http://forums.woddenver.com/ Fri, 24 Apr 2026 03:38:35 +0000 MyBB http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1172 Fri, 29 Dec 2017 21:42:31 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1172  
Of course, this was after he got back from Baton Rouge with an unloaded suitcase and the kind of recharged tiredness that only comes with seeing family. Will decided at that point that he wasn’t going to rub it in that he was rather void of awkward family situations; if Margot wasn’t in her position, they wouldn’t be cashing in his frequent flyer miles. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the Hermetic is a seasoned traveler. He also has no problem with airplanes and was asleep for most of the flight (thank you magickal intervention.)
 
He’d made arrangements- couches to stay on if Margot were inclined (“You’ve met Jenn, right? She used to be my roommate. We go pretty far back.”) and hotel rooms if she were not (double beds because, well, it’s Margot). Made arrangements with Pan before any of this to confirm that he was, in fact, okay with meeting with them and he wouldn’t be too busy. Information exchanged or not, Will wanted to buy Pan lunch. Information or not, he offered his services for whatever to Pan over the weekend.  He even gave the man the heads up that he was still in Quiet so if William was acting strangely it really, really wasn’t personal.
 
Socializing is part of House Jerbiton’s thing. He’s not half bad at it.
 
---
 
All that prelude and jet lag and unpacking and settling and whatever led to one place: La Imperial Tortilleria. It was a little restaurant in east LA that had Mexican coke, burritos that Urban Spoon raved about, and a little convenience store section where you could get pastries and soda and packaged ice cream. It also had a parking lot that wasn’t a mile away from the location, which was most assuredly a big selling point in William’s opinion. His sense of direction was not exactly fantastic and, when left to his own devices, he ambled.
 
The restaurant was not a visually appealing place inside, but it made up for the bland walls and unevenly painted ceiling with the smell of it. Fresh-cooked food has its own soul, and scent was enough to keep butts in those ugly brown-and-red chairs at their boring tables. The beauty of the place was held in the open kitchen where the chef performed whatever sorcery it was that turned raw ingredients into satisfaction. Cooking is an art; baking is alchemy. This man, Javier, was skilled in both. The little pastries shoved in the cabinet were his.
 
The other worker- a teenage boy with a few extra pounds whose nametag said Nacho- was hovering over a book at the register. The tables, boring as they were, happened to be very neat and clean and well-stocked; that attention was also paid to the faced-and-stocked grocery section. There weren’t any people to tend to, so he was more-than-happy to be engulfed in his reading.]]>  
Of course, this was after he got back from Baton Rouge with an unloaded suitcase and the kind of recharged tiredness that only comes with seeing family. Will decided at that point that he wasn’t going to rub it in that he was rather void of awkward family situations; if Margot wasn’t in her position, they wouldn’t be cashing in his frequent flyer miles. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the Hermetic is a seasoned traveler. He also has no problem with airplanes and was asleep for most of the flight (thank you magickal intervention.)
 
He’d made arrangements- couches to stay on if Margot were inclined (“You’ve met Jenn, right? She used to be my roommate. We go pretty far back.”) and hotel rooms if she were not (double beds because, well, it’s Margot). Made arrangements with Pan before any of this to confirm that he was, in fact, okay with meeting with them and he wouldn’t be too busy. Information exchanged or not, Will wanted to buy Pan lunch. Information or not, he offered his services for whatever to Pan over the weekend.  He even gave the man the heads up that he was still in Quiet so if William was acting strangely it really, really wasn’t personal.
 
Socializing is part of House Jerbiton’s thing. He’s not half bad at it.
 
---
 
All that prelude and jet lag and unpacking and settling and whatever led to one place: La Imperial Tortilleria. It was a little restaurant in east LA that had Mexican coke, burritos that Urban Spoon raved about, and a little convenience store section where you could get pastries and soda and packaged ice cream. It also had a parking lot that wasn’t a mile away from the location, which was most assuredly a big selling point in William’s opinion. His sense of direction was not exactly fantastic and, when left to his own devices, he ambled.
 
The restaurant was not a visually appealing place inside, but it made up for the bland walls and unevenly painted ceiling with the smell of it. Fresh-cooked food has its own soul, and scent was enough to keep butts in those ugly brown-and-red chairs at their boring tables. The beauty of the place was held in the open kitchen where the chef performed whatever sorcery it was that turned raw ingredients into satisfaction. Cooking is an art; baking is alchemy. This man, Javier, was skilled in both. The little pastries shoved in the cabinet were his.
 
The other worker- a teenage boy with a few extra pounds whose nametag said Nacho- was hovering over a book at the register. The tables, boring as they were, happened to be very neat and clean and well-stocked; that attention was also paid to the faced-and-stocked grocery section. There weren’t any people to tend to, so he was more-than-happy to be engulfed in his reading.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1170 Mon, 11 Dec 2017 16:03:06 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1170 Two weeks until Beltane, 2016
 
“There is no way in the whole of creation that I am performing any sort of ritual with those bloodthirsty harpies!” Aldous punctuated his refusal with a slammed car door and peeling out of the Jasper House driveway. The other two Hermetics watched as the third made his rather dramatic exit onto the streets and out of Colorado about as quickly as they could stand.
 
Pueblo didn’t have much going for it, all things considered, save for the fact that it was backed up to one of the more impressive nodes in the Rockies- a fact that was lost neither on the Order nor anyone else who happened to be dealing with it. The chantry in Pueblo existed more as a Great Hermetic Storage Unit- obscene amounts of useful-but-not-useful-enough stuff packed into a tiny, tiny space. No, this place existed for a singular reason: Magister Scholae Ephraim Columba Ezra Schuler Yonath bani Bonisagus didn’t want to move. He had everything where he liked it, and if the Order tried to do anything that would encourage him to move they would soon find themselves reminded that Magister Yonath didn’t tell them where all of his things were and gods forbid some of his god-forbidden playthings become lost to the ages or end up in the wrong hands.
 
But, that was neither here nor there.  It merely set the stage for the rather awkward series of phone calls that was to come. Two well-dressed men stood on the front porch of the chantry- one tall with a red beard and the other short with an unfortunate moustache.
 
“Octavian, that…”the red-beareded man sighed, “that was the last person.”
“Come ooooon Jules, he couldn’t be the last person on the list.”
“I’m afraid so. Aldous Upton was the last respectable ritualist in a two-hundred-mile radius who actually owed us any kind of actual favor we could call in.”
 
Both men sighed, and the unfortunately moustached man- Octavian- went to a cabinet and retrieved some decanter filled with a pearlescent liquid and two glasses. Both were poured over ice, and then went to their respective owners. With the threat of having to impress someone thrown to the wind, both plopped down all undignified and comfortable-like. Shoes were soon to be discarded; sorrows were to be drowned in whatever kind of spirit-brewed swill they were about to imbibe.
 
“You realize this means we’re going to have to actually ask someone who doesn’t owe us, right?”
“Uggggghhhhhhh don’t remind me,” Julian the Red-Beared groaned, “why won’t Yonath do it again?”
“Erectile dysfunction,” Octavian snickered, “master of any number of things and the old man won’t pony up for the blue pill.”
“Actually-“
 
It was a voice that made both men pause from the snickering they were so looking forward to doing. Magister Yonath’s presence was abrupt, a light thrown on in a room. Brilliant lights, dazzling colors, the aftermath of fireworks shown to untouched tribes and the echoes of their explosion. He wasn’t a particularly tall man, or an imposing one. His hair was gray and he had a penchant for comfortable sweaters; today happened to be sporting something with uneven sleeves and uneven red stripes.
 
Ephraim plucked the glasses from both of their hands. The slack-jawed disciples said nothing as he downed one cup and cleared his throat, “state law prohibits having sex with people who are possibly your great grand children. Goddess-ridden or not.”
 
He tipped a glass to the two men, who still seemed as though they couldn’t come up with words or anything that would dig them out of the hole they just jumped headfirst into.
 
“Either one of you is going to have to appease the Goddess or you will be the ones who have to explain to the Order why the Verbena won’t share the rather massive node that is sitting in our proverbial back yard. They’re already very upset with us because of my lack of presence and it is up to you to make this perfect. While you are recategorizing and cleaning storage in the eastern wing you should have plenty of time to come up with a plan of action. I expect a concrete plan by tomorrow morning and its implementation by the day after.”
“But-that- the eastern wing is-“ Octavian stammered.
“Well, how fortunate for you that time moves at whatever pace you please for it to,” Ephraim Yonath smiled and pounded the second drink he had in his hands. Empty glasses were forked over to the disciples and he sauntered along his way, “I have other people’s days to ruin, gentlemen. Who needs a little blue pill when your flabbergasted misery can warm my… heart? So thoroughly.”
 
He waved and was off on his way.
 
The two unfortunate Hermetics headed along off to their next task and determine who was going to take the fall when Pueblo’s Verbena were, as they often were, utterly unsatisfied.]]> Two weeks until Beltane, 2016
 
“There is no way in the whole of creation that I am performing any sort of ritual with those bloodthirsty harpies!” Aldous punctuated his refusal with a slammed car door and peeling out of the Jasper House driveway. The other two Hermetics watched as the third made his rather dramatic exit onto the streets and out of Colorado about as quickly as they could stand.
 
Pueblo didn’t have much going for it, all things considered, save for the fact that it was backed up to one of the more impressive nodes in the Rockies- a fact that was lost neither on the Order nor anyone else who happened to be dealing with it. The chantry in Pueblo existed more as a Great Hermetic Storage Unit- obscene amounts of useful-but-not-useful-enough stuff packed into a tiny, tiny space. No, this place existed for a singular reason: Magister Scholae Ephraim Columba Ezra Schuler Yonath bani Bonisagus didn’t want to move. He had everything where he liked it, and if the Order tried to do anything that would encourage him to move they would soon find themselves reminded that Magister Yonath didn’t tell them where all of his things were and gods forbid some of his god-forbidden playthings become lost to the ages or end up in the wrong hands.
 
But, that was neither here nor there.  It merely set the stage for the rather awkward series of phone calls that was to come. Two well-dressed men stood on the front porch of the chantry- one tall with a red beard and the other short with an unfortunate moustache.
 
“Octavian, that…”the red-beareded man sighed, “that was the last person.”
“Come ooooon Jules, he couldn’t be the last person on the list.”
“I’m afraid so. Aldous Upton was the last respectable ritualist in a two-hundred-mile radius who actually owed us any kind of actual favor we could call in.”
 
Both men sighed, and the unfortunately moustached man- Octavian- went to a cabinet and retrieved some decanter filled with a pearlescent liquid and two glasses. Both were poured over ice, and then went to their respective owners. With the threat of having to impress someone thrown to the wind, both plopped down all undignified and comfortable-like. Shoes were soon to be discarded; sorrows were to be drowned in whatever kind of spirit-brewed swill they were about to imbibe.
 
“You realize this means we’re going to have to actually ask someone who doesn’t owe us, right?”
“Uggggghhhhhhh don’t remind me,” Julian the Red-Beared groaned, “why won’t Yonath do it again?”
“Erectile dysfunction,” Octavian snickered, “master of any number of things and the old man won’t pony up for the blue pill.”
“Actually-“
 
It was a voice that made both men pause from the snickering they were so looking forward to doing. Magister Yonath’s presence was abrupt, a light thrown on in a room. Brilliant lights, dazzling colors, the aftermath of fireworks shown to untouched tribes and the echoes of their explosion. He wasn’t a particularly tall man, or an imposing one. His hair was gray and he had a penchant for comfortable sweaters; today happened to be sporting something with uneven sleeves and uneven red stripes.
 
Ephraim plucked the glasses from both of their hands. The slack-jawed disciples said nothing as he downed one cup and cleared his throat, “state law prohibits having sex with people who are possibly your great grand children. Goddess-ridden or not.”
 
He tipped a glass to the two men, who still seemed as though they couldn’t come up with words or anything that would dig them out of the hole they just jumped headfirst into.
 
“Either one of you is going to have to appease the Goddess or you will be the ones who have to explain to the Order why the Verbena won’t share the rather massive node that is sitting in our proverbial back yard. They’re already very upset with us because of my lack of presence and it is up to you to make this perfect. While you are recategorizing and cleaning storage in the eastern wing you should have plenty of time to come up with a plan of action. I expect a concrete plan by tomorrow morning and its implementation by the day after.”
“But-that- the eastern wing is-“ Octavian stammered.
“Well, how fortunate for you that time moves at whatever pace you please for it to,” Ephraim Yonath smiled and pounded the second drink he had in his hands. Empty glasses were forked over to the disciples and he sauntered along his way, “I have other people’s days to ruin, gentlemen. Who needs a little blue pill when your flabbergasted misery can warm my… heart? So thoroughly.”
 
He waved and was off on his way.
 
The two unfortunate Hermetics headed along off to their next task and determine who was going to take the fall when Pueblo’s Verbena were, as they often were, utterly unsatisfied.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1168 Tue, 28 Nov 2017 18:03:38 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1168
It was the kitchen where she'd be found, hovering behind the kitchen counter with her hands folded over one another and rested atop it.  Her gaze was distant out the window into the front yard, unfocused, a mile down a path of thought and quite lost to it at present.

She looked ready to leave, though she'd announced no intentions or plans to go anyplace.  She'd been quiet the past couple of days, though, keeping particularly to herself and spending more time in her room than her preferred reading spaces-- the kitchen and living room.  On Monday she'd taken off in the morning, and when she returned she spent the rest of the nigh-80-degree afternoon kneeling in her garden shrine and focusing hard on something.

Not like now, though.  This wasn't focused.  This was lost, with a vague crease of fret between her dark brows.  Car keys beside her hands on one side, a mug of fresh-steeping tea on the other.]]>
It was the kitchen where she'd be found, hovering behind the kitchen counter with her hands folded over one another and rested atop it.  Her gaze was distant out the window into the front yard, unfocused, a mile down a path of thought and quite lost to it at present.

She looked ready to leave, though she'd announced no intentions or plans to go anyplace.  She'd been quiet the past couple of days, though, keeping particularly to herself and spending more time in her room than her preferred reading spaces-- the kitchen and living room.  On Monday she'd taken off in the morning, and when she returned she spent the rest of the nigh-80-degree afternoon kneeling in her garden shrine and focusing hard on something.

Not like now, though.  This wasn't focused.  This was lost, with a vague crease of fret between her dark brows.  Car keys beside her hands on one side, a mug of fresh-steeping tea on the other.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1167 Sat, 25 Nov 2017 18:48:18 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1167 Saying hello is difficult after a long period of time because that length of time makes me seem like you need a cannon, a battering ram and the mother of all Monologues to explain yourself. Starting with a hello? Just seems like you're holding out a handshake while they went for the M16s the moment you crested the hillside."

