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[Jul. 14th, 2010|11:08 am] |
It is a little known fact that most fateful events happen at the clandestine hour of exactly 3:13am. The egg was at least punctual. A bright light wounded the atmosphere, poking its way through the air to deliver its package into the mossy brush below. With an unceremonious plop, the egg landed and rolled downhill, rustling past foreign plants that seemed to reach out to capture it. When it splashed into a little stream it seemed to shiver with the change in temperature. Something deep at the center of it remembered warmth and could make out that it preferred the warmth to whatever nasty thing this was. Cold. Wet. The mild current bobbled the egg downstream past rocks that were no match for the tough, spotted shell.
If the Orchestrator could have planned such an apt location for the egg to land, he would have patted himself on the back. The Black Forest had been considered impenetrable by some cultures, though he didn't realize that that was long in this dimension's past. Even though he was far, far away from the final destination of many of his packages, he could sense where they had gone. The most disturbing news, as he looked at his map, was the fact that Earth had changed a great deal since the last time he'd set out on an exploratory mission. Time worked differently in this place and he was beginning to think that it had been a bad choice as his savior destination. But there was no going back now--their home was gone. It was going to take him some time to get used to this place, to make his magic work here, to figure out the goddamned Cleavland, OH public transportation system.
When the egg finally came to a rest, its contents felt very tired and confused. Even the earliest of life forms could miss home and could recognize loss on a basic level. The egg sat at the base of a tree, trapped by roots. It was comically large compared to the average size of its kind, double the size of an ostrich egg, but spotted and mottled like the tiniest of robin's eggs. It was strangely light though, despite its tough exterior. Motionless it sat. If the Orchestrator had stolen the thing any earlier, it would not have survived its travels. Dragon eggs were not exactly the easiest things to come by though, so the man had decided to take his chances. He'd need a dragon or two if he really wanted to conquer the new dimension, and what was the point in being anyplace if you couldn't conquer it?
The dragon egg could wait, he decided. Everything could wait a little while until he got his bearings. What harm could eggs do anyway. |
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for ![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) sobromantic |
[Oct. 3rd, 2009|10:08 am] |
When the sun started poking its rich yellow and orange rays over the long horizon, Dylan had already been up for an hour. The shop wasn't due to open for at least another three hours and he didn't plan on getting Mal up for awhile, figuring he needed the sleep. But Dylan himself hadn't slept hardly at all the night before. He'd laid on that couch, staring up at that ceiling, hands folded over his chest just thinking. Unfortunately, none of his mental wanderings had been very productive, so this morning he was in the exact same place as he was when he'd tried to go to bed.
Wrapping his hands around his Know Thy Surf embossed coffee mug, Dylan leaned back against the counter and made a list of all of the hotels in the area. After a little while of planning, and noticing that the sun was starting to illuminate the windows, he decided to go and fetch Mal from the bus. Heading outside, he tapped a few times on the door to see if he was awake. |
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| for vdrew NC17 |
[Oct. 1st, 2009|11:56 am] |
The boy Beasley had been non-existent for a full two weeks. Beezle kept to himself now, mulling over the feelings he was having and trying to separate them out from this role he said he was playing just to get at Drew's immortal soul. It was a tough job, he reasoned, one that required a great deal of personal investment. He'd never been so close to success before so that's what must feel different and not the preposterous notion that he'd actually started to have feelings for the human. But he'd never heard of any other demons having these sorts of issues. He'd spoken to his only friend, Daedra a succubus. She'd given him a funny look and told him that he should be careful. She must have read his mind because she'd warned him that no human soul was worth getting kicked out of Hell for.
Kicked out of Hell? Beezle didn't know what she was talking about, or at least he pretended he didn't. After two weeks, he couldn't help himself any longer and he showed up at Drew's door, knowing he'd be inside studying or praying. He knocked and forced the feelings of nerves from his stomach. |
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| for vdrew |
[Sep. 25th, 2009|01:04 pm] |
The first encounter with Drew had gone--well, bumpy but overall he thought it was a success. He knew that he liked the kind boy, and while that wasn't a very demon-like thing to feel, he found himself feeling it anyway. Eagerly, he moved to the next phase of his loose plan: show up everywhere Drew was. Fortunately he knew his schedule and today the man usually read in the library in one of the small reading coves. Casually, roamed the stacks of books, making his way toward where he knew Drew was sitting. It was a secluded set of comfy chairs and a couple desks. When he arrived upon the man, he smiled as if he was surprised. "Hello!" He said brightly. |
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| for vdrew |
[Sep. 23rd, 2009|10:32 pm] |
He really could not mess this up. Beezle sat on the park bench outside of the church just wringing his hands. Every pamphlet and demon manual could not prepare him for something so large as what he was about to attempt. Some of his more successful brethren had nearly died laughing when he'd told them of his ambitious plan. Sure, he had a lot of nefarious tools at his disposal, but he was Beezle, the youngest little fuckup in all of Hell. No matter what he tried, things tended to go awry.
