[identity profile] syl-thorn.livejournal.com
[Late morning, Sunday, April 18, Day 322]
[The park]



Ain't been th'easiest few weeks've ever had'n m'life, 'at's fer sure. Least th'weather's startin' t'warm up, so we could open fer bizness should we want to. But most folks're questionin' whether we oughta bother. Those few've us't're still makin' money gen'rally get sought out whether th'Lot's open 're no, an' th'rides 'n games've pretty much lost'eir mystique, havin' been'ere fer near a year now. We's all tired, by'is point, tired 'n runnin' low on money. Least now we c'n catch some ovvour own food, but I think most people've lost a few pounds over th'course'a th'winter.

Me, I ain't got no more pounds t'lose. An'I guess I can't complain. Genny's back t'er old self, an'I ain't sure'er ma's ever gonna let'er out ovver sight again. M'twins seem t'be settlin' in, though I worry 'bout poor Hope, learnin' t'live wit'out eyes. 'm makin' 'nough money t'get by, an' ain't no disasters happened lately, which's 'bout all y'c'n hope for innis town.

Gotta say, though, I like Nanshe, but two women livin' n one room an' not havin' sex gets a li'l bit gratin'. She's good people'n she tries t'give me m'space, but 'ere's only so much y'c'n do. Left early t'day, jes' t'get some breathin' room.

Norm'lly'd head t'th'tavern (fuck what time't is), but...well, ain't been to th'tavern inna while. I don't wanna be th'one t'explain t'Verdi why Tez ain't 'round no more. An' bein' someplace where him'n me used t'spend so much time...well. I ain't hungry, an'I don't really feel like bein' 'round a crowd, so skip th'cafe. End up sittin' atta park bench, lightin' a cig, an' wond'rin' what th'hell'm s'posed t'do next.


[OPEN, particularly to SIMON but others may drop in]
[identity profile] syl-thorn.livejournal.com
[Late morning, Sunday, April 18, Day 322]
[The park]



Ain't been th'easiest few weeks've ever had'n m'life, 'at's fer sure. Least th'weather's startin' t'warm up, so we could open fer bizness should we want to. But most folks're questionin' whether we oughta bother. Those few've us't're still makin' money gen'rally get sought out whether th'Lot's open 're no, an' th'rides 'n games've pretty much lost'eir mystique, havin' been'ere fer near a year now. We's all tired, by'is point, tired 'n runnin' low on money. Least now we c'n catch some ovvour own food, but I think most people've lost a few pounds over th'course'a th'winter.

Me, I ain't got no more pounds t'lose. An'I guess I can't complain. Genny's back t'er old self, an'I ain't sure'er ma's ever gonna let'er out ovver sight again. M'twins seem t'be settlin' in, though I worry 'bout poor Hope, learnin' t'live wit'out eyes. 'm makin' 'nough money t'get by, an' ain't no disasters happened lately, which's 'bout all y'c'n hope for innis town.

Gotta say, though, I like Nanshe, but two women livin' n one room an' not havin' sex gets a li'l bit gratin'. She's good people'n she tries t'give me m'space, but 'ere's only so much y'c'n do. Left early t'day, jes' t'get some breathin' room.

Norm'lly'd head t'th'tavern (fuck what time't is), but...well, ain't been to th'tavern inna while. I don't wanna be th'one t'explain t'Verdi why Tez ain't 'round no more. An' bein' someplace where him'n me used t'spend so much time...well. I ain't hungry, an'I don't really feel like bein' 'round a crowd, so skip th'cafe. End up sittin' atta park bench, lightin' a cig, an' wond'rin' what th'hell'm s'posed t'do next.


[OPEN, particularly to SIMON but others may drop in]
[identity profile] al-shairan.livejournal.com
Revelation can be more perilous than Revolution.
- Vladimir Nabokov

Wednesday's child is full of woe;
Thursday's child has far to go.
- Proverb


Friday afternoon, the Miskatonic cafe

The hours have slipped away like sand through fingers (am I a falcon), and in the great space of myself I watch things tumble outward and outward, ripples without end (a storm). Without flesh I hear the notes more clearly (a great song), a more perfect echoing as I unfold. I can hear it resonate within me, and it is too much. I put on a body, one I have not worn before, because it gives some relief, to keep cramped and still in a small place, even to be caught up in the minutiae of bodily experience, the pumping grossness of vein and bowel. There's an elegance to this body that I like, clean lines of it, its dark skin and long limbs stepping out of the desert and folded into bright cloth, hair wrapped with a scarf. I take it into the daylight, watching the shadow move across the greening grass near the tower and then the sunbright asphalt of the town, and I sit in the cafe with its fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee, hot and black, steam rising. I will endure all things I must.