~Tremennis Volska, Akashic Brotherhood~

Margot's cellphone rings. It is evening and somewhere in the house. Specifically, in her room. The call is calculated to do this, to place her somewhere in her comfort zone and not beyond it's borders. To maximize the cushioning that the call may well produce. 

Because a Mage with Entropy, Mind and Corr at their disposal coupled with a dedicated urgency like this, would go to the trouble of ensuring those sorts of things without actually indicating that's what this was.

She's at home. In her room, available to talk should she accept the call. 

Cue appropriately youthful ringtone. 

"Ms. Travers?"

A last name to indicate whoever it is knows her family name. A soft tone to indicate it isn't something official. A familiarity to indicate it isn't a stranger. A question mark to inform this isn't an intrusion (or at least it doesn't want to be). A formality to suggest courtesy. The time of Night (late enough to be off-putting of the previously mentioned courtesy) a hallmark to say this was important. 

"I'd like to have a word." Pause. "Please."]]> Saying hello is difficult after a long period of time because that length of time makes me seem like you need a cannon, a battering ram and the mother of all Monologues to explain yourself. Starting with a hello? Just seems like you're holding out a handshake while they went for the M16s the moment you crested the hillside."

~Tremennis Volska, Akashic Brotherhood~

Margot's cellphone rings. It is evening and somewhere in the house. Specifically, in her room. The call is calculated to do this, to place her somewhere in her comfort zone and not beyond it's borders. To maximize the cushioning that the call may well produce. 

Because a Mage with Entropy, Mind and Corr at their disposal coupled with a dedicated urgency like this, would go to the trouble of ensuring those sorts of things without actually indicating that's what this was.

She's at home. In her room, available to talk should she accept the call. 

Cue appropriately youthful ringtone. 

"Ms. Travers?"

A last name to indicate whoever it is knows her family name. A soft tone to indicate it isn't something official. A familiarity to indicate it isn't a stranger. A question mark to inform this isn't an intrusion (or at least it doesn't want to be). A formality to suggest courtesy. The time of Night (late enough to be off-putting of the previously mentioned courtesy) a hallmark to say this was important. 

"I'd like to have a word." Pause. "Please."]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1166 Wed, 15 Nov 2017 08:40:26 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1166
Still. Kiara gets a picture of a tiny penguin in a sweater for a text greeting, followed by something more ominous.

"Ginger's a chatty girl. Keeps saying 'we are the creeps, when do we meet?' I say never."

"Let people know though, okay?"]]>
Still. Kiara gets a picture of a tiny penguin in a sweater for a text greeting, followed by something more ominous.

"Ginger's a chatty girl. Keeps saying 'we are the creeps, when do we meet?' I say never."

"Let people know though, okay?"]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1165 Tue, 14 Nov 2017 09:36:13 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1165 Sera’s house. He hadn’t been by in over a year, truth be told. He hadn’t seen her in even longer, so the Hermetic expected the place to be a proverbial ghost town and, instead, found it to be a literal ghost town- much livelier than one would think to the point of being almost unsettling.
 
There were still pumpkins out on the front lawn, stacked up and carved with little faces and string lights hung with Edison bulbs decorated the front porch. They flickered and spooky sound effects played when they did as one would expect with your standard Halloween fare; the solo cups scattered in the yard were black and orange. There were two cats and three different permutations of Dr. Who sitting on the sofa at the curb.
 
Things existed here in their prime; the mind likes to build things in a state of how they were most memorable since most things are non-events in the realm of memory. Brushing your teeth in the morning, eating rice cakes, driving to work day after day without any incident whatsoever were all acts that did not warrant notice. The Corona Street house parties were always worthy of remembering, for the parts that he was chemically capable of remembering. Sometimes Serafine was at them, and sometimes she was not but the woman came with her own entourage, so it only stood to reason that if she were not there they would follow soon after. Like a pack instead of a band. Like a quiet religious order of their own following consciously or unconsciously the teachings Serafine lived her life by. Besides, he liked her friends. They were sort of also his friends; their relationships existed outside of her.
 
William smiled and trotted his way up the front steps. (Respite.) The house had that same smell that it usually does, but this time more punctuated by the ever-present clove and cinnamon scent that comes this time of year. Warm bodies in cheap costumes drinking whatever-the-fuck was there and each and every blessed one of them had their own sort of energy. You could feel it there more than any other place; Corona Street was more alive than any other place in this city if only because of the collective beating hearts sharing communion over gin.
 
 ("Remember that you're at the very beginning, and you have fuck-all of an idea of who's what and when and where. Caution, man. Especially now, when you're with your housemates, I think you need to have your wits about you at every step," was a warning and piece of advice Dan had issued to him before. With the potential of a very unpleasant Tribunal lurking on the horizon it seemed like a very solid piece of advice; there had never been an instance where William had not listened when Dan deigned to impart wisdom.)
 
“Hey, Dee!” he pressed himself against the back of a sofa where a few people were seated. Dee, with her milky white skin and tendency to blush from her bosom up, turned her attention in the direction of the voice.
“Elijah!” she brightened, “where have you been? We haven’t seen you at derby.”
“I’m lame,” he laughed, “packed up my cheerleading uniform and everything.”
“You are lame, there’s nobody who pulls off the flyaway skirt better than you.”
“You’re goddamned right there’s not- you seen Sera or Dan?”
“Oh! Yeah, we’re out of vodka and Sera wanted cupcakes sooo,” Dee laughed at that, a telltale blush creeping up her body.
“How can you want cupcakes when the whole place smells like bomb-assed frosting?” (Thanks NED.)
“That’s probably why, witch can’t eat the gingerbread house she lives in-”
“-hence the need to pop Hansel and Gretel in a microwave.”
“Exactly.”
“Gawd, Dee,” between laughs. This is what it was like at Sera’s; he was happy, “when did you get to be morbid?”
“Ever since you’ve been that way. I’m just following suit,” she winked and gave a little wiggle of her fingers. William excused himself and headed off to the kitchen.
 
It was the standard raiding of the goods presented. He grabbed a bottle of some unpronounceable local craft beer and took a drink. The flow of the party continued and there was the occasional question as to what he was for Halloween (”uh… I’m a fugitive?”) which garnered some laughter but mostly just the need to wave it off because people didn’t get it and didn’t want him to explain. They would rather get hammered or high or both and talk about whatever was going on. Neither mage nor mortal seemed to notice that there weren’t any stars or sun in the sky. Nobody but Neith seemed to have noticed, really. Oh, and the rest of the Order. So, the rather obvious astrological anomaly was off the table.
 
Which left the one thing they all had in common here: drinking. He wasn’t concerned about getting too drunk; the Hermetic could warp creation to his will. Sobering up and hangovers were, in fact, a thing of the past if he didn’t want to deal with them. One drink turned into two. Two turned to four. Beer went by drink three in favor of going for whatever the fuck was in the punch bowl by the fourth drink.
 
By the time he was finishing the fourth drink off, talking to a rather open-minded couple about how the harp is similar to the piano, a tall brunette was handing him his fifth drink. Her hand on his arm was what drew his attention; she had a bright red wig in her gloved hand. He had to take the drink if only to fill up space. “You look dehydrated.”
 
She was made of the stuff that young men had plastered to their ceilings so they could sleep at night.  Red lipstick and red sequined dresses that were slit up to the hip were the most telling signs of a Jessica Rabbit costume. The other sign is the haphazardly pinned down natural hair that inevitably shows when the wearer realizes that red wigs are fucking unbearable.
 
“I’m actually fucking starving,” he said with a grin, but tipped his glass her way, “but I don’t refuse a drink. Blahblahblah calories bullshit don’t care I live on sugar anyway.”
“You are going to give yourself diabetes.”
“Really? How quickly can I get on that?” Why do you sound familiar?
“Drink up and find out. That punch bowl is basically glucose and everclear.”
“And lime sherbet. Don’t forget that part,” he grinned, playful.
 
The brunette laughed and went to pour herself a glass as well, looking awkwardly at her wig before handing it off to Will so she could manage the punch bowl. The couple he had been talking to excused themselves, but the male partner does give him a thumbs-up and mouthed something that seemed to be a congratulation in his direction. William just shook his head with that damned grin on his face that hadn’t been a constant fixture in ages. Were he content to face the idea that he was going to lay down and accept his fate, this would be a good way to remember his last days.
 
“So, I’m Elijah,” he offers.
“I know,” she replies.
“Oh ho, I’m legendary apparently.”
 
The brunette just laughed. Drink polished off, he offered her the cup and she started in on a refill. William felt warm, breathing in quickly but noticing that air didn’t have the right taste. Maybe he drank too much? It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling- the tendency towards floating and disconnect. He’d gone through five drinks in who knows how much time (what time was it? What day was it?) and he hadn’t had much to eat. Rookie mistakes for someone who was seasoned at this.
 
This was, however, a familiar feeling. He couldn’t shake the thought that he knew her, if not her then he knew her voice. He knew her textures even if William couldn’t place what palate she was painted on. The déjà vu wasn’t the concern, it was that feeling of disconnect, that feeling that comes when your body doesn’t want to respond to the commands you’re giving it and the feeling that you have control isn’t so much slipping as it is being wrenched away from you. His breathing was slower than it had any right to be; Will knew why it was hard to breathe. His knees started to give on him and the brunette reached to keep him on his feet.
 
She was much stronger than her body had any logical reason to be.
 
 “My name is Blythe,” she reminded him. He didn’t remember anything after that. ]]> Sera’s house. He hadn’t been by in over a year, truth be told. He hadn’t seen her in even longer, so the Hermetic expected the place to be a proverbial ghost town and, instead, found it to be a literal ghost town- much livelier than one would think to the point of being almost unsettling.
 
There were still pumpkins out on the front lawn, stacked up and carved with little faces and string lights hung with Edison bulbs decorated the front porch. They flickered and spooky sound effects played when they did as one would expect with your standard Halloween fare; the solo cups scattered in the yard were black and orange. There were two cats and three different permutations of Dr. Who sitting on the sofa at the curb.
 
Things existed here in their prime; the mind likes to build things in a state of how they were most memorable since most things are non-events in the realm of memory. Brushing your teeth in the morning, eating rice cakes, driving to work day after day without any incident whatsoever were all acts that did not warrant notice. The Corona Street house parties were always worthy of remembering, for the parts that he was chemically capable of remembering. Sometimes Serafine was at them, and sometimes she was not but the woman came with her own entourage, so it only stood to reason that if she were not there they would follow soon after. Like a pack instead of a band. Like a quiet religious order of their own following consciously or unconsciously the teachings Serafine lived her life by. Besides, he liked her friends. They were sort of also his friends; their relationships existed outside of her.
 
William smiled and trotted his way up the front steps. (Respite.) The house had that same smell that it usually does, but this time more punctuated by the ever-present clove and cinnamon scent that comes this time of year. Warm bodies in cheap costumes drinking whatever-the-fuck was there and each and every blessed one of them had their own sort of energy. You could feel it there more than any other place; Corona Street was more alive than any other place in this city if only because of the collective beating hearts sharing communion over gin.
 
 ("Remember that you're at the very beginning, and you have fuck-all of an idea of who's what and when and where. Caution, man. Especially now, when you're with your housemates, I think you need to have your wits about you at every step," was a warning and piece of advice Dan had issued to him before. With the potential of a very unpleasant Tribunal lurking on the horizon it seemed like a very solid piece of advice; there had never been an instance where William had not listened when Dan deigned to impart wisdom.)
 
“Hey, Dee!” he pressed himself against the back of a sofa where a few people were seated. Dee, with her milky white skin and tendency to blush from her bosom up, turned her attention in the direction of the voice.
“Elijah!” she brightened, “where have you been? We haven’t seen you at derby.”
“I’m lame,” he laughed, “packed up my cheerleading uniform and everything.”
“You are lame, there’s nobody who pulls off the flyaway skirt better than you.”
“You’re goddamned right there’s not- you seen Sera or Dan?”
“Oh! Yeah, we’re out of vodka and Sera wanted cupcakes sooo,” Dee laughed at that, a telltale blush creeping up her body.
“How can you want cupcakes when the whole place smells like bomb-assed frosting?” (Thanks NED.)
“That’s probably why, witch can’t eat the gingerbread house she lives in-”
“-hence the need to pop Hansel and Gretel in a microwave.”
“Exactly.”
“Gawd, Dee,” between laughs. This is what it was like at Sera’s; he was happy, “when did you get to be morbid?”
“Ever since you’ve been that way. I’m just following suit,” she winked and gave a little wiggle of her fingers. William excused himself and headed off to the kitchen.
 
It was the standard raiding of the goods presented. He grabbed a bottle of some unpronounceable local craft beer and took a drink. The flow of the party continued and there was the occasional question as to what he was for Halloween (”uh… I’m a fugitive?”) which garnered some laughter but mostly just the need to wave it off because people didn’t get it and didn’t want him to explain. They would rather get hammered or high or both and talk about whatever was going on. Neither mage nor mortal seemed to notice that there weren’t any stars or sun in the sky. Nobody but Neith seemed to have noticed, really. Oh, and the rest of the Order. So, the rather obvious astrological anomaly was off the table.
 
Which left the one thing they all had in common here: drinking. He wasn’t concerned about getting too drunk; the Hermetic could warp creation to his will. Sobering up and hangovers were, in fact, a thing of the past if he didn’t want to deal with them. One drink turned into two. Two turned to four. Beer went by drink three in favor of going for whatever the fuck was in the punch bowl by the fourth drink.
 
By the time he was finishing the fourth drink off, talking to a rather open-minded couple about how the harp is similar to the piano, a tall brunette was handing him his fifth drink. Her hand on his arm was what drew his attention; she had a bright red wig in her gloved hand. He had to take the drink if only to fill up space. “You look dehydrated.”
 
She was made of the stuff that young men had plastered to their ceilings so they could sleep at night.  Red lipstick and red sequined dresses that were slit up to the hip were the most telling signs of a Jessica Rabbit costume. The other sign is the haphazardly pinned down natural hair that inevitably shows when the wearer realizes that red wigs are fucking unbearable.
 
“I’m actually fucking starving,” he said with a grin, but tipped his glass her way, “but I don’t refuse a drink. Blahblahblah calories bullshit don’t care I live on sugar anyway.”
“You are going to give yourself diabetes.”
“Really? How quickly can I get on that?” Why do you sound familiar?
“Drink up and find out. That punch bowl is basically glucose and everclear.”
“And lime sherbet. Don’t forget that part,” he grinned, playful.
 