Staring hard at the church doors, he'd memorized the man's schedule and he was set to come out of those doors right about now. He was a lofty target, a young man ready to devote his life to God. Regular people were far easier to tempt into little sins like stealing, or jealousy, but this one was going to be tricky. |
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| For sobromantic |
[Sep. 23rd, 2009|08:03 pm] |
Dylan couldn't believe that Rob had actually followed through on his threat to leave him. Lying on the beach, staring up at the slowly dimming sky, Dylan was doing something horrible: reassessing his life. That was something he'd never done before, something he never thought he needed to do before. Owning his own little surf shop, spending most of his days riding the waves, sleeping out back in the hollowed out little Volkswagen bus, that was his perfect life. Rob, however, hadn't thought so. Normally, Dylan didn't care what people thought, but some of the things Rob had said to him during their last fight were sticking to the insides of his brain and he couldn't shake them.
"I'm not a forty year old little boy," he said to no one in particular as he dug his bare heels into the grittiness of the sand beneath him. "Jesus, I'm not even forty yet. That was just low." He propped his sunglasses up on top of his head because it was getting too dark to wear them. The beach was clearing out as the sun went down, but Dylan had no intention of moving for awhile. He sat up and watched the waves come in toward him as the tide started to rise. |
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| Warning: NC17 |
[Jan. 31st, 2009|11:02 pm] |
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The line of Morris' back slunk in a slouchy, relaxed curve. Despite his poor posture, everything about him radiated the sort of confidence that came with quiet power. Not everyone knew the kind of connections Morris had, though it was evident he was doing well because he owned the pulsing, lively place he stood in now. The lights never stopped moving, the crowd never stopped dancing, and Morris never stopped enjoying being at the center of it. Charisma enveloped him, and the sharp angles of his face defied anyone to call him soft or yielding. So there he stood, taking in his accomplishments, totalling up the cost. This particular moment in time, something was pulling Morris' attention to the bar. Normally a hub of activity, the bar was even more a center of focus since a ruckus had broken out over god knew what. Morris made a beeline to the problem, walking large, ground-eating strides that parted the crowd. |
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| for thebulbs |
[Jul. 3rd, 2008|11:48 am] |
The bus had had a strange smell to it, an aura of expectation and nerves mixed with sweat and past due diapers. But Max was not unaccustomed to the bizarre, especially in the scent department; he'd grown up in a state home with state kids. He was pretty sure there was no smell he hadn't experienced—or more to the point, no bodily function he hadn't lived around. Shaking off some of the grosser memories from his youth, he stepped off the bus and into New York City. Wasn't this supposed to be a great moment? Was he the star of some great coming of age story, finding his dream, being successful, living happily ever after in the Big Apple? A fussy five year old ran head on into him, spilling coke down the front of his jeans. Okay, so maybe he didn't have much to look forward to in this city, but he was going to try to at least find his dad and get back to living after well-meaning court systems had hit the pause button on his life 8 years before.
He didn't have much left over from his not-so-generous 'getting started' grant bestowed upon all state wards being kicked out into the great wide open. He had a pack of clothes and sundries, a few books, and an old walkman with only one cassette tape to his name. The Pixies' Doolittle. People were selling things on the street, and he had the urge to buy something—even though he knew he didn't have the money. He needed something useful. When a haggard looking woman shoved a map of Central Park into his fingertips and claimed it was only three dollars, Max figured a map was something useful and something cheap. To be honest, he was a little scared too, of the desperate look in her eye. Snapping his headphones on to avoid anyone else talking to him, he headed to the nearest laundromat to get cleaned up.
