where Jade has her ceremonies. It is an interesting little room. Maybe once it was a boiler room, or a storage room, or something. It's certainly a very convenient little room, located somewhere underneath a section of downtown Denver, with a discrete entrance one practically has to know about in order to find. On the walls of the room are painted figures and emblems. There is a table in the center of the room, with bindings because not everyone likes to be strapped to an altar, do they?

It pains Jade to use this room for this, but who knows? Perhaps by the end of the night she will have the opportunity to use it for its intended purpose, and she will leave this place glutted with information and vitae alike, and won't that be just delightful?

Is Phipps awake by the time they reach this room? Is he awake and struggling? Is he pliant? Whatever the situation, Liam is a big, strong man. If Phipps is prepared to be cooperative, Jade will be as well. There is a chair for him to sit upon, free and unbound. If not, well, there is a table with bindings right there, and a great big strong ghoul from Ghana right over there, ready to put him on it.

"Hi there!" she says when all is ready. There is a smile on her face, and when Jade smiles it's all charm and sweetness. "You'll have to forgive all this cloak and dagger shit, but I wanted to talk to you and well, honestly, things were a little intense back there. I thought we could do with some privacy, hm?" Jade is not sitting in a chair, she is dressed still in her dark clothes meant to blend into shadows, her long dark hair pulled back to the nape of her neck so that it's out of her face.

"There are some things I'd like to know. Your name for starters." Liam moves to stand behind George's chair, an imposing presence bearing down from behind the man. "And who you're associated with."]]>