The brunette laughed and went to pour herself a glass as well, looking awkwardly at her wig before handing it off to Will so she could manage the punch bowl. The couple he had been talking to excused themselves, but the male partner does give him a thumbs-up and mouthed something that seemed to be a congratulation in his direction. William just shook his head with that damned grin on his face that hadn’t been a constant fixture in ages. Were he content to face the idea that he was going to lay down and accept his fate, this would be a good way to remember his last days.
 
“So, I’m Elijah,” he offers.
“I know,” she replies.
“Oh ho, I’m legendary apparently.”
 
The brunette just laughed. Drink polished off, he offered her the cup and she started in on a refill. William felt warm, breathing in quickly but noticing that air didn’t have the right taste. Maybe he drank too much? It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling- the tendency towards floating and disconnect. He’d gone through five drinks in who knows how much time (what time was it? What day was it?) and he hadn’t had much to eat. Rookie mistakes for someone who was seasoned at this.
 
This was, however, a familiar feeling. He couldn’t shake the thought that he knew her, if not her then he knew her voice. He knew her textures even if William couldn’t place what palate she was painted on. The déjà vu wasn’t the concern, it was that feeling of disconnect, that feeling that comes when your body doesn’t want to respond to the commands you’re giving it and the feeling that you have control isn’t so much slipping as it is being wrenched away from you. His breathing was slower than it had any right to be; Will knew why it was hard to breathe. His knees started to give on him and the brunette reached to keep him on his feet.
 
She was much stronger than her body had any logical reason to be.
 
 “My name is Blythe,” she reminded him. He didn’t remember anything after that. ]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1164 Tue, 14 Nov 2017 06:53:02 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1164
For the sake of confirming his suspicions with his actual eyes and not some gadget he has stashed away in a pocket somewhere, Andrés pokes his head into the library. He is expecting to see Will still on the floor underneath the table with Ned beside him, and Margot nowhere in sight.

The Etherite's hair is a mess, his lower lip savaged by a pair of human teeth, his clothing on but in a disarray. Though the resonance in the air is still repellant to him, he was expecting it this time. He can tolerate the electric menace lurking just beyond his peripheral vision.

If Margot is still upstairs in her room, she's about to have a guest. Said impending guest fishes his eyeglasses out of his pocket as he leaves Kiara to deal with Ned.]]>
For the sake of confirming his suspicions with his actual eyes and not some gadget he has stashed away in a pocket somewhere, Andrés pokes his head into the library. He is expecting to see Will still on the floor underneath the table with Ned beside him, and Margot nowhere in sight.

The Etherite's hair is a mess, his lower lip savaged by a pair of human teeth, his clothing on but in a disarray. Though the resonance in the air is still repellant to him, he was expecting it this time. He can tolerate the electric menace lurking just beyond his peripheral vision.

If Margot is still upstairs in her room, she's about to have a guest. Said impending guest fishes his eyeglasses out of his pocket as he leaves Kiara to deal with Ned.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1161 Mon, 06 Nov 2017 13:52:39 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1161
They had come back from lunch at a reasonable, on-time hour, and Nora went off to do whatever the fuck it is that people do at the end of their internship that didn't necessarily involve having to deal with Sepulveda. Which, really, left just the two men and the body that the police had brought in today. 

They didn't say that it was a particularly nasty body per-se, just that it had been found in a trash compactor. Because, of course, the men in this office had seen worse and the bag seemed to be containing something that was human shaped versus something that was shaped like a Halloween scarecrow stuffed into a trash sack. When unzipped and transferred and prepped, it would appear that the body was largely unrecognizable. It was that of an unremarkable Vietnamese woman in her early forties. Short black hair. Tattoo on her left ankle of a butterfly, and with her spine broken in enough places that she flopped like a twizzler when people tried to move her. 

There was a radio nearby, and nothing seemed to be amiss. That's how these things start- something doesn't seem to be amiss.]]>
They had come back from lunch at a reasonable, on-time hour, and Nora went off to do whatever the fuck it is that people do at the end of their internship that didn't necessarily involve having to deal with Sepulveda. Which, really, left just the two men and the body that the police had brought in today. 

They didn't say that it was a particularly nasty body per-se, just that it had been found in a trash compactor. Because, of course, the men in this office had seen worse and the bag seemed to be containing something that was human shaped versus something that was shaped like a Halloween scarecrow stuffed into a trash sack. When unzipped and transferred and prepped, it would appear that the body was largely unrecognizable. It was that of an unremarkable Vietnamese woman in her early forties. Short black hair. Tattoo on her left ankle of a butterfly, and with her spine broken in enough places that she flopped like a twizzler when people tried to move her. 

There was a radio nearby, and nothing seemed to be amiss. That's how these things start- something doesn't seem to be amiss.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1160 Tue, 31 Oct 2017 22:09:43 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1160 elsewhere.

The study was an abysmal sight after the ritual. The air felt like a spark begging for a methane leak and there was a taste in the air; the taste of ozone made for a nice touch, too. It wasn’t the usual taste of a study- that taste of decaying books that people so mistakenly and lovingly assume is the smell of fine literature on the shelves. That smell, that taste that filled your tongue when the air came deep into your lungs, was decay. That smell was the loss of knowledge and secrets and lifetimes of knowing because we are impermanent. ( And? something says in the back of his mind. Always there, always aware, but perhaps missing the point.) The subtle reminder of decay had been overwritten by the more immediate scents mixing to bear witness.
 
Blood had its own smell when it was fresh. To call it vital was to be cliché- blood smelled like stripped electrical wiring, tasted like a piece of tin foil chewed too long on new fillings, felt like a warm bath with enough oils in it to make it slick. Fresh blood was almost pleasant; in truth, fresh blood was only unpleasant in the ways that sitting in a puddle after an uncomfortably warm rain would be. Southerners knew that particular joy; William rolled from his side to his stomach, taking his time before getting to his hands and knees. He paid attention to the sensation divorced from the implications that it had. Pain was obvious- he had enough concussions in his life to start to know what one probably feels like. His muscles were weak and the combination of disorientation and bruising made the task of getting into a seated position an arduous one.  
 
William swallowed, his saliva mixing with hot copper. He forced his eyes shut, “it is October thirty-first. I’m in the study. There are…” He couldn’t place them, couldn’t hold onto the images of what had happened clearly because of what he was attributing to a head injury. The Hermetic decided to survey his surroundings again in hopes that this would provide stability.
 
Lines were etched and drawn but beyond that, he saw… chaos. A lack of order and a mess of scribbles and what translated to his brain like sidewalk chalk drawings and finger paintings. Sacred symbols and Truth given form held no more meaning than the pictures a pile of string makes when you drop it on the floor and try to give it any meaning. Ritual was built in symbolism and parallels; he remembered when he had learned the more practical practices from Henry. Hermetics had a strange view of what was practical and what wasn’t. Calling forth through the names and orders and giving the most painstaking instructions written and spoken in True Words was practical. The hours spent perfecting every detail were considered practical. Of course, William had taken practicality a step further and perhaps out of bounds and-
 
“This isn’t right.”
 
He could muse about practicality and the nature of being an imperfect person trying to live up to the pursuit of dynamic perfection (ha), but what was in front of him was more important. William was prone to being stuck in his head (ha) but this was not the time. Warm blood, charred books, ozone, and meat. That was what struck him when he moved, just enough, just until he could see under the table. There were pieces of tee shirt stretched thin and ripped clean over what looked to be little more than a crash test dummy with jeans on. It close approximation of a human being save for the fact that the limbs were jointed in the wrong ways. Too many elbows and not enough spine. It made the body coil like a dog’s rope toy instead of crumple like a marionette. The young Hermetic pushed away from his perch and attempted to stand. His legs weren’t having it, but in that moment of struggle he caught a look at the wall.
 
Blood. Hot blood, boiling mulled wine blood and long pork stew meat and shoddy shrapnel napkins. Splattered across the back wall. There wasn’t enough blood, but whatever had been there boiled off in part to leave what looked like chili paste slapped thick onto the floor. When he followed the splatter to the ground there were those lines again. He followed the indications of what had taken place around the circle, keeping the spire of previously smoldering books in the center. Symbols. Meanings. Truth?
 
To say his stomach turned was, again, cliché. Stomachs don’t turn and guts don’t twist save for when you have your hands in a man’s innards and you move them yourself. William looked at his hands again, a familiar feeling in them that drew forth a ragged breath that wasn’t inspired by pain. The lines were obvious, the symbols were deliberate even if they had no discernable meaning. There were things man was not meant to know and William, darling boy, had a tendency to push. He knew his own work when he saw it, even if the symbols and the meaning of it all made no sense.
 
Ulric- Dreadbringer, Caller of Storms- was gone.
 
He knew his own work when he saw it, and knows that rituals like these do not come from instinct alone. You do not make these sorts of gestures without knowing what you are doing and why you are doing them. He knew himself, knew that he understood the consequences of his actions because he had grown so much, had grown to remember and at least consider that the cosmic sweater didn’t like its threads pulled. He knew to tie off a knot before giving a solid tug and cutting off the excess.
 
Ned Gaites and Margot Travers were dead. (Knot tied. String cut.)
 
This house had belonged to Nephandic cultists before the cabal had it, Ned said this was something he probably should have told William before he’d moved in. This was their ritual, but William- darling boy- knew enough to keep it up. Knew enough and discerned enough that he led the other two in what it was they needed to do. He didn’t disclose what he knew of it, that its origins were dubious and its intentions laced with ill will and selfishness. They trusted him enough, trusted his judgment enough, to follow. Hermetics know ritual.
 
Ulric- Dreadbringer, Caller of Storms- was gone. (Circle drawn.)
Ned Gaites and Margot Travers were dead. (Gateway closed.)
 
Hermetics also know they should not consort with demons and their ilk. He spent the rest of the night looking over the signs and scrawlings on the floor and walls and books; nothing presented itself as Truth. William was left only to muse over what they had done- what he had led them to do. The ritual was a success. And he, with his bloody shirt and arms and everything, had done a splendid job of leading it.
 
”Oh, Fae,” said a disconnected voice. Male, young, and perpetually disinterested when not flecked with melancholy mournfulness, “I saw this happening.”
 
---
 
earthbound.
 
The ritual was complete, and the three mages in the study had survived it.

William laid motionless on the floor with arms cradled around his midsection. Blue eyes empty.]]> elsewhere.

The study was an abysmal sight after the ritual. The air felt like a spark begging for a methane leak and there was a taste in the air; the taste of ozone made for a nice touch, too. It wasn’t the usual taste of a study- that taste of decaying books that people so mistakenly and lovingly assume is the smell of fine literature on the shelves. That smell, that taste that filled your tongue when the air came deep into your lungs, was decay. That smell was the loss of knowledge and secrets and lifetimes of knowing because we are impermanent. ( And? something says in the back of his mind. Always there, always aware, but perhaps missing the point.) The subtle reminder of decay had been overwritten by the more immediate scents mixing to bear witness.
 
Blood had its own smell when it was fresh. To call it vital was to be cliché- blood smelled like stripped electrical wiring, tasted like a piece of tin foil chewed too long on new fillings, felt like a warm bath with enough oils in it to make it slick. Fresh blood was almost pleasant; in truth, fresh blood was only unpleasant in the ways that sitting in a puddle after an uncomfortably warm rain would be. Southerners knew that particular joy; William rolled from his side to his stomach, taking his time before getting to his hands and knees. He paid attention to the sensation divorced from the implications that it had. Pain was obvious- he had enough concussions in his life to start to know what one probably feels like. His muscles were weak and the combination of disorientation and bruising made the task of getting into a seated position an arduous one.  
 
William swallowed, his saliva mixing with hot copper. He forced his eyes shut, “it is October thirty-first. I’m in the study. There are…” He couldn’t place them, couldn’t hold onto the images of what had happened clearly because of what he was attributing to a head injury. The Hermetic decided to survey his surroundings again in hopes that this would provide stability.
 
Lines were etched and drawn but beyond that, he saw… chaos. A lack of order and a mess of scribbles and what translated to his brain like sidewalk chalk drawings and finger paintings. Sacred symbols and Truth given form held no more meaning than the pictures a pile of string makes when you drop it on the floor and try to give it any meaning. Ritual was built in symbolism and parallels; he remembered when he had learned the more practical practices from Henry. Hermetics had a strange view of what was practical and what wasn’t. Calling forth through the names and orders and giving the most painstaking instructions written and spoken in True Words was practical. The hours spent perfecting every detail were considered practical. Of course, William had taken practicality a step further and perhaps out of bounds and-
 
“This isn’t right.”
 
He could muse about practicality and the nature of being an imperfect person trying to live up to the pursuit of dynamic perfection (ha), but what was in front of him was more important. William was prone to being stuck in his head (ha) but this was not the time. Warm blood, charred books, ozone, and meat. That was what struck him when he moved, just enough, just until he could see under the table. There were pieces of tee shirt stretched thin and ripped clean over what looked to be little more than a crash test dummy with jeans on. It close approximation of a human being save for the fact that the limbs were jointed in the wrong ways. Too many elbows and not enough spine. It made the body coil like a dog’s rope toy instead of crumple like a marionette. The young Hermetic pushed away from his perch and attempted to stand. His legs weren’t having it, but in that moment of struggle he caught a look at the wall.
 
Blood. Hot blood, boiling mulled wine blood and long pork stew meat and shoddy shrapnel napkins. Splattered across the back wall. There wasn’t enough blood, but whatever had been there boiled off in part to leave what looked like chili paste slapped thick onto the floor. When he followed the splatter to the ground there were those lines again. He followed the indications of what had taken place around the circle, keeping the spire of previously smoldering books in the center. Symbols. Meanings. Truth?
 
To say his stomach turned was, again, cliché. Stomachs don’t turn and guts don’t twist save for when you have your hands in a man’s innards and you move them yourself. William looked at his hands again, a familiar feeling in them that drew forth a ragged breath that wasn’t inspired by pain. The lines were obvious, the symbols were deliberate even if they had no discernable meaning. There were things man was not meant to know and William, darling boy, had a tendency to push. He knew his own work when he saw it, even if the symbols and the meaning of it all made no sense.
 
Ulric- Dreadbringer, Caller of Storms- was gone.
 
He knew his own work when he saw it, and knows that rituals like these do not come from instinct alone. You do not make these sorts of gestures without knowing what you are doing and why you are doing them. He knew himself, knew that he understood the consequences of his actions because he had grown so much, had grown to remember and at least consider that the cosmic sweater didn’t like its threads pulled. He knew to tie off a knot before giving a solid tug and cutting off the excess.
 