[CLOSED]
[identity profile] al-shairan.livejournal.com
Revelation can be more perilous than Revolution.
- Vladimir Nabokov

Wednesday's child is full of woe;
Thursday's child has far to go.
- Proverb


Friday afternoon, the Miskatonic cafe

The hours have slipped away like sand through fingers (am I a falcon), and in the great space of myself I watch things tumble outward and outward, ripples without end (a storm). Without flesh I hear the notes more clearly (a great song), a more perfect echoing as I unfold. I can hear it resonate within me, and it is too much. I put on a body, one I have not worn before, because it gives some relief, to keep cramped and still in a small place, even to be caught up in the minutiae of bodily experience, the pumping grossness of vein and bowel. There's an elegance to this body that I like, clean lines of it, its dark skin and long limbs stepping out of the desert and folded into bright cloth, hair wrapped with a scarf. I take it into the daylight, watching the shadow move across the greening grass near the tower and then the sunbright asphalt of the town, and I sit in the cafe with its fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee, hot and black, steam rising. I will endure all things I must.

[CLOSED]
[identity profile] simon-klavec.livejournal.com
Day 311, Thursday, April 8th
Glass' home
Evening

Been meaning to bring this by, after the dreams. Taken me a week to do, but here I am now. It's been... well. More deaths than I thought. One life given and brought out, and life gone and dark. Should go find the first. Know a little, maybe, of how it feels. A little. But I figure there's others as do too, and I'm none too helpful these days. Haven't figured it out for myself, this strange half-lived life, even if I can't really tell where I start and he finishes.

As for the other, well. Can't bring myself to feel too badly. Know Syl must be taking it hard, but he and I never got along for the short time we knew each other as men. And the town's safer, now. An uncertain ally's worth two enemies sometimes, and he wasn't even that. But then, that's what Syl would say too. Said as much, truly, when we spoke on Wanda's child. Wonder what she's planning, Syl. Didn't part on best terms, then. Know she wants to cut away that threat, that doubt, and part of me thinks its the smart thing to do.

But it's different. Babe's never done me harm, not like the Night Wind. Man picked his side, and there's no knowing if he'd have ever stepped back over that line.

I knock on Glass' door. The clock has an easy feel to my hand, but it's not mine. Not by rights, and whatever it is, it suits her better than me.

[Open to Glass]
[identity profile] simon-klavec.livejournal.com
Day 311, Thursday, April 8th
Glass' home
Evening

Been meaning to bring this by, after the dreams. Taken me a week to do, but here I am now. It's been... well. More deaths than I thought. One life given and brought out, and life gone and dark. Should go find the first. Know a little, maybe, of how it feels. A little. But I figure there's others as do too, and I'm none too helpful these days. Haven't figured it out for myself, this strange half-lived life, even if I can't really tell where I start and he finishes.

As for the other, well. Can't bring myself to feel too badly. Know Syl must be taking it hard, but he and I never got along for the short time we knew each other as men. And the town's safer, now. An uncertain ally's worth two enemies sometimes, and he wasn't even that. But then, that's what Syl would say too. Said as much, truly, when we spoke on Wanda's child. Wonder what she's planning, Syl. Didn't part on best terms, then. Know she wants to cut away that threat, that doubt, and part of me thinks its the smart thing to do.

But it's different. Babe's never done me harm, not like the Night Wind. Man picked his side, and there's no knowing if he'd have ever stepped back over that line.

I knock on Glass' door. The clock has an easy feel to my hand, but it's not mine. Not by rights, and whatever it is, it suits her better than me.