When he was finished there, it was getting dark. Remembering the map, he figured Central Park was as good a destination as any, and he tugged it out of his backpack. Getting there was going to be a trek in and of itself, but he was young. He'd make it there eventually. When he did, it was bigger than he'd even imagined. Standing on the outskirts of its boarders, Max peered in, and finally forged ahead. |
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| thebulbs psl: Max Wendell's Bio |
[Jul. 2nd, 2008|01:43 pm] |
Being born to free spirits who would have been better suited to the 60s may have been great if Max had come into the world a teenager. But Max, like many humans before him, had the ill advantage of starting out a helpless baby. It became quickly apparent that, although laced with love, Sandra and Rick were just not cut out to be parents. For the first 5 years of his life, Max travelled with his mother. A baby was somewhat of a handy piece of luggage, usually granting her someplace warm to spend the night. And with Max along, Sandra never felt alone. But as Max grew, so did his will and he was not the best behaved. Soon, Sandra was overwhelmed and left Max with his father's parents.
At 5, and used to living a life where rules didn't always apply, Max was too much of a handful for his grandparents. They called Rick and begged for him to take his son. He came a year later. Between the ages of 6 and 10, Max lived with his father a similarly nomadic lifestyle. Couch surfing was their main form of shelter. The two got along and Max grew to truly bond with his dad. They would have continued on like that if a concerned citizen hadn't notified the authorities of Max's questionable lifestyle. Eventually, as well meaning court hearings often go, Rick was declared unfit and Max was plugged into the system.
He spent the rest of his formative years as a ward of the state of California, living in a group home where the parents were numerous and did their time in shifts. It wasn't a horrible life, but it wasn't the life he'd come to love with his father. And school was certainly an unwelcome addition to his schedule.
As best he could, he kept tabs on his dad. It was difficult though, with limited resources and such a frequently moving target. As the letters slowed to a trickle, Max was beginning to think he'd never see his dad again. But that didn't stop him from planning to try. When he turned 18, Max was released from the group home, the proverbial kicking from the nest. With his almost laughably small “getting started” grant, Max set out crosscountry from California to New York, the last place he'd heard from Rick. |
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| for highwaystar |
[Apr. 28th, 2008|06:25 pm] |
It had not been the best day ever for Lewis Reece. Currently, he was peeling out of the parking lot of a QuikStop convenience store in a minivan that wasn't his. He'd seen the family go inside: a mother, father, and one little boy as he was tearing out of the store with a paperbag full of money and a skimask covering his features. If he'd had a choice, he would have jacked a much faster car, and maybe something a little bit cooler--but as luck would have it, the only car in the parking lot was that damn minivan. It must have been fate, because when he tried the door, it was unlocked and the keys were actually still in the ignition. Someone was looking out for him. All he could hear as he left the scene of the crime was the squeeling of his own tires and the distant din of a woman's panicked screams. She must have really loved this car.
Not until Lewis chanced a glance in the rearview mirror to check for police did he see another person in the van. He nearly swerved off the road but managed to wrangle the vehicle back within the lines as he slowed down to the speed limit. "What the fuck!? Who are you? Who the fuck are you?" Although his anxiety had already started to quell it shot right back up when he realized he wasn't alone and his voice cracked with panic. |
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[Apr. 24th, 2008|07:04 pm] |
The whole thing had started as a joke. One afternoon in the Slytherin boys dorm, the Quidditch team was joking about golden boy Oliver Wood, and perfect seeker Harry Potter. "They probably pat each other on the back for being so damn perfect." One boy said. "They think they're Merlin's gift to Hogwarts." Another snarled. Marcus sat back and listened to all of this and a few choice expletives thrown in. He had nothing but contempt for Oliver Wood, and he couldn't give a flying ogre's nut about Harry effing Potter. "I'll bet they'll dress up like each other for Halloween." One boy spat to the laughter of everyone else. That was what planted the seed in Flint's mind. He'd go as Oliver Wood and play up what an asshole he was. Everyone would be rolling in the aisles over his parody.
When the event rolled around on the calendar, Marcus had spent nearly a year's worth of allowance for Belgrad's Magical Molding Mask Material. A few photographs and spells from the more talented Slytherins later and Marcus had a disturbingly accurate depiction of Oliver Wood that he could tug over his head. He'd even stolen some Gryffindor odds and ends so that as he stood in the mirror, it seemed as if Oliver was staring back. Creepy. "And ugly," he added outloud to the sound of snorting laughter from his housemates.
Arriving at the ball, he got a few strange looks, but mostly he got 'hey Oliver.' People were really buying it. Maybe he had a better thing going here than he thought. Maybe it was time for a test. |
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| for pyro_psl |
[Apr. 23rd, 2008|10:34 pm] |
Bree listened to the oldies radio station not because it suited the delicate sensibilities of her business, but because it suited the movement of her hips as she fannied about the kitchen. That's where she liked to spend most of her time, wrapped in an apron, hair tucked neatly back, and creating something for a menu. There were precious few extra hands in the shop when there wasn't a huge event for which she was cooking. The day of such events brought numerous bustling individuals, working to get the food made to her specifications. But today was quiet, given to creativity, more for herself than anyone else.
She did, however, have an appointment today. A new client, a bride. Bree liked doing weddings; most were just the right size for personal attention. Still, sometimes brides ended up being the most unforgiving of customers and she took a moment to wonder what this one would be like. This afternoon, they were just meeting to discuss ideas. The woman hadn't even committed to going with Bree's services, but Bree was certain that she'd get the job. When the bell jingled out front, she untied the apron and slung it over a hook before exiting the kitchen and going to greet the customer. Tugging her hair from its fastening, she tucked the band in her pocket as she smoothed her hand down the length of it in a vague attempt to make it look nice. |
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| for clush |
[Apr. 20th, 2008|04:23 pm] |
Jacob Carlson's death had made big news in the local papers. Greyson hated it when he read shit like that in the Daily Tribune, being left to wonder if yet another wayward spirit would be finding its way to him for help. He'd lived with this since he was very young and it seemed that every Tom, Dick, and Harry who died within a 200 mile radius was soon enough knocking at his door for some assistance. Over the years, he'd learned to deal with the weaker spirits by simply ignoring them, putting up mental blocks that protected him from their incessant nagging, but the stronger ones took some attention.
Still, when nothing happened for a few weeks, Greyson forgot all about the mysterious death of the young man and went on about his life. His mother, Marion, had started the business, and after she passed away, Greyson took over. Marion only claimed to be a psychic, reading tarot cards and staring at a chintzy crystal ball with all the razz-matazz of a circus performer. It was only fair and ironic that her son, Greyson, actually had strange powers, knew things he wasn't suppose to know, talked to people no one else saw. Most of what he did these days was advise the occassional giggling teenage girl about her most recent crush, or tell the drunk college student that his girlfriend was, in fact, sleeping with his roommate. Hey, it paid the rent. That was the sort of story he was expecting to unfold when he heard the bell to the front door ring and he looked up from his game of tarot card solitaire.
"Can I help you?" He asked in his soft voice. |
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| for mcinnery |
[Apr. 13th, 2008|04:31 pm] |
Arvin Kaiser wasn't the most outgoing of individuals, and he fucking hated clowns. That was why the man was standing so stiffly in the crowd of onlookers as a troupe of face-painted performers made big gestures and laughed with shrieking guffaws. As his face twisted into a pinched expression of pain, Arvin tried to move past the milling audience. The clowns reminded him of a particularly disasterous birthday party when he was 7. It wasn't that his parents had ever been cruel to him (that would require them to actually notice his existence). No, they'd got him a clown for his birthday party even though it was common knowledge he hated clowns. What parent didn't know their kid hated clowns?
He grumbled to himself at the memory as he pushed through the people, approaching the line for the ferris wheel. It wasn't a long line, despite the fact that the carnival itself was packed with people. Arvin strained his neck to look up, up, up to the very top of the ride. Maybe the line wasn't long because the damn thing looked so rickety, full of metal and doom. That made Arvin smirk to himself. Would it be the worst thing in the world to witness the toppling over of a ferris wheel full of passengers? Probably not.
Portland, Oregon was always busy this time of year. As winter warmed to spring, the Rose Festival began with all of its fare. April was full of precursors, warm ups to the actual events taking place later in May. Foreplay, really. Street carnivals filtered in and out of town, travellers that followed festival circuits. Performers, rides, and any number of entertainment peddler found themselves in the Pacific Northwest in the peculiar hamlet of Portland around this time of year. He'd lived here all his life and always attended as many events as he could. Even if he didn't particularly feel connected to people, he enjoyed watching them. Today was no different. His keen eyes scanned the crowds for interest. |
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