Ned Gaites and Margot Travers were dead. (Knot tied. String cut.)
 
This house had belonged to Nephandic cultists before the cabal had it, Ned said this was something he probably should have told William before he’d moved in. This was their ritual, but William- darling boy- knew enough to keep it up. Knew enough and discerned enough that he led the other two in what it was they needed to do. He didn’t disclose what he knew of it, that its origins were dubious and its intentions laced with ill will and selfishness. They trusted him enough, trusted his judgment enough, to follow. Hermetics know ritual.
 
Ulric- Dreadbringer, Caller of Storms- was gone. (Circle drawn.)
Ned Gaites and Margot Travers were dead. (Gateway closed.)
 
Hermetics also know they should not consort with demons and their ilk. He spent the rest of the night looking over the signs and scrawlings on the floor and walls and books; nothing presented itself as Truth. William was left only to muse over what they had done- what he had led them to do. The ritual was a success. And he, with his bloody shirt and arms and everything, had done a splendid job of leading it.
 
”Oh, Fae,” said a disconnected voice. Male, young, and perpetually disinterested when not flecked with melancholy mournfulness, “I saw this happening.”
 
---
 
earthbound.
 
The ritual was complete, and the three mages in the study had survived it.

William laid motionless on the floor with arms cradled around his midsection. Blue eyes empty.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1159 Tue, 31 Oct 2017 16:49:34 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1159 The past is where your death lives. You fall apart based on everything you once were, coming back to let you know the consequences. More often, your stubborn ass doesn't think to accept what mistakes you've made and you're not young enough, fast enough or strong enough any longer to resist or put up the fight necessary to stave it off. It caught up and you're that old bugger too stupid to do anything about it anymore. Just...accept that it is going to happen and maybe enlightenment will reach through and give you an out."

~Gorman the Tusk, Former Akashic, brand spanking new Adept Orphan~

"...Maggie?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"It's three in the morning. This couldn't wait?"

"I wasn't...sure."

"Alright, well I'm here and it's four hours to dawn. What-"

"I picked up something interesting a few hours ago. It took some time to trace it to a source and then, a bit longer to figure out what I was looking at-"

"Maggie. Please. For the love of the divine, just...."

"I wasn't aware you had a Daughter."

He stood on the carpet in her apartment staring. She was dressed in his shirt, one leg over the other, ankle bobbing in that thoughtful way it did when she was enjoying his surprise. And he was. Surprised. 

"It isn't something I've thought to talk about-"

"How odd, given her...obviousness."

"What?"

The flat stare that followed was one he had gotten used too. One he was certain she had practiced in the mirror a few thousand times. Sculpted to perfect 'Are you kidding right now?' levels. He let loose an exasperated sigh which she took to mean 'No, I am not.'

"Martin. She's awake." 

More foot bobbing. More surprise. 

"What? Ho-"

"Quite awake, actually. Wide and wild and obviously awake. I barely scratched your family tree during that last knell and she practically jumped out of the runes at me-"

"You were spying on my bloodlines?"

"Yes, dear. Think of it like old school facebook stalking."

He uttered a confused laugh. There were emotions running around here. Ones he couldn't quite put into the calm state that was his MO. 

"She's awake."

"Yes, Martin. I said that already."

"Huh. Heh.....huh...."

"I don't think I've seen you this inarticulate since my last blowj-"

"Just...tell me where..."

Her foot stopped bobbing and her brow receded from it's arch. She climbed to her feet, a careful and exacting thing and marched across the carpet to him. Hands played along his forearms, gathered up his wrists and turned both over to stare into his palms for a moment. She hummed gently and breathed across the sweaty pads of his fingertips.

"I don't think whatever you believe right now is the best course of action, Martin."

"She's my daughter."

"...and She's awake."

"...She's my daughter, Maggie."

"...and you've been gone for how long now?"

He took his time with his next inhale. 

"...I tell you if I had a chance to see my father? Knowing the things I know now? I doubt there'd be more than a puddle left."

They stood there in silence, waiting as the emotions ran a puzzle across his face. She curled into his chest, head tucked up under his chin and, like reflex, his arms folded around her. She hummed gently, distractedly against one of his pectorals. She listened to his heartbeat and with that rhythm alone knew what he was going to say next.

"She's my daughter."

"...and you have to go."

She pulled back to look up at him, smiling the entire time. 

"Fine, Martin. She's in Denver. Aurora, to be more precise." A hand slapped at his cheek, watching his eyes glaze over in that way when he was already reaching for conclusions. "But if you're not back inside of a month, I'll consider it a break up and level half the county. Wouldn't want that on your Godly conscience would you?"

"Just...try to behave, please?"


She nipped his shoulder. It barely registered. He was already packing and assembly the wards and plans in his head. He had a daughter and she was Awake. 

Martin Travers mentally braced himself for the days to come.]]> The past is where your death lives. You fall apart based on everything you once were, coming back to let you know the consequences. More often, your stubborn ass doesn't think to accept what mistakes you've made and you're not young enough, fast enough or strong enough any longer to resist or put up the fight necessary to stave it off. It caught up and you're that old bugger too stupid to do anything about it anymore. Just...accept that it is going to happen and maybe enlightenment will reach through and give you an out."

~Gorman the Tusk, Former Akashic, brand spanking new Adept Orphan~

"...Maggie?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"It's three in the morning. This couldn't wait?"

"I wasn't...sure."

"Alright, well I'm here and it's four hours to dawn. What-"

"I picked up something interesting a few hours ago. It took some time to trace it to a source and then, a bit longer to figure out what I was looking at-"

"Maggie. Please. For the love of the divine, just...."

"I wasn't aware you had a Daughter."

He stood on the carpet in her apartment staring. She was dressed in his shirt, one leg over the other, ankle bobbing in that thoughtful way it did when she was enjoying his surprise. And he was. Surprised. 

"It isn't something I've thought to talk about-"

"How odd, given her...obviousness."

"What?"

The flat stare that followed was one he had gotten used too. One he was certain she had practiced in the mirror a few thousand times. Sculpted to perfect 'Are you kidding right now?' levels. He let loose an exasperated sigh which she took to mean 'No, I am not.'

"Martin. She's awake." 

More foot bobbing. More surprise. 

"What? Ho-"

"Quite awake, actually. Wide and wild and obviously awake. I barely scratched your family tree during that last knell and she practically jumped out of the runes at me-"

"You were spying on my bloodlines?"

"Yes, dear. Think of it like old school facebook stalking."

He uttered a confused laugh. There were emotions running around here. Ones he couldn't quite put into the calm state that was his MO. 

"She's awake."

"Yes, Martin. I said that already."

"Huh. Heh.....huh...."

"I don't think I've seen you this inarticulate since my last blowj-"

"Just...tell me where..."

Her foot stopped bobbing and her brow receded from it's arch. She climbed to her feet, a careful and exacting thing and marched across the carpet to him. Hands played along his forearms, gathered up his wrists and turned both over to stare into his palms for a moment. She hummed gently and breathed across the sweaty pads of his fingertips.

"I don't think whatever you believe right now is the best course of action, Martin."

"She's my daughter."

"...and She's awake."

"...She's my daughter, Maggie."

"...and you've been gone for how long now?"

He took his time with his next inhale. 

"...I tell you if I had a chance to see my father? Knowing the things I know now? I doubt there'd be more than a puddle left."

They stood there in silence, waiting as the emotions ran a puzzle across his face. She curled into his chest, head tucked up under his chin and, like reflex, his arms folded around her. She hummed gently, distractedly against one of his pectorals. She listened to his heartbeat and with that rhythm alone knew what he was going to say next.

"She's my daughter."

"...and you have to go."

She pulled back to look up at him, smiling the entire time. 

"Fine, Martin. She's in Denver. Aurora, to be more precise." A hand slapped at his cheek, watching his eyes glaze over in that way when he was already reaching for conclusions. "But if you're not back inside of a month, I'll consider it a break up and level half the county. Wouldn't want that on your Godly conscience would you?"

"Just...try to behave, please?"


She nipped his shoulder. It barely registered. He was already packing and assembly the wards and plans in his head. He had a daughter and she was Awake. 

Martin Travers mentally braced himself for the days to come.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1156 Thu, 05 Oct 2017 13:37:29 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1156 When thinking about our deaths, there is a calamity. A something that peters and pushes and pulls. No longer are we subject to the heavens and hells of normalcy, but instead to the cryptic designs of where and what and when we believed. Because we do. Believe. That carries from life to awakening and on toward that inevitable whenever it may be. Yet that is the only constant. Inevitability. Give it years. Give it moments. Give aeons. We all die. One day. 

Except it isn't the end of the book. It's just the end of the page."

~Ulric Dreadsmith, Balboan, Fearmonger and Ecstatic~


One morning in October.

A book sits on the study table. 

It's cover is crisped with burns and scorch marks.

It's title is missing. 

The book will not open.

The book will not move.

It will not be pried away from the table.

It will not be shifted by force/Force.

It will protect itself if 'worked' at.

Cinders will light the air, a blossom of heat and burns. 

But it will still be a crisp book.

On a table.




The next morning and there are two books. 

One atop the first.

Newly crisped. 

Newly titleless. 

It too will not move.

It too will not be worked at.




The next morning and by now someone has been watching all night...

...another book has flown off a shelf.


Heavy with turbulence, enough to disturb chairs.

A third joins the pile. 

It scorches.

It cinders.

The stack grows.


And each night. 

On and on.

The tower is constructed. 

Sloppy in its symmetry. 

Crisp and delicate in appearance.

More rooted then any tree.

Book, after book, after book, after book, after book.

As if to count down the October days and nights.]]> When thinking about our deaths, there is a calamity. A something that peters and pushes and pulls. No longer are we subject to the heavens and hells of normalcy, but instead to the cryptic designs of where and what and when we believed. Because we do. Believe. That carries from life to awakening and on toward that inevitable whenever it may be. Yet that is the only constant. Inevitability. Give it years. Give it moments. Give aeons. We all die. One day. 

Except it isn't the end of the book. It's just the end of the page."

~Ulric Dreadsmith, Balboan, Fearmonger and Ecstatic~


One morning in October.

A book sits on the study table. 

It's cover is crisped with burns and scorch marks.

It's title is missing. 

The book will not open.

The book will not move.

It will not be pried away from the table.

It will not be shifted by force/Force.

It will protect itself if 'worked' at.

Cinders will light the air, a blossom of heat and burns. 

But it will still be a crisp book.

On a table.




The next morning and there are two books. 

One atop the first.

Newly crisped. 

Newly titleless. 

It too will not move.

It too will not be worked at.




The next morning and by now someone has been watching all night...

...another book has flown off a shelf.


Heavy with turbulence, enough to disturb chairs.

A third joins the pile. 

It scorches.

It cinders.

The stack grows.


And each night. 

On and on.

The tower is constructed. 

Sloppy in its symmetry. 

Crisp and delicate in appearance.

More rooted then any tree.

Book, after book, after book, after book, after book.

As if to count down the October days and nights.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1154 Wed, 27 Sep 2017 19:48:49 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1154 I Fucking Told you So"

~Clementine Ruth, Hermetic~



The House. 2 in the Morning. After a start and stop drive back from the nether realms of buttfuck nowhere. 

They had to stop and start several times, trying to re-orient themselves after switching drivers twice (Because Margot was having trouble seeing through all the red and Doc had been trying to drive one handed and low blood pressure, leaving Ned to take the Wheel and be oh so fucking careful about it). 

Eventually they would pull into the driveway and Ned would kick the driver door open with a grunt and a growl, followed closely by pulling open passenger doors and hoisting William onto one shoulder and out of the car because let's face it: the newest addition to to the Cabal was not in much condition to do anything right now.

"If any of you fucking idiots says 'I told you so' I'm going to leave you in the driveway for the wolves to find."

Ned is kicking open the front door, after trying to juggle his keys and William at the same time. He'd repair the lock later. Half-dragging, half-cursing, the young Orphan is already on the look out for something more comfortable then the floor to lay his cabalmate on. One of the sofas they had dragged into the main library immediately to the left serves the purpose and the hermetic is dumped tiredly across the length of the cushions, face down for the moment while Ned catches his breath and clutches at his back and ribs. The ache is real, though he seems to be in the best condition of the lot of them at the moment.

"No more cults. No more fanboys. No more evil hungry things looking to devour souls. No more stupid 'what does this button do' attitudes. We're all gonna stay in for the next month, let Halloween pass us by and just be that quiet Cabal no one talks about because we're too busy watching paint fucking dry..."

Ned's looking around the library, still holding his back, pulling at the biggest books he can find and flipping them open in search of something.

"Where's the emergency tequila, Doc?"



((OOC Tally of the Post Rescue shennanigans:

Denver @ 7:58PM
'Sup, Ned. How YOU doin'?
Ned @ 8:06PM
Rescue Tally:
2 Paradox Backlashes (Sphere of Choice)
5 Lethal (Stabbings)
10 Bashing (fists, bludgeonings and falls)
 
Doc = 5 Lethal (Stabbed in the artery)
Margot = Prime Backlash (Attempting something harsh) (3 Bashing + Minor Paradox Flaw)
Ned = 4 Bashing (Punched and Fell)
Will = 6 Bashing (Punched and Bludgeoned). Time Backlash. (3 Bashing + Minor Paradox Flaw)
 
 
Ned @ 8:07PM
Ned (Soak)
Roll: 3 d10 TN6 (1, 6, 6) ( success x 2 )
Ned @ 8:15PM
Margot Backlash Roll (4)
Roll: 4 d10 TN6 (2, 6, 10, 10) ( success x 3 )
Ned @ 8:28PM
William Backlash Roll (6)
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 4, 7, 8, 10) ( success x 3 )]]> I Fucking Told you So"

~Clementine Ruth, Hermetic~



The House. 2 in the Morning. After a start and stop drive back from the nether realms of buttfuck nowhere. 

They had to stop and start several times, trying to re-orient themselves after switching drivers twice (Because Margot was having trouble seeing through all the red and Doc had been trying to drive one handed and low blood pressure, leaving Ned to take the Wheel and be oh so fucking careful about it). 

Eventually they would pull into the driveway and Ned would kick the driver door open with a grunt and a growl, followed closely by pulling open passenger doors and hoisting William onto one shoulder and out of the car because let's face it: the newest addition to to the Cabal was not in much condition to do anything right now.

"If any of you fucking idiots says 'I told you so' I'm going to leave you in the driveway for the wolves to find."