[Open to Glass]
[identity profile] goddessnanshe.livejournal.com
Wednesday, sometime, somewhere in Dream

Once upon time there was a beautiful princess. Her hair was the colour of jet and her skin was the colour of nutmeg, and each of her teeth were like pearls. Flowers grew where she walked, so that the fields around the tower that was her home was carpeted in blooms as white as snow. The princess was very happy, all save for one thing: her fear that one day the thorn of one of the flowers would prick her. Her servants combed the field for thorns every day, trimming the stems so that it would be safe for her to walk. But still the princess was afraid, and she neglected to notice that each month the forest encroached closer on her home, until one day, standing in her field of flowers, she looked up to see the trees looming around her, undergrowth thick with thorns. Frightened, she fled inside, and as she ran she began her first bleeding, and the blood that trickled down her thigh fell to the earth and stained the roses around the tower a deep and brilliant red.

Inside the tower the princess was afraid that she was dying, for her father had always insisted that royal blood was the most precious of all things and must never be spilled. Weeping, she showed the blood to her old nurse, who laughed and kissed her cheek and told her this was the secret gift of women, and now she was blessed. So the princess wiped her eyes, and was no longer afraid of bleeding. But the thorns of the forest came for her all the same.
[identity profile] goddessnanshe.livejournal.com
Wednesday, sometime, somewhere in Dream

Once upon time there was a beautiful princess. Her hair was the colour of jet and her skin was the colour of nutmeg, and each of her teeth were like pearls. Flowers grew where she walked, so that the fields around the tower that was her home was carpeted in blooms as white as snow. The princess was very happy, all save for one thing: her fear that one day the thorn of one of the flowers would prick her. Her servants combed the field for thorns every day, trimming the stems so that it would be safe for her to walk. But still the princess was afraid, and she neglected to notice that each month the forest encroached closer on her home, until one day, standing in her field of flowers, she looked up to see the trees looming around her, undergrowth thick with thorns. Frightened, she fled inside, and as she ran she began her first bleeding, and the blood that trickled down her thigh fell to the earth and stained the roses around the tower a deep and brilliant red.

Inside the tower the princess was afraid that she was dying, for her father had always insisted that royal blood was the most precious of all things and must never be spilled. Weeping, she showed the blood to her old nurse, who laughed and kissed her cheek and told her this was the secret gift of women, and now she was blessed. So the princess wiped her eyes, and was no longer afraid of bleeding. But the thorns of the forest came for her all the same.
[identity profile] simon-klavec.livejournal.com
Day 299, Friday, March 26th
The Butcher Shop
Closing time

Should go see Syl, I know. Should go talk to Hope, now that the child's born. Should do something.

Knew when the child came. Life leads to death, after all, and so I know birth. Not the deep way, not like others know birth and life and blood and all that, but there's something of me there still.

Never really been one for action, me. Oče always told me a man should be slow to anger, slow to act. There's an old story. Man walks into a town, and there's four men fighting in the street. He asks a man watching what happened. The first man, a young man, stepped on an older man's foot. The older man, a irritable drunk, attacked the younger man. A passer-by, like the storyteller, saw the younger man fighting the older man, and immediately struck at the younger man to defend the old man. A fourth man, from the village, saw two men fighting a third, and attacked the two, thinking they had ambushed the one, younger man.

Shouln't pick a fight before you know what's going on.

I should go see Syl. Figure Hope's told her about me, and it's a cruel thing not to see her myself. Don't know what to say, though. Figure now it's best to stay friends and no more with her. But then, Hope wanted someone for Syl, and no mind if it was me. Shake my head as I start cleaning up. Never been good at this sort of thing.

[Open to Syl]
[identity profile] simon-klavec.livejournal.com
Day 299, Friday, March 26th
The Butcher Shop
Closing time

Should go see Syl, I know. Should go talk to Hope, now that the child's born. Should do something.

Knew when the child came. Life leads to death, after all, and so I know birth. Not the deep way, not like others know birth and life and blood and all that, but there's something of me there still.

Never really been one for action, me. Oče always told me a man should be slow to anger, slow to act. There's an old story. Man walks into a town, and there's four men fighting in the street. He asks a man watching what happened. The first man, a young man, stepped on an older man's foot. The older man, a irritable drunk, attacked the younger man. A passer-by, like the storyteller, saw the younger man fighting the older man, and immediately struck at the younger man to defend the old man. A fourth man, from the village, saw two men fighting a third, and attacked the two, thinking they had ambushed the one, younger man.