Ned is kicking open the front door, after trying to juggle his keys and William at the same time. He'd repair the lock later. Half-dragging, half-cursing, the young Orphan is already on the look out for something more comfortable then the floor to lay his cabalmate on. One of the sofas they had dragged into the main library immediately to the left serves the purpose and the hermetic is dumped tiredly across the length of the cushions, face down for the moment while Ned catches his breath and clutches at his back and ribs. The ache is real, though he seems to be in the best condition of the lot of them at the moment.

"No more cults. No more fanboys. No more evil hungry things looking to devour souls. No more stupid 'what does this button do' attitudes. We're all gonna stay in for the next month, let Halloween pass us by and just be that quiet Cabal no one talks about because we're too busy watching paint fucking dry..."

Ned's looking around the library, still holding his back, pulling at the biggest books he can find and flipping them open in search of something.

"Where's the emergency tequila, Doc?"



((OOC Tally of the Post Rescue shennanigans:

Denver @ 7:58PM
'Sup, Ned. How YOU doin'?
Ned @ 8:06PM
Rescue Tally:
2 Paradox Backlashes (Sphere of Choice)
5 Lethal (Stabbings)
10 Bashing (fists, bludgeonings and falls)
 
Doc = 5 Lethal (Stabbed in the artery)
Margot = Prime Backlash (Attempting something harsh) (3 Bashing + Minor Paradox Flaw)
Ned = 4 Bashing (Punched and Fell)
Will = 6 Bashing (Punched and Bludgeoned). Time Backlash. (3 Bashing + Minor Paradox Flaw)
 
 
Ned @ 8:07PM
Ned (Soak)
Roll: 3 d10 TN6 (1, 6, 6) ( success x 2 )
Ned @ 8:15PM
Margot Backlash Roll (4)
Roll: 4 d10 TN6 (2, 6, 10, 10) ( success x 3 )
Ned @ 8:28PM
William Backlash Roll (6)
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 4, 7, 8, 10) ( success x 3 )]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1153 Wed, 27 Sep 2017 17:30:12 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1153
13 September 2017
"This is going to be you some day."

A milk-white corpse lies on a stainless steel autopsy table. Around it stand five pathology residents and a county medical examiner. As of July he - the ME, not the corpse - is associated with the Department of Medical Education. None of the residents feel shock or disgust in the presence of the dead anymore.

"Maybe not arriving in such pristine condition. Cursory external examination reveals--what. Who can tell me what external examination reveals?"

The five young adults glance back and forth between each other, none of them wanting to answer first. The shortest female resident is taller than their proctor. That doesn't matter much. Something about him managed to put them on edge the second they met him. Some aura they cannot perceive or pin down. It's like the world's worst déjà vu.

"Doctor Cross!" he says, loud, jolting the tall California transplant. "External examination."
"I, uh..."
"Huh-uh. No 'uh.' You have eyes. You have a brain. You would not be in this program if you did not know the answer. Tell me what you see."
"He's, ah, he's tall. White. Has, ah--"

Another resident, Morrison, interrupts. She has a tendency of doing that.

"Decedant is a Caucasian male who appears to be one point eight meters tall and weigh--"

"Look at his neck," their proctor interrupts.

Five sets of eyes glance down.

"I don't have to cut him open to tell what killed this man. I am going to, because he died in the emergency room and the hospital has requested an autopsy and he deserves a proper diagnosis before his family plants him in the ground. Cause of death was listed as an MACE, Major Adverse Cardiac Event. but I do not believe that is what killed this man."

Morrison says, "But--"

"And I intend to challenge that cause of death. If anyone feels lightheaded or nauseous during the course of this internal examination," he says, "I will ask you to kindly step back from the table so as not to injure yourself or someone else."

---

15 December 2014
What was there to say. The child was run down. He was outside playing with his friends the way any healthy eight-year-old boy ought to be, tearing around the residential Miami street, and the driver took the corner too fast. No one knew what to do. It took too long to track down his parents.

His parents are still parents, but he is not their child anymore. His body is lying in a slab in the morgue where his father works. This is the thought that plagues Andrés as he sits at home, his daughter dead asleep with the assistance of diazepam and having soaked his shirt in her tears.

A memory, blurred: Hinata comes home. Hinata to him, Eloise to them. She liked the way it sounded so she took it as her craft name. Both names are composed of linguistic elements that mean "sun." Or "sunny." "Towards the sun."

They do not have language this afternoon. She walks towards him like a ghost, dressed all in black, and she is crying as she pulls him out of the chair by his belt and starts to kiss him. He tries to wipe away the tears but they keep trailing down her cheeks, her breath leaves her body in ragged airless sobs. Her own resonance tints the air with its determination and when she unbuckles his belt and gets a hand beneath his clothes that determination awakens a spark of desire.

Grief sex is not like in the movies. At least not for them. It is not raw and passionate and cathartic. They do not lose themselves in each other. They don't kiss, don't laugh, don't talk. With her back against the wall and a leg around his waist, they cling to each other as if knowing: their son's death was going to tear them apart.

In a few days her coven sister will call her and they would talk and they would decide, after the wake, that taking Naomi and going to Tokyo for a while would be the best. For both of them. They needed some clarity and Andrés would never leave his work anyway.

When he comes his wife reacts to the noise he makes by stroking his hair, as if he is the one who needs comfort. As if she knows his brain is beginning to formulate an unholy plan, a denial, no he will not accept this.

Hinata wants a proper Buddhist funeral. To witness her son's coffin as it slides into the cremation chamber.

She will. It will be the coffin she picked out. But the body will not be inside, and she will not be able to tell the difference between Yori's bones and the bones she picks out of the ashes later.

Hinata was nearly an adept in the fields of Life and Spirit but she never could get the hang of Time.

---

27 September 2017
The word 'backlog' means nothing to a person who can bend laws of nature and physics. A rape kit comes in, the technician had better process it before Dr. Sepúlveda has to come hunt him down. Sepúlveda only has to hunt down Luis when the blonde intern is distracting him with conversation. You want to have a conversation, act all flirty-flirty with each other, you can do it after you clock out.

So: afternoon. Wednesday. Everyone is yawning. It's hotter than hell and they have more work than usual. On the computer screen in front of him is an anonymous report. The patient chose to report the crime but not to attach their personal information to it. Part of him nods in approval, their sense of civic duty intact in spite of surviving an assault. The other part of him wants to hit his head on the desk because that information could be fucking vital if the perpetrator is known to the victim.

Lacerations on both knees. Abrasions on the right wrist. Jagged ovaliform bruising on the left posterior shoulder. Whoever submitted the report did not even bother trying to label it human. The impressions are tooth-like, but...

"Aaaaaaugh, chingámeeeeeeee..."

It has been just over a year since the last time the person he calls received a call from him.

WHO WILL IT BE. DUN DUN DUN.]]>
13 September 2017
"This is going to be you some day."

A milk-white corpse lies on a stainless steel autopsy table. Around it stand five pathology residents and a county medical examiner. As of July he - the ME, not the corpse - is associated with the Department of Medical Education. None of the residents feel shock or disgust in the presence of the dead anymore.

"Maybe not arriving in such pristine condition. Cursory external examination reveals--what. Who can tell me what external examination reveals?"

The five young adults glance back and forth between each other, none of them wanting to answer first. The shortest female resident is taller than their proctor. That doesn't matter much. Something about him managed to put them on edge the second they met him. Some aura they cannot perceive or pin down. It's like the world's worst déjà vu.

"Doctor Cross!" he says, loud, jolting the tall California transplant. "External examination."
"I, uh..."
"Huh-uh. No 'uh.' You have eyes. You have a brain. You would not be in this program if you did not know the answer. Tell me what you see."
"He's, ah, he's tall. White. Has, ah--"

Another resident, Morrison, interrupts. She has a tendency of doing that.

"Decedant is a Caucasian male who appears to be one point eight meters tall and weigh--"

"Look at his neck," their proctor interrupts.

Five sets of eyes glance down.

"I don't have to cut him open to tell what killed this man. I am going to, because he died in the emergency room and the hospital has requested an autopsy and he deserves a proper diagnosis before his family plants him in the ground. Cause of death was listed as an MACE, Major Adverse Cardiac Event. but I do not believe that is what killed this man."

Morrison says, "But--"

"And I intend to challenge that cause of death. If anyone feels lightheaded or nauseous during the course of this internal examination," he says, "I will ask you to kindly step back from the table so as not to injure yourself or someone else."

---

15 December 2014
What was there to say. The child was run down. He was outside playing with his friends the way any healthy eight-year-old boy ought to be, tearing around the residential Miami street, and the driver took the corner too fast. No one knew what to do. It took too long to track down his parents.

His parents are still parents, but he is not their child anymore. His body is lying in a slab in the morgue where his father works. This is the thought that plagues Andrés as he sits at home, his daughter dead asleep with the assistance of diazepam and having soaked his shirt in her tears.

A memory, blurred: Hinata comes home. Hinata to him, Eloise to them. She liked the way it sounded so she took it as her craft name. Both names are composed of linguistic elements that mean "sun." Or "sunny." "Towards the sun."

They do not have language this afternoon. She walks towards him like a ghost, dressed all in black, and she is crying as she pulls him out of the chair by his belt and starts to kiss him. He tries to wipe away the tears but they keep trailing down her cheeks, her breath leaves her body in ragged airless sobs. Her own resonance tints the air with its determination and when she unbuckles his belt and gets a hand beneath his clothes that determination awakens a spark of desire.

Grief sex is not like in the movies. At least not for them. It is not raw and passionate and cathartic. They do not lose themselves in each other. They don't kiss, don't laugh, don't talk. With her back against the wall and a leg around his waist, they cling to each other as if knowing: their son's death was going to tear them apart.

In a few days her coven sister will call her and they would talk and they would decide, after the wake, that taking Naomi and going to Tokyo for a while would be the best. For both of them. They needed some clarity and Andrés would never leave his work anyway.

When he comes his wife reacts to the noise he makes by stroking his hair, as if he is the one who needs comfort. As if she knows his brain is beginning to formulate an unholy plan, a denial, no he will not accept this.

Hinata wants a proper Buddhist funeral. To witness her son's coffin as it slides into the cremation chamber.

She will. It will be the coffin she picked out. But the body will not be inside, and she will not be able to tell the difference between Yori's bones and the bones she picks out of the ashes later.

Hinata was nearly an adept in the fields of Life and Spirit but she never could get the hang of Time.

---

27 September 2017
The word 'backlog' means nothing to a person who can bend laws of nature and physics. A rape kit comes in, the technician had better process it before Dr. Sepúlveda has to come hunt him down. Sepúlveda only has to hunt down Luis when the blonde intern is distracting him with conversation. You want to have a conversation, act all flirty-flirty with each other, you can do it after you clock out.

So: afternoon. Wednesday. Everyone is yawning. It's hotter than hell and they have more work than usual. On the computer screen in front of him is an anonymous report. The patient chose to report the crime but not to attach their personal information to it. Part of him nods in approval, their sense of civic duty intact in spite of surviving an assault. The other part of him wants to hit his head on the desk because that information could be fucking vital if the perpetrator is known to the victim.

Lacerations on both knees. Abrasions on the right wrist. Jagged ovaliform bruising on the left posterior shoulder. Whoever submitted the report did not even bother trying to label it human. The impressions are tooth-like, but...

"Aaaaaaugh, chingámeeeeeeee..."

It has been just over a year since the last time the person he calls received a call from him.

WHO WILL IT BE. DUN DUN DUN.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1149 Tue, 29 Aug 2017 09:27:31 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1149 I can almost see you
Standing there
A dim reflection
In a foggy mirror
A subtle vision
Hanging in air
A gentle spectre
And a soothsayer
CLAVVS - Spectre

On a late summer day, the sky uncharacteristically overcast for the time of year and a taste of impending autumn rains on the cool breeze, she slipped into the city nearly unnoticed. Her coming had been forewarned, not by prophecy nor any manner of correspondence magickal or mundane, but by construction. Or rather renovation. It started with a small handwritten sign, strung with twine and pinned to the inner side of a florist shop window: 

Pardon Our Dust

Thumbelina's Enchanted Garden

Coming Soon!

It continued with orange cones warding pedestrians away from the open doors through which contractors came and went. The renovations didn't take long, it being far simpler (and cheaper (not that it mattered, not when the work was paid for with someone else's dime)) to acquire a space already outfitted with the basics necessary for this endeavor than to tear down and build up from ashes. A month or two to install new fixtures and updated appliances, to affix panels to the walls that would give the space a wooded feel. By mid-August it was ready to receive customers. She was already there by then, but only barely.

She arrived a little over a week before she would open the doors for customers, so that she might watch as the last pieces of her new life in this new city took shape. She would be there to meet with local greenhouses, putting a face to the voice their overseers had heard over telephone many times over many weeks. She would be there to accept terms of a rented living space, a room in a house near the University of Denver, with two college-aged Sleepers. This last had been a sore point with her benefactor. Better to live alone. I can find you a place, somewhere downtown, perhaps, where you can have privacy, they'd said. I'll have privacy, she'd said.

But, what if--

A low chuckle, little more than a huff of sound. What if, what if. I can't live my life by What Ifs, darling. 

Wouldn't, they'd said in the cadence of a familiar recitation, and not for the first time sounding reluctantly relenting, even if you could. And that was the end of that.

Which led to her arrival. On a cool late summer day, before the shop opened, before the home was settled, even before the first call to suppliers was made, she walked the city. Those she passed had a sharp, sudden brush with brilliant incandescence, a sense of lush verdant greenery, a rush of summer refreshed before it passed and the promise of autumn returned. Those who looked at her saw a woman who was lovely enough, dressed comfortably, her wavy brown hair twisted up into a kerchief at the back of her head, loose locks brushing against a cheek that - if one looked long enough or closely enough - bore light and strange scarring that continued down her throat to disappear beneath the collar of her shirt. Not one of the Sleepers she passed looked long or close at her, however. Even though she seemed amiable, smiling warmly whenever someone's eyes chanced to meet hers, there was something, some unnameable air about her that sent a shiver up the spine. Were they in ancient times perhaps they might be able to put a name to their sudden discomfort. But, they are not in ancient times, and so they quickly averted their eyes and hurried on their way.

Thus did Iris Raz come to the city of Denver.]]> I can almost see you
Standing there
A dim reflection
In a foggy mirror
A subtle vision
Hanging in air
A gentle spectre
And a soothsayer
CLAVVS - Spectre

On a late summer day, the sky uncharacteristically overcast for the time of year and a taste of impending autumn rains on the cool breeze, she slipped into the city nearly unnoticed. Her coming had been forewarned, not by prophecy nor any manner of correspondence magickal or mundane, but by construction. Or rather renovation. It started with a small handwritten sign, strung with twine and pinned to the inner side of a florist shop window: 

Pardon Our Dust

Thumbelina's Enchanted Garden

Coming Soon!

It continued with orange cones warding pedestrians away from the open doors through which contractors came and went. The renovations didn't take long, it being far simpler (and cheaper (not that it mattered, not when the work was paid for with someone else's dime)) to acquire a space already outfitted with the basics necessary for this endeavor than to tear down and build up from ashes. A month or two to install new fixtures and updated appliances, to affix panels to the walls that would give the space a wooded feel. By mid-August it was ready to receive customers. She was already there by then, but only barely.

She arrived a little over a week before she would open the doors for customers, so that she might watch as the last pieces of her new life in this new city took shape. She would be there to meet with local greenhouses, putting a face to the voice their overseers had heard over telephone many times over many weeks. She would be there to accept terms of a rented living space, a room in a house near the University of Denver, with two college-aged Sleepers. This last had been a sore point with her benefactor. Better to live alone. I can find you a place, somewhere downtown, perhaps, where you can have privacy, they'd said. I'll have privacy, she'd said.

But, what if--

A low chuckle, little more than a huff of sound. What if, what if. I can't live my life by What Ifs, darling. 

Wouldn't, they'd said in the cadence of a familiar recitation, and not for the first time sounding reluctantly relenting, even if you could. And that was the end of that.

Which led to her arrival. On a cool late summer day, before the shop opened, before the home was settled, even before the first call to suppliers was made, she walked the city. Those she passed had a sharp, sudden brush with brilliant incandescence, a sense of lush verdant greenery, a rush of summer refreshed before it passed and the promise of autumn returned. Those who looked at her saw a woman who was lovely enough, dressed comfortably, her wavy brown hair twisted up into a kerchief at the back of her head, loose locks brushing against a cheek that - if one looked long enough or closely enough - bore light and strange scarring that continued down her throat to disappear beneath the collar of her shirt. Not one of the Sleepers she passed looked long or close at her, however. Even though she seemed amiable, smiling warmly whenever someone's eyes chanced to meet hers, there was something, some unnameable air about her that sent a shiver up the spine. Were they in ancient times perhaps they might be able to put a name to their sudden discomfort. But, they are not in ancient times, and so they quickly averted their eyes and hurried on their way.

Thus did Iris Raz come to the city of Denver.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1144 Tue, 18 Jul 2017 15:02:04 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1144 If I could accurately summarize what I think the problem is? I mean fully and utterly articulate the spectrum of all that could and has gone wrong? I might be able to explain to you how to fix it. As it is, I'm not sure that I can. I'm not sure anyone can, really because this is by far and away the vastly distinct cross section of 'Fucked' and 'Up' that rarely comes along outside of the all seeing, all knowing reality slap we're too scared to court most of the time."

~Marissa Triers, Dreamspeaker having found out the anchor she's been using has just been destroyed~


Ned's home. 

The front door chimes open and closed without a bell or a ring or a flutter of anything, really because they didn't have any bells. Ned had removed anything resembling a bell after an explosion of some sort had rocked the house and caused him to hear ringing for a few days afterward. The front door had a knocker on it which none of them used and since no one visited, it had remained stiffly new where it sat, eye level and glaring with it's ornate vagueness.

Ned is yelling.

"Oye! The two of you! Get down here we have to talk about something..."

Perhaps accumulating an air of dread, concern or at least, displeasure knowing there was something to discuss amongst the fuck-ups of the house hold, Ned's feet are moving into the nearby study with it's open doorway, vast library of books and assorted pieces of furniture that serve basically the same function as the long large table at the centre; for placing various books on as a saving spot, if the current condition of the study is any indication. 


Ned finds a chair that looks like it was once decorated in cobwebs and mystery and is now just a faded piece of fancy that has long since been repaired to a serviceable position. There are a half dozen other chairs scattered around the room, few of which match each other. Eclecticity.

Ned picks up a nearby book. Something with no title, a brown cover and the sort of crumpled pages that come along with water damage. He skims the page the book is opened on before trimming through the next 15, stopping briefly to regard the passage there before repeating the process. He pauses only long enough to glance up at William, the other individual who'd walked through the door. Then he motions the Hermetic to find a seat, try to breathe and start the process of farewell to various body parts. All with nothing but a blink and a roll of his eyes.]]> If I could accurately summarize what I think the problem is? I mean fully and utterly articulate the spectrum of all that could and has gone wrong? I might be able to explain to you how to fix it. As it is, I'm not sure that I can. I'm not sure anyone can, really because this is by far and away the vastly distinct cross section of 'Fucked' and 'Up' that rarely comes along outside of the all seeing, all knowing reality slap we're too scared to court most of the time."

~Marissa Triers, Dreamspeaker having found out the anchor she's been using has just been destroyed~


Ned's home. 

The front door chimes open and closed without a bell or a ring or a flutter of anything, really because they didn't have any bells. Ned had removed anything resembling a bell after an explosion of some sort had rocked the house and caused him to hear ringing for a few days afterward. The front door had a knocker on it which none of them used and since no one visited, it had remained stiffly new where it sat, eye level and glaring with it's ornate vagueness.

Ned is yelling.

"Oye! The two of you! Get down here we have to talk about something..."

Perhaps accumulating an air of dread, concern or at least, displeasure knowing there was something to discuss amongst the fuck-ups of the house hold, Ned's feet are moving into the nearby study with it's open doorway, vast library of books and assorted pieces of furniture that serve basically the same function as the long large table at the centre; for placing various books on as a saving spot, if the current condition of the study is any indication. 


Ned finds a chair that looks like it was once decorated in cobwebs and mystery and is now just a faded piece of fancy that has long since been repaired to a serviceable position. There are a half dozen other chairs scattered around the room, few of which match each other. Eclecticity.

Ned picks up a nearby book. Something with no title, a brown cover and the sort of crumpled pages that come along with water damage. He skims the page the book is opened on before trimming through the next 15, stopping briefly to regard the passage there before repeating the process. He pauses only long enough to glance up at William, the other individual who'd walked through the door. Then he motions the Hermetic to find a seat, try to breathe and start the process of farewell to various body parts. All with nothing but a blink and a roll of his eyes.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1143 Sun, 18 Jun 2017 09:43:46 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1143
That was a thought that could occupy the passing time between aftershocks of some poor sod's backlash. The aftermath of paradox has a sound- Sepúlveda and Holmes could hear that plainly. It had the sound of inhuman gurgling and the snapping of bones and flesh. It had the sound of shattering glass and blown electrical fuses. It also had the sound of a medical examiner slumping over and passing out from the barrage of dampened hits he'd taken in that janitor's closet courtesy of reality's temper tantrum (over-enthusiastic punishment?) The universe had, at that juncture, decided to punish anything that happened to be awakened and unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity. 

So, there was the sound of a five and a half foot tall man hitting the ground like a sack of five and a half foot meat. It was a fairly accurate description. The taller (arguably similarly dense) glorified waterbottle sloshed, but didn't take the blow quite as hard. William grasped for a nearby anything and found a mop bucket to revisit his lunch into. Fetid water mixed with Thai food, Fruit Loops, and enough Red Bull to literally give someone wings; William decided at that moment that he was going to start eating healthier. "Oh shit," he hissed.

William then looked up long enough, reeling from stomach pain and aching ribs and strained muscles to realize that Andrés was a little pile of unconscious (please just be unconscious) Etherite, "Oh shit."

No no no no no. This was not good. 

This was not good at all. Doctor Sepúlveda was the one who had managed to keep them from getting flayed alive in their makeshift bunker and, yeah, it was good to not have to deal with an angry wraith on top of this (you SON OF A BITCH you promised me! He would be here, Jensen was supposed to pay- [i]WHERE WAS JUSTICE?)[/i] but it didn't matter if some skin-riding revenge machine was out to take their frustration out on whoever was there. Paradox was going to slowly beat the two of them to death if they didn't get out of here quickly. And even then? If they didn't get out quickly they were going to have to contend with a potential ass-ton of Technocrats trying to figure out why a couple mages were hiding in a closet. Aberrations in reality didn't really get the benefit of the doubt when disaster struck. 

He went to check on the other man, being unskilled in any real sort of first aid, all he could really do was stare at him and do the quick check of breathing or not breathing. "Come on, Sepúlveda, I've had friends nearly get decapitated and they turned out fine, this is no big deal. You're fine." 

Will realized, at that moment, that it was good that the doctor was unconscious because I've had friends nearly get decapitated is not something you say to the mentor of one of your current friends and said mentor is only marginally aware of the degree of stupid things he's done. He looked at the doctor closely, and perception won out.

"Yep. Breathing. See? You're fine," he said as he went to grab the man under his arms to lift. Which... did no good. He couldn't get Andrés to budge, "and heavy."

Try again?

...

Nope. Plop- William sat unceremoniously down beside the other man. Well, less sat, more half-collapsed. "God, you're heavy. Deceptively heavy." Yeah, or you just have strained muscles and bruised organs and are one good hit away from a collapsed lung on top of being in only average shape, William. But we'll go with the Doctor being made of dark matter to save your pride, kiddo. Holmes did a quick butt sheck to be sure he didn't sit on anything important. Having not found anything save for a stack of paper towels, he sighed with relief and started digging through his bag again. Markers- check. Cell phone- check. Thread- check. Cigarettes and lighter? Also check. 

(You're leaving?! You can't leave- where is my justice? Jensen was here!)
"Ugh," he grumbled, "seriously? All you wanted me to fucking do was be here. That was literally all you said, you needed someone to show you where the courthouse was that he was being tried at and I did. We are done. I promised nothing. And we are going to fucking die and if you do not leave me alone I will find a friend to turn you into a fucking set of Stygian chains now go the fuck away."
(He needs to pay-) the wraith boomed. The door shook, but held. This time, it wasn't paradox doing the shaking.
"The universe has a way of righting wrongs, and you have to believe me what's happening now? Is ten times more brutal than the justice you wanted. Now leave."

He sighed heavily, exhaling long enough that it made him cough again. That's not good. That does not feel good. 

William decided, at that moment, to put himself on speaker and call someone who he was fairly certain would be able to respond quickly and would actually care (and, most importantly, would believe him when he said this wasn't our fault). He called Margot. William set the phone aside and kept it on speaker while he pulled out a red marker and got to attempting to roll up one of Sepúlveda's sleeves. "I swear I am not going to draw a dick on your forehead, but you don't get a say in this right now because you're heavy as fuck and we need to get out of here."]]>
That was a thought that could occupy the passing time between aftershocks of some poor sod's backlash. The aftermath of paradox has a sound- Sepúlveda and Holmes could hear that plainly. It had the sound of inhuman gurgling and the snapping of bones and flesh. It had the sound of shattering glass and blown electrical fuses. It also had the sound of a medical examiner slumping over and passing out from the barrage of dampened hits he'd taken in that janitor's closet courtesy of reality's temper tantrum (over-enthusiastic punishment?) The universe had, at that juncture, decided to punish anything that happened to be awakened and unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity. 

So, there was the sound of a five and a half foot tall man hitting the ground like a sack of five and a half foot meat. It was a fairly accurate description. The taller (arguably similarly dense) glorified waterbottle sloshed, but didn't take the blow quite as hard. William grasped for a nearby anything and found a mop bucket to revisit his lunch into. Fetid water mixed with Thai food, Fruit Loops, and enough Red Bull to literally give someone wings; William decided at that moment that he was going to start eating healthier. "Oh shit," he hissed.

William then looked up long enough, reeling from stomach pain and aching ribs and strained muscles to realize that Andrés was a little pile of unconscious (please just be unconscious) Etherite, "Oh shit."

No no no no no. This was not good. 

This was not good at all. Doctor Sepúlveda was the one who had managed to keep them from getting flayed alive in their makeshift bunker and, yeah, it was good to not have to deal with an angry wraith on top of this (you SON OF A BITCH you promised me! He would be here, Jensen was supposed to pay- [i]WHERE WAS JUSTICE?)[/i] but it didn't matter if some skin-riding revenge machine was out to take their frustration out on whoever was there. Paradox was going to slowly beat the two of them to death if they didn't get out of here quickly. And even then? If they didn't get out quickly they were going to have to contend with a potential ass-ton of Technocrats trying to figure out why a couple mages were hiding in a closet. Aberrations in reality didn't really get the benefit of the doubt when disaster struck. 

He went to check on the other man, being unskilled in any real sort of first aid, all he could really do was stare at him and do the quick check of breathing or not breathing. "Come on, Sepúlveda, I've had friends nearly get decapitated and they turned out fine, this is no big deal. You're fine." 

Will realized, at that moment, that it was good that the doctor was unconscious because I've had friends nearly get decapitated is not something you say to the mentor of one of your current friends and said mentor is only marginally aware of the degree of stupid things he's done. He looked at the doctor closely, and perception won out.

"Yep. Breathing. See? You're fine," he said as he went to grab the man under his arms to lift. Which... did no good. He couldn't get Andrés to budge, "and heavy."

Try again?

...

Nope. Plop- William sat unceremoniously down beside the other man. Well, less sat, more half-collapsed. "God, you're heavy. Deceptively heavy." Yeah, or you just have strained muscles and bruised organs and are one good hit away from a collapsed lung on top of being in only average shape, William. But we'll go with the Doctor being made of dark matter to save your pride, kiddo. Holmes did a quick butt sheck to be sure he didn't sit on anything important. Having not found anything save for a stack of paper towels, he sighed with relief and started digging through his bag again. Markers- check. Cell phone- check. Thread- check. Cigarettes and lighter? Also check. 

(You're leaving?! You can't leave- where is my justice? Jensen was here!)
"Ugh," he grumbled, "seriously? All you wanted me to fucking do was be here. That was literally all you said, you needed someone to show you where the courthouse was that he was being tried at and I did. We are done. I promised nothing. And we are going to fucking die and if you do not leave me alone I will find a friend to turn you into a fucking set of Stygian chains now go the fuck away."
(He needs to pay-) the wraith boomed. The door shook, but held. This time, it wasn't paradox doing the shaking.
"The universe has a way of righting wrongs, and you have to believe me what's happening now? Is ten times more brutal than the justice you wanted. Now leave."

He sighed heavily, exhaling long enough that it made him cough again. That's not good. That does not feel good. 

William decided, at that moment, to put himself on speaker and call someone who he was fairly certain would be able to respond quickly and would actually care (and, most importantly, would believe him when he said this wasn't our fault). He called Margot. William set the phone aside and kept it on speaker while he pulled out a red marker and got to attempting to roll up one of Sepúlveda's sleeves. "I swear I am not going to draw a dick on your forehead, but you don't get a say in this right now because you're heavy as fuck and we need to get out of here."]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1142 Fri, 16 Jun 2017 19:15:05 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1142
"Today was a typical day in front of the Denver county courthouse, but concerns about security of this particular building have been brought into question. This ideallic courthouse, and the individuals inside courtroom seven B, found themselves the victim of what some are claiming may have been an act of domestic terrorism."

The camera cuts to footage of a tall, severe looking man being led from a car into the courthouse. He had lines around his eyes and a perpetual look of grim frustration as he walked into the courthouse. He was dressed in a second hand suit and seemed to radiate a sort of malice that marked him as villain without having to really say much, "Forty year old Darren Jensen was facing trial this week; as you know Jensen was considered to be the primary orchestrator of the what has come to be known as the November Incidents of 2016- a rash of violent crimes which were largely overshadowed by the tumultuous presidential election.

"Witnesses report hearing an explosion in room seven B- destroying seats, tables, and rendering the jury, legal counsel, and presiding judge Orlando Jimenez in critical condition. Those who escaped the blast have not been able to be reached for interview or comment. Due to the chaos, news crews have not been permitted to enter the scene, but anonymous sources report that the aftershock of the explosion shattered windows and multiple lighting fixtures. Miraculously, the explosion stayed relatively contained in the courtroom, leading investigators to believe it may have been a small grade incendiary concealed by Jensen.

"We will continue to report on this matter as information becomes available. For Denver Seven, this is Vanessa Truong."]]>
"Today was a typical day in front of the Denver county courthouse, but concerns about security of this particular building have been brought into question. This ideallic courthouse, and the individuals inside courtroom seven B, found themselves the victim of what some are claiming may have been an act of domestic terrorism."

The camera cuts to footage of a tall, severe looking man being led from a car into the courthouse. He had lines around his eyes and a perpetual look of grim frustration as he walked into the courthouse. He was dressed in a second hand suit and seemed to radiate a sort of malice that marked him as villain without having to really say much, "Forty year old Darren Jensen was facing trial this week; as you know Jensen was considered to be the primary orchestrator of the what has come to be known as the November Incidents of 2016- a rash of violent crimes which were largely overshadowed by the tumultuous presidential election.

"Witnesses report hearing an explosion in room seven B- destroying seats, tables, and rendering the jury, legal counsel, and presiding judge Orlando Jimenez in critical condition. Those who escaped the blast have not been able to be reached for interview or comment. Due to the chaos, news crews have not been permitted to enter the scene, but anonymous sources report that the aftershock of the explosion shattered windows and multiple lighting fixtures. Miraculously, the explosion stayed relatively contained in the courtroom, leading investigators to believe it may have been a small grade incendiary concealed by Jensen.

"We will continue to report on this matter as information becomes available. For Denver Seven, this is Vanessa Truong."]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1141 Sun, 11 Jun 2017 11:07:55 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1141 My disposition is as such: If I'm not engaged in war, fucking or some magical effort, then it means I'm on vacation. If I'm on vacation, that means I'm not doing anything worth noting to improve, degrade or upend the world as I know it. That doesn't mean I'm not doing anything, merely that what I am doing is only really important to me. If it becomes important to anyone other than me, then it's probably going to be life-alteringly important.

Not because I'm full of myself, mind you. I can throw fireballs and warp time. That tends to come with a bit of focused reality cause and effect."

~Debra Meetch, Cultist Adept~



Ned has been doing something routine for the better part of months now. 

Between being at home in the House on the outskirts of Aurora, that he shares with his cabalmates, studiously pouring over texts that used to be owned by some crazed lunatic who wrote about everything from 'How buttery your nipples can actually get' to 'Shub-ru-la-thag-la-Tghan'...

...and traveling back into Denver to take free classes or sign up for several well honed practicing in the medieval martial arts categories (Learning how to use a spear was a lot of fun, but carrying one around was also nigh impossible in a lot of respects so he'd had to branch into knife fighting and some shield work as well)...

...Ned had made a habit of forming a circuit that kept him relatively busy. 

Several times a month he made an effort to reach out to Beth and Wiley, the psychopathic high society pair who had been making pains and efforts to hunt down the supernatural, while also looking at discovering what manner of thing could potentially glow incandescent, observe from a distance and obliterate things with a wink (Not much luck on that one so far). 

Throw in a healthy dash of interaction (Read: Conflict, mayhem and the occasional brunch) with the Doc and Margot and his plate had been kept relatively busy. Or at least, engaging. 

About the only real discrepency throughout it all were the dreams. He'd kept those to himself this last little while because dreams were hard to interpret and he wasn't entirely certain they meant anything beyond 'You're still here. All things function.'

But they revolved around the same thing. At least once a week...

There are squares, circles and shapes indescribable. They form a blanket across all angles and perspectives. The world stops being about bodies, eyes and minds and is simply colour and shape. It moves in kaleidoscopes. Shifting, turning and spiraling. It is meant to be confusing and makes him remember when he wakes, that it is only this way to show him how much more attuned he is than most because-

It is not confusing. 
It is not disorienting. 
It is a puzzle. Changing shape. Re-organizing. Re-inventing. 
Pieces fit into other pieces when they didn't fit moments before.
Sections turn and twist in on themselves, negating their need.
Whole continental shelves of random enigma, slide into the ocean of solvency with a shrug or a hum or a murmur of eureka.
It has been this way. Is this way. Will be this way.
But the layers have grown deeper. The puzzle is still moving.
And there is something there that wasn't before.
A single dot at the centre. A lodestone to focus on. Something uniquely different or differently unique that defies the need to focus on it...
...because focus is not how the puzzle works.
But it is there.
He can 'see' it, even as he watches colours solve themselves into different tints.
He can 'see' it through the shapes that operate themselves into completion.
He can 'see' it all shift and change, around this little dot.

And understands beyond all doubt when he is waking into the world again-

Heavy breath. Blinking eyes in the dark, sheets of sweat and charged limbs like the marathon was about to begin.

"...A count down."]]> My disposition is as such: If I'm not engaged in war, fucking or some magical effort, then it means I'm on vacation. If I'm on vacation, that means I'm not doing anything worth noting to improve, degrade or upend the world as I know it. That doesn't mean I'm not doing anything, merely that what I am doing is only really important to me. If it becomes important to anyone other than me, then it's probably going to be life-alteringly important.

Not because I'm full of myself, mind you. I can throw fireballs and warp time. That tends to come with a bit of focused reality cause and effect."

~Debra Meetch, Cultist Adept~



Ned has been doing something routine for the better part of months now. 

Between being at home in the House on the outskirts of Aurora, that he shares with his cabalmates, studiously pouring over texts that used to be owned by some crazed lunatic who wrote about everything from 'How buttery your nipples can actually get' to 'Shub-ru-la-thag-la-Tghan'...

...and traveling back into Denver to take free classes or sign up for several well honed practicing in the medieval martial arts categories (Learning how to use a spear was a lot of fun, but carrying one around was also nigh impossible in a lot of respects so he'd had to branch into knife fighting and some shield work as well)...

...Ned had made a habit of forming a circuit that kept him relatively busy. 

Several times a month he made an effort to reach out to Beth and Wiley, the psychopathic high society pair who had been making pains and efforts to hunt down the supernatural, while also looking at discovering what manner of thing could potentially glow incandescent, observe from a distance and obliterate things with a wink (Not much luck on that one so far). 

Throw in a healthy dash of interaction (Read: Conflict, mayhem and the occasional brunch) with the Doc and Margot and his plate had been kept relatively busy. Or at least, engaging. 

About the only real discrepency throughout it all were the dreams. He'd kept those to himself this last little while because dreams were hard to interpret and he wasn't entirely certain they meant anything beyond 'You're still here. All things function.'

But they revolved around the same thing. At least once a week...

There are squares, circles and shapes indescribable. They form a blanket across all angles and perspectives. The world stops being about bodies, eyes and minds and is simply colour and shape. It moves in kaleidoscopes. Shifting, turning and spiraling. It is meant to be confusing and makes him remember when he wakes, that it is only this way to show him how much more attuned he is than most because-

It is not confusing. 
It is not disorienting. 
It is a puzzle. Changing shape. Re-organizing. Re-inventing. 
Pieces fit into other pieces when they didn't fit moments before.
Sections turn and twist in on themselves, negating their need.
Whole continental shelves of random enigma, slide into the ocean of solvency with a shrug or a hum or a murmur of eureka.
It has been this way. Is this way. Will be this way.
But the layers have grown deeper. The puzzle is still moving.
And there is something there that wasn't before.
A single dot at the centre. A lodestone to focus on. Something uniquely different or differently unique that defies the need to focus on it...
...because focus is not how the puzzle works.
But it is there.
He can 'see' it, even as he watches colours solve themselves into different tints.
He can 'see' it through the shapes that operate themselves into completion.
He can 'see' it all shift and change, around this little dot.

And understands beyond all doubt when he is waking into the world again-

Heavy breath. Blinking eyes in the dark, sheets of sweat and charged limbs like the marathon was about to begin.

"...A count down."]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1140 Sun, 11 Jun 2017 10:43:13 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1140 Existence is better felt under the feet, then in the head."


The pair have had significant weeks and months to contemplate all that had occurred the last time they had gotten together. The lessons of the spirit were plentiful (if rudimentary) and the thoughts that accompany such things tended to lead down paths that contained more questions then answers. 

It helped to have someone to talk to about it all. 

Either someone you could trust to look after your best interests.

Or someone who might be invested in ensuring you don't fuck up the world more than you already have.

....Or someone who's agenda ties into buoying the youth of tomorrow, above the tide of 'there won't be one'. 

One can't entirely be sure which of those Arturo Nihm is. 


* * * * *

Kindly meet me at this address. It's time for the next phase in your instruction

The text would arrive for both of them without much in the way of grace periods or allowances. It had the air of expectancy that came with the elderly. I've left my comfort zone to come into the city just to grace you with a bit of my time. Be here, now or know my senile wrath

The Address is a simple little diner in the heart of Denver's downtown district. Streetlights flicker and flutter, allowing the passage of traffic of all vehicles (Bikes, Bodies, Cars etc.) while the high rises with their glass surfaces and steel framing glitter under the mid-day sun and cast reflections that make the eyes squint and warm the brow and exposed skin summer has no doubt brought with it as a trend. 

The bodies here are plentiful as well. Many are on lunch breaks. Many more are simply out enjoying the nice weather. 

Arturo Nihm is sitting on a street bench, under a bus sign, quietly offering wave of 'No Thanks' to the buses that have probably been stopping to let him on for however long he has been sitting there. 

He's dressed for dapper. Argyle socks, pale beige slacks, a cardigan of resplendent checkerboard caramel and cream, over a simple dark green polo. His favourite bi-focals and his best cane, the ivory handle carved in the shape of the planet earth, down to ridiculously minute detail in the continent edges and designs. His hair is slicked back and trimmed over his scalp and his eyes carry a wistful sort of distance as he watches people wander past him. 

He is humming something under his breath, the melody lost in the maze of noise the city is so fond of making symphonies out of. 

When they arrive, one by one, or both at once, he is continuing to watch the city, eyes moving from couples to buildings to traffic to life. 

"...We've talked about Decay. We've spoken of creation. Today, we're here to talk about the third of Cosmic All. That which is closest to humanity and that promises the most threat and the most capacity for improvement."

Those bespectacled eyes turn to regard the pair, brows bouncing upward in waiting query. As if he'd asked a question and not simply made a statement.]]> Existence is better felt under the feet, then in the head."


The pair have had significant weeks and months to contemplate all that had occurred the last time they had gotten together. The lessons of the spirit were plentiful (if rudimentary) and the thoughts that accompany such things tended to lead down paths that contained more questions then answers. 

It helped to have someone to talk to about it all. 

Either someone you could trust to look after your best interests.

Or someone who might be invested in ensuring you don't fuck up the world more than you already have.

....Or someone who's agenda ties into buoying the youth of tomorrow, above the tide of 'there won't be one'. 

One can't entirely be sure which of those Arturo Nihm is. 


* * * * *

Kindly meet me at this address. It's time for the next phase in your instruction

The text would arrive for both of them without much in the way of grace periods or allowances. It had the air of expectancy that came with the elderly. I've left my comfort zone to come into the city just to grace you with a bit of my time. Be here, now or know my senile wrath

The Address is a simple little diner in the heart of Denver's downtown district. Streetlights flicker and flutter, allowing the passage of traffic of all vehicles (Bikes, Bodies, Cars etc.) while the high rises with their glass surfaces and steel framing glitter under the mid-day sun and cast reflections that make the eyes squint and warm the brow and exposed skin summer has no doubt brought with it as a trend. 

The bodies here are plentiful as well. Many are on lunch breaks. Many more are simply out enjoying the nice weather. 

Arturo Nihm is sitting on a street bench, under a bus sign, quietly offering wave of 'No Thanks' to the buses that have probably been stopping to let him on for however long he has been sitting there. 

He's dressed for dapper. Argyle socks, pale beige slacks, a cardigan of resplendent checkerboard caramel and cream, over a simple dark green polo. His favourite bi-focals and his best cane, the ivory handle carved in the shape of the planet earth, down to ridiculously minute detail in the continent edges and designs. His hair is slicked back and trimmed over his scalp and his eyes carry a wistful sort of distance as he watches people wander past him. 

He is humming something under his breath, the melody lost in the maze of noise the city is so fond of making symphonies out of. 

When they arrive, one by one, or both at once, he is continuing to watch the city, eyes moving from couples to buildings to traffic to life. 

"...We've talked about Decay. We've spoken of creation. Today, we're here to talk about the third of Cosmic All. That which is closest to humanity and that promises the most threat and the most capacity for improvement."

Those bespectacled eyes turn to regard the pair, brows bouncing upward in waiting query. As if he'd asked a question and not simply made a statement.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1127 Fri, 14 Oct 2016 23:35:54 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1127 "Dreams surely are difficult, confusing, and not everything in them is brought to pass for mankind. For fleeting dreams have two gates: one is fashioned of horn and one of ivory. Those which pass through the one of sawn ivory are deceptive, bringing tidings which come to nought, but those which issue from the one of polished horn bring true results when a mortal sees them."

-- Homer (800 BC - 700 BC), The Odyssey

--------------

The world was one of fire, with a landscape of flame and char to the south stretching far and wide.  Smoke and ash swept from the blackened planes and choked the rest of the world so it could suffer along with.  Margot felt it stinging her eyes, scratching and burning her throat.  She squinted through tear-bleary eyes and covered her mouth and nose with the crook of her elbow and cast a look about.  She was facing the destruction to the south, stood upon a hillside's top ridge like she was positioned to survey.  She couldn't quite pinpoint whether she was feeling shame, fear, or pride, but the combination of the three made the sight particularly dizzying to behold.

When her head turned to see the north, the world blurred around her and suddenly she found cold gray stone under her feet and forming walls far around her, replacing the ridge upon which she stood moments ago.

It didn't take long to realize that she was standing in the great hall of a castle.  Her eyes cast down to the stones beneath her feet, and her bare toes curled against them and felt how cool and smooth they were.  The walls to either side were built of similar stone, stacked tall with pillars to support them lining the edge of the hall with neat spacing apart.  She craned her neck to discover the ceiling a couple dozen feet high, she couldn't guess exactly how far up, but the rafters were largely consumed by shadows.  After squinting into them for a moment she realized the tears were gone from her eyes but the shadows were thick in her vision all the same.  A look over her shoulder spoke of more shadows, deep and infinite feeling.  To look forward she found more shadow all the same, but it was a veil instead of a pit.  She could hear voices coming through it.

With no other direction to go, Margot started walking deeper into the hall.  For what felt like an hour her walking took her nowhere-- there was the impression of distance being crossed but at no point did any detail light up the hall beyond the stones below, the stones to the sides, and the rafters above.  The voices failed to grow louder, and even seemed to dim to a near-lost murmer at a certain point.  It was only when the panicky sense of being trapped settled in that the darkness ahead suddenly cleared to reveal the hall's end at last.

A long table of wood was revealed laid out with so much food that Margot worried it would sag and break under the weight.  Benches lined the table on either side, and though she saw nothing but small wisps of smoke that seemed to leak in from the South there was still the clatter of silverware and muted chatter of many men at a meal.  It was like listening to a feast with cotton in her ears, but she couldn't see anyone present at the table.  All she could see was the piles of food shift and shrink if she paid close enough attention to any one plate at a time, but soon as she looked back again it would seem to have refilled itself.

Valhalla?, she wondered within herself.

"Hardly."  A voice answered her aloud, and it was the first thing she'd heard that didn't seem at a distance.  Her eyes snapped this way and that, searching for the source, and soon they settled upon a great wooden throne set atop a raised platform at the end of the table, and ultimately the hall as well.

The woman was sprawled in the throne as though it had always belonged to her, yet the gouge marks of a blade and recent smears of blood along the back of the grand seat suggested otherwise.  She appeared long and lean, even with a leg tossed over one of the throne's arms.  Her skin was pale as milk and largely bare, painted in broad swaths of bright bold blue, with bones tied into her wild red hair to the point that they formed their own macabre crown.  Her breasts were covered only in necklaces of bead and bone and tooth, a loose plate made of crudely hammered bronze that did little more than dangle as a pendant.  She had propped herself up with an elbow on the throne's other arm, and the one free hand remaining was delegated to a leg of capon.  Grease dribbled down her chin when she took a large bite, cutting a trail through the red blood and blue warpaint on the way.

Though Margot was certain it was she who'd spoken, the warrior woman didn't seem to be paying her any mind.  Her eyes were watching the table, moving like they were following conversation that Margot could not hear, watching people that Margot could not see.  She licked her lips nervously and put another thought out into the air, testing.  Then where?

The warrior woman answered simply by taking another bite, and this time she groped around on the throne seat until she found the end of her long cloth loincloth, which was used to wipe the grease from her neck and chest and fingers.  Thinking that perhaps she didn't think loudly or clearly enough, Margot took a step forward, then another, until she was walking along the length of the table to approach the throne.  She felt rustling in the air and a vague warmth to her left, where the benches were, certain of the presence of men enjoying their victory meal without being able to see them or logically know for sure it was victory to which they ate.

When Margot remembered not to focus on the ghosts at the table she realized she was already standing before the throne, and with surprise she looked up to find the warrior woman had risen and was standing directly before her.  Hands with blood-stained fingers reached out and cupped her face, while astoundingly blue eyes bored into her and glued her in place.

"Not where.  Everywhere, nowhere, Old Lands that may become New again."  One hand left Margot's face, and though the fingers stroked slow and loving in their departure they left the stinging sensation of being scratched.  Margot's brow flexed but she didn't jerk away, and the woman flexed her brow back.  "Ask the right question."

Uncomfortable with the intimate touch, yet intimately comforted by it, Margot screwed up her eyes and tried to search for the answer in this conqueror's face.  The features were familiar but she couldn't quite find why.  Nothing about them reminded her of any names or events.  But there was something more, beyond appearances alone, that was ringing a bell in her mind.  A smell of copper and iron and ash and fresh ground herbs, a secure recognition of what it felt like to be home...

Who...? The suspicion and confusion and dawning realization were as hard to keep separate as the pride and the shame and the fear.

The woman's mouth split into a wide smile of black teeth filed to points and the blue eyes blazed all the brighter.  It was the right question, for the ghosts behind her silenced themselves and strained to watch and listen; she couldn't see them any more clearly, but she knew they were present and suddenly aware of her all the same.

"Don't you know?," asked the woman, and she tossed her head back and began to laugh.  Her other hand parted from Margot's face at last, again with the burning-dragging sensation that the fingertips left behind, and this time they migrated to the warrior's own face to touch from her forehead down her nose and over lips and chin.  The paint there swirled with her touch, and soon all of her features were swirling and melting down.  All of her was melting, shrinking in height and breadth and hardness.  When the confusion cleared and an identity took shape in the shifting body, Margot felt a stone drop in the well of her gut and startle the things there to wakefulness.

It was herself looking back at her, with the same wide hazel eyes and small mouth and thin body and shoulders.  The loincloth at her mirror image's hips was long enough to touch the floor, and the beads and bones shrouded a chest much smaller than the conqueror's.  Yet the crown of bone woven into hair remained, and the wild mane of red was there in place of her mute brown locks instead.

"....You're me," Margot whispered, and lifted a hand to reach out to touch her warrior-self's face.  That warrior face looking back at her smiled, and she found the teeth still black and sharp and wicked.

"No, child, I'm what you will be."

Suddenly the Warrior shoved Margot in the chest and sent her sprawling backwards, and where the floor had been was a yawning blackness instead.  For a terrible hanging moment Margot was sure she would fall forever, but it was a sharp jerk of consciousness that landed her right back in her bed.

Sweat made her hair cling to her brow and her nightshirt stick to her back, and Margot's door squeaked quiet on its hinges as she gentled it open to make her way into the bathroom.  In a small oval mirror above the pedestal sink Margot splashed her face and checked her eyes-- still hazel.  Her teeth-- still white.  When she brushed her hair back from her brow, though, she discovered the wash of crimson from her temples had broadened and brightened further.

A sign, she thought to herself.

No, that didn't seem quite right.  She tried the answer again, whispering to her reflection, and what she heard sounded so much more correct.

"No.  A truth."]]> "Dreams surely are difficult, confusing, and not everything in them is brought to pass for mankind. For fleeting dreams have two gates: one is fashioned of horn and one of ivory. Those which pass through the one of sawn ivory are deceptive, bringing tidings which come to nought, but those which issue from the one of polished horn bring true results when a mortal sees them."

-- Homer (800 BC - 700 BC), The Odyssey

--------------

The world was one of fire, with a landscape of flame and char to the south stretching far and wide.  Smoke and ash swept from the blackened planes and choked the rest of the world so it could suffer along with.  Margot felt it stinging her eyes, scratching and burning her throat.  She squinted through tear-bleary eyes and covered her mouth and nose with the crook of her elbow and cast a look about.  She was facing the destruction to the south, stood upon a hillside's top ridge like she was positioned to survey.  She couldn't quite pinpoint whether she was feeling shame, fear, or pride, but the combination of the three made the sight particularly dizzying to behold.

When her head turned to see the north, the world blurred around her and suddenly she found cold gray stone under her feet and forming walls far around her, replacing the ridge upon which she stood moments ago.

It didn't take long to realize that she was standing in the great hall of a castle.  Her eyes cast down to the stones beneath her feet, and her bare toes curled against them and felt how cool and smooth they were.  The walls to either side were built of similar stone, stacked tall with pillars to support them lining the edge of the hall with neat spacing apart.  She craned her neck to discover the ceiling a couple dozen feet high, she couldn't guess exactly how far up, but the rafters were largely consumed by shadows.  After squinting into them for a moment she realized the tears were gone from her eyes but the shadows were thick in her vision all the same.  A look over her shoulder spoke of more shadows, deep and infinite feeling.  To look forward she found more shadow all the same, but it was a veil instead of a pit.  She could hear voices coming through it.

With no other direction to go, Margot started walking deeper into the hall.  For what felt like an hour her walking took her nowhere-- there was the impression of distance being crossed but at no point did any detail light up the hall beyond the stones below, the stones to the sides, and the rafters above.  The voices failed to grow louder, and even seemed to dim to a near-lost murmer at a certain point.  It was only when the panicky sense of being trapped settled in that the darkness ahead suddenly cleared to reveal the hall's end at last.

A long table of wood was revealed laid out with so much food that Margot worried it would sag and break under the weight.  Benches lined the table on either side, and though she saw nothing but small wisps of smoke that seemed to leak in from the South there was still the clatter of silverware and muted chatter of many men at a meal.  It was like listening to a feast with cotton in her ears, but she couldn't see anyone present at the table.  All she could see was the piles of food shift and shrink if she paid close enough attention to any one plate at a time, but soon as she looked back again it would seem to have refilled itself.

Valhalla?, she wondered within herself.

"Hardly."  A voice answered her aloud, and it was the first thing she'd heard that didn't seem at a distance.  Her eyes snapped this way and that, searching for the source, and soon they settled upon a great wooden throne set atop a raised platform at the end of the table, and ultimately the hall as well.

The woman was sprawled in the throne as though it had always belonged to her, yet the gouge marks of a blade and recent smears of blood along the back of the grand seat suggested otherwise.  She appeared long and lean, even with a leg tossed over one of the throne's arms.  Her skin was pale as milk and largely bare, painted in broad swaths of bright bold blue, with bones tied into her wild red hair to the point that they formed their own macabre crown.  Her breasts were covered only in necklaces of bead and bone and tooth, a loose plate made of crudely hammered bronze that did little more than dangle as a pendant.  She had propped herself up with an elbow on the throne's other arm, and the one free hand remaining was delegated to a leg of capon.  Grease dribbled down her chin when she took a large bite, cutting a trail through the red blood and blue warpaint on the way.

Though Margot was certain it was she who'd spoken, the warrior woman didn't seem to be paying her any mind.  Her eyes were watching the table, moving like they were following conversation that Margot could not hear, watching people that Margot could not see.  She licked her lips nervously and put another thought out into the air, testing.  Then where?

The warrior woman answered simply by taking another bite, and this time she groped around on the throne seat until she found the end of her long cloth loincloth, which was used to wipe the grease from her neck and chest and fingers.  Thinking that perhaps she didn't think loudly or clearly enough, Margot took a step forward, then another, until she was walking along the length of the table to approach the throne.  She felt rustling in the air and a vague warmth to her left, where the benches were, certain of the presence of men enjoying their victory meal without being able to see them or logically know for sure it was victory to which they ate.

When Margot remembered not to focus on the ghosts at the table she realized she was already standing before the throne, and with surprise she looked up to find the warrior woman had risen and was standing directly before her.  Hands with blood-stained fingers reached out and cupped her face, while astoundingly blue eyes bored into her and glued her in place.

"Not where.  Everywhere, nowhere, Old Lands that may become New again."  One hand left Margot's face, and though the fingers stroked slow and loving in their departure they left the stinging sensation of being scratched.  Margot's brow flexed but she didn't jerk away, and the woman flexed her brow back.  "Ask the right question."

Uncomfortable with the intimate touch, yet intimately comforted by it, Margot screwed up her eyes and tried to search for the answer in this conqueror's face.  The features were familiar but she couldn't quite find why.  Nothing about them reminded her of any names or events.  But there was something more, beyond appearances alone, that was ringing a bell in her mind.  A smell of copper and iron and ash and fresh ground herbs, a secure recognition of what it felt like to be home...

Who...? The suspicion and confusion and dawning realization were as hard to keep separate as the pride and the shame and the fear.

The woman's mouth split into a wide smile of black teeth filed to points and the blue eyes blazed all the brighter.  It was the right question, for the ghosts behind her silenced themselves and strained to watch and listen; she couldn't see them any more clearly, but she knew they were present and suddenly aware of her all the same.

"Don't you know?," asked the woman, and she tossed her head back and began to laugh.  Her other hand parted from Margot's face at last, again with the burning-dragging sensation that the fingertips left behind, and this time they migrated to the warrior's own face to touch from her forehead down her nose and over lips and chin.  The paint there swirled with her touch, and soon all of her features were swirling and melting down.  All of her was melting, shrinking in height and breadth and hardness.  When the confusion cleared and an identity took shape in the shifting body, Margot felt a stone drop in the well of her gut and startle the things there to wakefulness.

It was herself looking back at her, with the same wide hazel eyes and small mouth and thin body and shoulders.  The loincloth at her mirror image's hips was long enough to touch the floor, and the beads and bones shrouded a chest much smaller than the conqueror's.  Yet the crown of bone woven into hair remained, and the wild mane of red was there in place of her mute brown locks instead.

"....You're me," Margot whispered, and lifted a hand to reach out to touch her warrior-self's face.  That warrior face looking back at her smiled, and she found the teeth still black and sharp and wicked.

"No, child, I'm what you will be."

Suddenly the Warrior shoved Margot in the chest and sent her sprawling backwards, and where the floor had been was a yawning blackness instead.  For a terrible hanging moment Margot was sure she would fall forever, but it was a sharp jerk of consciousness that landed her right back in her bed.

Sweat made her hair cling to her brow and her nightshirt stick to her back, and Margot's door squeaked quiet on its hinges as she gentled it open to make her way into the bathroom.  In a small oval mirror above the pedestal sink Margot splashed her face and checked her eyes-- still hazel.  Her teeth-- still white.  When she brushed her hair back from her brow, though, she discovered the wash of crimson from her temples had broadened and brightened further.

A sign, she thought to herself.

No, that didn't seem quite right.  She tried the answer again, whispering to her reflection, and what she heard sounded so much more correct.

"No.  A truth."]]>