Shouln't pick a fight before you know what's going on.

I should go see Syl. Figure Hope's told her about me, and it's a cruel thing not to see her myself. Don't know what to say, though. Figure now it's best to stay friends and no more with her. But then, Hope wanted someone for Syl, and no mind if it was me. Shake my head as I start cleaning up. Never been good at this sort of thing.

[Open to Syl]
[identity profile] simon-klavec.livejournal.com
Day 284, Thursday March 11th
Lunchtime
The Carnival


Gave up thinking on it, last week. Couldn't figure an answer for either of them, and by now I doubt it'd matter if I did. Can't change what happened; can't change who I am, what I am. Or won't.

Been hearing about the girls, the past while. Heard they might have changed, might be apart. It's given me a tightness in my shoulders, wondering. Think it might change them a lot more than the obvious, that. And if they did it, well. My brother's one of the few I can think of, who might be able to do that. Think - know - they know better than to go to him. It could be one of his games though, and the thought of them getting caught up with him is enough to make me want to storm his tower itself.

At least nothing has happened to the town, for the past while. Not the whole town, not like the memory loss or the changed feelings. Just a dead god, another one. Excolo's hard on gods. Might explain why they lash out so much. Must sting them, immortals being killed by those they think ought to worship them. Shouldn't feel glad about it, truly. But it gives me hope, too.

The sun's bright and the air sharp but warm as I cross the bridge. Spring's well on its way, and there'll be a fresh bit of slaughtering after the new animals are born, clearing out those who've not quite made it through the winter. Like clearing old grass for new fields.

I hope they'll talk to me.

[Open to Hope, possibly Faith]
[Closed]
[identity profile] simon-klavec.livejournal.com
Day 284, Thursday March 11th
Lunchtime
The Carnival


Gave up thinking on it, last week. Couldn't figure an answer for either of them, and by now I doubt it'd matter if I did. Can't change what happened; can't change who I am, what I am. Or won't.

Been hearing about the girls, the past while. Heard they might have changed, might be apart. It's given me a tightness in my shoulders, wondering. Think it might change them a lot more than the obvious, that. And if they did it, well. My brother's one of the few I can think of, who might be able to do that. Think - know - they know better than to go to him. It could be one of his games though, and the thought of them getting caught up with him is enough to make me want to storm his tower itself.

At least nothing has happened to the town, for the past while. Not the whole town, not like the memory loss or the changed feelings. Just a dead god, another one. Excolo's hard on gods. Might explain why they lash out so much. Must sting them, immortals being killed by those they think ought to worship them. Shouldn't feel glad about it, truly. But it gives me hope, too.

The sun's bright and the air sharp but warm as I cross the bridge. Spring's well on its way, and there'll be a fresh bit of slaughtering after the new animals are born, clearing out those who've not quite made it through the winter. Like clearing old grass for new fields.

I hope they'll talk to me.

[Open to Hope, possibly Faith]
[Closed]
[identity profile] kateohara.livejournal.com
Monday 22nd February, sunset, the cafe

It's been the kind of weather that could trick a body into thinking it was spring. Mild enough to be April, and bright sunshine gleaming on the snowdrops in the park. At lunchtime I walked around the park, turning my face up to the sun. Of course going through the park made me think about the baby Glass and I found. I wonder - part of me can't help wondering if it was Benedict Donner who did that. It seems more savage; what happened to Vale was - so careful. Cold. Julian was torn up by an animal. It scares me that whoever did that is possibly still in town. At least Mr Donner -

I didn't want to think about that, so I turned back to Main Street, and back in the bustle of things my good mood returned. The store was pretty busy this afternoon, so I ended up helping out Amanda for a couple of hours even though Monday is my day off. But I spent the rest of the day sewing and fixing up a big saucepan of soup made of winter vegetables and mutton. I set it on the stove to simmer, and I go out into the street. The sun's lowering, and it's a beautiful sunset, brilliant reds against a darkening sky. I think I'll have a coffee at the cafe. It will get dark, and Tess will come home to the comforting smell of soup, and then when I come in from the chill - because I'm sure it'll cool down after sunset - she'll be there. It's only been a month we've been living together, but already there are things I know.

I never thought I'd be happy with someone the way I am with her.

Smiling, I sit down by the window and order a coffee, a western on the table next to me, but I don't open it yet. I just look out of the window at the setting sun.

[OPEN] [closed]
[identity profile] kateohara.livejournal.com
Monday 22nd February, sunset, the cafe

It's been the kind of weather that could trick a body into thinking it was spring. Mild enough to be April, and bright sunshine gleaming on the snowdrops in the park. At lunchtime I walked around the park, turning my face up to the sun. Of course going through the park made me think about the baby Glass and I found. I wonder - part of me can't help wondering if it was Benedict Donner who did that. It seems more savage; what happened to Vale was - so careful. Cold. Julian was torn up by an animal. It scares me that whoever did that is possibly still in town. At least Mr Donner -

I didn't want to think about that, so I turned back to Main Street, and back in the bustle of things my good mood returned. The store was pretty busy this afternoon, so I ended up helping out Amanda for a couple of hours even though Monday is my day off. But I spent the rest of the day sewing and fixing up a big saucepan of soup made of winter vegetables and mutton. I set it on the stove to simmer, and I go out into the street. The sun's lowering, and it's a beautiful sunset, brilliant reds against a darkening sky. I think I'll have a coffee at the cafe. It will get dark, and Tess will come home to the comforting smell of soup, and then when I come in from the chill - because I'm sure it'll cool down after sunset - she'll be there. It's only been a month we've been living together, but already there are things I know.

I never thought I'd be happy with someone the way I am with her.

Smiling, I sit down by the window and order a coffee, a western on the table next to me, but I don't open it yet. I just look out of the window at the setting sun.

[OPEN] [closed]
[identity profile] al-shairan.livejournal.com
“The silence often of pure innocence persuades when speaking fails.”
- Shakespeare


Monday lunchtime, near the sheriff's office, on Main Street

This has proved almost too easy. The clouds are rolling in, air heavy with the promise of rain, and I stand in my Danika body wearing an old coat with the collar turned up against the cold, jacket short enough to show a few inches of a tidy, worn work dress and a calflength of wool stocking. My shoes wear the signs of good, honest farm labour, and my blonde hair is frizzing round my face in the damp air. I look very distressed.

"Did - was there really a man arrested for... for beating on a girl?" I say to an old woman gossiping with her friend on the street. My fingers flutter together anxiously.

"Oh yes," she says, "it's a horrible thing. They think also he did in a girl as worked at - well, the brothel, my dear," she says, lowering her voice over that salacious detail, eyes gleaming with prurient interest. "They think he chopped her up."

"Oh," I say, and I faint very neatly to the ground. It's not long before I have half a dozen people round me - offering water, saying they will take me to the Dormouse, fussing with my coat collar to let me breathe.

"I should've said something," I say, and I burst into tears. That gets me sat down on a bench, an old woman's arm around my shoulders, and a very handsome young man crouched at my feet. "I should - "

"What is is, dear? Do you know something about what happened to those girls?"

I shake my head tightly.

"I know - I know - him," I say quietly. "He - We went out a couple of times, and he was - he was real nice to me, and -" The old woman gives me a handkerchief. "You know, I ain't really dated much," I say, shamefaced, "cos my momma's sick a bunch and I'm busy out on the farm, and he just - he was real nice, and when he -" I turn my face away, and I can feel the vibrating tension from the boy at my feet, his desire to be a hero. "He - I thought it was my fault," I say, and then there is a furious chatter rising from the little crowd, and the conversation spreads in ripples.

"Some carnie's been carving up our girls," one man says fiercely. And there is discussion of me and of Melania - ah, yes, that explains some of what I saw in her - and how we're hard working girls, salt of the earth girls, and who is this monster and why hasn't he been strung up? What the hell is wrong with this town that a murderer and molester can be caught redhanded and he's cosseted in jail? And did you hear that he attacked that nice Mrs Beddau (I wonder if at any other time Glass has been described as nice) when she went to visit him in prison? He should be put in the old stocks in town. People would show him how they felt, alright. They'd show him very clearly indeed.

I manage a brave, trembling smile for the boy at my feet, and he springs up, ready for something, anything, if it will make me look at him like that again. And I nestle in against the arm of the old woman as the crowd grows larger and voices grow louder, and I wait for the storm to break.

[OPEN]
[identity profile] al-shairan.livejournal.com
“The silence often of pure innocence persuades when speaking fails.”
- Shakespeare


Monday lunchtime, near the sheriff's office, on Main Street

This has proved almost too easy. The clouds are rolling in, air heavy with the promise of rain, and I stand in my Danika body wearing an old coat with the collar turned up against the cold, jacket short enough to show a few inches of a tidy, worn work dress and a calflength of wool stocking. My shoes wear the signs of good, honest farm labour, and my blonde hair is frizzing round my face in the damp air. I look very distressed.

"Did - was there really a man arrested for... for beating on a girl?" I say to an old woman gossiping with her friend on the street. My fingers flutter together anxiously.

"Oh yes," she says, "it's a horrible thing. They think also he did in a girl as worked at - well, the brothel, my dear," she says, lowering her voice over that salacious detail, eyes gleaming with prurient interest. "They think he chopped her up."

"Oh," I say, and I faint very neatly to the ground. It's not long before I have half a dozen people round me - offering water, saying they will take me to the Dormouse, fussing with my coat collar to let me breathe.

"I should've said something," I say, and I burst into tears. That gets me sat down on a bench, an old woman's arm around my shoulders, and a very handsome young man crouched at my feet. "I should - "

"What is is, dear? Do you know something about what happened to those girls?"

I shake my head tightly.

"I know - I know - him," I say quietly. "He - We went out a couple of times, and he was - he was real nice to me, and -" The old woman gives me a handkerchief. "You know, I ain't really dated much," I say, shamefaced, "cos my momma's sick a bunch and I'm busy out on the farm, and he just - he was real nice, and when he -" I turn my face away, and I can feel the vibrating tension from the boy at my feet, his desire to be a hero. "He - I thought it was my fault," I say, and then there is a furious chatter rising from the little crowd, and the conversation spreads in ripples.

"Some carnie's been carving up our girls," one man says fiercely. And there is discussion of me and of Melania - ah, yes, that explains some of what I saw in her - and how we're hard working girls, salt of the earth girls, and who is this monster and why hasn't he been strung up? What the hell is wrong with this town that a murderer and molester can be caught redhanded and he's cosseted in jail? And did you hear that he attacked that nice Mrs Beddau (I wonder if at any other time Glass has been described as nice) when she went to visit him in prison? He should be put in the old stocks in town. People would show him how they felt, alright. They'd show him very clearly indeed.

I manage a brave, trembling smile for the boy at my feet, and he springs up, ready for something, anything, if it will make me look at him like that again. And I nestle in against the arm of the old woman as the crowd grows larger and voices grow louder, and I wait for the storm to break.

[OPEN]
[identity profile] hopeorfaith.livejournal.com
Friday morning, 5th February
The butcher's


Didn't 'ardly sleep none last night. Couldn't 'elp thinkin' 'bout 'ow Edmund looked when 'e stood up from the table. Like 'e was only just 'oldin' 'imself together.

There weren't nothin' in 'is face that said 'e was glad to 'ave found me, none at all. An' I wish I could put that from me, cos it ain't like I ain't used to people bein' disgusted or afraid, but -

Before we came to Excolo, thought I'd got used to it. Thought I'd accepted it, the way things were goin' t'be, an' I didn't like it, but - I knew 'ow to get on with it. An' then we came 'ere, an' I met Azrael. Never thought I'd fall in love. I know Faith thinks I've got all sorts of romantic ideas, but - I didn't, not really. Not as more than a sort of daydream, like imaginin' yer rich an' famous. Just like that.

Turned out to not be like what I expected, bein' in love. S'pose it can't be if you love an angel, an' you know you can't never 'ave 'im. An' then there was Edmund, who seemed just like - all those things I could've imagined fer myself, if I was like... other girls. An' I might never love 'im like I love Azrael, but I could love 'im, I think. An' it'd be somethin' real, not just a dream.

An' I think about what Management told us, after the Masked Ball.

We ain't seen Azrael since th' forgettin'. 'Ope 'e got our note. Sure 'e must've got 'is memories back like everyone else. S'pose the stuff with the thing from the tower must've made 'im want to lay low, stay quiet. I would've, if it was me.

Go on down into the town an' to the butcher's. Shop's quiet, an' I smile a bit when we come in.

"Mornin', Simon."

[Open to SIMON]
[identity profile] hopeorfaith.livejournal.com
Friday morning, 5th February
The butcher's


Didn't 'ardly sleep none last night. Couldn't 'elp thinkin' 'bout 'ow Edmund looked when 'e stood up from the table. Like 'e was only just 'oldin' 'imself together.

There weren't nothin' in 'is face that said 'e was glad to 'ave found me, none at all. An' I wish I could put that from me, cos it ain't like I ain't used to people bein' disgusted or afraid, but -

Before we came to Excolo, thought I'd got used to it. Thought I'd accepted it, the way things were goin' t'be, an' I didn't like it, but - I knew 'ow to get on with it. An' then we came 'ere, an' I met Azrael. Never thought I'd fall in love. I know Faith thinks I've got all sorts of romantic ideas, but - I didn't, not really. Not as more than a sort of daydream, like imaginin' yer rich an' famous. Just like that.

Turned out to not be like what I expected, bein' in love. S'pose it can't be if you love an angel, an' you know you can't never 'ave 'im. An' then there was Edmund, who seemed just like - all those things I could've imagined fer myself, if I was like... other girls. An' I might never love 'im like I love Azrael, but I could love 'im, I think. An' it'd be somethin' real, not just a dream.

An' I think about what Management told us, after the Masked Ball.

We ain't seen Azrael since th' forgettin'. 'Ope 'e got our note. Sure 'e must've got 'is memories back like everyone else. S'pose the stuff with the thing from the tower must've made 'im want to lay low, stay quiet. I would've, if it was me.

Go on down into the town an' to the butcher's. Shop's quiet, an' I smile a bit when we come in.

"Mornin', Simon."

[Open to SIMON]
[identity profile] glass-beddau.livejournal.com
[Mid-afternoon of Friday, February 5 (day 250)]
[Miskatonic Café, then the graveyard]


Woke to frost in the corners of the window afore dawn; the moon's crawling down to a sliver, and the lace of ice shone dim and strange. Did the the dishes as I was awake anyway, and pet the llygotwr when she came by. Then had t'throw her out of the warm spot I'd left in the bed, damn beast, so I could curl back up with Iago.

We've not had frost in a while, now. Not unexpected, exact, just a thin reminder we're not out of winter yet. Find myself faint glad of having a fireplace in the bedroom, not that we need it of the moment, and fall back to sleep.

It's a lazy morning, all told, and sometime after breakfast or noon or whichever dress and wander down. Was thinking of staying in the courtyard, but this early few enough come by the Tavern, and'm of a mind to watch folk. So down to the Miskatonic, to take a seat by one of the windows with a cup of Tulzcha's coffee. Place is full enough there's enough t'watch, though anyone coming in for market tomorrow's not yet begun to arrive.

[Open]
[Closed]
[identity profile] glass-beddau.livejournal.com
[Mid-afternoon of Friday, February 5 (day 250)]
[Miskatonic Café, then the graveyard]


Woke to frost in the corners of the window afore dawn; the moon's crawling down to a sliver, and the lace of ice shone dim and strange. Did the the dishes as I was awake anyway, and pet the llygotwr when she came by. Then had t'throw her out of the warm spot I'd left in the bed, damn beast, so I could curl back up with Iago.

We've not had frost in a while, now. Not unexpected, exact, just a thin reminder we're not out of winter yet. Find myself faint glad of having a fireplace in the bedroom, not that we need it of the moment, and fall back to sleep.

It's a lazy morning, all told, and sometime after breakfast or noon or whichever dress and wander down. Was thinking of staying in the courtyard, but this early few enough come by the Tavern, and'm of a mind to watch folk. So down to the Miskatonic, to take a seat by one of the windows with a cup of Tulzcha's coffee. Place is full enough there's enough t'watch, though anyone coming in for market tomorrow's not yet begun to arrive.

[Open]
[Closed]

January 2014

S M T W T F S
   1 2 3 4
567 891011
12131415 161718
192021222324 25
2627 28 29 30 31 

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Jul. 22nd, 2017 04:36 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios