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574.571429 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "mintbelle",
"message": "He found a six-shooter gun\nIn his dad's closet, and with a box of fun things\nI don't even know what\nBut he's coming for you, yeah, he's coming for you"
},
{
"author": "Tamino Damon Rossi",
"message": "Tamino hadn't been in Briar Ridge but a night and he already found the town as boring as could be. Little did he know the town came to life one night a month. He shouldn't have run to this town of all places. He was surprised Barba even let him continue to work, Barba had offed people in his day, he understood. Tamino had slipped up though and he slipped up big time. \n\n\"C'mon Barba, Imagine if it was some sleaze boning your wife! You'd pump lead in him too!\" \n\nThe first mistake Tamino ever made was bringing up the saint of a woman Barba had married, she fed all of them on Sundays, went to church, and ironed their suits. Mallory Barba, someone whom Tamino viewed as his mother, was distraught upon learning of his mother's death. She took him in as much as Barba had. He didn't understand at the time, he was such an angry man but now there wasn't anything Tamino wouldn't give for a big plate of her homemade meatballs right now. That was the life he left behind, found parents who were tough on him but that was the way they showed love. They clothed him, they fed him. Tamino owed his life to the Barba's which is why he got the nice shiner that he had now, bringing up Barba's wife. Barba was a gangster but to his wife, he was just doni. There was nothing that would ever touch that man's wife.\n\nTamino had to send Barba a letter that he had arrived safely and would need a man to pick up the money. Just as soon as he made it. For now, though, he didn't worry about it. He had a bottle of whiskey and a pack of smokes. He found the barn... Perfect, he heard some locals talking about it. The speakeasy wasn't a place he wanted to be seen with this shiner, the last thing he needed was to look weak. He was going to be the top dog, maybe not here, but he would take over Barba's spot, he had no sons of his own. Tamino was going to inherit Barba's empire. He sat down on the hay bale, lighting the cigarette with his victim's lighter, was that fucked up? Perhaps, the bastard got what was coming to him. He popped the bottle and took a swig. \n\nHe took the cigarette out of his mouth, running his hands through his hair in thought. \"God dammit Rossi.\" He groaned to himself. Now he was running because of some chump and some whore."
},
{
"author": "Lily Brooks",
"message": "_God dammit Rossi._ Rossi. Words spoken by Tamino Rossi. **SHIT.** Why was he here? Had he spotted them? She didn't doubt that he'd recognize her if he did, which was a problem for Lily. A pretty sizable problem actually. Lily may or may not have paid a _visit_ to a Barba-ran establishment a few times. She also may or may not have stolen a not insignificant amount of money from the previously mentioned establishment. But really who's keeping track? Barba's men, Lily feared.\n\nThey'd spent about three months in Briar Ridge now, and Dimitra had told her that their past wouldn't come to bite them in the ass. Lily feared that those months were all she'd get in the town, that she had to return to being on the run again, to constantly looking over her shoulder, to never feeling safe. They didn't want to return to that, she'd started to feel that sense of security creep up on her like a strange but welcomed blanket. They had made friends here, had a job she was good at, she trusted people here. Lily, who had arrived with a closed heart and skin ripped open, had been stitched up by Briar Ridge. Like hell was she letting the likes of Tamino chase her out of town. \n\nThey hesitated. What if he knew, what if Ada had sold her out to Barba, told him of her crimes against them, what if Tamino held those cards too, held that knowledge, held strings that Lily had tried so hard to hide and keep out of reach? No. No, if someone really wanted to find her, to make her pay for all she'd done to the various arms of crime in New York, they wouldn't send a man as measly as Tamino. Right? She'd committed the perfect crime. Those dead mobsters, the burned down car, it should have worked. All Tamino would know was her old name, Rose, maybe Lee if he remembered that. Lily had already burned the bridge to New York. She had sent a letter clearly stating that if anyone came for her, they'd end up much like the three charred corpses she left in her wake.\n_ _\n\n\"I don't think God is going to be doing much of anything to you, _Rossi_,\" She said, his name sounding like a curse on her lips. \"That would require him being aware of you, and you and I both know you're much too insignificant for that.\" If words could wink, those would have done it. They slid into a seat next to him, a half-empty glass of shine in her hand, intent on finding out exactly what the slimy fucker was doing here."
},
{
"author": "Tamino Damon Rossi",
"message": "Tamino only knew what Barba told him, he didn't have friends with his colleagues simply because he was trying to get higher than him. He was gunning for a spot on the throne and still was. No weapon, no crime. That is what Barba said, Tamino brought his gun with him. He wasn't going to let some sleaze take it. He worked too hard to get to where he was. Then, just when he thought he had left New York behind. Lee decided to show their face, Lee was a crazy fucker, even he knew better than to test her. He couldn't say the same for the idiots that got toasted by them. \"Oh, you wound me deep,\" He said with no actual hurt in his voice, just plain hateful monotone, like usual. \"And yet, here you are sitting next to me, so it looks like we're both insignificant, Lee.\" Tamino extended the pack of cigarettes out to them \"Why are yous in this shit hole of a town anyways? Hiding from Barba?\" He laughed, taunting her. Tamino wouldn't go through the trouble of throwing them under the bus, it wasn't worth his time or effort. Lee did him a favor by killing those three idiots.\n\nHe took a swig of the stout whiskey, letting the burn run down his throat, he was used to the burn by now. He had a lot more on his mind than dealing with some amateur. He thought of Alessandra, the horrified look on her face. She deserved it, she deserved to lose everything. Tamino had learned to love for her, Tamino would've bought her a house with the stupid fucking picket fence, nice clothes, and fancy dinners. All thrown away for some jack-off who didn't even know what it was like to do a man's work. A child, she cheated on him for someone who couldn't even tie his fucking shoes. What kind of world was he living in? He was taught to never treat a woman badly by his ma and Barba. Barba loved nothing more than the woman on his arm, she said jump and he asked how high. Tamino was like that with Alessandra, at least he thought. He never stopped his anger to feel the hurt. When would it end? Would he be alone? He didn't express such things, they didn't pertain to his goal and therefore didn't matter. His world wasn't built for anything living and breathing.\n\nHe wasn't going to be the one bitching and moaning about his girlfriend cheating on him and if he would ever find love, he could have any woman he wanted, realistically. He was a casanova before her and he could certainly be one after. Never mind that he looked at Lee, blowing smoke towards their face. \"You made quite the mess for Barba, you know that, don't you?\" He taunted. Lee had to admire her before he hated them. They were badass, even if he wouldn't say it. \"Amateur work if you ask me~\" He smirked. \"But then again, we all gotta start somewhere, only some of us are smart enough to start with the top dog first instead of at the bottom of the food chain.\" Tamino didn't mention all of the bitch work he had to do just to even be able to walk alongside Barba."
},
{
"author": "Lily Brooks",
"message": "_Lee._ An alias. One Lily had used as a masculine counterpart to Rose. It was fitting then, that her current Lily sounded so similar to that old Lee. Flower and syllable had merged to form their current self, integrated in something more, into something _whole._ Lily was different from Lee, who had been ruthless. Sometimes she wondered where they ended and he began, Lee had been a genuine threat, where Rose had been all expertly placed touches and honeyed words. Aspects of both were still present in Lily, but they needed less of those two for survival here. Lily was full of mischievous looks, nimble fingers that slipped coins from pockets and teasing laughs under a starlit sky. Lee had associates and connections, Lily would dare to say she had friends.\n\n\"Call it a business investment,\" She said, plucking a cigarette from the pack. \"Call it fate. Hell, if you believe in God, call it divine intervention.\" She scoffed, Lily didn't call it any of those, Lily just called it dumb luck. There were no invisible strings that had brought her to Briar Ridge, there was no deity out there that had placed them here, she'd just followed a road and happened upon the place. \"At least here I don't have to worry about backstabbing sonsabitches anymore. Unless you're here on a mission you haven't told me about yet?\" It wouldn't be a stab in the back, it would be an entirely expected stab, probably somewhere between the ribs, handle twisted. But Lily wasn't planning on getting stabbed any time soon. Not when she'd just gotten settled in Briar Ridge. \n_ _\n\n\"You know me, big fan of making business messy for those not aligned with my goals,\" She said. \"Maybe if he hadn't tried to pay his way to my secrets, played his cards wiser, he'd have been successful.\" Maybe insulting Barsa wasn't the smartest move, but Tamino got on her nerves, nerves that were already agitated by the very unwelcome reminder that her life, her career, all she'd worked for, _had_ been sold out, they'd been fucked over by a woman she thought she loved. \n\n\"The real amateurs were his men, I didn't know Barsa's standards had sunk that low,\" She stated. \"Maybe if Barsa had sent smarter people to handle that _drop-off_ , he'd have gotten his hands on me properly.\" She winked. It was a thought that had haunted her since the moment it had happened. Joking about it felt wrong, like taunting the Devil himself. But if she didn't joke, Tamino would instantly realize that he held the upper hand here. No way Lily would let that be known so easily. \"Besides, my expertise doesn't lie in assassination, you would know that had you read my files.\" _Have you read them? Were they spread? Is my life in New York City truly over?_ \"I gladly leave that to people with less creative minds than mine.\" Shooting three men and setting their car ablaze could hardly be described as creative, but it certainly did send a message. Lily had risen like a phoenix from the ashes of that fire. She was more akin to a sitting duck in the current moment, and all too aware of that. So long as Tamino didn't pick up on the very real fear Lily was feeling, it should be good. They just had to play her cards right, and hope that Tamino was approximately as bad at reading people as his associates. Associates she'd wrapped around her finger just so, whose stolen money had paid for a very pretty dress, thank you kindly, gentlemen."
},
{
"author": "Tamino Damon Rossi",
"message": "*Unless you're here on a mission you haven't told me about yet*\n\nTamino wishes he was on a mission. Barba had given him an ultimatum for his crime. Either he sells their product, which may be virtually impossible to sell, and still makes the cash, or he turns himself in. Now, which one was he supposed to choose? Obviously, his freedom, from the looks of it, was unharmed, which meant Barba didn't stick his nose here often enough. Tamino could probably squander away some cash by the time someone came to drop off a product and exchange it for the money earned. \"Nah, you are the least of my concerns.\" He gave Lily the reassurance they wanted, but what good would it do with the tone he delivered and the words that he picked? Should he really confide his sins in Lily? Then again, Tamino had nothing to lose. \"I am on the run too,\" He exhaled the cloud of gray smoke. \"Maybe you knew Alessandra; I dunno, she wasn't in our scene really.\" He shrugged. \"I dated her for a while, until I found out she was cheating.\" He did not feel sad saying that; it was simply a fact. \"So, I put a bullet in the chumps' skull, right in front of her.\" He glanced at Lily and said, \"So, that's why I am here; Barba cut me a deal, but it's impossible to fulfill it, so who knows? It looks like you've been stuck with me for a while.\"\n\nLily did manage to get a laugh out of him. \"Yeah, yeah, you made a mess, alright. I can give you that.\" Tamino thought for a moment. He was used to Barba being the end-all-be all. Yet he was getting older. Barba couldn't go out in the field much more. Money and goons were all he really had. \"Well, if you had the option of the easy way or the hard way?\" He questioned. \"We both know Barba has been in this game too long to trouble himself with actual muscle; he has the cash and he will make more cash, so why not spend the money?\" He shrugged. \"Even with his men gone, Barba is still set for life. If you are aiming to hurt him, He doesn't have feelings to hurt.\" Tamino had a loyalty to Barba, but he could also call it like it is. \"You want to know the bad part.\" He could tell them this. After all, those three were dead. \"If anything, you saved Barba money. Those three squealed on a ton of career criminals. He had to pay the police a pretty penny to look the other way, but better than having to pay one of us to do what you did for free,\" He laughed. Tamino was not worried about the upper hand, and Lily was not a concern to him at all. He had his own goals.\n\n\"Files? Why would you assume you are that important to know? It wasn't me you torched, so why the fuck do I care?\" He finished the first cigarette and immediately started another. \"Had it been your expertise, you would've known to take their teeth out; dental records are a bitch. They identified all three men, but I don't have to tell you that you've been caught; you know you have since your girlfriend squealed and the fact that this is a piss poor town; you wouldn't be here if you had the choice.\" Tamino did not hold the upper hand; he was wanted and on the run. He didn't bother to remove teeth or fingerprints; he wanted the world to know it was him; he wanted Alessandra to remember his face for the rest of her life; and he wanted the loud, wet pop of the bullet scrambling someone's brains."
},
{
"author": "Lily Brooks",
"message": "Lily should be glad that she wasn't a concern of Tamino, but a part of her was offended somehow. _They_ should be a concern, they had been good at their job, a job that came with being a pain in the ass for Barba and his people. They arched a brow when Tamino admitted to being on the run as well. Now what had this man gotten himself wrapped up in, and how could she use that undoubtedly delicious bit of information to her advantage?\n\nShe didn't know Alessandra, but they understood the urge to respond violently to being cheated. The part where they were now _stuck with_ Tamino bothered her greatly. \"What sorta deal are you talking here?\" She asked, taking a drag from her own cigarette. They wouldn't help him, not if it didn't benefit her anyway, but at the very least she could be amused at his suffering. \"I've been known to favor doing _hard_ things,\" She winked, old habits died hard. \"Just not a fan of being the one to get screwed over, I prefer to be the one doing the screwing.\" She smirked.\n\nThey had saved Barba money, they had acted in self-preservation and it had helped the very man who had placed her in that situation. It was a cruel irony that sat all kinds of wrong with Lily. \"So what I'm hearing is the bastard owes me,\" They said, clearly annoyed at the revelation. The bridge to NYC had been well and truly burned. They couldn't go back. Lily was surprised that they didn't feel horrible about it, she didn't feel anger nor sorrow. No, they felt relief. It was a chapter closed, with a new one partially filled in. That's how she had always operated: one chapter at a time. At least now she knew with full certainty that her days in those New York City speakeasies and shady places were well and truly over. Besides, she'd planted roots here now. Dimitra was running a fine operation and Lily had people who genuinely cared about her now, somehow. \n_ _\n\n\"You'd be surprised about this place, Rossi,\" They noted. \"Though it very well might spit out the likes of you if you're not careful.\" Lily was sure Tamino would find a miserable little niche in which to settle. They just hoped it wouldn't overlap with her comfortable nook. \"Moonshine business is booming here, I'm doing just fine for myself actually. I've got myself a good gig,\" She boasted. \"And I don't have to deal with men like _Barba_ here,\" She added. There was much less backstabbing in Briar Ridge. It was there, but much less pronounced than it had been back in the bigger cities.\n\nMore and more, Lily was here by choice, even if initially she had wanted nothing more than to go back home. Home was in Briar Ridge now, she realized. Lily Brooks had found their home."
}
] | 613 | 4,022 |
893.5 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "crow0951",
"message": "And I ain't one either."
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "To Algernon Granville, it seemed that there was always work to be done in Briar Ridge. And after the full moon of January 1929, more work presented itself than ever. \nHe did all he could to ensure he was makin' himself useful to anyone that needed it. Hunts could be forgotten in the aftermath of such bloodshed - it wasn't as though the deer were the worst of anyone's worries for the time bein'. His strength could be used for other endeavours, when so many of the townsfolk had had theirs stolen from them by teeth and claws. Algernon could haul wood and coal with the best of men, and his traps in the woods had proven fruitful, rabbits and squirrels alike no doubt frightened into 'em by all the howlin' and barkin' that had gone on through the night of the twenty-fifth. He left the meat with Em Aiken, and the pelts wrapped all neat and clean on the doorstep of the tailor. Mayhaps Miss Calhoun could find some time to stitch 'em into blankets for the wounded. Algernon thought he remembered that losin' blood like that could make a body cold. Briar Ridge needn't go cold nor hungry in the wake of what could only be described as battle.\n\nSince returnin' from the sanctity of Florian Barca's place after the blizzard to find his tent in tatters, Algernon's been somethin' of a vagabond. He's still lackin' in those he'd call friends in this town, and of those, most don't have the time nor space to put up an extra person in the house. Fine by him. He don't mind sleepin' under the stars now and then. The shack at the back of Noah Owens' place does him well on dry nights, and when the snow falls or the moon glows brighter than he'd like it to, Rafael doesn't lock the jailhouse door - knows he comes, lets him bathe and sleep the night on a cot. Sometimes even brings down a dinner they can share.\n\nThey were lucky, full-moon night. Nothin' came to burst down the doors and threaten the wounded sheriff. Algernon had no reason to raise his gun until they both heard the cries from the square. And even then, it had seemed the wolves' vicious work had been done before they got so far as the end of the street. \nAlgernon had carried a wounded man to the doctor's ward. It had felt for all the world like carryin' a body back from no-man's-land, 'til the man started to cry and Algernon felt wicked for findin' that a relief. \n\nIt's been a few days since, and the dust is settlin' slowly. They say the doctor's ward holds only those most injured - there's neither the space nor supplies for everyone to stay there, and it stands to reason most will heal their best in their own beds, families around them takin' care of their every need. Blood runs real thick in the holler. It's unlike anythin' Algernon's seen before, and he only sees it from a distance. He's no blood relation to speak of. \n\nWhat he does have is Rafael Guerrero. The sheriff's been snowed under, both physically and metaphorically, for the past few weeks, what with the storm and the death of the lycan mayor, and surely a half-dozen behind-the-scenes problems Algernon's not privy to the details of. If not stuck to his desk as though there's tar keepin' him there, he's been all over town, pickin' up the pieces.\n\nWhich is why it comes as such a surprise, one evenin', when Algernon swings by the jailhouse intendin' to ask to be caught up on the state of the town's affairs. There are names he doesn't know in the brief conversations they've had, and Rafael has a much better handle on the overall situation than anyone else. He'll be able to tell him just where he'll be best suited to helpin' out. Because that's all he can do right now - *Help*. He's useful for somethin' other than his own selfish desires for the first time in years, and honestly, it's an unfamiliar but not unwelcome way to feel. \n\nSheriff Guerrero is not at his post. \n\nA short walk up to the cabin proves he ain't at home, either. \nAlgernon knocks on a couple doors. The neighbours haven't seen him come nor go. \n\nThus, the night becomes a search. He checks the back of the houses as though Rafael will be found in the bushes somewhere, investigatin' things he won't explain. He walks back to the town and glances down every street and alley. Hell, he even checks the doctor's ward. The nurses ain't seen hide nor hair of the man. \n\nAlgernon's at the very end of main street when he hears music. The barn must be back to open. Lord knows the good people of the ridge need somethin' to give 'em a little joy. Or just a pour of 'shine to drown their sorrows and numb their pain.\n\n...\n... ...\nHis blood turns chill in his veins as he realises he knows damn well where the sheriff is. \n\nIt's a table in the corner where he finds him. There's no dancin' in the barn tonight - most of the town's wounded too bad to even walk this far. A solitary musician plays the piano. A song the boys once sang on the boats to France. It had kept their spirits up then. Now, it weighs heavy with what's been lost. There's not half so many people here as there were the first time Algernon came, when Noah brought him and showed him the best the bootleggers had to offer. \nRafael has a bottle before him, a short glass beside it half-full with the clear liquor. By the looks of things, it isn't his first glass, nor his second. His head is down, and there's a lit smoke between his fingers, but he doesn't seem to be payin' attention to smokin' it. The other chairs around the table are empty. Looks like he's drinkin' alone. \n\nAlgernon slides as quietly as a man of his bulk can into the seat beside him. \n\nHe brings a hand to Rafael's shoulder, fingers givin' the slightest of squeezes. He hopes it's a comfort, if comfort can be found anywhere right now. \n\n\"Thought I might find you here, *Hermano*.\"\n\nHe'd asked Raf what that word meant, a week or two ago, over heavy-poured nightcaps. The sheriff had been fixin' up his string board, addin' bits and pieces here and there, and Algernon had held the pins. He hadn't been able to hold his tongue about it - Rafael uses it all the time. \nIt means *'brother'*, in the Spanish that serves as the man's mother tongue. \nAlgernon likes it. He and Rafael have shared enough in their respective pasts that it doesn't feel unfamiliar on the tongue. He's picked up on it a few times, in the dark, with whiskey-loosened tongue and trouble hangin' over them. \n\n\"Been lookin' for you all over - nothin's wrong, don't worry. Everyone's alright.\"\n\nHe bites his lip. \n\n\"Are you?\""
},
{
"author": "SHRF. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "As a sniper, Rafael was no stranger to a need for patience. There was nothing in-between and nothing at all a good majority of the time, and every time he fired his trigger, he hit his target. He had one of the highest accuracy ratings in his squadron — not like anyone was willing to count, to make the lives of other people across enemy lines into some kind of statistics game, like they were some athlete keeping up with wins and losses. For Rafael, it was a game of survival; if he didn't hit his shot, he'd blow his cover, and blowing his cover, most of the time across enemy lines, meant his own death. There was nothing that was going to stop him from surviving. There was nothing that was going to stop him from protecting.\n\nAs an Army soldier, you took upon the oath - or, more likely, that it was thrust upon you - that you would do whatever you could in your power to protect the American people. That was why after his own attack did he exacerbate his own wounds over and over again — even now, underneath this shirt, he wears a layer of bandages keeping everything in place. Even now, his arms show the results of that fight, half-healed wounds that need constant cleaning. The Sheriff's oath was something similar; when he was deputized, he took on the oath to use the authority that had been vested in him to protect the citizens of Briar Ridge, no matter the cost. It was an easy thing to do, really, when you'd been serving all of your life.\n\n_ _\nNo one tells you that a soldier's worst enemy is their own mind. The *Screaming*, the *Terror* Of the January moon put him right back into the trenches of Poland, of Austria, listening to his peers scream and do nothing but pick off soldiers one by one when they lined up with his rifle scope. He needed a drink then, and he needed a drink now, but how could he go and wallow in his own pain when the hospital was overflowing with this madness? How could he stop when he needed to keep going? How could he put it all down when there was no one else to hold it up?\n\n_ _\nHe was down half a bottle of shine when one of his dogs lifted their heads, and Rafael, like an old hound himself, follows the gaze to Algernon. The bottle — Cooper Shine — sits in front of him; the haze in his eyes would reveal to Algernon that the good sheriff was more than two sheets to the wind, but a rough constitution meant he didn't get shitfaced that easily. Rafael snuffs out his cigarette on the side of the table - bad manners, he knows - and looks to Algernon. He's tired. Angry. Grieving.\n\n\n\n\"Sit,\" He says, gesturing to the seat in front of him, \"Drink. Sorrow isn't contagious— use my glass. Or th'bottle. I don't... *Ay, dios mio,* I don't care.\""
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "\"Sure. Sure, you're fine.\" Pressin' right away won't solve shit, even if Algernon's bitin' his tongue against what it is he has to say. As much as he's got some words for the good sheriff, they can wait, because takin' in the state of him he don't seem all that prepared to listen to 'em. \"Jus' glad I could find you, started to worry you'd run out on us.\" He knows Rafael wouldn't do that - he cares too much about this town and the people in it to back away, to abandon what he cares for and that which he's devoted his life to servin'. The problem with that, it seems, is that he don't know when to quit, and he's workin' himself to blood and bone right before their eyes. Algernon's not sure how nobody else has noticed yet - or if they have, why the hell they ain't done nothin' about it. Without Rafael they'd be nowhere - Algernon's new to town and he can see that, and he doesn't like to fancy their chances should the sheriff find himself incapacitated with exhaustion and thus, Briar Ridge find itself without its first and best line of defence against the encroachin' werewolf problem.\n\nHe accepts the drink, because it's there and he needs one and his pocket's been awful light on coins lately. He wants for little, and what he does require he's usually got enough to trade for without the use of conventional money, but the speakeasy only trades in cash and he tries to save that for emergencies and smokes.\n\nSpeakin' of, he produces cigarettes and matches from his pack, and doesn't have to ask Rafael whether he wants one. They've fallen into this habit of wordless sharin', and so Algernon lights two in his mouth at once and places one between the sheriff's fingers to replace the one that's been stubbed out on the table. He licks his thumb and scrubs at the ashy mark left behind, seen as how they're best off not causin' damage if they can help it. \nThe shine burns down his throat as he swallows, mixin' with smoke in his chest. It tastes like years gone by, but in all the years, it's become a taste associated with solitude. It's different with a man beside him, with a brother at the table. So many things are different just by way of them bein' in Briar Ridge. He exhales, and his clouded breath in the air joins Rafael's before it drifts up to the barn's ceiling. \n\nHe's quiet only for a moment. \n\n\"You said sorrow ain't contagious. And I know it ain't passed by sharin' a glass or bottle, but I don't think it's fair to be sayin' a body can't go spreadin' it in other ways.\" It's an oddly insightful bit of speech, comin' from him. He's not too sure where he's findin' the words in the first place. \"If a man finds himself in misery, it's real easy to share that burden without even meanin' to, which stands to reason that if he tries passin' it around, it might feel a little lighter on his shoulders than before. And I got real strong shoulders, so I been told. Why don't you tell me what's troublin' ya? And don't go sayin *Nothin*. I might be a fool when it comes to readin' and writin' but I ain't blind, Raf, and I ain't all stupid neither. So I'll listen now. You talk when you're ready.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "SHRF. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "*I was worried you'd run out on us,* Algernon says, and Rafael almost looks a bit more despondent. What about him gave them that idea, that Rafael would turn his back on this town? Hasn't he given enough? Hasn't he bled enough already? If only he knew Algernon had already drawn that conclusion whereas Rafael continued to struggle with it in his own mind. Once Algernon hands over the cigarette, Rafael takes it wordlessly - he's not going to say no when Algernon offers, but he knows how light on paper his friend is, and plans to replace this cigarette and then some for it when he's not busy drinking himself half to death.\n\nHe's already a bit drunker than intended, so when he takes the first drag of the cigarette, it's a miracle he doesn't light himself on fire (in the metaphoric, hyperbolic way, of course). He listens to Algernon talk, and in a matter of moments, he is back in a bar in France, somewhere, listening to his companions share a flask of something or another and talk about all of the things they wished they still had. Rafael never related—he didn't have a wife, didn't need one; he didn't have children, didn't need them. He might have had a dog back then, but if he did, he couldn't remember its name.\n\nRafael Aguilar Guerrero. The man who had both all of the weight of the world on his shoulders and simultaneously nothing in his arms.\n\n_ _\n\"I'm back in a war, Algernon,\" He replies, because he knows better than to say nothing when a fellow man has asked him not to. He lets that statement hang; it is a wild statement to compare the War to whatever is happening in Briar Ridge, but to Rafael? There's just enough bloodshed to match, and the anguish is just as heavy. He sniffles a couple of times, the tip of his nose cold from the near-Arctic breeze outside, \"And this time, I can't fuckin' win it. What are we supposed to do, here? Every time we get a leg up, their pack grows. I'm not stupid; I see how many of our friends and family are being turned by them every time I turn around, and there is nothing I can do about it. We don't have enough silver to kill them, we can't herd them into the Cage that the Cooper girl and her friend has built. What do we do?\"\n\n_ _\nHe is not a man who cries, often, but the liquid courage becomes liquid weakness as tears streak down his cheeks, his fingers trembling around the cigarette that was handed to him. He cannot waste it; Algernon gave it to him. He cannot throw it down, cannot drop it on the wooden table — the last thing they need is the Barn catching flame — he cannot do anything but hold it. Just like he holds everything else. \n\nHis lips purse. The bottom one quivers. The tears stream silently down wisened cheeks, across dimples, down smile lines — who taught him to be so happy, once? Why only now does his mouth tremble? He shakes his head, wiping his face with the back of his hand, taking another shaky drag. \"I'm tryin' harder than I've ever tried before, but this time, I don't know where or when I'm supposed to go. I don't know anything about this — *Disease, maybe?!* — and I don't know how to *Help.* I don't want them to die, Algernon, I just fuckin' don't, but what is the alternative other than huntin' them down? Killin' them when they are just a man? What do we do when the women, and the children, get afflicted? What do we do if you or I do?\""
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "Algernon's large hand shifts, to come to rest between Rafael's shoulders, at the point where his neck becomes his back, where he carries the weight of Briar Ridge and the wider world beyond. His cryin' is disconcertin' to say the least, for Algernon was raised in a world in which tears were somethin' to be punished, but he knows this ain't that world no more. Here carries a pain that needs more words than he knows to describe, that's incomparable to all but the worst horrors of wars, because Rafael is right when he says they're back on a front line all of their own. Except now, here, there's no tanks nor trenches to back up the fight they've found themselves in, there ain't a general in sight barkin' orders and keepin' all the boys in check. The whistle of shells has been replaced by the howlin' of wolves through the full-moon nights, and this town is a battlefield bearin' snow streaked in blood, frozen too solid to soak back into the earth. \n\nRafael Aguilar Guerrero has been punished enough for all the things he's done, and he's about the last man on earth deservin' of any more of this unavoidable pain. If Algernon hadn't already signed up all he had for the man beside him, now would be the moment he did so. The truth is that that decision was made at some point in the weeks gone by since their first meetin'. And the question is whether Rafael understands yet that he ain't goin' through a bit of this on his own, no matter how long and dark the nights might seem of late. No matter what cost winnin' might come with, Algernon ain't about to let this be the end of things. \n\n\"We ain't go into that last war thinkin' we was gonna come out the winners of it,\" He says quietly. \"I won't pretend to know how it was for you, but leavin' here to go to fight in it, we all half-expected to come home in boxes with pieces missin'.\"\n\nHe and Rafael haven't shared more than the absolute simplest details of their wartimes. It opens up somethin' in his chest he's always said he'd rather forget. \"But somehow, we came out this side no matter how hopeless it ever seemed out there.\" He scrubs his free hand across his face, almost sets his beard alight with his cigarette in the process. He takes a long drag of the smoke and holds it in his lungs until it burns his throat. \n\n\"You're a damned smart man, you know. And I got every faith in you that you'll be the one to end all'a this, even if it don't come to you right away. You're doin' all you can to answer your own questions and there ain't a man - or a woman or a child - in this town that'd be expectin' any more'a you than you're givin' em. And if they do come demandin', well, they gotta go through me 'fore they come even close to givin' you a piece of their minds.\" There's a reason he posts himself up at the jailhouse door when the to-and-fro of Briar Ridge don't call for him to be elsewhere. \"You ain't alone on your post, Raf. Don't gotta shoulder it all without someone to lean on.\"\n\nHe's never been good at words, but he thinks at least his message is half comin' across the way he wants it to. \n\n\"I been watchin' more than you might think. Seen all the work you put into makin' everyone feel like it's all gonna be alright. Know how you sent that flag to that grievin' family.\" He sighs.\n\n\"Know you ain't been sleepin' in your bed neither, for the record. What's it you're hopin' to get from runnin' yourself into the ground? Think the solution to all your problems is plannin' on showin' up like a ghost in the middle'a the night? 'Cause I can tell you for free it ain't. All you're gonna do's cause more hurt to yourself. Or to somebody else who finds themself on the wrong end of your gun when you're hallucinatin' with the lack'a sleep.\" \n\nIt ain't meant to be cruel. But Algernon's not the tip-toein' type - he's too big, too loud, too rough around the edges to go turnin' stones with kid-gloves. Someone's gotta tell things the way they are and this might be the only time he can do it, when the ears his words land on lead into a head heavy with the moonshine, as the hour grows late and the seconds stretch to minutes between the two men and the bottle. \n\n\"Can't pretend I got answers for you right now. Well, I could, but I ain't gonna sugar-coat shit, 'cause I know you won't appreciate it and I ain't gonna enjoy lyin'. What I do got is a promise to be beside ya. Til it's all figured out and beyond, to when it's over. You done right by me from the moment I walked into that office of yours, think it's fair to offer the same in return. You hearin' me? Tomorrow, when the day's new, we can put heads together. Maybe haul in some'a those young things lookin' to take on the mayor's responsibilities and ask 'em what they're wantin' to do around the place. Have somebody else help carry the load.\"\n\nHe rubs his thumb in a slow circle on the back of the only real friend he's got. \n\n\"Tonight, you done enough to deserve your break. An' I'll be sure to get you home in one piece no matter what.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "SHRF. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "`TRIGGER WARNING: This reply will have a vivid description of a disassociative episode and mentions of war-induced PTSD, referred to by its time-relevant name, 'shell-shock'.`\n\n*We all half-expected to come home in boxes with pieces missing,* Algernon says, and Rafael wonders what pieces of him he left behind. Surely there is a ghost that haunts Polish lands somewhere whispering hymnals about the death of a lamb in the shape of a girl. What an obedient *Dog* He was, so quick to do what the master said. When the commander said jump, one said *How high?* When he was told to bark, he fired his rifle—the impact of the bullet taking off sounded far too much like the bark of a hound. Sounded *Far* Too much like the world at large.\n\n\"Who the hell is here to help me, Algernon?\" He asks, a brow arching as he looked over at his friend. Yes, sure, Algernon would be willing to help in the ways that Algernon knew how to, but so much has already slipped through his fingers, and with each passing day he cannot help but feel like a decaying shell left on the tree by a cicada. He cannot help but wonder how much of him was lost to the war then, and how much of him is lost to the war now.\n\nHe looks down at his hands, sees their scars and their calluses from the labor on his family's farm. Sees how they have held gun after gun after gun. He imagines wolves staring back at him through a sniper's scope, grinning their Luciferian grin, laughing, taunting him. *The monster you know is better than the monster you don't, isn't it, Rafael?* Somehow his name blurs with his title, and he's listening to Algernon's words, desperate to find grounding comforts in them. It's Algernon's face in the scope, now, and his hand trembles around his cigarette. The only thing keeping him here in the Ol' Davis Barn is the comforting touch of his friend's hand between his shoulderblades.\n\n_ _\n*I know you sent that flag to that family,* Algernon says, and Rafael nods. Of course he did. He was there with William moments before he died. He turned his back to a fellow veteran, a fellow soldier, so that one of his children could shoot him. (To this day, he doesn't know which one it was; all he knows is that there were two gunshots, and he flinched at both. Rafael has never flinched at a gunshot before.) Justice is not justice if it does not benefit the needs of the many; was he, too, a murderer for allowing the *Kids* (they were just children to him, still so young, still so soft, still so brave) to take their hand to their own father? His jaw sets, and he closes his eyes. In the nose, out the mouth. In the nose, out the mouth.\n\n*Have someone else carry the load,* Algernon says, and Rafael deflates. (*Who am I if I can't carry it all? If I falter?*) Still, he has been in Algernon's position before, and he knows how frustrating it is to yell at a brick wall. Algernon will never know the secrets in Rafael's mind, the de facto skeletons in his closet, not if Rafael can help it. They, too, will die with the pieces of him still lingering on the ghost in battlefields of countries he never thought he'd see. He doesn't know who could carry the load, even — if they wanted to, wouldn't they have, already? No, these young people with their eyes bright like fire and their grins as wicked as the Hells that Dante walked had their own idea of justice. No matter — there were still many things to be done. There were still so many things to do. If it had to be him or them, he would die a thousand times over. He had lived life to the fullest, best he could, whereas these others were the beginnings and ends of Briar Ridge's legacy. They still had more to do.\n\n_ _\nRafael had already done so much.\n\nHe puts out his cigarette. \n\n\"You're a good man, you know that, Algernon Granville?\" He says, his eyes soft as he looks down at the back of his hand again. His lips are turned into a gentle smile, something that only a friend who shares the pain of another could have. There is still good in this world — there are still people who see an act of kindness as something to be repaid, ping-ponged back and forth until the quiet nature of mutual reciprocration became muscle memory. \"We need more men like you in this world, and less of those... Oh, Wall Street fuck-asses wearing their suits and their...\" He idly waves with his now-free hand, unfamiliar with finding the word in English, yet too inebriated to find the word in his mother tongue. \"—*Yeah,\"* He sighs, finally, giving up, shaking his head. \"What I'm trying to say is that if the world had more people like you in it, we would be a better world. Might not need wars, at that point.\""
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "It's the first time in his life, he thinks, that Algernon has ever been called *Good*, much less a good man. His earliest memories are of scoldings and slaps on wrists, evolvin' to worse as he aged and first matched his father in size and then outgrew him entirely, as he outgrew the hand-me-down shoes on his feet and the town in which he was dragged up to almost adulthood. He has not been called good because he has not *Been* Good, historically - he thinks of his fists raised, his jaw set and eyes ablaze, time and time again William Granville's shadow down to the tangles in his beard. He knows that the first and often only thing anyone sees in him is the bulk he carries, that which lends itself to violence and hurt so easily. He thinks of the first gun he raised and the faceless figure it felled, and he thinks of each drop of blood spilled thereafter onto soil both foreign and all too close to home, man and beast alike left without breath in their lungs at the very hands that now rest, respectively, on Rafael's broad back and on the worn tabletop.\n\nHe drinks, for what else is there to do? \n\nThroughout his interminable years he has not known good, has never been taught to perform it nor experienced it in others that stay long enough for it to resonate.\n\nThat changed the day he came here, marched his way into Briar Ridge and for the first time (again, another; there have been so many firsts, since that morning, too many for him to keep a good count of) did not need to force the place to become his. Instead, Briar Ridge has moulded to his odd shape, and instead of a suffocating cloud, this holler is a warm blanket, a balm to old wounds. And it is all thanks to those who have extended him their handshakes and hospitalities that he no longer finds himself the cat amongst the pigeons, so to speak, but simply another member of the flock. \n\nThe simple word, *Good*, well, it strikes some kinda chord in the back of his head, though he doesn't know the significance of it. It'll be somethin' to dwell on some other time when there's less at the forefront, when Rafael ain't so close to crumblin' beneath his touch. \nA touch that comforts, that don't cause no more pain.\nThe touch of a good man.\n\nHe smiles, just a little, mirrorin' the curve of Rafael's lips. \"I ain't so sure about no more of me, if I'm honest. But I 'preciate you sayin' it all the same. Not somethin' a man hears every day. I don't know nothin' of your... What was it? Wall Street fuck-asses?\" Algernon has never heard of Wall Street. Wonders if it's nearby. Makes a note never to visit it, judgin' by the look on his friend's face when he thinks of the men that frequent it. \"But whoever they are, they ain't got nothin' on you and I and what we got right here.\"\n\nHe uses the hand holdin' his cigarette to gesture out to the barn. Though it's not half as heavin' with life and laughter as it's been in days before this, he doesn't just mean *This* - what he has, what Raf has, it's more than a speakeasy hidden away in an old barn, more than walls and wooden beams.\n\nIt's this town and the people in it. It's the spirit keepin' them goin' through night after night, phase of the moon be damned, because Briar Ridge is *Alive* And it's kickin' and screamin' its way through all that's been thrown at it and *They're gonna make it*. That much he's certain of. He doesn't know how to voice to Rafael just how sure he is, because he ain't sure *Where* That certainty came from. He just knows that when he locks eyes with the man by his side then he feels it in his bones, as much of an old fool as all'a that makes him sound. \n\n\"I want this to be the last war either of us ever gotta fight,\" He says, instead. \"An' I'll be doin' all I can to make it so. We done enough. Seen enough for a lifetime.\"\n\nFor a moment, he closes his eyes and imagines how that might look. In his mind, the sun is shinin' and they're sittin' out by the creek watchin' the light filter through the leaves. They ain't alone, either - faces familiar and strange surround their patch. He doesn't need to see the features up close to know they're smilin'.\nIn his little fantasy, Rafael is smilin' too."
}
] | 915 | 7,148 |
564.2 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "clover grace lovejoy.",
"message": "The bridge over the Powell had always been a boring excursion, if a somewhat precarious one when the wind was high. In recent months, it had felt to Clover Grace as though she was crossing from one world into another. She often hoped that she was, but every time she crossed back into town she was met with the same crushing reality. So much of her life had come to revolve around assuaging her pain, and much of that pain was rooted in her community and home. A tempestuous thing by nature with no place to land, Clover Grace had thus far been failing miserably at self-soothing. \n\nIt seemed to help, she'd found, to wear her mother's dresses. They were old, relics from before they could afford *Anything* From the tailor's shop, but Clover Grace kept them in the best condition she could. It hardly bothered her to look even further out of date than most everyone else in Briar Ridge. Besides, most folk who had known the Lovejoys knew better than to piss off Clover Grace, lest they wanted an earful. \n\nShe was hardly in the mood to give anyone an earful today, though. Her morning walk had been unsuccessful in that no coincidences of nature could be twisted in her mind to be interpreted as a sign from her mother. Her stomach was growling, so she'd have to find some lunch, but she didn't feel like talking to anybody and she *Certainly* Didn't want to go home. Clover Grace huffed as she crossed the centerpoint of the bridge. Below her, the river roared; she shuddered, poisoned for the thousandth time with the sickening thought that it was terribly easy to fall into the current. \n_ _\n\nClover Grace had always had a colorful imagination. It was perhaps one of the few of her quirks that she would actually acknowledge, if pressed. She knew better than to react immediately when she saw a golden head of hair in the distance. She'd been seeing things lately – shadows in the doorframe, a silhouette on the porch – and chalked it up to the enormity of her grief. This, too, must have been grief manifest. Jacey wasn't standing there in front of her. Jacey was buried somewhere deep in the mountainside. His arm was in the cemetery. He had been wearing a bracelet.\n\n\"You saw it,\" She chanted quietly to herself, over and over. \"You saw the bracelet. You saw it.\" \n\nShe was approaching twenty or so yards' distance now, and to her great chagrin, the vision hadn't dissipated. Aw, hell. What could she say to Doc Olander for somethin' to stop this from happening, that wouldn't send her straight to the loony bin? \n\nHe wasn't moving. Neither was she, as it turned out: Clover Grace stood stock-still at the place where the bridge met solid ground, transfixed by the figure before her."
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Another Sunday morning, and one which had not called for Freddie to ride up to the coal mine, leaving him free to take in the goings-on of the town as he saw fit. He'd spent the last few hours wandering, engaging in simple conversation with anyone who might spare a minute of their time for him, and usually around this time he'd have headed home to spend the afternoon with his parents. Perhaps he'd accompany his father to the barn as night drew closer, or indulge his mama in a game of cards.\nIt was as he passed by the bridge leading to the south that the desire to see the water came over him. It was still too cold to swim in, but he rather fancied the thought of leaning over the wall and watching the river rush below him and simply *Imagining* How it would feel when he did finally get to take a dip in the spring. The townspeople whispered of dangers below the Powell's surface, but none of that could quite quell the call of it even so, which was how he found himself approaching the mouth of the bridge at a casual pace, his mind already wandering back to thoughts of the rest of the day.\n\nThat was, at least, until he looked up and laid eyes upon her. \n\nShe looked just the same as she had when Freddie last saw her - his sisters, much like Freddie himself, never seemed to age much past nineteen. Long blonde hair half-up, no doubt in that same blue ribbon she favoured, hand-me-down dress hanging from her slim shoulders. It was clear as day to him that she was here - Marjorie Rose Lovejoy, in her very flesh. \n\nBut... But *Why?*\n\nMarjorie, like Catherine and Rebecca, was supposed to be far, far away from here. Safe, with her husband and son in the city; baby Alfie was but four months old. In her last letter, Marjorie had promised that all was well, that he was growing strong and that she had plenty of work to do at the laundry and that they were comfortable and safe.\n\"Safe\" Was about as far from Briar Ridge as physically possible, and yet, there stood his sister, having just crossed the bridge that led into town from Lord-knows where, and looking directly at him.\n\nThe shock had had Freddie rooted to the spot, but as soon as he regained control of his feet, he was *Running*, and he didn't stop until he'd caught hold of the woman by both of her hands, almost bowling her over with the force of it all but having hardly a care in the world about it in that moment. Breathless, he looked down at their joined hands, and pulled them close to his chest. \"Mar... Mar, what are you doin'? Why're you here? I thought you- you were... You can't be here. Please... You gotta go home, it ain't safe.\" He hadn't told his sisters about the full-moon problem in his letters - how could he put into words what happened in this town without sounding as though he'd lost his damned mind within months? \"You- but... *No*. No. Where's Alfie? And John? They come with you or... Oh, hell, you ain't come here 'cause he's gone and left you? You coulda sent one'a them fancy telegrams... Mama's gonna...\"\n\nHe trailed off, his gaze drifting up from the small hands in his to her face. \n\nAnd it wasn't Marjorie Lovejoy at all. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "clover grace lovejoy.",
"message": "She held her breath as he approached – not at a walk, but a *Run.* Just like so many folktales, only it was the middle of the day, not some lonely corner of the woods at night. It hardly mattered. How did that scary old folk poem start, again? *One bright day, in the middle of the night... Two dead boys got up to fight.* A haint – she was sure of it. Poor Jacey, or Ambrose, maybe, come up from the mountain to swallow her whole. It had certainly taken them long enough. She was older now than Ambrose would ever be. The knowledge had eaten away at her in the three years since she'd surpassed him in age. \n\nA part of her was curious to know whether it would hurt – whether the haint would throw its arms around her and crush her like her brothers under the weight of the rubble. Whether it would drag her into the river below. She'd go down fighting like hell, naturally, but Clover Grace was so tired, and the mountain was so large. When she felt their bodies begin to topple and her body naturally braced itself, there was little effort made in righting her body; her low center of gravity rooted her to the spot, and she dug her heel into the ground before absolutely *Wrenching* Him off of her person.\n\nOr, at least, that was what she meant to do. What actually transpired was that Clover Grace stood frozen, mouth wide open in shock before she began to splutter. It was funny – she tried so hard to avoid her grief, and yet here it was laid out before her like some kind of cosmic *Fuck you.* As soon as she felt the warmth of his hands, she knew he was real. What she really couldn't handle was his *Face.* The truth was that this stranger, whoever he was, looked so much like her brother that she had been swallowed whole the moment she noticed the similarities. \n_ _\n\nHe spoke – and spoke, and spoke, in the sort of way her brothers did. In the sort of way *She* Did. Clover Grace's mouth still hung open with awe. The last year had been vividly unkind to her; she was waiting for the punchline, and when it didn't come, anger surged up to protect the soft, vulnerable thing underneath it. \n\n\"Get offa me!\" She exclaimed, wrapping her arms around herself in what was ultimately a pitiful gesture. After a moment it seemed as if she realized this and her fists balled up at her sides. In spite of her efforts to the contrary, she had begun to cry, and had no qualms about letting him see given that he had nearly bowled her over *And* Given her the fright of her life. (Had it been a fright, or had she been waiting?) \n\n\"The hell is wrong with you?\" She loudly demanded, reaching up to wipe a damp eye and scowling fiercely at the stranger all the while. \"I ain't no *Mar!* Who the hell are *You?* Grabbin' people like that? I'll beat your ass, you touch me again!\"\n\nShe was still not entirely convinced that this was some trick out of the wood. There was no one else around that she could see or hear nearby. \n\n\"And you made me cry, so I'm double pissed off,\" She declared in a voice that was a little too tired for its venom to sound genuine. \"What do you want?!\" *Why do you look so much like them?!*"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "The stranger pulled her hands back with such force that it almost stung, and Freddie would've been hurt by it, had he not already become painfully aware that she was not, in fact, the sister he missed so much.\nBut Lord did she look like her. She had the same blue-grey eyes that all the Lovejoys had, the eyes that stared Freddie back in the face when he chanced upon a mirror, eyes that burned bright in his very first memories of his sisters leaning over his crib in the early-morning light. She wore her hair the same, and even her style of dress was reminiscent of the ones all three of them wore, each one stitched together and neatly repaired time and time again by his mama's careful hand. \nEven her *Voice* Sounded the same, though it held a venom unlike he'd ever heard from his family. Though he'd been scolded by the sisters in his youth, never had they spat bitter words as she did, and in all honesty he was taken aback by it. He took a step backwards, stumbling over his words. \n\n\"I'm- I- sorry, Miss, I- I thought...\" What had he thought? How could he explain that she was nothing but the spitting image of the sister he missed so much? That he'd been so consumed by thoughts of seeing Marjorie again that heart had overtaken head and seized him with the desire to run to her and never let go again? \"I ain't mean to hurt ya, I- my mama- I'm sorry!\" His cheeks were turning red with the embarrassment of it all, and the realisation that Marjorie wasn't here at all threatened to choke him.\nHe missed her.\n\nFor a moment, as fleeting as it had turned out to be, he'd thought he had her again and, in that moment, everything had felt a little less like stinging-nettles, a little safer, a little more like home. For as long as he could remember, his sisters had protected him from the worst of the world's cruelty. He had known so little of hurt before Briar Ridge, and now, every turned corner threatened with teeth and claws and blood, and he didn't know what to *Do* About it, and hell, it all would've been so much easier if someone would just fold him into their arms and tell him everything was going to be alright and...\n\nA tear rolled down his cheek. His lower lip quivered. He looked all of a sudden much, much younger than his twenty-one years.\n\n\"You look *So* Much like her. I thought you was... Somebody else. That's all, Miss. I really ain't mean no harm by it... I don't want nothin'. I'll let you go.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "clover grace lovejoy.",
"message": "Clover Grace's eyebrows shot up so high they threatened to leave her forehead altogether, and her hands shook with the effort it took not to ball them into fists. He spoke with a cadence *Uncannily* Similar to that of her brothers – a result of being raised and socialized in Virginia, but with parents who were from the next state over. Grief was a hot pursuant, and she was only ever just ahead of it before it could nip at her heels. Here it had stopped her all together and rooted her to the spot while it attacked with reckless abandon. The tears spilling down over her cheeks were uncomfortably hot, and stung to be released. There was no catharsis to be had here. \n\nShe had been ignorant to the identical ways in which their cheeks had gone ruddy, and still was, somewhat, but there was just too much about him she could *Recognize.* The idea that the woods had spat out some half-baked imitation of one of her brothers had still not entirely left her. She was deeply shaken and transfixed. To look at him was like salt in a raw wound. At the same time she wanted to reach forward and give him a great big hug. \n\n\"I don't know any Marjorie!\" She finally exclaimed. She'd been trying so hard to say it calmly, but it came out on a swell of emotion and washed out over the both of them. \"I'm awful sorry to disappoint you so badly. I know the feelin'.\" She sniffled once, twice, and took a step back to examine him. \n\n\"You new or somethin'?\" She asked, at once rather pitiful and still somehow having found concern for him. Selfishly the question was borne of his lack of reaction to anything she'd said. Selflessly, though, she felt her heart break a little at the way his face crumpled into youth. \n\n\"Shit time to come to Briar Ridge. Sorry, sweetie,\" She sniffled. In spite of the use of a term of endearment, Clover Grace's brows were still quirked downward into the top half of a scowl-adjacent pout. \"I'm Clover Grace Lovejoy.\"\n||"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "He cringed back at her words, but forced himself to look at her, to see for sure that she were no sister of his, despite the similarities. There were differences in the features too, now he studied her more closely, but he'd been so caught up in his own feelings that he'd failed to see them until after causing a whole scene. He wiped at his eyes, bit his lip, and nodded. \n\n\"I know that now, Miss. Really, I'm sorry, I am. I ain't mean to cause no hurt, or... Anythin' like that. I was wrong to come runnin' so.\" He sighed softly. \"My family and me, we been here since late October, but I spent so much time workin' down the mine I guess I ain't met everybody yet. Hell of a way to meet a lady... Hey, here.\"\n\nHe produced the handkerchief he always carried from his pocket, and held it out to her in earnest. \"You dry your eyes good, won't ya? Can keep it, I got plenty more, I swear it's good an' clean.\" He couldn't stand to see her crying, it didn't seem right to simply stand and let her continue, as angry as she'd been with him through her tears. His own could be wiped away with the cuff of a sleeve, but it wouldn't do to have a lady forced to do the same. If he could let her preserve some of her dignity before anyone else were to see her, then he didn't see no harm in giving up what he had. \n\nAbout to agree with her that they had, in fact, chosen an awful time to come to this town (if there could ever be a good time to come to a town plagued by a pack of werewolves), he was stopped in his tracks by her next words. \n\n*Clover Grace Lovejoy.*\n\nHe didn't know the name Clover Grace. But could it truly be a coincidence that she bore the face of his sisters, and the name of his father's family? \n\n\"I- I'm Lovejoy, too. Alfred, like my father, but everyone's called me Freddie my whole life, so you can call me that too. Do I- should... Should I know you after all? Ain't a common name, is it?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "clover grace lovejoy.",
"message": "Clover Grace was not a particularly private person, and when she took a long moment to squint at Freddie as he spoke, it wasn't because she was sizing him up. He was clearly a human dandelion (and clearly, Clover Grace was not known for her self-awareness). The issue was that he looked so painfully familiar that it prompted her brain to dig up details of its own accord. She was just opening her mouth to ask him where he was from when he said his name was goddamned *Alfred,* And Clover Grace about shit herself in the middle of the street.\n\n*\"Alfred* Is my middle name,\" She announced, incredulous. \"An' I'm named after my uncle. Never met him, cause – oh! And my parents... Oh! \" \n\nIn truth, her mama n' daddy really didn't seem to like talking much about their early lives. Most of the Lovejoy siblings had surmised that their parents weren't originally from Briar Ridge, which wasn't entirely uncommon in such a place but which still left them profoundly frustrated about their origins. \n\nWhat they *Had* Managed to figure out was that Thurmond, a town muttered in hushed tones when eavesdroppers were well-hidden, was a town in West Virginia. Only took three or four tries asking around at the diner to figure it out. Clover Grace must've been about eight or so when she'd brought it up to her mama and gotten a hard smack on the ass for it.\n\n\"You from West Virginia?\" She asked in a burst, her voice pitching up suddenly as though she was warning him of a great beast behind him. In reality she was swelling up with some unknown feeling, something close to horror but dizzying in a different sort of way. If she trusted it, it might even be warm.\n||"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Though Freddie thought *Alfred* A mighty peculiar name for a woman, middle or otherwise, he was smart enough to bite his tongue and not voice that particular musing, hesitant to say anything that might have Miss Clover Grace a-screaming at him again, or Lord forbid, crying more. To hear she was named after an uncle made it make only a fraction more sense. Would it be foolish to dare look further into this? To think of his father, born amidst six other siblings, and to think of his own knowledge of Lovejoy blood spread just about all over the Appalachian range? \n\n\"Yes ma'am. Born an' raised in a miners' town a few hours' drive from here,\" He explained, slow as he tried to consider the words prior to speaking them. \"I'm youngest of four, we was all born there, and my father and all'a his brothers and sisters were too. Not a lot of us livin' there no more but we've been a coal family as long as anyone can remember, see. Mama likes to say there ain't a tunnel in the state - maybe even the country - that ain't seen a Lovejoy boy chippin' his way through it in the dark.\"\n\nHe bit his lip, looking her over once more. She really did look like his sisters, and the old posed pictures of his aunts that his father kept in the album beneath the bed. Even her dress wouldn't look too outta place in those photographs. Her voice shared the girls' soft lilt. And the Lovejoy siblings were all so prone to those tears that had spilled from her eyes in her anger. \n\n\"Strange, ain't it?\" He said quietly. \"Of all the people to run into, in all the towns we could'a been in. I'm real sorry for upsettin' ya. Jus' can't believe how much you look like her - all of 'em. My sisters. But they ain't here.\""
},
{
"author": "clover grace lovejoy.",
"message": "Now that she'd had a few moments to get her bearings, Clover Grace was decidedly coming back into her skin. Her eyes were a deep and stormy blue-grey as she stared him down, and despite the tempestuous nature of her gaze, there was a softness about the rest of her features which could only have come from a deep well of empathy.\n\n*Ain't a tunnel in the state that ain't seen a Lovejoy boy chippin' his way through it in the dark.* She'd heard something similar from her own father, although there had never been evidence of his rhetoric. All of the Lovejoy boys *She'd* Ever known had gone into the mines, sure, but the only Lovejoys she knew were her brothers.\n\nIt was painfully obvious that they were related. Clover Grace could see her father's button nose on Freddie's face, the natural sunshine in his eyes in spite of the circumstances of their meeting. \n\n\"Well, I'll be damned,\" She murmured after a long moment of studying his face. In truth, she knew all too well that her parents' reluctance to talk about their lives before Briar Ridge stemmed from fear of societal repercussions. It had taken her and her brothers a few summers to piece it together, but Eileen and Martin Lovejoy were most certainly *Not* Married – or, frankly, of age – when they were expectin' their first babe. \n\n\"Your pa have a brother called Martin?\" She asked. \"I'm guessin' he does. Martin – um, that's my pa. Reckon he n' my mama came here a little younger'n normal,\" She mused. She had never been uncomfortable sharing personal anecdotes, but something about the tremble in her voice was thoroughly discombobulating her. She'd not gotten more than six hours of sleep in the better part of a week, and the hoarseness with which she spoke as she addressed her family did little to mask the pain she clearly felt to address them by name.\n_ _\n\n*I know you're not the one I'm looking for, but I am so cold, and a fire is a fire.* How cruelly this mantra tended to pop back up in her life – helping a friend just for someone to talk to; going home with a stranger to avoid being alone in her bed. At long last, she had been presented with the opportunity to hug her brothers, again. Or at least, someone who looked like them. \n\nMaybe family wasn't such a farfetched pipe dream, anymore. Hers had been blown up with her brothers, deep in the belly of the earth, but she had never paused to consider that there were other mountains, other mines. Other avenues by which she might find peace, love, community. Slowly and warmly, a quivering, tender smile appeared on her face, a secret expression few had ever seen her adopt.\n\n\"Can I... Give you a hug?\" She asked, eyes going glassy with tears she was doing her best to control. She was so, *So* Tired. He looked so, *So* Familiar."
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "When she asked about his father, all he could do was nod. Though he knew little of Martin Lovejoy, the name was familiar enough, and if he thought real hard, he could come up with the picture from the album, faded and wrinkled as it were, copperplate script curling beneath it - *Alfred, Robert, and Martin, June 1885*. He didn't know where it was taken, but all three men were young, flaxen-haired at a guess if you squinted at the light just right, with the Lovejoy nose and shining eyes, features both he and Clover Grace bore the same. \n\nIf it hadn't been unfolding right before his eyes, if someone else were to tell him this very tale, he would laugh and call it a fairy-story. Families divided didn't happen upon one another like that - there were countless towns just like Briar Ridge scattered across the mountains, each hosting brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers alike, and if you hadn't an address to mail a letter to nor a name on a map to find then any blood shared might as well be lost for good.\n\nYet, here stood Clover Grace, wearing a wavering smile that wouldn't have looked out of place on any of his three sisters, and the bruiselike shadows beneath her eyes matched the ones that Freddie's own reflection bore in the hallway mirror. \n\nHe drew up the family tree in his mind, and from the branch that held his aunts and uncles, a new leaf bloomed. \n*Clover Grace Alfred Lovejoy.*\nA cousin.\n\nFamily. \n\nShe was speaking again, and her voice broke through his thoughts, sweet as it were, though laden with something heavy that made it sound as though the words were scratching at her throat as they came out. \nHe couldn't help but break into a beaming smile. \n\"Here I was thinkin' you had it in your mind to go hittin' me, an' you go askin' me that instead?\" He teased, no real bite behind it, only in the way a little brother might playfully nudge and grin at his sisters - not in a way that made them vulnerable, but one that drew them closer. \"'Course you can.\" Before she could be the one to initiate it, he took a step closer and wrapped his arms around her small frame, no doubt in the gesture that he wanted it just as much as she did. \n\nShe held in her hair a familiar scent, the same way the ground smelled after spring rain - greenery all coming to life as the soil drank the downpour in. She was just the right height for him to press his cheek to the top of her head as he hugged her, and that was odd, because his sisters were all taller than him, but Miss Clover Grace was *A scrap of a thing*, his mama would've said. \nMama would love to meet her. Papa, he was sure, would be delighted to even know of her existence, let alone lay eyes upon her for himself. \nHe found himself squeezing her tight.\n\"Hell, am I glad I got to run in'ta you... We're gonna be alright, Clo.\"\n\n||"
}
] | 589 | 5,642 |
732.571429 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "TW: Descriptions of animal death\n\nRuth thought she was dreaming.\n\nThis has happened so many times, that she had nightmares about it, overwhelmed by the dread, waking up in sweat, heaving. She can recall how it went every time: *The head on the elongated neck, peaking, with its strangely human-like teeth spilling out of its outstretched maw. Her breath violently ripping into her throat, her fingers gripping into Mary's metallic corpus, as if for a second completely forgetting how to use her gun. She raises her gun, - the thing looks at her curiously, almost amused; or maybe it doesn't, maybe Ruth is just making up its emotions, to convince herself she understood this thing at some level. Throughout their short meetings, Ruth, honestly, learned nothing about it. She shoots this thing as many times as she can muster. At some point, it seems like, the thing gets tired of waiting and leaves her alone.\n\nShe prays. She gets on her knees, on the smelly forest soil, and she prays, thanking God for keeping her safe once more.*\n\nShe knew that's how it always happened. She distinctly remembered shooting this thing until it left, over and over, and it reacting lazily, like one would to an annoying mosquito bite. And now the mosquito bite has killed it. \n\nBecause before her, on the forest floor, laid a breathless corpse of the Non-Deer.\n\nShe finally had an opportunity to look at it closer, without it being obstructed by the shadows on the trees. It was much bigger than an average deer; its hooves looked heavy, and almost a little too big for its body. Its limbs were so thin it was hard to imagine how they managed to carry such a massive torso. Its elongated neck was thick and very muscular; its eyes, now closed in eternal slumber, had these gorgeous long lashes all deer have. There was a sudden longing within Ruth, looking at this weird creature lying limp on the snowy ground. You can kill a rabbit and see another one right next to it, but this thing was special, one of a kind. She might have ended the life of the only ever living Non-Deer. For a second, her heart ached, mourning the creature that left her relentlessly bruised from dropping down or rolling to evade its attacks, and once – hooved; a monster, haunting her nightmares. She usually prayed when she needed to deal with death, but this time, for some reason, the idea of praying for this thing left a bitter taste in her mouth. It felt blasphemous. Without a word, she kneeled near the huge corpse and checked its neck for a pulse. The pulse was silent; the body slowly started to get cold. There could be no mistake: the Non-Deer was dead.\n\nAnd now she didn't know what to do with it. With her emotions – yes, but they were slowly leaving, giving way to cold determination. She didn't know what to do with a body. To be precise, with a body this unique.\n\nRuth didn't have enough knowledge of anatomy, or biology, or... Mythology, to make any conclusions about the creature. There was a sort of desperation inside of her: that this horrific, wonderful thing was dead now, and she couldn't preserve it, couldn't send it to the museum, couldn't even show it to anyone who could truly appreciate it. She wasn't particularly close with anyone in the town, but it seemed that no one even knew that Briar Ridge's dense forest hosted something more dangerous than, let's say, wild boars or wolves. The closest person that came to her mind was Emery, the butcher and the main source of her modest income. They must have seen many different animals, so maybe, they would give Ruth advice on how to approach this one.\n\nIt was a long stretch, but she couldn't just let this animal rot in the woods. And she couldn't carry it home and live with the corpse of a creature of her literal nightmares either.\n\nAfter all, the meat was meat. And, maybe, if it turned out to actually be inedible, Emery could make a taxidermy out of it and send it out to the town that had town fairs. Briar Ridge was too small and probably too moody for a fair.\n\nAnd so, Ruth tried to grab the corpse under its chest area, but it was too heavy to lift. After some tries and some considerations, she decided to leave her bag near one of her traps to pick it up the next day, throw the deer's back legs over her shoulder, and drag its body home. She wanted to keep the corpse as intact as possible for the time being, but if dragging it was necessary to carry it home, Ruth was willing to allow these small damages to happen.\n\nAfter walking a couple of meters, Ruth changed her plans. Why carry it to her house, then take a longer path to the butcher's, if she could just carry it there straight away? It was an early morning, slowly seeping into later morning. She never visited Emery this early: her usual routine was, after checking the traps in the early morning, carrying the meats home, having breakfast, finishing the preparation of the last batch, then carrying the goods to the butcher's, usually around lunchtime. Emery, closing the shop for lunch, and having just finished their lunch, had the shop to themselves to weigh and price the meats without rushing and without risking to scare some particularly impressionable customers, who liked meat, but couldn't stand it when it didn't look pristine. It seemed convenient for both of them; at least, Emery never complained.\n\nRuth knew what time Emery's shop opened; however, she didn't know how much time it currently was, nor how much time it would take for her to travel there (she could only imagine a shortcut in her mind, but had never actually traveled this path). Still, if the shop appeared to be closed, she could just sit and wait outside. Fortunately, Ruth was dressed well enough, cocooned in her scarf and her warm sheepcoat. She could've waited. Unnoticed due to early morning hours and a detour she took, Ruth Hansen reached the door of the butcher's shop, approached it, and knocked.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "The aftermath of the blizzard had finally begun to clear, the snowfall turning from a menacing force to simply a slight inconvenience. Sleep had claimed Emery earlier than normal the night before and while it wasn't perfect by any stretch of the imagination it was better than what they'd been getting. They'd only woken once during the night, memories of bloodied snow and mangled teeth disappearing as fast as they could remember them. Charlie sleeping soundly by their side, *Safe*, did well to ease their nerves and soon the metronome of their breath eased them back into sleep. Waking early seemed to come easier than it had been but even still their eyes hung with dark bags.\n\nThey wasted no time in getting down to the shop, needing to work, to feel *Useful*. The slow trickle of customers after the storm had them busying themselves with tasks usually left undone, dusting tops of shelves, attempting to get particularly difficult stains out of the floor. After a while they could no longer hear the gentle creaks of wood that came from Charlies footsteps above and it settled something in them to know they were resting. It was nice, quiet in a way that calmed them instead of lighting their nerves on end and it was when they were sprinkling new sawdust out beneath the butcher's block that they heard a knock on the door. \n\n\"Ruth.\" They smiled at her, large and genuine as they opened the door.\n\nShortly after arriving in Briar Ridge, Ruth had come to Emery to sell her kills and they were always more than happy to take them off her hands. She wasn't much for conversation but didn't seem to mind when Emery prattled on about different cuts of meat or reasonings for price as they would look everything over. She always arrived at the same time, if not the same day, and it had turned into a good routine, one Emery even began looking forward to as the months went on. Something seemed off today though, even despite the early arrival her normally steely demeanour seemed somehow faded.\n\n\"I wasn't...\" *Expectin' you till later* Is what they were going to say, what they attempted to say had their voice not stuck in their throat at seeing what she carried behind her, smile fading completely. Its chest was littered with bullet wounds but all things considered was in good shape, looking far too alive even completely unmoving. Usually that's why Emery liked buying from Ruth, her kills were pristine, leaving as little damage to the animal as possible. Even through bullet holes or teeth of traps Emery could tell she tried to make it quick, painless. But now, looking at the thing behind her, the clean shots and near unmarred pelt only served to make their stomach drop. \n\n\"You caught one.\" Is all they could think to say, voice equal parts impressed and unbelieving. Their eyes stayed locked to the creature, half convinced it wasn't yet dead. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "Ruth raised her eyes, meeting Emery's, their open, welcoming face and wide smile. The air inside of her chest rose and warmed up a little, seeing how welcomed she was. She greeted Emery with a short and low \"Good morning\", then got stuck awkwardly at the entrance as soon as she stepped over the threshold. If this was the usual day, Emery would bring out the cloth and lay it over the sales table, to prevent staining it more than necessary; for a butcher's shop, Emery kept their place tidier than some people kept their homes. Ruth would bring out her bag and lay out the goods, as Emery would chatter about the weather, the animals, or their respective parts. Today, however, was not the usual day. Today, the thing she brought would not fit on Emery's cloth.\n\nThat is why Ruth was standing barely over the doorway, holding the Non-Deer's body behind her back like a guilty boy would be holding a slingshot that had just smashed someone else's window. The understanding of the situation started to settle in: Ruth brought a monster into a good man's shop. Without warnings. \n\nMaybe she should have left it outside, come in, and explain everything before showing Emery the carcass. Maybe she should've thought twice before ever coming here. Now they would think she was inconsiderate. They would think she brought this here to scare them.\n\nShe couldn't just turn around and drag it outside; so Ruth was frozen, paralyzed with indecisiveness, hoping that maybe Emery would turn away and she could push the carcass out of the door and make up another excuse as to why she was coming in so early.\n\nBut it was too late.\n\nWhatever part of the Non-Deer was visible around Ruth's legs and torso made the color drain from Emery's face. Their eyes shot open, their mouth hung like the mouthpiece of a broken nutcracker. The wave of panic rose in Ruth's chest.\n\n\"Emery,\" She said, trying to console them, \"Don't be afraid. It's dead, I promise.\" She swallowed, because now was the time to explain why she came here so early, dragging in an unskinned body of a weird creature. \"I... Don't know what it is.\" She finally said. \n\nOther words wouldn't come out, however she tried. What could she say, *\"And I thought *You* Would know what this is?\"* Why would they know? Why would they know anything? They just saw a thing of nightmares, they are scared, they are panicked, and it's all pointless. It's all because of her lack of care. Ruth felt so bad for frightening kind, charming Emery, she wanted to punch herself in the face.\n\n\"I thought you could accept it.\" Ruth finally muttered, \"Meat is meat\".\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "It was Ruths consoling tone that brought them out of their stupor, feeling almost embarrassed about being able to be taken apart so easily by the sight of a corpse. It shouldn't shake them as badly as it did, just another body, another animal unwillingly sacrificing their life for the pleasure and nourishment of humans. Yet these *Things* Never ceased to make their blood run cold. \n\n\"No, no a course it's dead.\" They laughed nervously, voice sticking in their throat, a smile slipping onto their face like a mask. A mask that had slowly peeled away as their time in Briar Ridge carried on, because here, they were no longer one of the only victims of the unsettling things the woods had to offer. Still, no matter all the abnormality they had witnessed these past few months seeing one of these 'deer' in their shop made them feel like they were back in Chattanooga. Their pas voice clear in their head telling them, *\"We got a job t' do.\"* \n\n\"*Sorry*.\" They said after a moment, eyes finally meeting Ruths face once more and taking in just how guilty she looked. A guilt that ran through them, making them feel all the more incompetent. \n\n\"Lord, here, lemme help you get that thing in.\" They stepped beside her through the door, circling around the thing to pick up its limp legs and hauling it the rest of the way in. As they set it fully down on the sawdust covered floor it was with a gentleness that was almost forced, as if the thing could still see, still judge their actions, even in death. They locked the door behind them, it was still early, but they didn't want anyone to come through with this laid out on display. Sometimes it was better to only see the final product of a butchering.\n\n\"Meat is meat.\" They echoed, chuckling again without humour as they stepped back to take in the massive creature. They took in a deep breath before speaking again, \"I know what it is-\" Did they really? Sure, they'd seen them before. Seen their insides strewn on a chopping block and grinded up into indiscernible wet clumps. That didn't mean they could place a name to it, though. Didn't mean they knew anything more than it being a creature of the woods. \n\n\"I mean I- I guess I don't, I've just-\" They ran a nervous hand through their hair, pulling at the strands near their scalp before shaking it out and sighing. \n\n\"Seen more than my fair share, is all... Farmers where I'm from used to call 'em 'not-deer' 'cause... Well, I mean.\" They gestured to the thing. The thing that was *Almost* A deer yet so very *Not*. \"Me 'n that new fella, Algernon, we saw one 'bout a week ago up on the deer paths. Must be quite a few of 'em out in the woods here. You ain't never seen one before?\" As they asked the last question their tone got soft, almost as if the roles had switched, Emery now the one consoling Ruth. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "Ruth stood still, alert, like a deer listening to a crackle from the bushes. There was something wrong. She expected them to be spooked and a bit curious, but in Emery's dreadful eyes, their downturned lips, like murky swamp water, brewed recognition. They have already met this thing. Probably, while it was alive.\n\nDid this thing... Hurt Emery? Have they fought it before?\n\nShe saw their hands shake and their eyes dart all over; listened to Emery stumbling through the story about \"Seeing\" One of them a couple of weeks prior, with their friend, only \"Seeing\", and felt her jaw tighten.\n\nLie. It was a damned lie.\n\nRuth was almost scared of this wave of aggression that rose in her chest. Maybe it was because, before that, she trusted Emery with her whole heart. This was why she came to them. The thought of the curly-headed fellow lying to her face was fresh, sudden, and painful. It stung. She had so little contact with people, and Emery was one of the very few whose words she thought she could rely on.\n\nAnd yet, she forced herself to swallow the anger away. With the noise in her ears, nervous and scalding, she missed the question and needed to mentally rewind their conversation a little bit back.\n\n\"Seen one... - she agreed, unable to hide the undertone of bitterness in her voice, - Shot one, too. Many times. I didn't know there were... Many.\" – she stumbled for a second, the idea newly horrifying, - \"Thought you couldn't kill it.\" She nodded at the creature Emery dragged away, wordlessly adding: \"Guess I was wrong\".\n\nShe caught the butcher's eyes and took a step forward, painfully understanding how menacing that might look, but ignoring it for the sake of her own curiosity. For the need to know and wield the power of knowledge.\n\nShe will leave Emery shortly after. She will see this thing in her forest and in her nightmares. If Emery was right, and there were many of those creatures... She needed all she could get.\n\n\"What do you really know, Emery?\" She firmly asked.\n\n\"I can help you cut it up.\" She added after a pause, attempting to soften the situation a little. Threatening Emery felt wrong, even if it wasn't a threat, really. Even if they lied. \"I see how you don't want to look at it.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "Emery looked around for a tarp they could pull the creature onto, unaware of the tightness of Ruths jaw or the cold set of her eyes as they began to mentally go through how they'd butcher the beast. Its gangly limbs would provide little in the ways of meat, though there was no denying its enormous torso would have at least *Something* Of use. However, the more real it became they couldn't help but wonder if they even wanted to sell something like this here. In a town where they knew just about everyone and lying was starting to feel like tar on their tongue. It was easier in a city full of passing faces, guiding the regulars to a different product if they showed interest and not thinking about those that did. \n\nMaybe they could throw it in a tub of salt so long they forget what it even was. Maybe they'd get lucky and cut the beast open to reveal rot and decay, the hardest work they'd do that day being to help Ruth drag it back out to the woods. \n\nThey only paused in their search when they noticed the tone of Ruths voice as she spoke of having seen *Many*, unable to discern if it was fear or anger that laced her words but turning to give sympathies and comfort nonetheless. Though as their eyes met hers they were certain the tone was indeed anger, and that it was directed not at the unknown of the forest but at *Them*.\n\nEmery was taller, and though it might not show, every bit as strong as Ruth, though they couldn't help but be intimidated as she stared them down and asked *What they really knew*. A docile sort of smile came across their face, a smile they'd worn a number of times with people who got too curious, asked too many questions. A smile they'd follow up with *\"I'm sure I don't know nothin' about that.\"* As they expertly changed the subject. But this was Ruth they were talking to, who over the past few months they'd begun to trust, even see as a friend. Ruth who'd seen and killed one of these creatures and was likely to face them again, and didn't she deserve to know what they did? And wasn't Emery just so desperate to tell *Anyone* About what they really knew? \n\nThey felt their mask slipping, a grimace taking its place as they decided to go against instinct. They didn't feel like they could speak until Ruth mentioned how obvious it was they didn't want to look at the creature and as if in defiance of that they looked down, eyes clapping onto the bullet wounds, the now dried blood black as pitch. \n\n\"You know this ain't just some animal, don't you? I mean maybe it was, once, but, it ain't... It's not just deformed, it's...\" They shook their head, trying to find the words to describe something that shouldn't be of this earth, \"I mean, it's like them werewolves. It ain't... *Right*.\"\n\nThey sighed, momentarily closing their eyes from the sight of it as they turned, walking behind the counter to continue searching. \"I swear to you, I don't know much. Growin' up there'd be the same few farmers who lived out in the woods that'd bring 'em to me and my Pa, he wouldn't tell me anythin' about 'em, just... Cut 'em up, get 'em out.\" \n\nTucked away on the bottom of the shelf they found a folded tarp and unfurled it as they walked back, \"I ain't ever even seen one alive 'till I was out with Algernon. Didn't look like this one though, it was... Lord, it was vile. Looked half rotted 'fore we even started shootin' and it spoke...\" They felt their throat closing around the words as they knelt beside it, taking a breath before attempting to spread out the fabric, \"Spoke in my Pas voice. Took the breath right out me after we got a few rounds in it... I ain't never heard of anythin' like it...\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "Her anger dissolved hissing like a splash of water on a heated pan. Ruth leaned forward, intensely hanging on their every word. Understanding brewed inside of her pupils. Damn right, it wasn't an animal. An animal would not act like that.\n\nAnd yet, as more and more words strung out of Emery's mouth, Ruth's brows furrowed in confusion. If she didn't know better, she would've said that the butcher was describing a completely different creature from what she dragged in this morning – if their deep terror from a single look at this thing wouldn't have told her otherwise. Rotten? The things she met were lively and powerful, healthy as houses, and as dangerous as a storm. But more importantly...\n\n\"It never spoke to me,\" Ruth sounded lost, helpless to catch the words before they left her mouth.\n\nWhether she would voice it out or not, it was true regardless. It never did. It smiled at her like a mad human would; it stayed silent, and the silence pressed on Ruth like feet and feet of water would if she was drowning. But not a word was spoken by any of them. She never knew they could speak at all. What if, - and Ruth didn't know why this thought upset her so much, - the monster considered her unworthy of the conversation, to be used only as food, or whatever those things were doing with the poor souls unable to withstand its attacks? Or maybe the opposite: she was such a dangerous fiend the beast needed to focus its energy to fight her off? Or, a completely different reason: because she kept silent, the non-Deer didn't have a voice to pair her with? They had certainly heard Jack before; if they had managed to put them together, Ruth would have never left these woods alive.\n\nAs unusual as it was for Ruth, a theory surfaced, so unbelievable and yet so horrid her heart sped up, as if the creature stood still alive right beside her in this small shop. Maybe, there were several types of non-Deer, rotten and not, with different abilities; but more likely, the rotten non-Deer was just dead. It was dead, and it was gone, and then it was possessed by something that made it speak, that made it bleed puss, that made its body an empty carcass threatening to fall apart at any second. Just like the werewolves, like Emery said.\n\nOr worse, like a living corpse.\n\nIf something in these words made the dead bodies stand and walk, they had a problem worse than the werewolves on their hands.\n\nOf course, Ruth couldn't tell this to Emery, who has been nothing but kind to her. The thought was too bone-chilling to even risk speaking it into existence. \n\n\"When it spoke,\" Ruth started, unsure if the question, harmless in its nature, would hurt poor Emery more by making them revive these events again, \"What did it want from you?\"\n\n||"
}
] | 608 | 5,128 |
227.529412 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "Cleaning didn't stop in the spring, no for Abel it happened all year round. It was important to him, to keep the church in tip top shape. How else was he to show his devotion if not keeping the house of God especially tidy? \n\nWith a ladder up against the church, he was standing atop it, with a bucket of suds hanging off the side. The last thing he wanted was for people's first impression of the church to be a dirty and dingy outside. He dipped his sponge into the water and began to scrub at the siding. \n\nIt was hard work sure, but it needed to be done and after his experiences with his last hired help well.. He wasn't exactly estatic about about the idea of getting help from others. No, he had his own experience with work and getting his hands dirty, so this job.. He could do himself. \n\nAfter a few moments, he made his way down the ladder to the groun where he grabbed a glass of water he had set out for himself, wiping the sweat from his brow. His eyes narrowed as he saw someone passing, a newer but.. Still familiar face. \n\nThough the face not remembered from his sermons.. And well.. He did enjoy a bit of recruitment. Especially of those he deemed sinful. People like her, travelers and wild ones. Something to be tamed in a way. \n\nHe gave Dimitra and wave and a painted on grin as he made his way over, hands clasped on his waist. \"Well hello hello hello there..\" He said as he nodded towards her. \n\n\"Nice to see you, don't see too much of you unfortunately for me, hm?\" He asked as he glanced at her for a moment before motioning back to the church. \"Doing a bit of cleaning, myself.. Nice day, yeah?\" He said running a hand through his hair ti push it away from his face. \"Where are you headed?\""
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "It was a bit funny; it wasn't that Dimitra lacked faith. In fact, that was something her family had had lots of. Growing up, her family followed Eastern Orthodox traditions; and she'd always come to know God in a particular way herself. She hadn't considered herself to be terribly religious, however— she knew God loved her and her sins, and she believed if she was a good person above all else, that He would be just fine with what she came up to heaven with in the end. \n\nClearly, that wasn't good enough for some people. Abel Hughes; she'd been ducking this man for ages now, but he was like an itch you just couldn't scratch. She'd been headed to the market area when he'd approached, and she held in a groan of exasperation. \n\n\"Hello there...\" She drawled, her empty bag at her side as she came to a stop. \"The marketplace,\" She replied to his question, cocking a hip out to one side. \"You look like you've got your hands full, Father. Don't let me stand between you and a full day's worth of cleaning!\" She clapped her hands together and observed the church; the area he'd cleaned was quite white and lovely against the dusty siding he'd yet to tackle. \n\n\"I'm afraid if I stepped through those doors, you see, I'd simply burst into flames.\" She chuckled and turned her attention back to him. \"And besides that, don't you think I'd be a bit of a distraction?\" She asked him curiously. \n\nDimitra slid past him, walking towards the church as she spoke now. \"What kind of things do you preach, Father?\""
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "As Dimitra tried to make her escape, Abel stepped along with her and nodded. \"Oh, no worries. I am taking a small break. I've had some progress but..\" He took in a deep breath and looked up at the work he had done. \"Looks nice, don't you think?\" He asked as he crossed his arms over his chest. \n\nAs she continued to speak, his eyes rolled before he could even fully process what she said, all he knew was that it was ridiculous and not his humor. \"Hmm..\" He said as he glanced her over once, \"I could see how you could be a bit of a distraction but I can guarentee I have had sinners much worse than you in my church.\" He said with a nod. \n\n\"God welcomes all his creatures, even his most.. Wild ones.\" He said as he furrowed his brows as she made her way past him and towards the church. He was quickly to turn and follow after her, making his way over to his beloved church quickly as if he was afraid she was going to do something to it, just by looking in its direction. \n\n\"I preach what any good man of God does.. The word of God, his scripture.. How to live in his world.. How to honor him with everything you do..\" He said as he looked her over once again, and took in a deep breath. \"More recently I have been touching on the idea that this.. Werewolf epidemic.. Is a curse.. Directly caused by our own sin.. Something that has been increasing more and more.. As of late.\" He leaned against the church and looked over to her. \n\n\"Is that to your satisfaction?\""
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She pulled a ribbon from her skirt and began to tie her wild curls back; feet carrying her quickly to that ladder that leaned on the side of the church. She raised her eyebrows and pushed up her sleeves, already starting up it before Abel could tell her no. \n\n\"You can't possibly believe the werewolves are because a few of us like to get a little *Boozy*, can you?\" She said, turning to look down the ladder at him. She made a scandalized gasp and grasped the edge of her ruffled skirts, tugging them a bit to cover her legs more. \"Abel, please, mind your eyes!\" She said, before cracking a wide grin and scurrying up the ladder. It was easy to get up onto the roof of the church from here, and she found she quite liked the view. \n\n\"No, I don't think I find it to my satisfaction,\" She said after a second. \"How can I live my life in a God-honoring way?\" She asked him curiously, looking down the ladder at him."
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "As the woman made her way to the ladder he gave her a look of confusion before he had realized what was going on. He fiurrowed his brows, and shook his head, \"What do you think you're doing up there?\" He asked as she climbed up. \n\nHe put his hands over his eyes to sheild them from the sun as he watched her, but when she pulled at her skirt and told him to mind his eyes, his face went red, despite the fact that had not where his eyes had been and he quickly looked anywhere but there. \n\n\"Yes, that amongst other things, this town is brimming with modern sin.\" He said with a frown. As she finally boosted herself up onto the roof, he made his way towards the ladder. \"Well, first of all, you should be going to church, studying scripture, living my the word of God..\" He said as he grabbed the ladder and pulled it away from the roof, smirking up at her as he set it on the ground, to get rid of her way down. \n\n\"You know, who knew this was going to be the only way to get you to go to church, hm?\""
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "\"I think I'm sitting,\" She said, planting herself down firmly on the church roof. She leaned back on her palms and snickered, watching him pull the ladder away with a raised eyebrow. \"I can get down without the ladder,\" She told him, slowly coming to stand and wandering along the roof of the church. She was walking up the roof, pulling herself up to lean by the giant bell. \n\n\"I think I prefer my method of worship a lot more,\" She said. \"Praying to God when I need Him most... And living a life of sin that he died for.\" She cracked a grin and laughed. \"Otherwise, he died for nothing!\" \n\nShe looked down at Abel and smirked. \"I'm sure you could've thought of a few other ways to get me to come to church.\""
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "He frowned, well.. That was a bummer. He really thought he had done something. He crossed his arms, \"Well, don't hurt yourself.. You're likely more fragile than you think..\" He said watching as she leaned on the bell before grabbing the ladder and putting it up against the church again. \n\n\"That is not a method of worship, that is selfish.\" He hissed as he put one foot onto the ladder and slowly made his way up, \"You are taking his life and putting it to waste. He died to forgive our sins, that doesn't mean he wants you to commit them..\" He said with a deep frown. \"You can't honestly believe that. Or you may very well be the devil's harlot.\" \n\nHe pulled himself up onto the roof, and glanced at the roof, something he may want to get redone sooner or later. He arched a brow, \"Oh yeah? How would I do that? Oh.. Let me guess, by having a buffet of booze and sex and drugs for the congregation.\" He said narrowing his eyes at her. \"I'm sure that would garner your attendance, indulging your life of sin.\""
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "\"Sounds like a party,\" She said, flashing him a grin and fluttering her lashes at him. \"I'm a little more than booze, sex, and drugs, sir. There's a lot more to me than that.\" She stepped down and her foot slipped, causing her to slide a bit. She caught herself, heart thumping in her chest as she pulled herself upright again. \n\n\"Devil's harlot? You really are flirting with me, Abel,\" She winked at him and gripped the bell, peering down the rope. \"So... This leads right down into the church, then?\" She asked him. \"Interesting.\" \n\nShe was already distracted, gripping the rope that was usually pulled to make the bell ring when it was time for church. \"So... I could, by reason, slide down this rope and enter the church?\" She asked him, glancing over her shoulder with a sparkle in her mischievous eyes."
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "He scoffed and rolled his eyes, \"Well, I have yet to see that side I suppose.. But.. Maybe if you showed up to church, then I would.\" He said rolling his eyes as if that were the obvious answer to something that in truth was not really a problem. \n\n\"How-\" He took his head, \"That is not flirting.\" He said sternly. \"It's an insult.. Actually.\" He rolled his eye again, but they glanced down the where she motioned nad he nodded. \"Yes.. It does.. That is how it works.\" \n\nAs she grabbed ahold of it, he was quick to grab her hands and turn to look at her. \"I would really, really prefer you didn't. This is a holy place, not a playground. You need to respect it. Not that you would know anything about that.\" He said glaring down at her."
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She was surprised he'd touched her at all, eyebrows shooting up as he grabbed her hands. She jerked back a moment as if on instinct, before her shoulders dropped and the brief look of fear on her face disappeared to be replaced once more with her cocky smile. \n\n\"Fine, fine!\" She held her hands up in defeat and flashed him a smile. \"I won't play around in your *Holy place*,\" She snickered and moved past him, sliding down the roof with ease and with quick feet, got down the ladder. She grabbed it and moved it away from the roof, leaving Abel stranded there. \n\n\"This is a good angle for you!\" She told him. \"You look particularly regal!\""
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "As she moved quickly, he gave a sigh of relief that he had given up her quest to slide down the rope, but that relief was short lived as he watched her move the ladder from the roof. He quickly rushed to the edge, and peered over. \n\n\"Hey!\" He said a brief look of panic in his eyes. \"Give me the..\" He took in a deep breath. \"You know what.. I don't need the ladder.\" He giving a huff, as he looked down at the distance between him and the ground. \n\nAfter a moment he moved slowly off the roof, hanging onto the edge with his hands before letting himself drop, and.. \n\nHis landing was more than graceful, landing in the dirt on his back and letting out a groan of pain as he looked up at her with a deep rooted frown etched into his features. \"You are by far the least tolerable person I have met in my life.\""
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She came to lean over him, offering him a hand to help him up out of the dirt. \"I'll take it as a compliment from you,\" She said, holding out a hand and pulling him to stand. \n\n\"I'm sorry, but it's just what you get for being difficult,\" She said. \"And saying I couldn't slide down the bell tower.\" She shrugged a shoulder and glanced to the church. \"I'll strike you a deal,\" She told him suddenly. \"I'll come to one sermon,\" She said. \"But you have to take a shot from my flask.\" She produced the flask from between her breasts, tucked neatly into her blouse for safe keeping. \"Well?\" She waved it around a little bit. \"A sip for my salvation?\" She fluttered her eyelashes."
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "He looked up at her for a moment before ultimately he decided to take her hand to hoist himself up, and he took in a deep breath. \"Mm, I bet you will..\" He mumbled as he began to dust himself off. \n\nHe rolled his eyes as she continued on and he started to think there was a chance that his eyes would roll into the back of his head, the more she spoke, the more he found himself rolling his eyes. One of these days, talking to her would get them stuck. \n\n\"Being difficult? Hm, I suppose I should have just let you run rampant in the church and do as you please.\" He said with a scoff, before running a hand through his hair, crossing his arms over his chest, interested in this.. Supposed deal. \n\nOnce it was proposed, he wrinkled his nose. \"Hardly a fair trade. I don't condone illegal activities.\" He said as he eyed the flask, and grabbed it. \"Give it here.\" He said as he quickly took a sip, swallowing before handing it back to her. \n\n\"There, a sip for your salvation. You go back on your promise you will prove you truly are a dishonorable woman.\""
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "Her eyes were sparkling as she watched him take a sip of alcohol, delight written all over her face. \"I'm a woman of my word,\" She promised him, taking the flask back and capping it. She tucked it away and with a glimmer in her eyes, she folded her hands together like she was praying. \"I promise, I'll be in church bright and early Sunday morning. Let's see if you can make an honest woman out of me.\" \n\nShe was giggling to herself, like she was on some joke he wasn't aware of. \"Abel,\" She said after a second. \"Does it get awfully lonely, being a pastor?\" She asked after a second. \"I think I'd just hate to be some stuffy nun.\" \n\nDimitra crossed her arms over her chest and cocked a hip out. \"Now... Unless you're planning on following me to the market...\" She gestured down the road."
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "He frowned at the taste, but he took it down best he couldn. He had drank before but not in years, no. Not since prohibition had started. Whether it was a good cause or not he knew he would have to ask God for his forgivenss later. He would talk to him, he was sure his savior would understand. \"Wouldn't that be quite the accomplishment?\" He asked as he crossed his arms over his chest. \"Whoever could do that might win an award.\" He said as he narrowed his eyes at her. \n\nAs she continued, he arched a brow. \"I'm not celibate, I'm allowed to get married.\" He said as he glanced at her and shrugged. \"I just haven't found the right woman yet. I have yet to find someone that God has spoken to me about so..\" He shrugged. \"Not exactly comparable to a nun, really. Though being a nun is a more than honorable path..\" \n\nAs she gestured down the road, he shook his head. \"By all means.\" He said as he turned back towards the church. \"I have work to finish anyhow. Have to get the church ready for your arrival sunday.\" He joked."
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She nearly pouted at him when he wouldn't be following her into town. Maybe she just liked to bother him; it was funny to watch his face go red with anger and to see the way his eyebrow twitched with irritation. \n\n\"If you're ever going to find a wife, you could stand to be a little nicer,\" She pointed out. \"Aren't there any pretty church girls for you to snatch up?\" She raised an eyebrow and snickered before she collected her basket from the grass. \n\n\"I suppose I'll see you on Sunday, won't I?\" She mused. \"I'll try to be a good girl and keep quiet,\" She smirked and tossed her hair over her shoulder. \"Until Sunday, Abel!\" She waved her hand in goodbye as she continued down the road."
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "He shrugged his shoulders, but gave her a sneer. \"Hm, I appreciate the advice but well.. When the time comes, God will tell me, and God will tell her, and she will know that we are meant to be.\" He said as he leaned against the ladder that he had now placed back up against the siding. \n\n\"Mm, suppose you will.\" He said as he narrowed his eyes, \"I feel as though maybe I've made a mistake, bringing you into the church, I have no doubt you will be causing a problem.\" He said as he began to climb up and gave her a wave, rolling his eyes. \n\n\"See ya there.\" He said before he got back to work on the siding, glancing back at her, and shaking his head before he began to scrub."
}
] | 195 | 3,868 |
217.642857 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "Ever since that Sunday in November, Dimitra had been attending church. Sometimes, she listened intently, silently snickering to herself about how passionate Abel seemed to be about *Werewolves* And *Sin* And *Driving it out of Briar Ridge.* \n\nBut this wasn't about God or sermons or anything like that. This was about Christmas, and how Dimitra figured that they ought to talk properly after their last disastrous conversation alone together. \n\nComing with a peace offering, Dimitra didn't knock as she came into the empty church. She knew Abel would be here, because she knew he slept here half the time, and spent most of his time here. She didn't knock when she opened his office door either, leaning on the doorway as the late evening light filtered in through the window behind his desk. \n\n\"I knew I'd find you here,\" She said, holding a brown-paper package in hand. It was held together with string, tied neatly in a bow. \"I brought you a little something. Tomorrow is Christmas,\" She reminded him, though she was sure he needed little reminding. \"I come with a peace offering.\""
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "Abel was doing what he spend most of his time doing, working on another sermon. He was scribbling away at notes in his book, and he was a bit frustrated, finding the words for what he wanted to say. Things had gotten bad in Briar Ridge, and as much as he wished he had more to say about it, he didn't. \n\nAt the sound of the door opening, he quickly looked up. He was tense at the sound, but relaxed when he heard the voice that came with it and smiled as she leaned in the doorway, \"Oh did you? How did you figure that one out?' he asked with a snicker before he pushed his work aside. \n\n\"It is, yes.. But you didn't need to gt me anything. You presence in church has been more than enough of a gift for me.\" He said running a hand through his hair, and pushing it away, as he motioned for a chair that sat across from his desk. \n\n\"But..\" He said with a deep sigh. \"I suppose if you come bearing gifts, I may as well tell you that I do too..\" He said as he took a key from around his neck and used it to unlock a drawer at the side of his desk, and pulled out a small and neatly wrapped box, setting it on the desk in front of their chair that sat in front of it. \n\n\"Would you like a drink?\" He asked as he brought out a bottle of wine, and two cups from the same drawer, filling them both up, assuming she did before she could really even answer."
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "\"You know me so well, Abel,\" She said, leaning on his desk with her hip and watching him closely as she poured. The drawer was unlocked; her fingers found the handle of the drawer and slowly pried it open, finding that journal he so coveted. She skimmed her fingers across the cover and grinned wickedly as she plucked it up from its hiding spot with a sly hand. \n\n\"Here,\" She said, sliding his gift towards him. She had a basket she also put on the desk; filled with fresh bread and jam, made by her. \n\n\"Open the gift,\" She urged, pointing at the brown package. Inside was a leather-bound journal and a cross necklace she'd whittled herself. \"Well? Do you like it?\" She asked him curiously, a smile on her lips. \n\nShe picked up her glass and sipped the wine. \"You didn't have to get me a gift. I know you don't exactly consider us friends,\" She said in amusement."
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "He shrugged his shoulders, \"I suppose I know you well enough..\" He said as he poured the wine, placing it back into the drawer when he was done, without giving so much as a glance down, and shutting it before he leaned forward and took the gift. \n\nHe smiled at the basket and shook his head, \"Thank you.. That looks delicious. We should have some..\" He said as he laid out a handkerchief and laid out the bread and jam, before turning to the gift that had been handed to him. \n\n\"Thank you..\" He said as he took in a deep breath and opened it up, a small smile slowly spreading across his face as he opened it. He looked up to her and shook his head. \"These are beautiful.. Truly. Thank you.. Very much..\" He said as he took the cross from it's place and put it around his neck, touching it for a moment before taking a pen and writing his name inside the journal. \n\n\"I will be needing one of these soon, actually so this will come in handy. I am touched by how much effort you have put in to this, really.\" He said as he pat the gift in front of her. \n\n\"Oh shut up, you know I do.\" He said rolling his eyes, as h took a sip of his drink. \n\n\"Open up, then.\" He said, gesturing to her gift that when she opened it, it was a pair of earrings, similar to ones he had seen her wear before, they were silver adorned with opal and purple colored jems, with ong hanging bits. Something he had thought she would like. \n\n\"I hope you enjoy them, I am not.. I do not have the best taste.\""
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She tucked his journal into the pocket of her skirt, twisting to take the gift from him. Those earrings were absolutely beautiful, and she squealed with delight and picked them up. \"Abel! They're beautiful— these had to cost a fortune!\" She gasped and held them up in front of her ears to show him. \"Oh, I'll put them on now.\" She took her current earrings out and replaced them, tilting her head a bit. \"How do I look?\" She asked him, coming closer and leaning down to hug him around his shoulders tights. \n\n\"Thanks, Abel,\" She said to him, planting a kiss on his cheek before she pulled back before hopping up on the edge of the desk again. \"I love these earrings. You really do know me,\" She said, sipping her wine and snickering. \n\n\"I made everything by hand,\" She told him. \"Did I mention that?\""
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "He shrugged his shoulders, and his usual expression of callous disinterest faded for a moment to be replaced by a pleased smile, bordering on a smirk of pride. \"I'm glad to hear you like them..\" He said with a nod, as he watched her quickly remove the pair she was wearing to replace them with the one's he had gotten her, which made his smile grow a little more, to know she liked them, genuinely liked them. \n\n\"You look amazing, they look very beautiful on you, fitting.. For you.\" He said as he stiffened up at the her arms wrapping around him before he relented and hugged her back. As she pulled away, planting a kiss on his cheek, his face turned completely red. \n\n\"Uh.. Of course. I am really.. Really glad that you like them.\" He said with a nod. As she mentioned she made them by hand, his hand moved to the cross and he stroked it a couple times with his thumb and smiled. \n\n\"That's very sweet.. It paid off. I really.. Really do enjoy them. You know me well as well..\" He said with a nod. \"I feel more seen than I have.. Probably ever before.\" He said with a snicker as he took a sip of his drink. \"You know, Dimitra, I know that.. You don't think I consider you a friend but.. I do, you're probably my closest friend you know.\""
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She gave her head a little shake, letting the beautiful earrings shimmer in the fading light coming through the window of the office. \"You really think so? You're flattering me, Abel,\" She grinned and tossed her head back with a laugh. \n\n\"Fitting for me? I'll take that as a compliment.\" She grinned and leaned in close to him, her hand catching the cross he fiddled with around his neck. \"You're one of my closest friends too,\" She admitted. \n\n\"I don't just sit there, whittling crosses for hours for just anybody.\" Dimitra pointed out, slipping her hand away in favor with fiddling with her skirt hem a bit. She seemed a little distracted, which wasn't unusual... But it did seem odd, the way her energy seemed nervous. \n\n\"You're a good friend, Abel. Even though we're very different people.\" She crossed one leg over the other. \"Now, should we read something from the book?\" She teased and drew his journal out, flourishing it before cracking it open like she was about to start reciting from it. \n\n\"Oh, an entry from last week!\" She cooed. \"Let's see what it says!\""
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "He shook his head, \"I meant it as one. It fits you.. Beautiful earrings for a beautiful lady.\" He said, his cheeks red as he looked away. He cleared his throat and tried to distract himself with just about anything else in the room. \n\n\"I suppose that is true.. And I greatly appreciate it. It turned out.. Amazing. Looks like it was crafted by someone with a lot of skills, so I suppose you must be very skilled..\" He said as he shrugged his shoulders, \"I suppose, I think we are more similar than you give us.. Credit for.. Just in ways that.. May not be expected.\" He said running a hand through his hair to push it away from his face. \n\nAs she pulled out his diary, his eyes went wide and he quickly stood up. \"Oh no no no.. We are not doing that!\" He said as he grabbed towards it, cming out from behind the desk to follow her in an attempt to stop her from reading the passage. \n\nIt was mainly things about church, and about his day to day life, but like many of his more recent entries, she is found within it's content's speaking about his worry for her, thinking about his care for her, a little more than what friends write about friends. \n\n\"Give it back.\" He said as his hand reached out to snatch it."
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She grinned wide as he lurched to grab the book from her, and she held it out of reach each time. She was slippery, ducking and twisting until he'd managed to corner her against the bookcase. She was laughing, head tilted back as she'd barely managed to read a page. \n\n\"Not even a little bit?\" She asked him, twisting so she was turned away from him, opening the book. \"Miss Florakis? Ooooo, there's a passage about me? Let's see—\" \n\nShe fumbled and dropped the book at her feet, swearing. \"Damn, just when it was getting good!\" She said, turning to give him a cheeky grin. \"You're too much fun to tease, Abel. I can't help it, you look too cute when your face is all flushed like that.\" She winked at him and patted one of his scarlet cheeks."
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "\"No, that is private stuff..\" He hissed as he grabbed for it, his arms wrapping around her to try and grab it from the front as she attempted to read it's pages, and noticed her name. He let out a small groan, and almost gave into resignation of the embarassing nature of his writing when he heard it drop to the floor. \n\nHe moved quicker than perhaps he ever had before to pick it up, and brush himself off, his face filled with embarassment. \"You are wild.\" He said pointing the book at her before making his way back to the desk and slipping it in before slamming the desk closed and locking it after. \n\n\"Have you never heard of privacy?\" He huffed and rolled his eyes. \"What if I went into your place of residence and began to go through all your personal belongings, hm? Bet you wouldn't like that very much..\" He said crossing his arms over his chest."
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "There was a secret thrill to it all, letting him chase her around and all. Subtle brushes of skin, flirtation that he wasn't even aware of, it seemed. She couldn't help but laugh at his obliviousness and shook her head as she watched him lock the journal up tight. \n\n\"I wouldn't mind so much,\" She teased, leaning on the desk and winking at him. \"Then again, what would the town say if they heard you were sneaking around my house, a single woman, rifling through my personal effects?\" She fluttered her eyelashes at him and grinned. \n\n\"Imagine the scandal...!\" She gasped and clutched her chest in mock-scandal."
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "He scoffed, \"Turning my own values against me now, hm? Aren't you clever?\" He asked arching a brow and shaking his head. \"You are absolutely ridiculous.\" He said as he took a sip of the wine on his desk and leaned back. \n\n\"I like it though, surprisingly enough.. Your.. Ridiculousness. It's almost charming, I would say.\" He said with a small smirk. \"There is no scandal here though.. No worries, I won't be going through your belongings anytime.\""
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "\"I'm very clever, thank you for noticing,\" She said, fluttering her eyelashes a little more and laughing. \"Almost charming? Don't lie, you find it incredibly charming.\" She smiled and reached out to toy with the end of his hair. \n\n\"You prefer girls whose things haven't been rifled through before, right?\" She said, smirking a little and letting go of his hair as she looked away. \"I should get going; business calls.\" She took a step back from the desk, blowing him a kiss with a mischievous grin. \"Merry Christmas, Abel.\""
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "He huffed a bit, and shook his head. \"Fine, I find it somewhat charming.\" He said glancing over at her. \"Is that better?\" He asked rolling his eyes at her, shifting his eyes away as his cheeks reddened at the feeling of her fingers twisting around the end of his hair. \n\nHe scoffed, \"I never said such a thing..\" He mumbled and shook his head, \"I am simply.. Uninterested in courting at the moment.\" He said clearing his throat. He took in a deep breath as she moved away and shook his head. \n\n\"Try to stay out of trouble.. If you can.\" He said in a grumble. \"Merry Christmas Dimitra.. Thank you again.. For the gifts.\"He said as he took out the new journal and cracked it open."
}
] | 199 | 3,047 |
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{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "There was very little that Abel cared about more than his church. He loved everything about it, from the wooden pews to the alter up at the front. \n\nAll of it, was something that he was proud of being apart of. So, when it came to wear and tear, he was on top of it. Recently, a few problems had emerged in the church that needed to be fixed. Small things but things nonetheless. \n\nOne of the pews had become lopsided, and had tilted, people would slowly begin to slide down to one side when in prayer. The podium he stood at, the wood had gotten worn away, chipped and torn. He needed to sand it down and repaint it. It had also gotten a bit dusty, and it was a big church, a beautiful one. \n\nBecause of this he took it upon himself to hire someone to come fix it, which is how he had come across Charlie Marsh. As he waited for them outside the church, he gave the other a smile when he saw them approach and he he crossed his arms over his chest. \n\n\"Thank you for coming out, Charlie.\" He said as he gave them a glance over. \"I have quite a few things I need to get fixed around here..\" He said as he opned the doors to the church and ushered the other in. \n\n\"I hope you don't mind hard work, because you've got it.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "If you'd told Charlie earlier that week that their job search would result in them stepping foot in a church for the first time in ten years, they would have laughed. Their family had always been 'appropriately' religious: attended church every Sunday, performed enough goodwill, and donated what they could spare, but not overly so.\n\nUnfortunately for the congregation, Charlie didn't fit the mold they'd been thrown into. To every scripture, a question. To every expectation, something different- alien, even. Their last memory concerning choirs and stained glass had left an older woman close to fainting after they refused to wear a stuffy, hideous formal dress for a Christmas service.\n\nA fond thing to look back on, really.\n\nThey'd been shopping around for a job to make whatever income they could, especially after the incident at Maldorano's, which led them to the pastor's request for help. Not their first choice, but money was money, and they were hesitant to try their hand at stealing once again.\n\nAt least the place would be mostly empty.\n\n\"It's no trouble at all, Pastor Hughes.\" They nod once, stepping closer to the church's entrance. \"I figured that I'd be getting my hands dirty.\"\n\nTo Charlie's credit, they seem to have tried to wear their best work clothes, though most of it is too big for their frame.\n\n\"Lead the way?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "Abel nodded at the other, before making their way through the church. \"It's a bit dim in here, sorry about that.\" He said as he made his way towards the windows, throwing open some drapes that hung over them. \n\n\"I like to keep it dark when no one's here, I think of it as a sort of rest for the church. It does so much for the people.\" He said as he made his way over to one of the pews and clapped his hands together as they he looked over towards them. \n\n\"So.. The main problem here is this pew, people keep sliding on it which..\" He took in a deep breath, \"Is unfortunate.. Made worse by the children, they seem to think it's some kind of joke.\" He said rolling his eyes. \"They like to play on it which.. Is obviously not what it's here for so.. I wanna level out the pew. I want.. To sand down and repaint the podium and then well..\" He looked around gestured to the dusty interior. \n\n\"I can do most myself, but.. I need some help with the cleaning it has gotten.. Well.. Overwhelming.\" He said taking in a deep breath. \"You know..\" He said as he looked over towards Charlie and crossed his arms. \n\n\"I appreicate you coming on such short notice..\" He said as he trailed off for a moment, standing near the other before he spoke again. \"So.. I don't really see you in here much, hm?\" He asked arching a brow. \n\n\"Why is that?\" They asked, the question clearly loaded as he eyed them."
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "It takes them a moment for their eyes to adjust as the pair enters the church proper, but once they do? The place is pristine by Charlie's standards, aside from the issues listed. Dust was always easy to take care of, if tedious, and the pew didn't look too complicated to fix. Sanding and painting were almost child's play, too.\n\n\"I can level that out, sure.\" Charlie nods once again. \"The sanding and painting won't take very long, and the dusting will go faster with the two of us.\"\n\nThey start to wave off what they believe to be the beginning of thanks from Abel until it becomes clear that this is only a ploy for a pointed question.\n\n\"I'm not the most religious?\" Charlie chuckles uncomfortably, rubbing at the back of their neck. \"I used to be when I was younger, but now I'm more impassive to it. Not that I don't believe it has its own merits, mind you- I just don't think it's for me.\"\n\nThey aren't sure as to *What* Sort of preacher Abel is just yet: the sort that speaks of fire and brimstone as his voice booms, or is he the sort to be as gentle as a lamb? Hell, is he one of the types that masquerades around to get church donations to keep for himself?\n\n\"Is that... Going to be a problem, Pastor?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "Abel nodded as the other spoke, \"I can help with just about all of it, just don't have the tools.. I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty but ah..\" He took in a deep breath as he looked around. \"I don't wanna get anything half done, if you're going to do it.. Do it right.\" He said as he made his way over to a closet off to the side, which contained anything he might need for up keep, as well as some communion wine and goblets. \n\nHe grabbed a couple of brooms, and a few other things to continue working on the church, and making it nice. As the other continued, Abel quirked a brow, and leaned forward, leaning on the handle of the broom as they spoke. \n\n\"Mmm..\" He said as he let the information sit for a moment, before he took a couple steps closer, moving his broom along the ground as he began to work on sweeping it up. \n\n\"I wouldn't say it's going to be a problem..\" He said as he looked them over, before his eyes dropped to the ground again. \"It won't be a problem for me, anyway.\" He said, moving a hand to his chest as he spoke, looking back to the other. \n\n\"It doesn't concern me, where your soul goes.. Obviously.. I would love if all the people of Briar Ridge join me in eventual paradise but.. That just isn't possible hm?\" He asked as he took in a deep breath. \n\n\"Damnation is your choice after all, isn't it?\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "Charlie takes another broom for themselves once Abel pulls them from the closet, quickly joining the preacher in his efforts to clean. Simple work to start, and all of their tasks here would be relatively easy- it's still a boon to start with basic cleaning.\n\nSomething about Abel feels off, though. Not that he seems like a bad man, but the way he speaks puts Charlie on edge; it's familiar in a way that makes them grit their teeth. It doesn't help that he's a stranger, of course, or that he has some form of power in this town, to whatever scope it may be. Prestige does things to people, but they don't know what kind of man it's made Abel to be.\n\nThe answer, unfortunately, comes sooner than they'd expect.\n\nAs he speaks again, that edge turns into something they can recognize: annoyance. Hell and damnation are things they've heard before, of course; being anything outside of the mold tends to bring the expectation of eternal suffering.\n\n\"I thought God loved all his children, Pastor Hughes,\" Their voice remains even as they speak, \"Surely he's not as callous as to send someone like me to hell over not attending a weekly service?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "He let out a hum as the other began to speak, and he shrugged his shoulders. \"God loves all of his children, yes, but he only rewards those who praise him in their life.\" He said as he glanced over at them. \n\n\"You know..\" He said as he looked down at the floor, sweeping as a bit of dust that covered the floor made a small cloud around his feet as he swept the mess towards the door. \"You say it's not for you but.. You recognize his existence.. You recognize his love, and his kindness..\" He said as he thought for a moment, looking back over to them. \n\n\"So tell me, what exactly is.. It that is not for you?\" He asked as he stopped sweeping for a moment, \"You know.. You're not the first person to tell me something of the sort.\" He said as he took in a deep breath. \"And you know.. What I can't help but think.. Each and everytime is that you.. And the others who make this point, aren't willing to give up a life of sin.\" He almost hissed. \n\n\"Sin.. Is the basis of everything now days, all the extravagance, and the new world of evil.. Creeping around every corner..\" He said, his voice somehow both quiet and booming at the same time. \"You know, we're cursed here in Briar Wood.. I know it..\" He said taking in a deep breath. \n\n\"So tell me, is that it? Not willing to trade your sin for the price of everlasting love and life?\" He asked, making a tsk noise as he continued to sweep. \n\n\"What is your sin, hm? What keeps you from his love?\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "Possible CW: Mentions of period typical homophobia\n\"I've seen a lot, Pastor. A lot of pain and suffering- most caused by people saying the same type of thing you're saying now.\" They barely fight off the urge to roll their eyes. \"It's not that everlasting paradise isn't for me, I just think our definitions aren't the same.\"\n\nCharlie blows some of the hair out of their face. \"The preacher back home told me I was going to hell because I kissed his niece, and then turned around and used the church donations to make his life cushy. Choir boys would try to beat the shit out of me because they could, and they'd be called perfect angels. I'd walk by women who'd clutch their pearls and tug away their children because I was *Different*.\"\n\nThey stop sweeping for a moment, looking up to meet Abel's eye. \"Call me a sinner if you want, but I'd rather burn in hell than be in heaven with those folks.\"\n\nAs if nothing ever occurred, Charlie starts sweeping again, though their grip on the broom leaves their knuckles white.\n\n\"I'll have to go pick up some wood somewhere to fix the bench, but I'll get to that once we're done with everything else.\" They sniff. \"You should let me know what type of wood you want, though.\"\n\nA job is a job, they have to remind themselves. Money is money.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "As Abel listened to the other, he kept a stedy pace sweeping. It wasn't that he was unaware of the world of contempt laid by many of those who were religious like him, but.. The fact of the matter was that he knew one thing rose above all that. God. God was everlasting and true, and many sacrifices had to be made in his honor. \n\n\"Mm..\" He said as he looked over at them and nodded. \"Hm.. It seems that you have had.. A very painful bout with religion.\" He said as he stopped sweeping for just a moment to speak to them, face to face. \n\n\"I understand that you know.. It is important to note that well.. God gives these battles to those who he wants to test.. He wants to test your faith..\" He said as his voice rose a bit. \"He wants to make sure, to understand your devotion. Oh God, many of us have been tested.. My own has been tested, time and time again and yet..\" He took in a deep breath. \n\n\"I remain faithful, because I believe in his plan for me. I discourage the sins you describe because I believe that God cares for me and for all his lambs.. Even the ones like you.. Who have strayed from the herd.. Become something.. More..\" He paused for a moment, \"Sinister.\" \n\nHe took in a deep breath, and cleared his throat. \"Oak. You can get it from Dallas Sinclair. I will give you the money for it.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "For a moment, Charlie thinks they've gotten through to Abel a minuscule amount. However, as he continues, it becomes clear enough that they shouldn't even bother with the pastor. It's not completely surprising, but it's enough to make their teeth grind.\n\n\"A test, huh?\" The words feel like sandpaper in their mouth, but they continue, \"Sure is a fascinating way to inspire faith, hurting the very same people you're supposed to guide and protect because you want to test their devotion?\"\n\nCharlie stops to breathe, lest they snap the broom's handle in two. It's a job, they can do this, they just need to ignore how much they want to sock the local preacher in the jaw. Easy! They have self-control!\n\n\"It's an interesting take, Pastor.\" Their voice wavers, but Charlie manages to stay... Somewhat calm. \"We should get to finishing up this cleaning, though, so I can move on to fixing what needs to be fixed. How much wood do you want me to get?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "He shrugged his shoulders and put his hands up in defense, the leaning the broom against himself as he spoke. \"It is not my position to judge God's motives, or speak on why he does what he does.. It is only my job to speak his word to those who need to hear it.\" He said as he took in a deep breath, grabbing the broom and getting back to work. \n\nHe looked over to the other and noticed that they did seem tense, and he arched a brow. \"Seems you don't like my words.. Most sinners don't like to know they are doing wrong..\" He said as he glanced over at him. \"You know, once you give up your life of sin, you'll see how miserable you are, and how your sin is eating away at you.\" \n\nHe began to sweep the dust out the door, and glanced over at them. \"But.. Some people are destined for damnation, I suppose.\" He said as he leaned the broom against the door way and nodded. \n\n\"Enough to fix it?\" He asked rolling his eyes, \"Tell Dallas the dimensions are 10 feet and six inches, he'll help you figure it out.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "\"Oak, ten feet and six inches.\" They nod, the movement stiff. \"I'll finish this sweeping and head out to pick it up.\"\n\nSilence is a good ten leagues better than whatever the hell Abel thinks about God and sin, so Charlie sets their gaze solidly on the floor. His expressions makes all of this worse- as if he's the eldest sibling scolding the youngest for something foolish.\n\nIf they were better equipped and fully healed, they'd do *Something* About all of this: bust in a few windows, steal a few things, maybe set something on fire. Even if they *Were* Healed and had the right equipment, who knows how much trouble they'd stir by targeting a man of the cloth? You might as well ask them to jump in the jaw of one of those werewolves!\n\n\"I'd appreciate if we didn't talk about this moving forward, pastor- it'd be easier for the both of us.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "Abel nodded as the other spoke, and continued his own cleaning. He had no interest in conversation that did not revolve around his own thoughts on the word of God. He had learned long ago that it was all that mattered in this world. \n\nGod had chosen him, as someone who could speak to those in Briar Ridge, to get them to understand that they needed to repent for their sins, or it would lead to damnation. He cared abput the people in town, he wanted what was best for them. Even the sinners. \n\nHe took in a deep breath as the other spoke again and looked towards them, nodding. \"Sure.. Understanding is not for everyone. Some prefer to live in blissful ignorance and one day.. When you see the errors of your ways well..\" \n\nHe paused for a moment and shrugged. \"In that moment I will be here to guide you. Towards God.\" He said with a nod. He took a pause, \"Send my regards to Dallas, will you? Tell him he is dearly missed in service.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "Understanding, he says. Charlie knows many things, understands many other things, but they don't understand *Him.* They don't understand his harsh devotion, his assuredness that he's absolutely correct. In some ways, it's admirable, but in others, it only inspires pity.\n\n\"I will.\" Their tongue feels like lead in their mouth, but they continue, \"Do you want me to come back with the wood today, or wait until tomorrow? Either way, I'll come back to sand the podium, but you'll have to decide on the paint.\"\n\n*Money is money, Charlie.*\n\n\"I could always pick that up too, along with some brushes, if you need?\" There's a hope that he helps pay for it, of course, but Charlie won't hold their breath.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "He looked at the other and he could tell the mood was tense. But what was he to do? To hold his tongue in his own place on not only employment but also worship? No. \n\nHe said what needed to be said, and that was that. \n\nHe thought for a moment and shook his head, \"Let's pick it up tomorrow. It's getting late, I don't want to get things started when they can't be finished.\" He said and nodded along as the other mentioned that they would pick up some brushes and paint as well. \n\n\"Get brown, a deep brown. As close to what's there as you can.\" He said as he made a motion towards the podium, and fished around in his pocket to pull out a wad of cash from his pocket, and held it out towards them. \n\n\"Whatever is left you can keep, and then of course I'll pay you on top of that, when you return.\" He said as he looked to them, and took in a deep breath. \"I'll see you then..\" He said as he turned back to what he was doing."
}
] | 284 | 3,983 |
935.5 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "There was a new pastor in town; or so she has heard.\n\nIt was hard to decide exactly how long ago the new pastor had arrived. The rumors took a long time to get to her remote cabin, and Ruth rarely did anything to speed it up. In Briar Ridge, the news was more often bad than good, and even more often – ugly. She fended herself from it; from the paralyzing helplessness of the catastrophe already occurred. However, this time the news was good.\n\nPastors are God's direct servants, His messengers, His hands in the world of mortals. Despite being in complicated relationships with God, almost holding a grudge at Him ever since the message came about Jack's demise; despite avoiding the church grounds, soaked with reminders of her tireless prayers that went, ultimately, in vain; Ruth was still God's loving child. Despite the coldness that overtook her heart every time she saw the church's shadowy silhouette during her walks to the town, the least she could do was introduce herself. Wallowing in the coldness would only bring more coldness her way.\n\nRuth approached the church around noon, with the morning service long done, the silence settled in between the pews. This way, she won't be a distraction. She shortly stopped before the ikon of the Virgin Mary, bowing her head and whispering a short prayer: a gratitude for keeping her humble daughter safe, a plea for help with the claws and teeth of the uncertain future. Stepping away from the ikon, Ruth's eyes were scanning through the soft semi-darkness of the church. Where could the new pastor be?\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "James Jennings",
"message": "James, while not an official pastor, still helped out with the duties one would engage in. He was still in training and was like the apprentice to Abel, helping out with tasks whenever the pastor saw fit and also doing a few sermons and services of his own - especially as of late. He had been doing so for a few years but was gradually doing more and more work typical of a proper pastor and couldn't be more happy with how far he'd come. James gave smiles to people as they left service and even had brief conversation with some who stopped to offer a few parting words, hoping to leave people happy and hopeful for the upcoming week. During the service he mostly stood in the back and was offered the stage for a few moments to chip in, supporting Abel verbally with some passages read and points reiterated. While their preaching styles differed and believes varied slightly they still both followed the same scripture and agreed on enough to collaborate.\n\nWhen everything was said and done James was quite tired after service like usual, not liking standing constantly for so long. He could handle it without severe repercussions but that didn't mean the aftermath was entirely pleasant. Because of some remaining soreness in his legs and feet he found himself sitting in the pews near the front, metal makeshift crutches leaning against the bench while an open journal and messenger bag sat beside him. Right now he was eating a jam sandwich wrapped in napkins, having planned to head back home after finishing but enjoying the calm atmosphere of the empty church too much to simply eat at home.\n\nLiving with his father - a producer of jams and fruit preserves - had it's pros such as always having some on hand. It also came with cons though such as his dad insisting on making the sandwich for him to make sure he wasn't late to service no matter how much James insisted that he was going to be on time regardless. Parents seemed to never lose their instinct to help or at least James' father didn't, a habit that was both embarrassing and gratifying.\n\nThe sound of the church doors creaking open and barely audible footfalls caused James to stop mid-bite, twisting around to see who was coming in. To his surprise it was someone he'd never met before or at least someone he didn't remember. Meeting someone new always brought an especially bright smile to the young man's face, leading to him abandoning his sandwich by wrapping it back up and setting it down on the bench. He waved to the broad shouldered stranger at first before getting his crutches back on, sliding the repurposed belts back onto each arm and tightening them further to the best of his ability with one hand. \"Oh, hey! Sorry, I'll be over in a moment!\" He called out before putting on and adjusting his crutches. After a brief moment of fidgeting with the strap James stood with the assistance of two forearm crutches, each being made of welded metal and recycled materials such as the rubber end of a cane or a belt to secure his upper arms. He decided to meet her halfway or at least wherever she ended up stopping, a big smile plastered onto his pale face.\n\nHe wasn't wearing anything too fancy, just a black shirt and his cleanest pair of jeans complimented by a silver cross hanging from a short chain around his neck. His shirt was a button-up which was quite a struggle to do but he managed with some extra attention and a few breaks due to how frustrating it could be.\n\nOnce he stopped in front of Ruth he was swift to hold out a hand to shake, the fingers trembling at rest and the crutch strapped to his arm hanging limp, his other arm gripping the crutch in use. Usually he could stand still without their help but since he was still pretty tired from service he opted to rely more on his crutches this time around. \"I'm James, it's nice to meet you! What brings you here? I'm sorry to say that service ended a while ago if you were looking forward to that.\" James said in a more proper greeting, needing to look up to meet her face. He wasn't super intimidated by her or at least not enough to garner hesitancy, instead just recognizing that she probably could cause some serious damage if she wanted to. However, James trusted that she wouldn't right now since she hadn't shown any signs of aggression. Hell, he didn't even know her name, so now was too early to judge too harshly."
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "Ruth had... Some expectations coming into the church that day.\n\nOf course, she had already met Father Abel. Critical, judging; with his cold, heavy eyes, his every movement soaked in disdain. With his harsh statements, with his reading of sacred texts that you could hear in every corner of the church, as if Father was reading them directly into your head. She respected him, of course, she feared him, and she would never question his belief. She understood that some people needed to be rough, and that God's shepherds were among those people.\n\nRuth expected someone similar; maybe younger, maybe older, but with the same distinctive judgment in their eyes. Like they have already decided where she was going after death, and what God's verdict for her soul will be. God's angels between the humans, merciless and terrifying.\n\nBut when she turned her head sharply in the direction of the young-sounding \"I'll be over in a moment!\", the person she saw was an angel in the most romantic sense of the word.\n\nHe was so bony it was as if all of his body weight went into his huge curious eyes. His knotty hands were holding onto the forearm crutches, which he used to approach Ruth so rapidly, it made her worried he would not be able to stop in time. The smile on his face, - as if she was an old best friend who he dreamed of meeting again, - could not be explained by anything but natural, boundless kindness. He almost *Ran* To meet her. This all brought Ruth so much joy she all but teared up.\n\nRuth was charmed without as much as a second thought.\n\n\"Please sit down,\" She asked, still battling the swirl of sudden affection inside her chest, \"There is no need\".\n\nStill, she shook a young man's hand. Up close, she could see that he was shorter than her, the slouching taking a couple of inches from him as well. His hand was cool to the touch, and his skin was soft: the skin of a man unburdened by physical work. He wasn't scared or wary, and he didn't look that curious: he looked at her like he already knew he was going to like her. At this point, Ruth needed to ask herself if she suddenly traveled outside of Briar Ridge, where angels like this could still be born and live.\n\n\"No\", she said simply, \"I'm here to meet you.\"\n\nThen Ruth took a pause to gather her words. A sentence like this usually required an explanation.\n\n\"I'm Ruth.\" She said, \"I go to this church every so often.\" She would've said, *You have probably heard about me from Father Abel*, but she was scared to learn what exactly the grumpy man could have been saying about her; \"I heard there was a new pastor. It's you, right?\"\n\nAnd then she smiled. It was impossible not to, looking at James' face.\n\n \"It is nice to meet you too,\" She added.\n\n||\nAlso I hope it's alright that Ruth is totally (platonically) falling in love with him already\nAnd the mention of barely audible footsteps AAAAH you put so much thought into your post, I'm in love||"
},
{
"author": "James Jennings",
"message": "James rushed towards the stranger but was still careful not to trip, his left foot touching the ground far less than the right alongside an immense stiffness in his legs making his gait slower than a typical run. To him, however, this was about as fast as he could move right now while still staying upright, feeling too excited to waste any time. While he focused on not tripping James bit his bottom lip as if it would help his concentration, only relaxing his face once he stopped in front of the woman he would soon learn was named Ruth.\n\nHis hand was taken in one far stronger and rougher than his own, his boney fingers dwarfed in comparison to her own that were hardened by years of labor. Once he got a good grip and gently gave it a shake the quivering in his fingertips mostly ceased, only resuming fully once he let go. Looking up at her he couldn't quite tell what she was feeling, a smile being absent as far as he could tell and her expression being pretty neutral despite something deeper laying in her eyes. James didn't have time to focus on decoding any subtleties in her body language though since he had a new task, to sit back down. He couldn't tell if she was asking him to sit down because they'd be speaking for a while or if she didn't think she was worth the walk over. Maybe she noticed how it hurt to put too much weight on his club foot and wanted to relieve it? Regardless of her reasons James wouldn't resist, although he didn't want to go right back to where he was sitting before due to the distance.\n\n\"Oh, okay!\" Was the only thing James could say at her request, the young man shifting to the side and getting to the entrance of one of the pew benches before carefully removing his forearm crutches. He found it much easier to squeeze in if he leaned on the bench in front of him rather than on his mobility aids.\n\nBefore long he had both crutches in one arm and the over holding on tight to the back of the bench ahead, sidestepping carefully until he was far enough in to comfortably sit. James left space open on either side of him, deciding to give the woman an option as to where she wanted to be. \n\nRight before he was about to plop down onto the bench James caught the woman remark that she was here to meet him specifically. It made him freeze for a moment to take it in and search for a reason why. Falling into his seat James pursed his lips and hummed in acknowledgement, looking inward and searching through his mind for any events that might've made him be sought rather than Abel. Sure enough the lass had an answer, her rough voice pulling him out and dragging his eyes back to the guest in question. It was nice to have a name to associate with the face, James' smile returning as he repeated it in his head a few times to commit it to memory. She might've come to church now and again but at the very least he never noticed her should she have come in during a day he was working. \n\n*'I heard there was a new pastor. It's you, right?'*\n\nRuth's words made everything click into place, a vague memory of his dad bragging about his son being a pastor a while back making the misconception make perfect sense. James was there to correct him but there was no telling whether or not his father just kept saying *\"Pastor\"* Rather that *\"Pastor-in-training\".* It was flattering, really it was, but it was giving him too much credit. Before James knew it his cheeks had grown red and jaw slack, being called an actual pastor by someone he knew nothing about feeling like a huge compliment given that becoming an official pastor was his ultimate goal. Eventually James caught on to how his face looked and forced his mouth closed, a hand reaching up to rub his face as if that would make his flushed skin fade back to normal.\n\nThankfully Ruth's first smile and sentiment that it was nice to meet him as well made it all fade away, James then focusing on damage control.\n\n\"Um, I guess I'm sort of a pastor? I-I don't know if that's technically correct, more of like a... A pastor's apprentice or something. Sorry if I made a weird face there, I just didn't expect to be called one right out of the gate.\" James explained with a small chuckle near the end. \"Abel has been training me for... Three years now? Something like that, I don't remember the exact date I started. Uh, why did you want to see me specifically? If you're looking for spiritual advice then I can't guarantee it'll be the best but I understand if you wouldn't wanna talk to Abel about something. He can be really intimidating sometimes but I think he means well.\""
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "With eyes wide open, Ruth watched the young man blush at her comment. The redness spread from his cheeks to his face and neck, until he was almost glowing from the inside. She was very curious to learn what she said that could've warranted such a reaction. When he caught himself and rubbed his face with his hands, Ruth found herself almost bubbling inside from something that felt like... Joy?\n\nShe gladly took a sit by James' side.\n\n\"It doesn't matter to me whether you are in training.\" She explained, wanting to somehow gather the pure sunlight James radiated and give it back to him, \"I believe whoever's soul is strong enough to dedicate themselves to His service, deserves His grace and the respect of others. You have a very honorable job, James. If you think about it,\" She added, \"His apostles were \"In training\" As well.\"\n\nShe was not sure if a man of God could take a joke at His expense lightly; but if James could remark on Father Abel's unflattering quality, he shouldn't be upset by a small joke. To be honest, it was hard to believe James could be upset by anything at all. Deep inside, this was the type of person she wished she saw more of serving Him: people who loved humanity just as much as He did. Ruth believed James was one of the people who could understand Him when He was still the Son of Man.\n\nIf she explained to James that she wished to get to know him for the same reasons she wished to know God, would he understand? Would he see that giving himself up to Him put a part of Him inside you? Makes you close to Him? Makes you the beacon of light others wish to warm up against? James was the man who rejected the self to dedicate himself to church and show heaven's light to other people. Of course, he would understand.\n\nThree years... How come she never saw him? And yet, it made sad and perfect sense. Ruth attended the church self-absorbingly, only opening her eyes to take a look at God's kind face, watching her from the ikons. She could never put aside her own self with her small, human misery. People like her weren't created capable of enlightenment.\n\n\"I am not one to reject our Lord's words if He has them for me.\" Ruth answered seriously, \"But no, I am not here for advice.\"\n\n\"I wanted to get to know you.\" She stated because she didn't know what else to say, \"Person to person. Is now a bad time?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "James Jennings",
"message": "James was easy to fluster and given how pale his skin was his blush was oftentimes much more intense than he would've liked. Still, he managed to tamp it down with some rubbing of his face and ruffling of his hair as a distraction. It didn't get rid of it all, of course, but he wasn't looking like a ripe strawberry anymore. He only looked her directly in the eye when Ruth began to speak on the matter after he finished trying to explain that he wasn't really a pastor in the official sense, his flustered grin fading into something more neutral, his shoulders relaxing while he listened to her speak and further complimented him. It made the blush in his cheeks begin to extend again but not as far as before since it wasn't influenced by shock. Before she added on a little quip James' eyes softened, not really realizing how much he needed to hear someone who wasn't already close to him reaffirm how important his job was to so many people and that he should be respected for the work he puts in. He was just about to thank her when the joke about apostles made him stop in his tracks, his words being replaced with a brief pause before a snorting laugh rose out of his throat. She was right in a way even if he didn't think being compared to such important figures was completely accurate.\n\n\"I guess you're right!\" James responded, his short burst of laughter slowly tapering off. \"Although, I hope you know I'm not like one of the apostles. I mean, in a way I'm like... An apostle divided by 3 so... Okay, I don't know where I was going with that, forget it. If I remember how to explain what I meant I'll tell ya.\" He continued, beginning to try making a joke of his own but not really knowing how to properly explain his train of thought.\n\nIt made sense in his head but he couldn't think of the words, his half attempt as a quip ending in him cutting it short with a small laugh and promising to explain it if he did manage to wrangle up the right words.\n\nRuth's internal sentiment about him probably not being upset by much was only partially true. He got upset but was able to keep calm in lots of situations, having had plenty of experience to know what to do and when. Regardless, he did know how to take a joke and wasn't easily offended or pushy, and he knew when to speak up and admit that something someone did was hurtful. It had taken him a while to get to such a place but it was worth it. Ultimately, he believed that anyone was capable of enlightenment and seeing His light, just in their own ways. Some were more obvious and vocal while others were mostly internal or private matters. Ruth was not a lost cause... If only she could know that and James could know how she felt.\n\n*\"I wanted to get to know **You**. Person to person. Is now a bad time?\"*\n\n\"No, now's not a bad time, not at all!\" James blurted out with a smile almost as soon as Ruth muttered the words, wanting to immediately reassure her that he didn't mind. There was something deep inside that he still couldn't get but whatever it was might require some reassurance. Truth be told, he was excited to get to know someone new, and now couldn't have been a *Better* Time actually. His legs were still a bit sore so sitting longer wasn't an issue, and the church always felt so calming when there weren't as many people inside.\n\n\"I guess to start I should keep to the basics. Um, my name's James, but you already knew that. Uh... I live with my father and before this I used to help make and sell jam with him. I still sometimes help with the selling part but not as much now that I work in the church. I... I like to draw a lot too, mostly using charcoal and pressed flowers for extra color. Oh, and I also have two other brothers! Thick as thieves we were. We're still close but not in the same way as when we were kids. I guess that's what happens when you get older, people move on and dynamics change. Oh! And I have a cat named Pepper, she's the sweetest little lady.\" James explained, beginning without much direction before getting more into it and growing far more animated by the end.\n\nAt the mention of his cat Pepper, James decided to stop there and turn the conversation back to Ruth, believing that he talked about himself enough for now. Taking a deep breath in to contain his excitement James leaned forward even further, resting his elbows on his knees and interlocking his hands, twiddling with his thumbs while he gazed up at his new companion and spoke to her. \"Well, that's enough about me. What about you, Ruth? If you're gonna get to know me it's only right that I know you as well. Got any hobbies? Pets? Family? If you've got a job do you like it?\" He continued, listing off some basic questions to help get her started. He didn't expect her to answer any she didn't want to and certainly wouldn't hold it against her if she dodged some."
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "**TW: mentions of misogynistic values**\n\nWith a warm gleam in her eyes, Ruth listened to James open up before her like a most precious morning flower. The burst of his sunny laughter, his awkward underbaked joke that he let slide with lightness unattainable to Ruth. His eagerness to listen and to speak, that strangely felt very... Conscious, very adult. His brothers, that grew apart from him, but whom he still mentioned with unbridled kindness and understanding. His beautiful, polite cat. His father. The jam farm.\n\nRuth had never made jam.\n\nBerries and fruit were expensive, and she wasn't a fruit person all that much. But for a second, she imagined it. The romanticized, unrealistic, sunlit picture: picking up currants and raspberries into a bowl from a garden, generous with ripe harvest. A pot brewing on the stove, thick liquid bubbling loudly, heavenly, flowery smell floating across the room. Licking the spoon to taste the jam for sugar. Turning around to share your findings with a father who loves you.\n\n\"I have parents and two sisters, but I haven't seen them since I was very, very young.\" Ruth echoed thoughtfully, \"I married my husband and moved with him to Briar Ridge. He was born here, you know? He loved it. Brought me with him, taught me everything he knew, showed me around. He was my whole life.\" She took a breath, because even now, after all these years, a breath was necessary, \"God took him from me ten years ago.\" The next words were suddenly very, very hard to pronounce, even though there was nothing special or hard about these words, \"He was a soldier. He fought well.\"\n\nRuth's gaze was fixated in front of her. The edges of her vision were blurry. Jesus bowed his head before her, humility trembling under his eyelids.\n\n\"He was a hunter before me. It was his cabin, too. Even before I knew him\".\n\nReciting the story of her simple life, Ruth felt even more sharply how firmly she was standing in Jack's shoes. She clung to the remnants of him when he was gone, so tightly, and now, after all these years, with her grief gone and dull like an old scar, she realized that she might never let go. \n\n\"I am a hunter.\" She said with pride, \"I love my job. I cherish it. I can do it when I cannot do anything else.\"\n\nRuth took a pause to collect her thoughts. She did not want James to think she enjoyed killing. That she was one of those people who hunted out of boredom, as a hobby. Those who didn't eat their own game.\n\n\"There is a... Connection with the forest that you get when you spend there long enough. Like a bear, big as it is, never takes all the berries from the bush. It always leaves some. It knows, in its heart, how much it can take. I know how much I can take. I know that I am not hurting the forest by feeding the people. In my heart, I know.\"\n\nHer fingers waved lightly. She was not used to gesturing, but *This* - this she wanted to grasp, to embrace, to comprehend. \n\n\"I don't have this, this feeling anywhere else. As a person, I know so little. Life is a mystery to me\".\n\nRuth finished her speech and the church went silent. Now was the time to go back to their previous conversation. For a second of a clouded mind, Ruth lost a grasp of the way people communicated – through a chain of questions and answers, - and was just talking. That would be acceptable if she came there looking for a priest, but she didn't. She was looking for a friend.\n\nA pet. James was asking her about a pet. And it would be helpful if she stopped with the sudden realizations.\n\n\"I never had a pet. Too dangerous for them to be so close to the forest.\" Ruth admitted. There was a bigger reason she could not yet formulate. Her unwillingness to lose a source of love in her life was much stronger than her wish to have one in the first place.\n\nNo pet, and then – hobbies. Did she ever have any? Or was she always only actions, actions, actions? Was her brain wholly just survival?\n\nHer parents believed a list of women's hobbies to be very rigidly defined: needlework, knitting, fortepiano, French or Italian; with a defined purpose of courting a worthy husband, after which the life of a woman should revolve around her man and the children. Ruth never challenged that notion, because she never saw the need to. She had a way to keep her days busy, she had a way to be helpful, to be self-sufficient. What else could she want? \n\nThe act of creation for the sake of beauty was as far away from her as the stars. That was, to be incomprehensible and worshiped.\n\n\"I do not have any hobbies.\" She answered simply, \"Do you think you could show me your drawings someday?\"\n\n||\nRuth in the beginning is literally being like that guy in middle school who after you pull out a bag of chips goes: \"That sounds good... I never had one of those... 🥺\"||"
},
{
"author": "James Jennings",
"message": "As Ruth spoke James stayed completely silent, simply nodding along and taking it all in. He was surprised to hear her reveal so much, beginning with her own family. She had a pair of parents and two sisters, simple enough if it weren't for the fact that she hadn't seen them since she was young. Whether she meant *'young adult'* Young or *'child'* Young was beyond him but it still made him feel a bit sorry for her. James honestly didn't know what he'd do without his family so he couldn't imagine what it'd be like to not be in contact with them anymore. His expression shifted from bright and joyous to something more gentle and sympathetic, his eyes softening and his smile's intensity being turned down a bit even if it still was present. She had a husband too - an emphasis on *Had* Though, past tense, no longer with her. James nodded in understanding as Ruth explained that he was born and raised in Briar Ridge and taught her all he knew about the town and what he assumed to be some other skills. The deep breath she took before revealing something was an easy indicator that it wasn't something easy to admit, James waiting patiently for when she gathered the strength to admit whatever it was.\n\n*\"God took him from me ten years ago. He was a soldier. He fought well.\"*\nWell, that answered things. Having a loved one die at war - most likely overseas and in some violent manner - was always difficult, knowing how they suffered and how you never truly got a chance to say goodbye or comfort them in their final moments. Simply imagining the scenario of Ruth getting the news and the pain that came with it was enough to nearly bring James to tears. His smile was completely gone now but he remained silent, eventually reaching out to try and quietly provide comfort and hoping she was okay with physical contact. If he sensed any sort of repulsion though he was just fine with backing off.\n\nFor now he reached out to place a gentle hand on her shoulder, rubbing back and forth with his thumb, all his fingers still trembling slightly like they usually did - the weight of what was revealed didn't help calm them, either. For a second he flashed a smile he hoped was comforting as well, his nose scrunching up while he held back tears that threatened to spill out. It was a good thing he decided not to talk since he probably would've been unable to not cry if he tried verbally expressing his sympathy right now.\n\nWhen Ruth began to talk about her husband being a hunter and that role being passed on to her James could feel the air grow lighter ever so slightly, a more natural and positive smile crawling back on James' face as the conversation continued. When she got to the part of proudly explaining her job James retracted his hand, resuming twiddling his thumbs just like before while he kept listening. The way Ruth explained how she felt connected to the forest in the context of a bear made sense but at such a deep level that James couldn't quite explain it in words besides the ones she just uttered. He might be able to draw it out but not write it in a logical or pragmatic format - feelings were always tricky like that. James nodded wholeheartedly as Ruth described how life was sort of a mystery to her and how she didn't feel any sort of connection to anything else like she did to the woods. James could relate in a way but his circumstances were a bit different. He never really felt connected with a lot of his peers simply due to isolation early on. He got sick often, he couldn't play a lot of the games some other boys his age wanted to, and he was always *Too much*.\n\nToo sensitive, too talkative, too slow, too emotional. Of course, his father and brothers didn't drill that in as it was mostly schoolkids and other adults who said those things but it stuck. However, this wasn't about him, it was about Ruth - a potential friend.\n\nThe tail end of their conversation caused James' smile to widen but not really out of any excitement. In truth it was probably caused by the urge to cry fading away to almost nothing. It was sort of sad how Ruth claimed to not have any pets (although he did sort of understand her reasoning) or hobbies. If his assumptions were correct it sure sounded like she was living out in her dead husband's cabin alone, something he would probably be driven mad by. James was just about to suggest some things Ruth could try to maybe find a hobby when she mentioned wanting to see some of his drawings, a reminder that his stuff was still on one of the benches near the front. Naturally his smile got even larger at the mere thought of someone wanting to see his art but James held back any squealing or rambling while he finally spoke, \"I'd love to show you! Um, I actually have my journal and stuff with me but it's on the bench up front.\" James admitted, jerking his head towards the front-most row to direct her attention towards it for a moment.\n\n\"Now, you said you don't have any hobbies, right? Well, I say we oughta change that! You can't just *Work* All the time, it's not good for anyone no matter who they are or where they come from. If you'd want to try some stuff out I have a lot of books back at my house if you can read and would like to try it out for fun. The library is also really good for stuff like that and is pretty well organized. I could show you around one day if that interests you, I've probably read almost everything they've got available - that place was like a second home for me growing up.\" James continued, eventually taking a pause to think of more things to suggest.\n\n\"Oh! Card games are really good. I know my brother Jacob loves card games but we haven't had a chance to play in a few years. I know a few you can do with a single deck of standard playing cards. There's also creative hobbies like drawing but I'm probably really biased in asking you try that one out. I draw with charcoal but you can do pretty much anything - ink, graphite, paint, hell even carving into wood is a good creative outlet! If you can write there's also writing poetry and short stories if visual art isn't your thing. Um, there's gardening too, I could help with that if that's something you'd be interested in trying out.\" Eventually James forced himself to stop, not quite realizing how fast he was talking until he stopped and needed to suck air in. He wasn't sure why he felt so excited to try and help Ruth find some sort of hobby but a lack of reasoning didn't stop his mind and emotions from giving his hands a wave of excitement shakes. Noticing how bad they were shaking when he finished talking James shook them out while he listened to whatever Ruth had to say afterwards, shaking them as if he was trying to get water off. His smile was as wide as could be, now more determined than ever to get to know this brick wall of a woman he'd just met."
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "Ruth didn't know why this man, this amazing man, listened to her with such patience, such grace. Why did he care about her so much, why was there such an awfully big piece of soul James was willing to give out to whoever entered the holy grounds of the church. All she knew was that she was grateful. Ruth wasn't one much for talking, and if she did, she never felt particularly good finishing. Yet, when being listened to like this, with her emotions sifted through a sieve of James' empathy, felt by him so deeply, she felt warm inside. It was as if someone in her chest, who was just walking, and walking, and walking, not knowing where, finally took a halt and started a crackling, peaceful fire. Ruth felt her chest open and close in gratitude. She wanted to say something, something to let James know, but all the words were too little.\n\n\"Thank you.\" Ruth said, \"For listening. I think, listening is the biggest part of being a priest, and I think you are...\" She got stuck, trying to find the right word for it, express that what he did for her was took a piece of her pain, and now it's nowhere to be found, \"Magical at it\".\n\nShe stood up and went to pick up James' journal, successfully containing her curiosity and not taking a single, not even most fleeting or accidental look inside. All that time, she couldn't stop breathing, as if her lungs have suddenly unclogged, and she could taste the oxygen as fresh as she has not felt for years. She smiled when she gently placed the sketchbook in James' hand.\n\n\"Let's see.\" Ruth sat back down and rested her chin on her fist, her smile wandering, \"About the books... It must sound shameful, but I have a couple books in the cabin, and I was trying to get through them since the '13. I am more of a listener than a reader.\" She paused, bending her pinkie to help herself remember to answer everything James had offered her, \"Of course, it would be lovely to go to the library with you if you'll have time.\"\n\n\"I never played cards, don't know how to... Do it. I'm usually alone, but maybe, there are card games I can play with nobody? I know drawing is... A really hard thing to learn, and I fear it could make me too sad. I get upset too easily these days because of...\" She paused. She didn't want to talk about the werewolves and their countless victims, but in Briar Ridge, this topic popped up everywhere, like a weed in a flower bed, \"We both know. Let's not mention such horrors in a holy place.\" She paused and humbly bent her head, whispering a short apology to God before continuing.\n\nWhen Ruth thought of gardening, she thought of Marianne. She thought how Marianne's garden was the continuation of her soul, the essence of her labor; how it was the rare thing to drink her care straight from her palms and stay alive after. There has been so much love poured into the soil, that every flower must have had a little beating heart in its stem.\n\n\"I love gardens.\" She confessed gladly, \"I love mechanical work. I don't have enough place for that around my house, and the soil is too tough there, but I know I would love working in the garden of someone else.\" Her thoughts came back to Marianne again. Would she ever let Ruth into her garden with the intention of letting her dig her fingers through the soil? Knowing that her every move could harm the delicate roots of the roses, yet still, allowing them both this risk?\n\nRuth turned to James, realizing that *He* Was eager to let her risk it, let her into the garden if she wanted it to happen. Gratitude warmed up in her chest again.\n\n\"You tried all of that?\" She asked, impressed and wondering, \"And nothing stuck? Outside of drawing.\""
},
{
"author": "James Jennings",
"message": "James just continued to listen, even as Ruth stopped talking about her life and husband and transitioned into thanking him. To be honest James didn't expect to be thanked, and especially not in a way that exceeded one or two words, so as Ruth began to thank him and search for more words the only thing he could truly do was freeze in shock before thawing out once she was done. It was enough to make him visibly flustered again as any compliment felt like immense praise no matter how small. \"Aw, it's no biggie! Um... You thanking me means... A lot? Is that weird to say?\" James eventually remarked, feeling like he was at a loss for words himself and ending it a bit awkwardly - or at least it felt like an awkward ending to him. He meant it when he said it wasn't a big deal though, he was more than happy to lend a listening ear to anyone. He sure hoped thanking her for being thanked wasn't weird...\n\nAs Ruth left to find his journal James watched her carefully for a moment, observing her wander up to the correct bench before looking down at his lap. He didn't really expect her to get up and fetch it for him but it felt nice anyway, one hand gripping the other and massaging circles into one of his palms as an idle habit. It wasn't long before Ruth returned, James quickly looking up and reaching out to retrieve his leatherbound notebook. He gave her a squinting smile and harsh nod to thank her silently before pulling it close, hugging it with both arms at first. However, he was quick to transfer the journal to rest on his lap instead once he started talking again, holding it tightly with one hand and gesturing with the other. His free hand also became the one he started flapping near his chest, his racing heart making his hand seemingly attempt to keep up with the fast beat.\n\nIt was nice that Ruth didn't seem to notice or at least didn't point it out, James gladly focusing on her measured response to all his suggestions with earnest. It definitely helped his excitable heart calm down as well.\n\nWhile he didn't find her unread book collection shameful he did feel a bit bad for the books as if they were living things. Those books were just collecting dust and he couldn't help but feel immense curiosity as to what lay between their old covers just as he would wonder what someone is thinking. Despite this James kept quiet, returning to his quiet listener role and nodding along or jumping in when he found the space. The prospect of going with Ruth to the library made his smile easily widen and head bob up in down in an astounding *'yes'*! He would get to show her his favorite reading corners, his favorite sections, and maybe even make some book recommendations if she wanted any! When Ruth paused at the drawing suggestion though James' joy eventually slid into the background and replaced itself with concern for a moment, tilting his head to both ask her what she meant and express confusion, only really getting what she meant when she said the words *'such horrors'*. While he sympathized with these horrors she refused to speak of he also sympathized with those surrounded by the trauma it leaves behind. When someone is hurt or sick it not only hurts the victim but also the onlookers in their own way, James knew that truth from both sides quite well.\n\nHe was happy the conversation got back on track to hobbies, his concern switching places back with joy and excitement that probably just needed a smoke break or something. At Ruth's confession that she loved gardens and mechanical work James' face lit up even further, such clear sentiments reminding him of his brother Jesse in many ways.\n\nJesse loved to tend to their family farm as a kid but he also liked working with machines and physical materials. Nowadays he just did leatherwork but he wouldn't be surprised if his brother decided to grow his own food one day, just to satisfy that itch. Maybe these two would get along? He could introduce them to each other one day but not today, that was for sure. In the meantime he wouldn't mind if Ruth took a crack at helping on their family farm if she wanted to. He was sure his dad Dan would like to teach someone new after all these years.\n\nWhen the conversation switched back to him as the focal point James felt a bit unprepared for the question at hand. Yes, he had tried all that, but did anything stick? Well, yes and no, and it definitely took him a few moments to formulate a solid answer for each item mentioned. \"Well, uh, I've *Tried* Them and I really *Want* Them to stick but some things just sorta get in the way.\" James began, reaching up to rub the back of his neck with a small laugh. \"Um... I still love playing cards but my brother Jacob was really the only person who loved the same games I did with just as much passion. We... We don't talk much anymore but that's a whole other can o' worms. I still read a lot so that's definitely stuck but writing is a bit tricky for me. My handwriting isn't too good and my hands start to hurt if I write for too long.\" James continued, pausing briefly to hold up one of his hands for a few moments to demonstrate their shake. \"See? Shaky all the time, tends to get worse when I'm feeling intense emotions. That's why I prefer to draw, I get to let the shaking guide me a bit if that makes any sense.\" He said, bringing his hand back down and opening his journal, absentmindedly flipping through pages as he continued his answer.\n\n\"When it comes to gardening I'm not the best. Again, shaky hands and all, and while I have the knowledge on how to prune berry bushes and when to plant things I don't quite have the coordination to do it without risking damaging the plant or hurting myself. I've had enough accidents hurting my legs by sitting in a bad position or tripping on uneven ground to really trust myself with the hard labor. I mostly do the harvesting and planning back home.\"\n\nEach page James flipped through had drawings in charcoal or graphite and a couple pressed flowers in between. Frequent subjects were his cat Pepper, a specific young man with long curly hair and pronounced cheekbones, and various landscapes, all looking almost like scribbles. Shaky lines or swirling, squiggly shapes formed the image, both abstract and realistic at the same time. Eventually he stopped on a picture of a little girl's face who looked to be on the cusp between toddler and child, her cheeks puffy and mouth agape in a wide smile, pressed flowers glued all around her. \"Aha! Here, here's a good one I recently did!\" James suddenly exclaimed, turning his journal over for Ruth to see it clearly. \"This is my niece Ruby. I had a few failed attempts before this one and I think her eyes are a bit too low on her face but overall I think it came out pretty good!\" The drawing itself, while not perfect by any means, still looked recognizable as a young child's face. Some of the charcoal used was a little bit smeared but that was to be expected when working with the stuff. White chalk was also used for some stark highlights, especially on her teeth and squinted eyes."
}
] | 941.5 | 9,355 |
472.454545 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "CARInA VAnORA",
"message": "Being in a church didn't feel quite right without her arm linked to Mrs. Bigby's. Also strange was the fact that it wasn't Christmas or Easter; nobody had died or been christened or gotten married. Carina's reason for being in a church was entirely self motivated, after, of course, receiving some explicit direction from Mrs. Bigby. \n\n*\"God's house will keep you warm, child. You look awfully cold these days.\"*\n\nShe'd told Mrs.Bigby she was alright, really. Just a bit blue now that the sun disappeared so quickly in the evening. The old woman knew better. \n\n*\"You need more than the store. You need more than me, more than these grisly full moon stories to fill your heart.\"* \n\nImpatient, Carina had asked her *What, then?* What would Mrs. Bigby have her do? They were making arrangements to see the old Baker house. Sales were going well. Mrs. Bigby'd had a string of good days. Carina was afraid of what more there could be outside of her safe routine, besides the carefully planned and prepared diversions that she orchestrated for herself. She was half-stunned when Mrs. Bigby advised her then to seek God. \n\nDisappointing the woman was the last thing Carina ever hoped to do, in any capacity. She knew she needed to go walk through the church doors, if nothing else than to say she had, but they'd had that conversation a week ago, and Carina spent every day behind the register working up the courage to actually do it.\n_ _\n\nThe morning? No, no. The morning was no good. What if she missed Earl Browne coming in for his weekly quarter pound of chocolate? He was always so prompt, right at 9:00. The afternoon, then– but no. She imagined the high sun and how it might hit the stained glass. That'd be a lot of light, making the situation too churchy to pretend she was somewhere else (which was a crucial aspect of her visiting conditions). The evening, just after close! Well, there was the sweeping to do. And dinner to make.\n\nAfter dinner. She could find no fault, besides the fact that she thought maybe the wick of her lantern had burnt too low to give light there and back, but alas. She found a new wick in a kitchen drawer beside a box of matches. \n\nThe night was cold, and Carina found herself relieved to make it inside the church after the walk, if only for the warmth. She set her lantern on the floor and turned the flame down low, stepping forward cautiously into the space as she lowered the hood of her tawny-colored cashmere shawl. \n\nFor so late at night, there were still candles lit by the altar. As she stood, centered in the nave, she couldn't help but imagine the place in flame: some raccoon finding its way in through a window and spilling hot wax and eager fire onto the ruby-red rug. She thought of how warm it would be, then. Bible pages were so thin, after all. Surely they'd make great kindling. \n\nMrs. Bigby hadn't sent her here to perform arson, and so she sat stiffly, petulantly, in a pew and opened a book of hymns. Her childhood piano lessons let her hear the melodies without her humming them. She'd only flipped through a handful of pages but she'd seen the word *Blood* About thirty times.\n\n*There is a fountain filled with blood\n Drawn from Immanuel's veins;\nAnd sinners, plunged beneath that flood,\n Lose all their guilty stains.*\n_ _\n\n\"Christ.\" She hissed, snapping the book shut. The sound arced around the rafters and back to her, making her jump. *It was only a church.* Nothing to be afraid of. She closed her eyes. She breathed in the holy air. She tried to feel anything at all."
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "Abel spent most of his time at the church, his own home much less kept up than that of the church. The floor covered in dust, and the walls fading, food sat in the fridge mostly untouched, mostly useless to him. No, for some home brought comfort, but not for Abel. \n\nIt had been a long time since any sort of home had brought Abel comfort, for him it was more or less a reminder of all that he wished he could do with his life but knew he could not. For Abel it was the place in which his brother stayed and not much else. \n\nThat was another reason he preffered the church, he knew his brother would never step foot in it. That was how he liked it in a way, sure, he wanted his brother to be safe, to one day find God, but.. He liked his time away as well. He liked knowing that here, he wouldn't have to worry about his brother. He could put it all aside and worry about what mattered. \n\nSpreading the word. \n\nHe was in the back tonight, putting together his next sermon when he heard a noise echoing from outside in the pews. He looked up from his work, and almost spilling his drink quickly arranged his things for when he got back. He made his way into the main area of the church and looked around until his eyes met the figure before him. \n\nAfter a moment, he smiled, and made his way over, hands folded in front of him. \"Hello there Miss Vanora..\" He said with a nod. He had seen her around town, enough to know her name and her face but wel.. He hadn't seen her here much, something that only made him all the more happy that she was here now. \n\n\"Isn't this a pleasant surprise.\" He said as he approahced until he was close, looking down at her. \"I hope I didn't scare you, with my uh.. Sudden appearance..\" He said with a small laugh. \"It's good to see you here, is what I mean.. What uh.. Brings you here?\" He asked with a pleasant smile upon his face."
},
{
"author": "CARInA VAnORA TEMPLETOn",
"message": "Predictably, Carina jumped off the pew at the sound of Abel's voice. She knew he had a home, so *Why* Was the man here so late? Embarrassingly, she couldn't help but recall the number of nights she'd worked in the shop by candlelight, avoiding the solitude of her apartment in the company of jars of cold cream and canisters of tea. As her heart beat came back to a steady rhythm, she turned to the man. \n\n\"Pastor— Father... Abel.\" She wasn't sure how to address him. She didn't know that they'd ever spoken one on one. He kept getting closer. Why was he getting closer? Fractionally, she shrunk away from his looming presence. \n\n\"You did scare me.\" She clarified, indignant, \"It's usually best practice to clear one's throat softly, or give a shuffle of the foot, when approaching from behind.\" Preaching to a man of God. Who could be surprised. \n\n*What brings you here.* \n\nThat had her sharp tongue blunted as she stalled for an answer. She slowly clasped her hands around her knee, one leg crossed over the other. She stared straight ahead at the distant altar. \n\n\"I don't know,\" She replied, somewhere between exasperation and vulnerability, \"What usually brings people here?\"\n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "He smiled a bit as she stumbled over her words, and shrugged his shoulders. \"Just Abel is fine, but..\" He paused, \"If you want the title, it's pastor, or preacher.\" He said as he leaned slightly against the pew in front of her. \n\nAs she continued, he could not help but raise a brow. She wasn't subtle nor did she throw hints. He wasn't sure if he should be appreciative or offended, so he simply nodded. \"Mmm..\" He hummed, \"I suppose I have to try that.\" \n\nThe question he had posed seem to make her think for a moment, which.. He was glad for in honesty. He liked to make people think, it made him feel accomplished in his work. He shrugged his shoulders as he thought, sitting down in the pew in front of her but turning his body towards her. \n\nHe didn't want to sit right next to her, and risk giving her an unwanted closeness, so he figured this was a happy medium. He looked towards the altar that she was staring at before he answered, \"Well.. I suppose it comes from a multitude of reasons.\" He said as he thought. \n\n\"I've known people to come for guidance, from both me and God.. People come to feel closer to Him, to feel safe. To feel..\" He took in a deep breath. \"Anything. People come because they're sad, because they're angry. Some come because they feel guilty..\" He said with a pause. \n\n\"So I guess that really depends on what you're feeling, doesn't it?\""
},
{
"author": "CARInA VAnORA TEMPLETOn",
"message": "Appreciative of the distance Abel left between them as he sat a pew ahead, Carina tried to make herself comfortable as she had been before he'd startled her. She listened to him, her expression cool and face tilted up and away from the preacher. Acutely aware of her own breathing for some reason, she craved distraction. \n\n*...Guidance, both from me and God...*\n\nShe was far more interested in the man before her over one she couldn't see. Unconvinced of God's existence, Abel she could lay a hand on. Carina shifted to look at him, studying his face. His youth was striking; she hadn't realized before just how close they were in age to each other, having read Abel as an older man due to his staunch faith. His features were sharp, all hollows and angles like the structure of the crucified Jesus' expression. *Well,* She conceded, *Perhaps not so severe.* Her gaze lingered on the gold cross at his neck, wondering how it could serve someone to be so acutely reminded of a good man's murder on a daily basis. \n\n\"I am feeling lost, pastor.\" She admitted, startled by the sincerity of the words: embarrassed, even, \"I mean. Well.\" Stammering, she tried to come up with a way of speaking that would relate to the man. A language he could understand, and that would remove her from herself enough to suspend disbelief she was acting, \"I've never felt called to anything. I doubt being a cashier is all God would wish for even his most piteous children.\" She'd never expected to be called by God to anything, aside from when she was a little girl. She'd quickly grown out of religion, even before her household's upset. Disguising her hopelessness as abandonment by the Lord made her feel adjacent enough to her confusion to prevent her from fullying claiming it, even as the words left her mouth. \n\n\"You felt called. To this. You must have. Will I know a call when I hear one? If one ever comes?\" She asked, again allowing more honestly to sneak into her tone than she would have liked.\n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "Abel listened to the girl as she spoke, and he leaned forward a bit. As she admitted she was feeling lost, he was not happy to hear it by any means but he was happy to be confided in. It was one thing he knew about, it was one thing that he understood. \n\n*Religion*. It was a complicated thing, and something that he felt was hard to grasp. It had been hard for him to grasp for a long time, even now, he had his moments of not understanding what he was reading. Hours spent trying to fine tune the interpretation he was understanding. \n\nHe listened as she continued to speak and nodded along, \"Hm..\" He said as he considered her question, about no one's calling being a cashier and he supposed it was true afterall. There were very few people, if any, he felt that God would say that was what they were meant to be doing. \n\nAt her further questioning, he took a moment, deciding it was best to give her a thoughtful answer that may take a moment, rather than a rushed one that he was able to spew out right away. \n\n\"I did..\" He said finally, \"I did feel called to this.. But I didn't right away, when I was a child I had very little connection to relgion. I hardly cared about it really, but I suppose there was a time when.. I realized that..\" He paused for a moment. \n\n\"I think a calling can come in many forms, for some.. God may tell you directly, he may tell you.. That he wants you to do something, the kind of calling you see in the bible quite a bit..\" He said as he took in a deep breath. \n\n\"But there are other times when it's you.. Who tells yourself what your calling is.. When you see that there is something you want to be doing, something that makes you feel fufilled, and you know that God supports you.. I would say that is just a valid form of a calling than any other.\" \n\nHe crossed his arms over his chest as he studied her for a moment, \"What makes you most happy?\""
},
{
"author": "CARInA VAnORA TEMPLETOn",
"message": "The skepticism read clearly on Carina's face, as plain as any quirked brow or widened eye, though not *Quite* So obvious. God had no voice to speak to her. Dreams were just dreams, and coincidences were nothing to kneel to. If she were to ever feel a calling, she supposed it would have to come from within herself. \n\nSo. What did she want? Or, as Abel put it: what made her most happy? \n\n\"I do like working.\" She admitted. No. She *Said* It. Admittance was for the weak hearted, \"Routine makes me happy.\" Her thoughts had turned vocal, here in God's house. She was too tired to question it and the strange relief it brought to be vulnerable in front of a stranger. \n\"I used to be happy to learn things, to practice things and get better at them. Flute lessons, latin, calligraphy, cooking.\" But did any of these things *Fulfill* Her? Would God be happy to see her be a flautist, a calligrapher, a chef? Besides, none of those were pathways that flowed through Briar Ridge, and the idea of leaving terrified her too much to even consider. \n\nShe was back where she started, and that annoyed her. The only person in sight to relieve her frustrations was unfortunately Abel, the same soul trying to save her from them. \n\n\"You were called to this.\" She hummed, followed by a sad, tired smirk. Her full vitriol was too violent to summon now, so she settled for what she could muster, \"That must feel good, to be one of God's favorites. It must feel good that he trusts you to tell people what to do with their lives.\" Carina sighed. The verbal abuse brought her no means of satisfaction, and honestly, she didn't know what that left her. She tightened her arms over her chest and sunk lower in the pew so the back of her head rested on the wood behind her. Looking at the ceiling, the shapes of shadows dancing around casts of candlelight, she felt she was up against a dead end. \n_ _\n\n\"You can leave now, Pastor. God trusts me with nothing. I'm a lost cause. I wouldn't want Him to be disappointed in you when it turns out you can't save me, after all.\" \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "Abel listened to what she had to say and he quirked a brow. She was interesting, she seemed to know what she wanted and not all at once, to know that something made her happy but perhaps.. She only felt that was not enough. \n\nHe paused for a moment, and let her continue. He didn't want to interupt any thought she may have on the subject. Though at the implication of being one of God's favorites.. He had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. He knew it was not nearly as simple as that. \n\nHe took in a deep breath, and shook his head. \"That is incredibly over simplified..\" He said as he leaned forward. \"No one is a lost cause, truly. Everyone has the chance to become something if they only look into themselves.\" He said and shook his head again. \n\n\"And by the way,\" He scoffed. \"God does not have favorites, nor does he instruct me to tell people what to do with their lives. I simply try to act as a guide, to help people figure out for themselves what they want..\" He said as he crossed his arms over his chest. \n\n\"You know..\" He said as he glanced over at her, \"If what you do now.. Is fufilling to you, there is nothing wrong with that. There is nothing bad about enjoying your work even if it seems simple to you. You could pick up a new hobby, if you feel as though you need it. That is always an option too. Learning is something you can do forever, and it is something that plenty of people do forever.. Like in the past with philosphers, with writers, what do they do if not try and learn forever?\" He asked arching a brow. \n\n\"If you don't mind me asking, what has your relationship with God been in the past?\""
},
{
"author": "CARInA VAnORA TEMPLETOn",
"message": "Abel wasn't leaving. Carina's heart sank, followed quickly by a red flash of anger behind her eyes. Her lips parted for a fast, hot burst of words she didn't really mean, but Abel's timing interrupted her. His patience was infuriating. In spite of herself, she could see why God liked him so much. \n\nHer frustration melted through phases of annoyance, acceptance, indignation, and finally landed on pity. *Yes,* She decided. This man could be pitied. So foolish was he to believe everyone was good: that no one was truly lost. Her chest tightened in anticipation of a future where the world eventually showed Abel how wrong a person could be about such things. Before that future arrived, though, she could be smug about his naivety. This, at last, felt comfortable to her. \n\n\n\nHis question about God prompted a snort, before she could meter her reaction. \n\"My mother always thought it was fashionable to be Catholic for some reason. We went to mass twice a week. I used to be frightened of God, before I realized He has too many rules to follow. Makes Him seem scared. Trying to appear larger than He is with all His *Ceremonies* And whatnot.\" She kept her eyes trained on the distant candles at the altar. *Just like a man.* She thought privately. \n\n\"I've said my fair share of prayers, Pastor. But I decided a long time ago that before He gets more of my secrets and desires, he needs to earn my trust.\" Carina looked over at Abel now. She had taken on a different quality. Her smugness failed to show on her features, her face instead taking on a quiet, haunted quality. Placid. Serene. \n_ _\n\n\"He hasn't done that yet, and I'm tired of giving Him chances.\" She said. Even though she had come here to search her soul, Carina had quickly grown weary of the task. If asked, she would defensively call it boredom, but truly it was fatigue, and it was beginning to show in her tired eyes.\n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "Abel listened as she spoke, and he unfortunately related to some of it. He knew how hard it was to feel.. This weird sort of power dynamic with God. He knew how it felt to feel ignored by God, to feel s if they were hopeless. It was a feeling that he had since learned to ignore, something he had pushed away, and something he had helped people get through but even still, he did not like to think of it when he had to. \n\nBut he nodded along, and he took in her words, he took in what she was saying and he gave it thought. He thought about what he would have wanted to hea when he felt that way. What would have made him feel more confident in his rlationship with God, what would have made him feel important?\n\nHonesty. \n\nWhen he was first struggling, all he heard were stories about how God is good, and how God loves all, and that there was no reason for doubt, bu even now he knew that was not true. He knew there would always be reason for doubt at the end of the day, always a reason to wonder what was truly out there. \n\nHe cleared his throat once she had spoken and decided to give his piece. \n\n\"Your relationship with God,anyone's.. Relationship with God really is always going to be a complicated thing, and a lot of times.. People will make you feel as though it shouldn't be. People will make you believe itis as simple as God loves you and that is all you need to know..\" \n\nHe shook his head, \"But it's never that simple, is it? God does love you, despite anything you might think, and anything you might do.. It's almost scary, his love.. Because it is so unconditional and yet so often he expects so much from you..\" He said taking in a deep sigh.\n\n\"But it can also bring you comfort, in a way to know that even if you are not.. The person you think he wants you to be there is still love for you in his heart, there is still.. Care for you there. Loving God.. Is a challenge. That may sound odd coming from me, but it's true. If it were easy, everyone would do it and reap the rewards from it. But that is simply not the case.. Every day, God will send you challenges, and he will make it hard to want to love him, nd that is unfortunate but.. It doesn't make you bad, it doesn't make you evil to not quite understand his plan for you, his vision, it just makes you human..\"\n\nHe let out a deep sigh. \"Loving God is something everyone can and should do, and purposely casting him out is something I could never endorse, but struggling with it, trying to understand it and failing, wanting it and yet wanting him to show you should, is not odd or inherently wrong. It's like when a child asks their parents why and the parent tells them because I said so.. It takes a while for a child to understand that is how it is, and sometimes they need more than that so.\" He took in a deep breath. \n\n\"I think coming to service would benefit you, I do, but I also think that maybe it would benefit you to write it down sometime. Tell God how you feel either in your head or in a journal, and maybe.. Just maybe he will answer you.\""
},
{
"author": "CARInA VAnORA TEMPLETOn",
"message": "Carina made it a point to avoid complicated relationships. She avoided relationships in general because other people were the couriers of complication, no matter how simple they seemed on the surface. Mrs. Bigby had proved to be the one exception in her life thus far, but her kinship with the woman still didn't necessarily inspire her to take further chances. Forging a relationship with God, however, somehow didn't seem as threatening as with someone of flesh and blood, especially under the terms that Abel was laying out. \n\nAnd besides, didn't she want love? Didn't she *Need* Love? Would love from a source she couldn't see, feel, touch, be as satisfying as that from a real person? Could it replace the abandonment she felt in the hollow of her chest? Could her anger and bitterness be just a challenge from God, with a great reward for overcoming it? \n\nShe hadn't come here for questions. She'd come for answers. Carina didn't realize the deep frown of concern that creased her brow until Abel sighed. \n\nCarina sighed, too. \n_ _\n\nComing to services would make Mrs. Bigby happy. It would give Carina someplace to go, someplace to wear the nice dresses she collected from that shop in the city that she liked. Writing things down besides the town gossip wouldn't be so bad, either. She realized that somewhere in the timeline of the last few minutes, she'd lost the energy to be angry at Abel, or maybe he'd started making sense. \n\nThere was a long silence that passed, during which Carina's eyes went kind of unfocused as she stared forward. At some point, she began to make the most minuscule nod with her head: the most timid agreement. Once it became perceptible, she spoke a few seconds later. \n\n\"As if Mrs. Bigby wasn't already your biggest fan, Pastor. Getting me to come to church with her on Sundays will just be the cherry on top.\" When she looked over to Abel, she did not smile, but there was a kind of soft relief in her eyes. Something there said \"Thank you,\" And \"I'm sorry,\" All in one. She looked forward to his next sermon. \n_ _"
}
] | 442 | 5,197 |
337.590909 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "As promised of her, Dimitra was at the church bright and early on Sunday morning. She'd even set about wearing her best clothes— a white top and a blue skirt; the least flashy clothes she had. She hadn't forgone the giant earrings, nor the necklace and bracelets. She'd hardly tamed her curls with much more than a bandana, but it was the thought that counted. \n\nShe was one of the first there. She spotted a few familiar faces; Dallas Sinclair, the local carpenter, had his head bowed already towards the front. She chose a seat in the very front pew, one leg crossed over the other and eyes focused on the stained glass windows and the candles and all. \n\nShe was looking around for Abel, of course; she was excited for his little sermon— he'd been trying to get her into the damned building for months, and here she was. Signed, sealed, and delivered, just like he'd asked."
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "Abel had been preparing his sermon today for a while, he had been wanting to touch more on the werewolves, and how faith could giude them through it. He knew that times were getting tougher, and it was harder to have faith in a time like this. \n\nHe made his way out of the back room and into the main part of the church so that he could put his papers up on the stand and look around at everyone that was lining the pews. His eyes scanned over the many people in the room, noting that Dallas had made his way back to sermon, which was a relief, because he was getting a little worried about him too, as he was for April. \n\nBut as his eyes made their way up to the front, he noticed another familiar face and a slow grin spread across his face as he stepped down from the front, to greet her in the few moments he had before his sermon. Making his way over to Dimitra, he crossed his arms over his chest. \n\n\"Well, you actually showed up.\" He said with a small smirk. \"I can't say I'm not surprised.\" He said as he took a seat next to her, and looked over over once. \"You look nice, like a regular church goer.. Almost.\""
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She uncrossed her legs and turned to face him more as he took a seat. Her eyes glanced over his clothes and she couldn't help but snicker. \"Stuffier than usual, Pastor.\" She commented, nudging him with her elbow. \"Oh, you like my costume?\" \n\nDimitra knew she was being a bit... Well, difficult on purpose. She couldn't help it. Abel was too much fun to poke and prod at, she enjoyed doing so as often as possible. \n\n\"I wore it just for you. Try to make myself look more... Presentable.\" She snickered and crossed her one leg over the other once more. \"Don't forget, though. You'll have to live up to your end of the bargain later.\" She raised her eyebrows. She wasn't about to let him get out of this easily. \"Let's see if you can make me see the light, hm?\" She was honestly excited to hear what would come out of his mouth."
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "He looked down at his own clothes, \"Yeah, it's my Sunday best. That tends to be more formal than every day wear.\" He said as he ran a hand through his hair and nodded, \"I do actually, your clothes are nice, but I appreciate you tuning it down for the service.\" He said with a small grin. \n\nDespite her difficult nature, he had to admit he was pleased she was here, and he was having a hard time not letting it shine through. He felt as though he was possible getting through to someone, and well.. Obviously that's what made him happy about this situation. \n\n\"Well, I'm honored. It worked.\" He said rolling his eyes, as he thought about her request. \"I thought I already did?\" He asked furrowing a brow, groaning as he realized he was expected to take a sip once more. \"Stay after service then.\" \n\nHe stood up and looked down at her, \"Well, service is about to start, so..\" He cleared his throat. \"I'm going to go give it, and then ah.. I will talk to you after, hm?\" He asked as he gave her another nod, and made his way back up to the front. \n\nHe shuffled some papers and took another glance at her before he continued to look through them, picking his place to start, before calling everyone's attention to the front."
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She crossed her arms over her chest, eyebrow raised as he spoke to her. She was amused, observing how excited he seemed to be that she'd shown up at all. She supposed he must be absolutely bursting at the seams, thinking he'd managed to use his big theological talk to persuade her to join the formal church. \n\n\"Better make it worth my while,\" She said, waving her fingers before Abel departed from her side and made his way to the front. She chuckled to herself, watching a few last stragglers make their way into the pews to attend the sermon for today. When his eyes glanced up at her, she gave him a wink and then laughed behind her hand. \n\nShe couldn't help but think it was a little funny, him standing up there all... Official and all. She cocked her head, sitting up a little straighter as she waited for him to begin to speak."
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "He rolled his eyes at her suggestion that he make it worth her while, though a part of him did intend to make the sermon, at the very least, more impassioned than usual. Something that given his track record of passion in his sermons, might prove a bit hard to do. Making his way up to the booth to speak, he cleared his throat as he looked around at the congregation before him as they all began to quiet down as he stood before them. \n\nThis was his element, this was where he felt most competent, and where he knew that he could speak like he knew what he was saying. That idea did make him feel pretty confident that at the very least he could probably impress her, and then at the most get through to her. As a start at least. \n\nHe cleared his throat as he looked down at his notes. \"I wanna thank everyone for being here today, because well.. I know that times are tough right now, and it's hard to manage up enough faith to stay committed to something like church.. When your friends and family are being attack, and your in a constant state of fear, what could be less important than a once a week trip to something that you could do at home.\" He said as he looked out at those around him. \n\n\"Worship is a private thing, and the way that you communicate with God..\" He put his hands up. \"Can be a private thing too, but the fact of the matter is, this church is more than that. It's about community, it's about coming together to show God, we are his loyal servants, and if not us, who then?\" He asked as he cleared his throat and looked down at his notes, an unfamiliar nervousness settling over him as he spoke. \n\n\"Briar Ridge is under attack, by wolves yes, but by sin too.\" He said as moved from his place on the podium, taking in a deep breath as he left his notes behind in an attempt to regain his confidence. \"Sin, it's all around us. In our homes, in our work, and even here.. Each and everyone of us a sinner, each and every one of us has something to repent for.. Lust, Greed, Glutt\n\nOny.. All of it. And this sin that is plaguing out community, is the cause of all that is wrong with Briar Ridge.\" \n\nHe said as his voice grew louder, the more confident he got. \"Is it any coincidence that as new travelers find their way into our town, spreading their sin from person to person, we find ourselves under attack? No! God is testing us, and punishing others. Punishing our community for the sins of our community, and there's only one way to stop it.\" \n\nHe looked out at the crowd, and as he met Dimitra's eyes again, he smiled a bit before he continued his speech. \"We have to fight back, both against this curse and against the sin that has caused it! We cannot sit back and watch as our friends, our family, and our loved ones fall victim to this curse. We have to eliminate the problem at its source.\" He said as he took in another deep breath. \n\n\"I find it interesting, and I think it speaks volumes that each month, like clockwork, these monsters come back, their numbers growing as sin breeds it's way into our community!\" He said slapping his hand down on the podium. \"We need to kill these wolves and kill the sin in our community, we need to turn back to our ways of love, and God, and community. We need to band together and figure this out, before God decided we are unworthy and wipes Briar Ridge off the map for good. Because though our God is loving and kind, he is also wrathful and despises sin! When his children disappoints him, he does not shy away from punishment, just as any father should be!\" He said as he continued. \n\nThe sermon continued like this for a while, Abel getting more and more impassioned as he went on. About sin, about life and about their community.\n\nAs he wrapped up, he made his way back into the crowd, talking with people, shaking hands and ultimately beaming from what he saw as a fairly successful service, and he snuck a glance over at the reason for his pride in that moment. He couldn't help but cut his usual chatter short as people filed out of the church, making his way over to Dimitra and taking in a deep breath. \n\n\"Well..\" He asked slipping his hands into his pockets, \"What did you think?\" He asked with a brow arched."
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "Dimitra sat there, arms crossed, watching as Abel ranted and raved. He reminded her of all those funny politicians; standing at the podium, speaking to crowds, spinning fantastic words to sway them this way or that. She supposed that was what a lot of the world was like; persuading others to think like you, follow you, be like everyone else. Dimitra had never quite liked prescribing to one thing— she'd preferred the free-flowing, organic movements of music and art and love and freedom. Rules were chains, they were arbitrary. God was to love, God was not to fear. Not in her books. \n\nHer eyes flickered around the room. All this werewolf talk had people frightened. The memories of the beasts crashing through windows, chewing up people and spitting them back out again. Her eyes flickered to Dallas Sinclair down the pew from her, his face hardened and hands clasped together in prayer, knuckles white. Anger. Fear. One and the same, in some cases. \n\nHer eyes went back to Abel. He really believed this, didn't he? That a little bit of drinking, laughing, and knocking boots was what brought about this plague of carnage? She wasn't sure this was anything more than Briar Ridge's old bad luck. This holler'd seen quite a lot in the past decades, and she'd only heard most of it through the tales from the old folk around. \n\nAs the sermon drew to close, Dimitra stayed in her seat until only a few stragglers remained. She stood from her seat, leaning on the end of the pew, amused smile on her face. \n\n\"You tell a lot of good stories up there, Abel,\" She told him. \"Not sure I believe a whole lot of that hooey, but... You make a convincing argument for some of these folks.\" She flashed him a grin and slipped past him, stepping towards his podium to get a peek at his notes firsthand. She had a need to touch everything; fingers skimming across pages and moving things as she pleased."
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "As she spoke his wide grin faded only slightly, as she compared his sermon to stories, but he bit his tongue for a moment. \"For some, but not for you.\" He mused as he looked at her, and took in a deep breath. \"But I suppose I can't expect to convert you on your first trip here, hm?\" He asked as he stood up, watching as the others filled out of the church, leaving them there on their own. \n\nHe watched her move up to the front, and arched a brow, \"You really just do as you please, don't you Miss Florakis?\" He asked as he made his way over to her, peeking down at his own jumbled notes. He wondered if they made any sense to her, if they seemed like some kind of ranting and raving of some crazy person. \n\nHe knew it was unlikely one trip to his sermons would change her mind completely, to get her to understand his point of view but it didn't stop the small feeling of disappointing sinking in his gut. He wanted her to understand, he wanted her to believe him. He felt this way about many of the people in town, but even more so about Dimitra. \n\nShe was a wild one, the kind of girl who seemed to do everything and anything she wanted to. It was a trait that he knew was both dangerous, but also in a way something he was envious of. He ran a hand through his hair to push it away from his face before he turned to look at her, and then towards the doors. \"Well, seems we're the last ones here so..\" He clasped his hands together. \n\n\"Lay it on me. What did you think. Really. Come on, I'm curious.\""
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She was shuffling through his papers, looking it all over with a critical eye. His handwriting was nice but hurried, so a little messy. It made all his words seem so much more chaotic; like a mad scientist in those books she read sometimes. \n\nHer eyes flickered up from the notes and she leaned on the podium, noting as well that they were completely and utterly alone. Free to say whatever she'd like, and he even prompted her to do so. \n\n\"I think you're very passionate,\" She said after a second, a smile crawling onto her lips. \"And I admire that about you.\" She left it at that, because now she was pivoting on the ball of her foot and going for a door behind the podium. \"What's back here then? Am I getting a tour of the church?\" She asked. \n\nThough, she couldn't help but circle back just a little bit. \"So, when it comes to all this werewolf stuff—\" She said, pushing through the door and expecting him to follow as she spoke. \"Do you think... If people stopped sinning, the werewolves would go away? Just... Disappear?\" She questioned. \"Have we ever stopped to wonder where they're coming from to begin with?\" \n\nShe was walking along and pushing open another door to what she supposed must be an office for him to work out of. \"Speaking of werewolves— have you seen one yet?\" She asked him."
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "A grin spread over his face as she commented on his sermon, and he nodded. He could deal with that, maybe it wasn't belief, but it was more than he had before. At least she seemed to enjoy it. \n\n\"I am, very. I have seen what sin can do.. To the community, to myself and well..\" He shook his head, \"I don't want Briar Ridge to turn into one of those towns that filled with all these new ideas, I've seen sin tear families apart.\" He said as he followed her as she walked into the door way behind them. \n\nHe frowned, and rolled his eyes. \"I suppose so, you didn't really ask did you. Never seems like you do..\" He said as he followed in and took a deep breath. \n\nAs they walked, he considered her question for a brief moment before he shrugged his shoulders, \"I think that it's likely these will still need to be killed but.. If we can stop the source, the sin.. Then they will stop multiplying. I'm going to go out into the woods soon, to sprinkle some holy water.. I'm hoping that these devilish creatures react to it.\" \n\nAs they made their way into the second set of doors, they entered an office room, with a desk and chair, along with a bookcase and a small cot like bed in the corner and a dresser near bad. Other than that it was fairly empty. \n\n\"I assume they're coming from God, like I said. He's cursed us and therefore they're multiplying.. I don't know how but..\" He leaned against the dresser and crossed his arms. \"I mean.. What is your theory then, hm? You have any better ideas?\" He asked as he leaned forward a bit. \n\nHe watched her move around the room and scoffed, \"Make yourself at home, why not?\" He asked motioning towards his desk. He didn't know how he felt about someone back here, it wasn't often that someone was. \"I saw one very quickly one night, but.. Only in a flash.. It was terrifying.\" He said as took in a deep breath. \"Have you?\" He asked as he made his way over to the desk, and leaned against it. \n\n\"I doubt this church tour will be very interesting to you.\""
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She ran her fingertips over the desk, slowly pulling the chair back and sitting down in it. Her hands pulled open drawers with curiosity, eyes darting about as she sifted through papers. Her fingers wrapped around a journal and pulled it out, already going to flip it open to get a look at the contents. \n\n\"New ideas means innovation,\" She pointed out to him. \"And Briar Ridge could use innovation. New ideas are what make life exciting,\" She looked up from the journal with mischievous eyes, already turning to try and hold onto the journal that she knew he would try to take from her. \n\n\"I haven't seen a werewolf in the flesh quite yet, no... But, you know, I don't think I'd have an issue. I think I'm kind of slippery, I'd get away from it easily. Think I could outsmart it, too. Can't imagine they're that smart.\" She shook her head, standing up and moving about the room with the journal tucked to her chest. She stopped dead a moment and looked at the cot, eyes flickering to him and she grinned. \n\n\"No... Abel, tell me you don't sleep here,\" She said, moving to sit on it and touch the blankets and pillow. \"Tired from all that talking with God?\" She asked him with a snicker, flopping back and letting her hair splay across his pillow. \"It's kind of comfortable, actually.\""
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "As she moved through the contents of his desk, he looked down at her with distaste. \"You are nosy, which is a sin, you know..\" He said as he watched her pull a journal from the desk, his eyes widened a bit as he grabbed for it. \n\n\"That's personal, and hardly any of your business.\" He said with a sneer, as he reached to snatch it away. \"Besides,\" He said as he wrapped his hand around the journal and pulled. \"Life is not about being exciting, it's about serving God.\" He said as his knuckles went white as he grasped onto the journal. \n\nAfter a moment, he was able to pull it away. He put it back into the desk, and slammed the drawer, this time taking a key from around his neck and locking it. \"That's enough of your snooping..\" He said with a sigh, as she went on about the werewolves. \n\n\"I have to say, I almost believe that. You are quite.. Resourceful. It's almost admirable. If you didn't use it for sin.\" He said as he watched her. \n\nAt her comment about sleeping there, he paused for a moment. His cheeks went red and he cleared his throat, \"I don't like going home. I see too much of my brother there, he doesn't go much of anywhere else.\" He said as his cheeks turned an even brighter pink at the sight of her laying down in his bed. \n\nHe let his eyes trace over her face, and over her hair splayed about his cot, taking a step closer. He stood over her, looking down at her, and rolled his eyes. \"Of course it is. I sleep in it.\" He paused for a moment before he took a seat on the end of the bed and looked at her from there. \n\n\"You are one of the most interesting women I have met in my life.\" He said and with a pause added, \"Why are you like...\" He motioned to her. \"That.\""
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She hadn't wanted to let up on the journal, because clearly it meant something interesting was inside. If it was a ledger of church donations, or maybe specific prayers, she doubted he would care much at all. Clearly, that was a *Personal* Journal. Her eyes went to the key and then to his face as he looked agitated with her. She cared not, remaining on the bed and slowly sitting up on her elbows as he had a seat. \n\n\"I'll take interesting,\" She mused, tilting her head to the side and sitting up all the way. \"But I don't know what you're referring to when you say I'm like *That.*\" She snickered and sat up all the way, before pushing herself to stand and wandering about the room again. Her head had left an indent on the pillow and her perfume lingered; something sweet and musky at the same time. \"If you're ever lonely, you could come by my place.\" She told him, skimming her fingers on the desk again and going to the bookshelf to observe the spines of the books there. \"I could get you drunk and you can preach to me, if you'd like.\" She snickered to herself at the thought. \"I'll bet you're hilarious when you're drunk.\""
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "He rolled his eyes as he watched her get up again, and looked to her. \"You cannot stay still for even a moment, can you?\" He said as he glanced over at the pillow. He noticed the indent, and he moved slightly closer to it, looking down before he let his eyes move back over to her. \n\n\"I doubt that would be appropiate,\" He commented as he leaned forward a bit, resting his elbows on his knees. \"Though I suppose this isn't either..\" He mumbled, looking over at her. \"Us.. Being alone like this and all.\" He said as he cleared his throat. \n\nHe shook his head, \"Besides, I haven't been drunk since it was legal. Despite having such easy access to it.\" He said as he stood, and made his way over to a small cupboard, in which he took out a bottle of wine, and two cups, placing them on the table and pouring them each a hearty glass. \n\n\"Communion wine is still legal afterall. So.. I'll indulge you with that.\" He said as he handed it off to her, before taking his own and taking a sip. \"As long as you're alright with taking in the blood of Christ, as it's unavoidable through this medium.\" He said as he sat back down on his bed. \n\nHe cleared his throat, \"You do know what I mean by.. That. Why are you so..\" He thought for a moment. \"I don't know, Miss Florakis. Like you are.. Wild.. And.. So..\" He left it there, shaking his head as he looked down at the wine in his glass. \n\n\"I've never been much of a drinker, or wild at all really. I was a troublemaker as a child though, believe it or not.\""
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "\"I'm a woman on the move. It's in my blood. I used to run around in the fields all day and pick berries and play music. And sometimes I'd swim naked in the lake, or climb trees—\" She was turning to face him, leaning back on the bookshelf and watching him curiously. Her eyes lit up, and she moved to pick up a cup that had been offered to her. \n\n\"I knew you were more fun than you let on, Abel,\" She said, picking it up and taking a big gulp. In fact, she'd drank half of it down and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. \"I'd say this is appropriate, you know. I'm just a churchgoer and you're my religious advisor, after all.\" She snickered, pushing off the shelf and wandering to look at the few other things in the room. An old painting on one wall, and the cabinets he'd just been rummaging around in. \n\nDimitra paused. \"You can call me Dimitra,\" She said, a cheeky grin sliding onto her lips. \"I'm in your bedroom, after all. I think we can drop formalities.\" She was just trying to get him riled up. \"I can't imagine you doing much troublemaking... I think I'd pay to see you get up to no good.\""
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "He nodded, \"I suppose it is..\" He said as he paused for a moment and thought, as he glanced her over and then looked back down at the cup in his hands. \"Hm..\" He said running a hand through his hair. \"Do you think you'll stay put a while? In Briar Ridge?\" He asked arching a brow, trying not to let too much hope sneak into his voice. \"I'm sure many of the people here would miss you..\" He said with a roll of his eyes. \n\n\"With all the entertainment you provide.\" He said as his fingers drummed lightly on the side of the cup. As he watched her take a gulp, he looked down at the wine before he followed in suit, and took a large gulp. \"Mm.. It's good wine.\" He said as he looked down at the swishing alcohol. \"Oh yes, because you are oh so devout..\" He said rolling his eyes. \"I've truly changed you for the better, haven't I?\" He chuckled a bit at the idea. \"As if anyone could.\"\n\nAs she continued, he paused. \"Fine. Dimitra..\" He said with a flush in his cheeks as he downed the rest of the glass, before putting it to the side and motioning for her. \"Give me the flask then, have to live up to my half of the bargin. I know you have it with you.\" He said as he took in a deep breath. \n\n\"Well I did, quite a bit before my father got remarried. Things got a bit more... Strict then.\" He said with a small shrug of his shoulders. \"I used to run around town, causing trouble, even used to steal things sometimes.\" He shook his head. \"All before I truly found God, obviously, and I had the realization that my life was meant to be devoted to him.\""
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She took his empty cup and then produced her flask from between her breasts, unscrewing the metal cap and beginning to pour something. It was dark and smelled strong; she finished off her wine and poured herself some too. \"Rum. Straight from Barbados,\" She told him. \"My favorite. You'll love it, I think.\" \n\nDimitra looked up at him curiously for a moment before a secret sort of smile spread across her lips. \"I'm not going anywhere,\" She told him. \"Someone has to play devil's advocate to you, right? Someone has to balance out your pure scriptures.\" She took a big drink of rum and hummed. \n\n\"So... You used to be a lot more fun?\" She asked him, leaning beside him. Their shoulders touched, and she nudged him with one. \"Maybe I should take you along with me sometime... To *My* Work,\" She teased. \"I think you'd absolutely lose your mind.\""
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "He tried to keep his eyes away from her as she pulled the flask from her chest, clearing his throat and looking away as he did so. When he was handed the glass, he looked back at her and then down at the liquid. \"Hardly a swig.\" He said with a wrinkled nose, as he looked at the brown liquid, and considered pouring it out before he took a drink. \n\nAgain his nose wrinkled, this time at the taste and he shook his head. \"That is good, strong, but good.\" He said as he took another sip, this time letting it sit on his pallet for a moment. \n\n\"Ah, so I am the sole reason you're staying then..\" He teased as she sat down next to him, and he looked towards her. \"Good to know I have such an influence on you.\" He said as he downed another small sip, swishing the liquid around in his cup a bit. \n\n\"Hm..\" He said with a snort of laughter. \"No, I used to be a sinner. I used to be trouble, and I was hardly fun, I was on the path to hell and I find that it is more than worth it to give up some of the.. More 'fun' things in life for an eternal life in His kingdom.\" He said putting air quotes around the word fun. \n\n\"Oh no no no.. I would rather stay away from all that. The last thing I need is to see that up close and in person.. I see enough sin in life, I prefer to keep my distance from it.\" He said as he looked towards her as their shoulders touched and his eyes scanned her face. \n\n\"I think we would have gotten along then, had I met you earlier.\""
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "\"If I left, who else would be around to annoy you?\" She asked him curiously, downing the rest of her drink and setting her cup aside. \n\n\"I bet you would've loved to go on rides into the city with me,\" Dimitra mused. \"Before things got all complicated around here.\" She extended her legs out in front of her, crossing them at the ankle and sighing deeply. She looked to the ceiling for a long moment. \n\n\"One day, I'd like to go back and... Be with my family,\" She said after a moment. \"I miss them. But it's not safe,\" She said, glancing over at him. \"That's probably when I'll leave. When things are safe for me to go... I'll go.\" She bit the inside of her cheek. \n\n\"I'll miss a few people around here when I do.\" She nudged him with her shoulder again. \"I'll miss you always yelling at me to stop doing cartwheels and flashing my undergarments.\" She laughed aloud. \"Though why you're looking to begin with is beyond me.\" Her eyes sparkled a little mischievously as she snickered."
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "He laughed, \"Who else would be there to annoy me? Something tells me there is a few people who could take your place with that..\" He said as he ran a hand through his hair. \n\n\"Though.. Pergaps they wouldn't do as good a job as you.\" He said as he glanced over at her for a moment with a smirk. \"No one is quite as annoying as you are, I think it's because I see some kind of good in you, and for some reason, I really want to think you could be..\" He paused, \"Helped.. Lead away from your life of sin.\" \n\nAt the comment, he nodded, letting out a small laugh. \"I am sure that I would have.. Then anyway.\" He said as he looked over at her. As she spoke, he did feel for her. Being separated from her family like that. He nodded, \"That's understandable..\" He said and he was quiet for a moment, letting it stay for a moment before he spoke again. \n\nHe scoffed at her joke, and he quickly turned to look at her, shaking his head. \"You make it hard not to! It's not as if.. I'm.. Looking at the.. I am just looking in your general direction is all. That's it.\" He said with a huff. \"That's it. I'm not.. Some pervert..\" \n\nHe took a sip of his cup, and made a face. \"That is strong..\" He said though he followed it with another longer sip, drinking down the rest of it and shaking his head. \"Admittedly I will miss you too, or at least having a reason to yell..\" He said taking in a breath. \n\n\"But.. I will be glad when you go.. I suppose. Because you'll be with your family.. And be safe so.. Good and bad, hm?\""
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She pursed her lips in thought as the man spoke to her. He was strange; she never knew quite how to read him. Sometimes, he seemed so plainly obvious. Other times, he was a puzzle. She leaned more on the desk and tilted her head, a half smile on her lips now. \n\n\"The good in me?\" She repeated the word. \"I don't know about that, Abel. I don't know if there's much left in me worth saving.\" She paused for a moment before she cleared her throat and stood up straight, setting her glass down and running a hand through her wild hair. \n\n\"You'll miss having an arch nemesis?\" She asked him, plastering that smile on her face again. \"Of course. Makes sense, since every hero needs a villain.\" Dimitra was already moving to the door. \n\n\"Be a gentleman and walk me out, will you?\" She said, already pulling open the door. \"Who knows when's the last you'll see me,\" She mused. \"I could be here and gone the next. Wherever the wind takes me.\" She bit the inside of her cheek. \"Who knows?\""
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "As she spoke, Abel raised his brows. He wasn't sure how he felt about what she was saying, but he didn't think it was true. He shook his head, \"I wouldn't say that.. I mean, I happen to think there is plenty in you worth saving.\" He said as he downed the rest of his drink and rolled his eyes as she continued. \n\n\"Hero? I wouldn't go that far, sarcasm or not..\" He said giving her a look that felt somewhere between a sneer and a grin, a weird mixing of the emotions that he often felt when he was with the other. \"Besides, you're not a villain, just a bit misguided.\" He said running a hand through his hair as he stood up. \n\nHe nodded and took in a deep breath. \"Of course..\" He said as he made his way towards the door along with her, and at her words he felt a feeling in his chest tighten at her words. \"Hm.\" He said at first, unable to pull anything else. \n\nWhat would he say? Beg her to stay? Beg her to at least tell him when she was going to leave? It was hardly appropiate, he didn't even know if they were really considered friends. He was quiet as he made his way through the church, until they reached the ornate entryway to the church. \n\n\"Well..\" He said as he decided to speak up, decided to say something that might tell her that he cared if she left but.. Instead all he said was. \"Get home safe, I hope to see you next Sunday.\" He said as he closed the doors behind her."
}
] | 298 | 7,427 |
616.722222 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "Shady Rooster was a werewolf.\n\nWith a name like that it was almost poetic, fitting. More importantly to Florian, Shady had managed to sway Alma, managed to sway the majority of the anti-werewolf coalition into voting against the cage and in favor of waiting around for another three months. Another three months, _How many more people have to die_ he'd asked the gathered parties, _how many more people have to lose limbs, have to be ripped to shreds by those wolves? Of course they want us to let our guards down._ His pleas had fallen on deaf ears. More and more voices came to the defense of the wolves, his hand had been tightly clenched in Freddie's, who had voted no, along with his brother earlier. He'd not expected any different but it was good to see he wasn't alone in his convictions. Those voting against the cage, in his eyes, sided with the beasts. After a hasty, secret kiss on his cheek and a look that told Florian that his boyfriend trusted him to make the right call, Florian made up his mind. He'd been doubting, going back and forth, fidgeting with his hands as he always did when he was nervous. He thought of Aki, laying there in the hospital bed missing an arm, he thought of Owen's mother, he thought of Valerian, who was still recovering, he thought of Oswald, of Marianne, of all those who'd been hurt. He thought of himself only very briefly. _No,_ enough was enough. Something broke inside him, the support beams had lost their strength, burned and charred and the weight of the vote sent it crumbling down. If he'd been in a place where he could stand still to be aware of it, he would notice the last of his compassion towards his cursed neighbours slipping out with the words he spoke next.\n\n\"I'm voting no.\" \n_ _\n\nA plan started forming in his head, he knew Shady, or rather he knew _of_ Shady. He'd seen his truck in Briar Ridge again. Shady had told Alma something, he knew things, maybe he knew the identity of the dark brown wolf that haunted Florian's nightmares. Maybe he knew something else, whatever the case, Florian was going to track him down and find out. Wherever Florian went, so did Freddie. The two set out, determined to get information no matter the cost. A pistol loaded with a silver bullet was tucked in the pouch hanging from the inside of his armrest. He didn't want to use it, but he would if worse came to worse. Alma had said Shady hadn't hurt anyone, but as Valerian had pointed out, they couldn't be sure of that. A somewhat beat-up truck was parked near the edge of the cornfield, and the two men approached it. Florian looked at Freddie, giving him a determined look as he pushed himself forward. \n\n\"Shady! We want to talk.\""
},
{
"author": "Shady Rooster",
"message": "Shady Rooster was a werewolf.\n\nHe was also smack in the middle of important business, which had him shoving his back as hard as he could into the driver's seat while his thumbs pressed on the tube of Colcate's in his hands. The last of the shaving cream oozed free and he swiped it onto his ring finger, then reached out to adjust the mirror through the open window.\n\nHe'd just stuck the straight razor to the underside of his jaw when the sound of his own name made his heart somersault into his throat.\n\n\"Shit fire,\" He muttered, snapping the razor closed and furiously scrubbing his face with the same shirt he was wearing. Then it was coated with a slick of shaving cream and had to be yanked over his head, but not without smearing into and further disheveling his hair. He rubbed his bristled chin against his shoulder and repeated, \"Shit fire!\" With feeling. *We want to talk.* He'd had his shit kicked in enough times – and had done enough (but less) shit kicking of his own: Shady knew \"*Talk*\" Was subjective.\n\nThe truck door swung open with a shrill creak, and out stepped Shady Rooster shrugging barechested into his shearling coat. Suspender straps hung loose off his slacks, which were unbuttoned but hanging on for dear life to a hip bone. His eyes started their sweep, only to land on his visitors right away.\n** **\n\nFlorian Barca – the name didn't come to mind, but he'd seen him around, sure enough. The other one, Lovejoy, he was newer to town. Shady couldn't guess how new; with other shiners taking root around Briar Ridge of late, he'd been scarce even before he hid himself away back home in Lost Cove for all these miserable months.\n\n\"Fellers,\" He greeted without a hint of friendliness, slippery knuckles fighting an itch in the center of his chest. \"...What kin I do for yins?\" Words and tone misaligned. He knew damn well what they wanted to \"Talk\" About."
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Shady Rooster was a werewolf.\n\nThat was about all Freddie Lovejoy knew of the man. The shocked whispers that had rippled around the Coalition during the meeting had meant nothing to him, and what Florian had been able to fill him in on in the time since had been little; only what he knew himself, and of that, what was important.\n\nIt had been Florian's idea to pay the werewolf a visit, and at first he'd spoken as though he intended to go alone, but of course, Freddie wasn't having that. For Florian to venture out to the cornfields alone, to put himself at risk at the hands of what didn't bear thinking about... *No*. Freddie had insisted on coming with him, and he'd brought with him little more than his pistol at his hip, each of the six chambers in the clip loaded with a bullet. Five lead, and one shining silver, and though he had half a mind to simply use the latter the minute Shady Rooster came sliding out of his truck, he thought of its value, and of Alma Cooper's steely glare, and decided it was best for the weapon to remain in his pocket, at least until the beast gave him a real reason to use it (and a decent eye-line to the heart).\n\nShady greeted them cold, and Freddie grit his teeth - 'course he didn't have any hospitality in him, that was to be expected when they'd accosted him at his home, if you could truly call a beat-up truck backed up against the cornstalks a home, and that was without adding in the fact that he and Florian had made no secrets of their alignments with the Coalition. Alignment that Freddie was now beginning to regret.\n\nTwelve members of the group had voted to reverse the plan entirely, and now seemed to almost feel *Pity* For the werewolves that had been rampaging at their will through Briar Ridge and leaving trails of destruction, of blood, of *Death* In their wakes. And Freddie was still supposed to trust those people with the protection of the town, of those who remained innocent in all of this. \nOf Florian, who had been attacked once already and who the thought of losing didn't even bear thinking about. \nSo much for some bullshit book. So much for a cure. If there was one, someone ought to have found it already, but the wolves had taken enough from the town that Freddie loved, and he would not allow them to take all that he had left. \n\n\"You been holdin' out on us all long enough, Mister Rooster,\" He said quietly, chin jutting out in brave defiance. Was he afraid? Perhaps a little. But it was none'a anyone's business if he were so long as he didn't show it. \"We want'ta know what it is you know. Before anyone else has to die.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "\"Like I said, we want to talk.\" There was none of Florian's usual kindness in his voice, he was very nervous but doing a half-decent job at hiding it, Freddie's presence helped. Florian would not have been brave enough to go on his own. Maybe the two men weren't brave, maybe they were just fools. \"You see my hands?\" He raised them to further stress that they'd come under some pretense of peace. \"No pistol in 'em.\" _For now._ His hands lowered again, settling in his lap. Just after the initial greeting by Shady, Florian had pushed down on the handles attached to the frame of his wheelchair, they snapped in place against his tires. They were a recent addition, the handiwork of Noah Owens: brakes. Florian could now stay on uneven surfaces without needing to use both hands to stop him from rolling away, which was mighty convenient. They also allowed him to use a hunting rifle without the recoil sending him flying backward, which was the real reason Valerian and him decided that brakes were more of a necessity than a luxury. He supposed he had the werewolves to thank for that, maybe they were good for something other than brutal murder. \n\nFlorian wanted the werewolves dead, he did. Deep down he knew that shooting them while they looked like men might be beyond him. He wasn't sure he could do it, not yet. Stabbing a monster when it was all teeth and claws was something entirely different from shooting a monster wearing the face of a man whom Alma apparently trusted enough to hold off on the cage for three entire months. He felt the familiar feeling of anger bubble to the surface again, its comforting heat spread through his body as it pushed away the fear he felt.\n\nHe wanted the werewolves dead. This one was lucky he had information Florian needed. Shady had told Alma something that made her change her tune, she hadn't shared it all, better to get the information straight from the source, he'd thought. If Shady could identify wolves, maybe he knew who Florian was looking for. Maybe he _was_ who Florian was looking for.\n\nThe man in question looked like a mess, half-naked, with pants only partially done up and generally surrounded by an air of unkemptness. They clearly did not run in the same circles. He wondered how Alma had ever come to trust the man, maybe he was involved in the moonshine business? It was a very well-known secret that the Coopers dealt in shine, but Florian never bothered to find out much more than surface-level information on that. He didn't get involved in crime, condoned or not. He accepted the fact that a fair handful in Briar Ridge made good money from alcohol, it bothered him none. A dozen questions raced through his head, there was a werewolf in front of him, one with answers to the questions that had been on his mind ever since this all began. _Was it you, Shady, who almost killed my brother? Was it you who tried to kill me? Was it you who I stabbed, who Valerian shot? Was it you whose blood I tried so desperately to scrub from my hands? Is it you who I see in my nightmares?_ There were no scars on Shady's exposed torso to indicate it was him, but that didn't stop Florian from wanting him dead. There was a hateful fire burning in his eyes now. His right hand shifted slightly towards the pouch in which he'd stored the pistol loaded with the silver bullet.\n\n\"Alma said you can tell who's a wolf and who's not. We know of April and Eli Abrams, Mayor Cooper, Sheriff Rowe and now you. Who else?\""
},
{
"author": "Shady Rooster",
"message": "He'd been warned about this. It didn't make Shady Rooster any friendlier toward his interrogators, but when Alma spelled it out for him, he'd gladly accepted the risk. No way in hell he would have a coupla months back – his sense of preservation was tougher than that or he'd have never made it this far. But death loomed now in every shadow and it was breathing down the back of his neck, whispering his name in the night. Better to die at their hands than his eldest brother's.\n\nShe'd said, *The rest of us'd be safe from you, but you wouldn't be safe from us.* Said he'd be a sittin' duck, if he went through with this.\n\nBut Shady was a different breed of yard fowl and his shrewd dark eyes did a lil' saccade whenever these two spoke at him like he was reading off a script only he could see.\n\nFreddie accused him of holdin' out; Florian reiterated they wanted to talk. To *Talk.* Held up his empty hands one minute – Shady looked 'em over then set a skeptical stare on his face – then his hand was creepin' somewhere else shortly after.\n\nThey wanted to know what he knew. Specifically, they wanted to know who he knew. The names were listed off to him like death tolls. He clasped his hand across his mouth like he was hiding something in his expression when Florian got to the Abrams, then it slid down his scruffy jaw to hang at his side again. He felt the knot of futility and fear and grief tighten inside the cage of his ribs and knew its name was Weakness. It made him angry, too.\n\nBut he did not have the luxury of anger.\n** **\n\n\"I'm a wolf fer one night,\" He told them, showing his empty hands and feeling keenly aware of the straight razor in his coat pocket, \"An' a sheep fer twenny-nine'n a half. I ain't no danger to neither've yins right now, so they ain't no need for this wild west showdown yer doin'.\" His left hand turned into a gun, finger-barrel lofting from Freddie's face down to Florian's. He 'shot' em both, complete with low-volume sound effects before sticking the imaginary gun into an imaginary holster on a belt he (sure as hell needed but) wasn't wearin'.\n\nThen his hands were raised again with the palms facing out, and he was coming closer – one booted foot in front of the other, fox-trot, saying, \"Easy,\" Like they were a pair of wild horses he might spook.\n\n\"See,\" A step, \"I been gone since all this ugly bus'ness started. Got good'n lost. Whiled my time away in a dark cellar 'til I knowed it was the moon what done it.\" Another step. \"So, fellers, I'm afraid I ain't know much y'all ain't 'bout who is an' who ain't *Like me.*\"\n\nIt crawled all over him, being one of *Them.* He wanted desperately to be *Us.* They were on the same side, weren't they?\n** **\n\nAnother step, then he stopped and scented the air like a hounddog. Smeared the back of his wrist across his forehead with a relieved sigh. \"Looks as neither've y'all've caught it,\" He told them with a doctor's bedside manner. \"If you was gonna shoot me fer bein' useless, I reckon that's yer cue. Right 'bout here?\" He pointed to his eye. He'd figured if Florian saw fit to point out he didn't have a pistol in his hand, it stood to reason there was a pistol, somewhere. At least one for each man, right?"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Though Florian made no secret of the fact he had no hand on his weapon, Freddie couldn't quite bring himself to do the same, especially as Shady Rooster advanced on them. His gun lay in its holster at his hip, his hand resting over it, ready to pull it out should this turn into a fight. He didn't want it to - they hadn't come here to kill him. It was just as Florian had said, they wanted to talk, they needed to know who the other werewolves were if they were to get any closer to finding the one that had torn the Barca brothers near limb from limb and ensure that justice was served to whomever might be responsible. \n\nFreddie's jaw stayed set. Florian's anger crackled in the air like sparks, and he was close enough that he caught, too. He was the firewood to Florian Barca's lit match; one struck tinder and the other burst into heat and light at the merest touch. Freddie felt the fury that spilled from Florian's chest past his lips, and he shared in it, letting it course through his veins tenfold alongside an unfamiliar rage of his own. Freddie Lovejoy had not, historically, been a man who lent himself to wrath, but Briar Ridge, in all its shadow and blood and bone, had drawn a blanket over the sun's soft light, and spawned instead a blaze that burned through the interminable night. \n\n*I ain't no danger,* Said Shady Rooster, and Freddie bit his tongue to hold back some foolish retort of *I ain't so sure about that.* The trick would be to not let Shady know he was afraid, for to hand him fear would be to hand him power over them, and there was no power with which he trusted a man like Rooster, who was really no man at all, but a beast in a woollen coat, a sickening representation of the wolf in sheep's clothing, someone who had wormed his way into places he had no right to be, to commit atrocities he had no right to commit.\n\n\"You oughta have stayed lost,\" Freddie spit through his teeth. \"Whole place'd be a damned sight better of if you'd never crawled your ass outta the ground at all.\" There would have been no debate had Shady stayed gone and kept his bullshit to himself instead of whispering poison in Alma Cooper's ear. The Cage would have been set for use for its intended purpose and the werewolf problem would be culled in due course, but no - the bastard had had to come and ruin it all. \n\nHe watched Rooster sniff the air. Like the fucking hound he was. \n\n\"You askin' ta get yourself killed? All's you've gotta do is say the word, mutt. I got a pretty silver round right here.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "TW for brief (internalized) ableism\n\nHe was a wolf for one night? _No_, once a werewolf, always a werewolf, no matter what face they might wear. Wolves remained wolves, even if they didn't look it. Shady could hardly be considered a sheep, a prey animal, a member of a flock that needed protecting. But then neither could Florian and Freddie. Florian had been, once, and maybe he still was. He'd been sheltered, hidden in the basement with his sister beside him, he'd known what it was like to be prey. He knew he was more vulnerable than most and he _hated_ it. He hated needing to be protected. He hated feeling weak or lesser and not being able to do what others could. He hated knowing that he would always need help, that he would always need to rely on others. That he would always be a **Burden**. He hated that no matter how hard he tried to prove himself there would always be those who saw him as inherently being of lesser worth. And he hated that he believed them. \n\nMost of all, he hated that those who protected him got hurt in the process, got hurt because of him, and he was helpless to stop it all. Feeling powerless ate away at a person, and Florian was not far from being stripped bare, bones exposed for all the world to see. Fueled with the terror of being prey, see how quickly he seeks to become predator. If Shady wished for a silver-colored death, Florian would be more than happy to give it to him. So it seemed, was Freddie; the intent to kill (one Florian believed Freddie might make good on if given the chance), the hatred in his voice, the venom dripping from each syllable, he'd never heard such words come from Freddie. \n_ _\n\nThey'd both been so kind, so full of joy and light. Florian had fallen for Freddie's kindness, for his smile, for the way his eyes shone when he laughed, for his gentle words and the gifts he gave, for the sound of his laugh and the way their hands fit together so perfectly. _You've poisoned him, Barca._ his soul said _I warned you that your fire would consume those around you. Now look at your love, see how you've charred him._ and once again, Florian ignored it. Maybe one day he'd listen. Maybe one day he would be forced to hear.\n\n\"Is this some type of joke to you Shady?\" He said, after the werewolf had playfully shot both of them with weapons formed from fingers. He wanted to punch him for it. How dare he make light of the situation. _His_ kind had killed _theirs_ and he had the guts to joke? He had the guts to act as if those like him were not to blame for the deaths, the losses, the pain that Briar Ridge had been through for months on end. \"You might not _look_ like a wolf now, but you sure are no sheep. Sheep don't burn when they touch silver, now do they?\"\n\nOf course neither of them were werewolves, the thought of that hadn't so much as crossed his mind. They'd been spending the full moons together since February, armed with silver and a drive for revenge packaged to look like protectiveness. \n_ _\n\n\"You told Alma somethin' that made her change her mind. It must've been mighty important information. I suggest you share it with us too.\" He was itching to reach for the pistol, to have it in his hands. He wanted control, he wanted everything to go back to the way things were, he wanted to feel safe again. When had safety started to look like a bullet fired?"
},
{
"author": "Shady Rooster",
"message": "TW: Very vague mention of || suicide. ||\n\n\"Oh, I ain't been *Found,*\" Shady snapped back at Freddie, and he did have a wild look in his eyes just then. Or maybe it was the chaos of his hair, or the absurdity of his (un)dress, or the way he bared his teeth and looked from man to man like a coyote cornered in a trap. \"Lord knows I ain't been found.\"\n\nThe mouth on that one was unexpected. The hatefulness, too – he didn't *Look* Like he had it in him, but color Shady impressed. And belligerent, of course. He spit on the ground and said, \"Woof.\"\n\nUntil Florian further explained their visit, he'd begun to suspect – because his mind *Was* A circus, that they'd come to see the show. To take their anger and grief out on an easy target. A fair target, because the only good wolf was a dead one, and he wasn't dead. If there'd been any good left in him, he would've taken care of that the first time, right?\n\nHard to argue when you don't disagree. \n\nHe finally dragged his glare away from Freddie when Florian brought up silver. The bristling hackles that were his stiff shoulders melted. One knee bent incrementally; he was slouching, head bowed, eyes lofted at the pair and still flicking between their faces. There was no answer for this sudden docility except that Alma Cooper had come up. He realized that his behavior reflected on her – that she looked unreliable at best because of him, and at worst, like a conspirator. Maybe like another wolf. A villain.\n** **\n\nIt occurred to him for the first time what she had thrown away when she didn't shoot him the day he came 'round with flowers, appearing in her living room like a childhood nightmare reimagined. That she had risked everything when she let him live, when she listened to him.\n\nHe realized, too, that these were dissidents. They were here to prove Alma Cooper wrong.\n\n\"I tol' her I wanted to he'p find a cure,\" He said, metering his voice. \"That this weren't no choice – it's a curse. An' whatever y'all believe about me, they's folks livin' this hell who ain't deserve it. An' she's givin' me a chance 'cause I reckon she knows doin' somethin's more important'n gettin' even. That doin' somethin' about it's more important than takin' her anger out. Than sowin' more death. I reckon she ain't ate up with hate yet so bad she cain't see reason no more, like some'a this town's been.\""
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "He was toying with them. Like they were brittle bones in the jaws of a dog that had never been taught to play nice. Shady Rooster barked, and he snarled, and Freddie wouldn't have been surprised if the familiar howls and shrieks of the full-moon nights had torn themselves forth from the throat of the man, who did not truly deserve the name of *Man* At all, foul beast that he was. Freddie had never seen a werewolf, but he pictured Shady Rooster as one riddled with scabbing mange, maw dripping blood and rot, and it sickened him. Before them was not one deserving of the label of humanity. What had he given them to lend them to trusting him in his claims that he had harmed none and killed no-one? Freddie didn't believe so much as a syllable spat forth from that spitting, snapping jaw.\n\n\"You might'a not been found, Rooster, but you been found *Out*,\" He declared. \"You might'a been able to pull the wool over the eyes'a the Coalition but you rest assured you ain't gettin' shit past *Us*.\" He would not be the one to look away first. He held his gaze on Shady's face, ugly as it were to him in the moment, and continued on without blinking. \"Tell us everything. We ain't here to play your game, 'cause it's a game that don't have no winners 'cept the wolves, and we're not lettin' you and your *Pack* Win this. It's over, ain't you seein' that? Either you explain what you mean with your cure crap and we come to some kinda agreement, or you keep your fucking secrets and they go with you to the grave you can only hope some kind soul puts you in. 'Cause if I shoot you, I ain't got neither shovel nor reason to go diggin' you more holes'n you've already dug yourself. This town's buried enough of its kin thanks to you and your kind.\"\n\nA lesser man not raised by a mama so good might have spit in the dirt. Freddie Lovejoy held back the impulse. \n\n\"Who d'ya think you are ta be talkin' about anger and *Hate* Anyhow? Don't we deserve to be angry? You- you and your kind been killin' us. Tearin' folks limb from limb without a care in the world. Ain't that enough to be worth more'n hatred?\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "Shady bared his teeth and barked at Freddie, like the beast he was. Like it was some kind of sick game to him. Like the grief and pain the two boys felt were funny to him somehow. Freddie held his ground, his love did much more than just hold his ground, his words pushed forward. If Florian hadn't been burning with a similar rage, he would have been terrified by Freddie at that moment. Leaving Shady's body for the crows to find, not even giving the man the dignity of a proper grave, and threatening a man's life so openly, it all should have horrified Florian. But it didn't. The thought of killing a man had never before seemed so justified. \n\nHe watched as Shady's body language suddenly shifted, he'd struck a nerve by bringing up Alma. Could it be? Did the man truly care for Alma? Did Alma truly care for him? Shady Rooster was a werewolf, he reminded himself, werewolves were monsters even if they looked like men. He was one of the beasts that had ripped Aki's arm from her, one of the beasts that had killed Owen's mother, one of the beasts that had killed Oswald, that killed Addie, that killed Mrs. Bigby, one of the beasts that had almost succeeded at killing Valerian. Shady was one of the beasts that had attacked countless others; Jade, Dimitra, Riley, Beaux, Charlie, Rafael, himself, the list just kept going. The list would keep going if someone didn't put a stop to it.\n_ _\n\nHe would have listened to Shady's words once, he might have even truly heard and understood them. They held an echo of Owen Barnes' words, _I don't think they mean the harm they're doing_. \"I tried bein' kind, Shady. I tried to see the humanity in y'all but that becomes mighty difficult when there's a pair of claws rakin' down your leg and you find your brother ripped to shreds by those same claws, bleedin' out, havin' his goddammed _time of death_ retracted! _Your_ kind did that! And they've done _nothin'_ to prevent it from happenin' again!\" There was pain in his voice, he truly had seen humanity in the werewolves before that fateful moon. He'd believed they were victims. Now he knew better.\n\nFreddie was right, the only winners were the monsters. (Were they not becoming monsters in their own right?) This wasn't about getting even, this was about survival, about protecting them and theirs, this was about making sure what happened wouldn't happen again. More people kept getting hurt, kept getting killed. It needed to stop. He just wanted it to stop. _Please, make it stop._\n\n\"This supposed cure, what do you know of it? How do you know it's real? Alma didn't believe in it and now suddenly she does. You're goin' to have to do better than just tellin' us you want to help find the cure. Better make it good.\"\n\nA new death warrant hovered in the air, unsigned, for now."
},
{
"author": "Shady Rooster",
"message": "The spell cast by Alma Cooper's name lasted: Shady Rooster's snarl reconciled into something less hostile if not *Friendly –* Contemptible at best. Particularly once he was told he'd been found out – like he'd been snuffed out of a hiding place. Like this story had a hero.\n\n\"I ain't playin',\" He said. \"I come forward to dig secrets up, not to keep 'em. Reckon folks is lucky y'all wasn't the doctors when they was dyin'a pox an' yella fever, huh? Demandin' secrets from people what's rottin' in they bed an' pullin' guns on 'em on account'a it was catchin'.\" He bared a sliver of his teeth before he metered that as smooth as he could, too. \"...Done nothin'.\" He spit again.\n\nBut he was listening. Only when Florian started to speak did he tear his gaze from Freddie's, and he didn't lash out again.\n\nIt wasn't that he didn't want to. If it wasn't her reputation on the line, he might have acted a whole fool. And that was still certainly in the cards, but for the time being he could see where they were coming from. He thought he could imagine how he'd react to this same scene if he were on the other side of it. He wanted to work together, but maybe all that came from where he stood. \n\nHe groaned, pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and rubbed. Then, he dropped down to crouch on his haunches, hands dangling over his kneecaps. Now he was the one who had to lift his eyes.\n** **\n\n\"I reckon it's a hex,\" He said, eyes flicking from one face to the other. He was wary, and he preferred to fight rather than hold this conversation – but they were right about one thing: their anger was righteous and justified and the mere fact he was here to fall under their scrutiny spoke volumes about his character. None of it was nice. \"An' hexes, they kin get placed. They kin get took off, too, by somebody what knows how. If they's folks who's immune to it, and they's things it's scared of – silver, an' all, – then I reckon it makes sense somebody could get healed of it. People get healed 'a all kinds'a maladies, don't they?\"\n\nFor a split second, he was asking them for reassurance, eyebrows furrowed, eyes seeking an ounce of hope in either angry gaze. That earnest vulnerability was gone as quickly as it appeared.\n\n\"I's tol' somebody found sum'n. A book. But they's things at work tryna keep y'all from it. I ain't hardly know nothin' 'bout that. I jest said I might as he'p look, on account'a I cain't get more cursed'n I is. An' I tol' Alma I'd make sure she weren't dealin' with no wolf ain't revealed hisself yet, neither.\""
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "\"I don't see you *Rottin'* Nowhere,\" Freddie couldn't help but interrupt, when Shady spoke of plagues and fevers, as though those were even halfway comparable to Rooster and his ilk. \"Be better off if you were. Whole town would be.\" He'd have paid a handsome fee to see this man incapacitated in a hospital bed - but then again, did he deserve one? What had he done to merit the care of the town's good doctor and nurses when his *Pack* Had been the cause of half the town finding themselves in that ward come daylight for months of full moons? The wolves had brought nothing but pain and loss to Briar Ridge. This town owed them nothing less than vengeance. \nVengeance which Freddie was beginning to think might be down to none other than him to enact.\n\nThe silver bullet burned a metaphorical hole in his pocket.\n\nBesides his little outburst, though, Freddie was quiet. Not for Shady's sake but for Florian's, because the last thing he wanted to do was poke the bear - or wolf. Though he itched to not only speak his mind to its fullest, but to *Fight* For the right to do so, none of it would be worth placing the man he loved in harm's way. Because wasn't that the point of all of this? Keeping Florian safe? He had come here for him. Because Florian had thought that Rooster might have the information they needed. And if it were information that led to Freddie being able to hunt down and kill the werewolf that had left brutal scars upon both him and his brother, then letting the beast before them live a little longer would be worthwhile. \n\nShady Rooster dropped to a crouch, just as Freddie had begun to think he couldn't be any more of an animal. \n\n\"A hex?\" He repeated, doubt clear in his voice even with just two simple words. \"I ain't a believer in that kinda shit, Mister. Don't make no sense to put faith in any'a that witchcraft when we got people dyin' thanks to the likes'a you. An' it's all well an' good sayin' you *Reckon* And you's *Told* These things. We ain't come to hear your guessin', we want the facts. The *Truth*. So we can save the people of Briar Ridge seen as nobody else is doin' a single thing for 'em 'cept tellin' us all to barricade our windows and pick up our guns. Like we ain't always got our guns at our belts these days.\"\n\nHe huffed out a breath through his nose. \n\n\"Where's the book? I want ta read it, if they been lettin' bastards like *You* Read it, why cain't I?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "Dying of pox and yellow fever... Diseased members of a society were isolated and sheltered away from others to protect those yet unharmed. Doctors looked for the cause of an illness and fought it, they cut out the cancer. The way the number of werewolves grew, how their bodies stank of rot, how they towered over people before ripping them apart looked mighty like a malignant mass to Florian. Freddie was right, Shady wasn't rotting. _Not yet..._\n\n\n\nFlorian would never walk again. He'd barely been seventeen years old when he had his whole life ripped from him, and now he feared it would be ripped away again, by monstrous claws this time. There would be no miracle cure against Florian's death, not again, not a second time. _People get healed 'a all kinds'a maladies, don't they?_ He feared that this curse would end much more violently than his own had. There was no cure for werewolves other than to take out the infected. It was those monsters who were tearing their way through Briar Ridge, the solution was clear as day to him. And hexes? He didn't rightly know if he believed in those.\n_ _\n\nShady could tell who was affected, somehow. \"Will you be sharin' that information with the rest of us, or do we all get to go on guessin' who amongst us is _hexed_?\" What made Alma so special to Shady? What made her worthy of information while the rest of them continued floundering, dredging through the murky darkness of not knowing? He wished he knew what was going on, he wished he had all the information. S&C knew more than they let on, Valerian had said, the coal company had somehow known that silver would be an ally in their fight. The smug bastards had refused to share anything beyond that. There were people in town who knew about the cure, who apparently held knowledge that supported its existence. He was getting tired of being kept in the dark.\n\nHe'd heard about the journal and its contents, gossip on the streets said Maeve Lefevre had last been seen with it in her possession. He didn't know if it had since shifted hands, he suspected it may have. He wanted to read it, to see what this mythical cure was really about, if it was mere fairytale or if there was something of substance there. Florian wasn't medically trained in any way, but he'd trust his own judgment over that of a werewolf any day. The only thing keeping them from knowledge was Shady.\n\n\"Suppose it is a hex, ain't they placed by people? Who would stand to benefit from the likes of you rippin' us apart, huh?\" Werewolves, that's who. Florian didn't think it was a curse, he thought it had to be some kind of infection, spread through the attacks. The wolves that had been killed had been victims of attacks. _What if his brother was one of them..._ No. No, Valerian couldn't be. He'd been at the estate, he'd voted against the cure. He wasn't one of them, not all who got attacked became infected. \"No, I reckon it's an illness, spread when y'all attack us, and this whole cure crap is made up. The book, Shady, who's got it?\" The only way to stop the spread was to stop its cause; the existence of wolves."
},
{
"author": "Shady Rooster",
"message": "It wasn't that Freddie had not found the very thoughts that nagged at Shady Rooster day in and out: he'd thought them, too. *Verbatim,* Or close to it. He could not argue: Briar Ridge would've been better off had he never come around. They would all be safer if he was dead. He even thought, right here and now as he balanced in a crouch, that these two might just be doing the town a favor if they wasted him here in the cornfield and let the crows deal with the mess.\n\nA strange thing, to have to justify your life to yourself. The only way he could was this: he would do something useful. He would be, someday, *Good.* He would have to work tirelessly to make his own life worth something, *Anything,* To reconcile it. He did not scramble to explain himself to Freddie and Florian, however. Their hatred was a gift to help them through it all, and he didn't have the means nor the will to take it away from them.\n\n\"Oh, I *Cain't* Read it,\" He told Freddie a might smugly. \"I'm jest the oven mitt. I'll hold it for 'em, jest as soon as I kin find it.\"\n\nHe'd been told how, but things had changed since then – and he wasn't willing to share this information, anyway. Doing so stood to jeopardize folks he hadn't even met, yet.\n\n\"'Course I's gon' share,\" He answered Florian next, picking up a stiff piece of straw and corkscrewing it where canine met premolar. \"I want the same things y'all do. I want the wolves gone. I want this place safe. I want folks I care 'bout to have the peace they deserve. The revenge, if'n they need it. I reckon neither'a yins believe it, but it's true.\" He inspected his straw, then stuck it in his mouth to chew the end.\n** **\n\nWho stood to benefit? He had to ruminate on that, and in the end, his shoulders rose and fell. \"I dunno. I sure's hell ain't benefitted none though, has I? Got a truck in a cornfield an' you fine fellers comin' up to visit whenever yins like. Got a shine empire back home in Carolina I ain't gonna see a dime from. Hell, I cain't even hold a dime, y'all know that?\" He flipped up his palm, where he did indeed have a few half-circles burned into his skin. \"Not to mention the, y'know, overwhelmin' and unassailable *Dread.* I kin assure y'all, it ain't jest me. Ever wolf I met – an' that ain't nobody y'all ain't already know, so don't gitchyer britches in a knot – feels the same. Say I bit you right now.\" He worked his jaw, see-sawing the husk of straw. \"Be awful easy to. Say I bit him,\" And he gestured vaguely at Freddie. \"How'd y'all feel 'bout 'im, then? Is he alluva sudden the big bad wolf, or's he somebody y'all care 'bout whose cursed?\" \n\nEyes on Freddie, \"An if'n I bit him.\" A nod to Florian.\n\n\"I dunno where the book is. I ain't no use to neither'a yins.\" (Or anybody else, he suspected they'd say.) He took his piece of straw from his mouth and set his hands on his knees again. \"Still yer move.\""
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "If Shady Rooster were looking for pity, he would find none of it in Freddie Lovejoy. There was none left in him, not for a werewolf hell-bent upon being nothing but a nuisance, a roadblock in their search for answers. \nAnswers they had come for, and Rooster had none, and Freddie was tired of him already. If not for the threat of Alma Cooper coming and raining down the fires of Hell on him for it, he'd have shot the beast where he stood before he'd even finished speaking.\n\nPerhaps it would have been better if he had, for as soon as Shady voiced even the *Possibility* Of biting Florian, anger surged up in his chest like none he'd ever felt before. Though he barely acknowledged the suggestion that he himself could be afflicted with the full-moon's blight, the mere reminder that Florian was at all vulnerable to the wolves was simply too much to bear. \nIt was not with his gun that Freddie advanced upon the man, but with a clenched fist. He was, for a moment, thankful that Shady hadn't lifted himself from his crouched position, as it made it all the easier for said fist to meet his face. \n\nIt was a weak punch, truth be told. Freddie was in no way a fighter, and even less so skilled in what might be considered hand-to-hand combat. Chances were it didn't hurt Shady all that much. The poor form meant it actually kind of hurt *Freddie* When knuckles met cheek. He grit his teeth, still for a moment, finding his voice once more.\n\nHe wasn't sure what had come over him. He didn't think he'd ever hit a man before. Had never imagined he'd have to. But hitting him sure felt a damn sight better than putting a bullet in his brain would have. \n\n\"You ever,\" He spat, glaring down at Rooster, \"*Ever*, even so much as think about puttin' your rotten teeth near him again an' I'll do more'n hit you, that's a goddamned promise. You're damn right you ain't no use to us and if I ain't know it'd land me in a cell right alongside ya, I'd beat your ass to hell here an' now for even considerin' it.\" \nHis hands were shaking. He tried not to think about it. \n\"Bastard werewolf. I ain't think you're deservin' of no cure. Shoulda never come back here.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "Shady hadn't even gotten his disgusting claws into the journal. This whole cure shit was based on rumors that he couldn't even confirm the legitimacy of. Why had Alma ever listened to Shady, what on earth had gone through her mind? Placing the lives of Briar Ridge at stake based on a man who couldn't even back up his outrageous claims? Did Shady have something over her, had he threatened her? Florian was going to stay with the Coalition during the moon and make damn sure that they at least stuck to the promise to shoot any beasts that were spotted roaming the streets. Maybe Freddie and he should pay Alma a visit next, albeit a much less violent one. There had to be something that she knew that they didn't. Florian cared for Alma, he trusted her, and he regarded her as something that came awfully close to a big sister. The Coopers had always been there for his family, they had been around the Barcas for as long as he could remember. Alma was smart, there _had_ to be a logical explanation for all of this. Right?\n\nThe werewolf was right, Florian did not believe for a second that Shady was working towards the same goal that Freddie and he were. Florian let out an angry huffed laugh. \"Sure you do.\" \n_ _\n\n_Be awful easy to. Say I bit him._ Florian seethed, the beast had crossed a line. Florian could deal with the thinly veiled threats that had been tossed their way, but openly flaunting just how _easy_ it would be for him to bite Freddie, to turn his lover into one of them, to infect him, to attack him, all without shame, that was unforgivable. Shady flaunted the fact that he the monster, held the upper hand, that he the beast, could tear into them if he felt like it. If Florian had any pity in his heart, any shred of humanity allotted to Shady, that vanished right there and then. Only an animal would threaten such a thing, only someone who took joy in seeing fear in the eyes of humans would even think to utter those words. And fear did show in Florian's eyes. He knew he was an easy target. He was incredibly aware of just how simple it would be for Shady or any other werewolf to tear him limb from limb.\n\nShady was no man, Shady was a monster, a beast, a wolf masquerading as a sorry excuse of a man, a man who held no real claim to humanity. How _dare_ he? Florian's rage burned so bright it hurt. In one swift motion, he pulled the pistol from its hiding spot, a resounding **Click** Indicated the removal of the safety, and he would have shot the werewolf down and watched his black blood paint the earth if it hadn't been for Freddie.\n_ _\n\nFreddie Lovejoy, a man whom Florian had not once known to be truly violent, had moved forward as if he were the silver bullet the artist had failed to fire. Clenched fist met lying face as Freddie punched Shady square in the cheek. Quite frankly, he didn't know Freddie had it in him to punch a man. Venom flew from his words as he spoke to Shady with a barely contained rage. Florian knew that rage all too well, and he shared in it. Freddie stood between Florian and Shady, in the line of fire, and the safety was promptly returned to the pistol. The weapon remained firmly in his hands though, lest Shady start thinking that he was safe. Florian flipped the brakes from his wheels, intent on leaving before Shady made good on his words. He didn't tell them much of use, nor was he going to, all he did was show his true colors, show them that he was a beast, show them that he didn't deserve even a shred of forgiveness or sympathy. _An if'n I bit him._ If and when I bite you. A promise. A threat. This was personal now.\n\n\"You best _pray_ that cage holds you Shady, I'll be waitin' if it don't.\"\n\n|| shady i am so sorry"
},
{
"author": "Shady Rooster",
"message": "Shady Rooster was none too sure what set Freddie off, exactly – or if anything had. Maybe he was done with the conversation and this was the way he chose to tie a ribbon on it. He watched him walk up, hands limp on his knees, then tanked a fist to the face likely to bruise and skin up the slugger's knuckles. It sure as hell was gonna bruise the wolf, too, but beyond his head whipping to the side and a coupla stars sparking off behind his eyes, he was alright. He blinked hard a few times, then stood.\n\nShady didn't exactly tower over anybody, but he was a fair bit taller than Freddie, and fuller-bodied. There was a none-too-distant time he might have relished in that advantage and hit back, but it didn't cross his mind, now. For starters, Florian was back there lowering a ready pistol now that his companion had stepped into his line of fire. Shady didn't have the luxury of lashing out; he did not have the crutch of anger.\n\nTheir anger, meanwhile, was all-consuming. He didn't know either man, but he knew it defied the people they'd been before. That it was new and raw and borne of fear and agony. He wasn't an empathetic creature, but he couldn't help but be cognizant of the ache that had brought them here, to this moment. It felt like they were both gnawing for any excuse to end him, desperate for a salve for their own wounds. He supposed they knew, too, that it'd be a short fix, letting his wolf's blood soak into the dry cornfield. A short relief 'til the next moon.\n\nNone of this inspired kindness in Shady; resignation wasn't kindness. \n\n\"I got a cheek left for ya,\" He told Freddie, then split a blood-slicked grin at him before his eyes cut over his head toward Florian. \"I pray it does, an' I pray yer a damn good shot. Now, I reckon you boys oughta git.\""
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "If Freddie's hands shook, he would not allow Shady Rooster to see them. He shoved them deep into his pockets, and took a step backwards - *Not* Because the werewolf had told him to, mind, but only because he desired to return to Florian's side. He'd said his piece. Given the man more than a piece of his mind, but a taste of what might happen if he were to again threaten the safety of anyone Freddie held dear. Next time it would be more than a punch.\n\nIt would be a death sentence, in silver-bullet form, and Freddie would not look away as he pulled the trigger. \n\nBut for now, *Git* They would, it seemed, as Florian didn't speak up again, and blood filled the gaps between Shady's teeth. Whether it were the red of a man or the black of a beast, Freddie didn't feel the need to look close enough to tell.\n\nHad they won this fight? Or had all parties lost in their own ways? \nThey had learned nothing that they ain't already know. The existence of some book was all well and good if they weren't to be trusted with its whereabouts or contents. \nA waste of damned time, if you asked Freddie. \n\nPerhaps April Abrams, in her cell, would prove a more fruitful source of information. \n\nFreddie turned, laid a hand on Freddie's shoulder, and they departed the cornfield without so much as another look in the direction of the monster left behind. \n\n ~\n\n||"
}
] | 600 | 11,101 |
331.2 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "wesley gray.",
"message": "It was uncharacteristic of Wesley not to take his morning coffee at home, quietly surveying the treeline from his back porch. The last few nights at home had been particularly unbearable, and he could count on both hands the hours of sleep he'd gotten that week. Having elected to come to the diner for breakfast instead of taking it at home was as much for him as it was an effort to take the load off of his mother, who insisted on taking up breakfast duties even as she declined in health.\n\nHe'd arrived at the diner feeling positively irritable and near-completely nonverbal. By his second cup of coffee, Wesley had begun to relax a little, settling into his seat and staring out at the dirt road outside. As his mind got into rhythm for the day, his thoughts drifted once more to his campaign for mayor. He'd thrown his hat in the ring on something of an impulse, but as time had passed, he'd grown passionate about the idea of leadership. It felt like the sort of external purpose for which he had been searching – a way to slot himself permanently into the role of helper, of leader, of *Man to trust, man to come to when in need, man you can count on.* As far as Wesley was concerned, such a position was the role of a lifetime, a part he intended to play with brilliant dedication.\n\nThere were, though, many things of which he was deeply uncertain – for he was only one man, and in the face of the mountain and the forest and the changing world, he knew all too well that he only had so much power. \n\nHe had plans to make.\n_ _\n\nWesley hummed quietly to himself as he attempted to organize his train of thought for the day, settling into the questions he knew he'd have to answer, the weaknesses he knew he needed to improve. He wished sorely then for a friend with any sort of knowledge on the matter, and examining his life, felt woefully alone, having lost most of his friends to time or more carnal interests. There certainly was some isolation to be found in loyalty, whether it was to a town, a friend, or something else entirely. He took a long sip of his coffee and squinted out the window into the gray March light, already planning his next moves for the day."
},
{
"author": "Jackson Grant",
"message": "*Strangers were becoming more and more common around Briar Ridge. Not all of them would last, and some would tumble out just as fast as they'd tumble in.* \n\n*Speaking of strangers tumbling about, almost as if right on cue, the bell above the door clanged as a stranger stumbled in from the street.* \n\n*There wasn't much to the lad, he was beaten and weary from the road, his shaggy hair dangled into his face, he could use a change of clothes and probably a decent bath, but he had a charm about him. Whether it be a good luck charm, or a bad luck charm, a bit dependent on the eye of the beholder. He was certainly a traveler, but not quite a wanderer. He had a certain mission in mind.* \n\n*He carried with him a singular leather bag, that held just about everything he owned. He set it down with a thud and had himself a seat at the bar, far off in the corner.* \n\n*He was tired, almost falling asleep on his single over easy egg and toast. Coffee barely working it's usually magic on him.* \n\n*What really woke him up though, is when the bill came.* \n\n*He dug through his pockets, through his bag, checked his sock even. He was still short. It didn't take a telescope to see it hurt his pride. Part of him wanted to just get up and run, but he held onto his honesty.* \n\n\"I... D-don't have it right now. I'm not too proud to work though, I-I'll sweep, prep, peel potatoes, whatever you need me to do.\" *Jackson lowly tried to reason with the waitress, who tried not to judge, but her eyes spoke.* \n\n\"Let me check with the boss and see what we can do.\" *She mused, and scampered off to the back. Leaving Jackson hanging his head, and wiping up yolk with toast but not quite mustering up the courage to just finish it. He was too lost in his own mind.*\n\n*He was close. He had to remind himself that. He was just too damn close to give up.*"
},
{
"author": "wesley gray.",
"message": "Oh, wow. Whoever the stranger was who'd just shown up at the diner, Wesley's heart ached just looking at him. He was nothing if not a little brother, and had mastered the art of looking innocuous while in fact very much eavesdropping, and it was this quiet surveillance that led to his digging around in his own pockets before he knew it. \n\n\"I can cover it,\" Called Wesley to the waitress as she was walking away. She gave him a quizzical look, surprised to see him settling into the seat opposite Jackson. Wesley was quick to hand her the necessary change, plus extra for the coffee, of which he was surely about to need another cup.\n\n\"If my friend here doesn't mind, of course. And could we both git some refills, too, ma'am?\" He asked sweetly, smiling up with his best *Somebody's-son* Eyes. Bemused, but accommodating nonetheless, the waitress disappeared to brew the coffee. In the meantime, Wesley adopted a gentle expression. He made sure no pity was present on his face – nothing but kindness. \n\n\"She's awful nice,\" He opened. \"Just tired, is all. Lucky you didn't get Granny. You new to town, or comin' back after a while gone?\"\n\nThe stranger in front of him looked decidedly worse for the wear, but the instinct in Wesley to sense hostility was totally dormant when he beheld the man before him, who didn't look like he'd seen a decent bed or a bath in weeks, at least. If Wesley was being honest, his suspicion of newcomers in general was at an all-time high. There was, admittedly, a part of him which wanted to 'vet' the man on the other side of the table – and it was absolutely because there was nothing threatening about him at face value.\n\nFor the most part, though... Wesley found himself oddly charmed by the earnestness of the man's attempts to pay. His intent was made clear. Wesley only hoped the stranger's pride wasn't injured by his gesture."
},
{
"author": "Jackson Grant",
"message": "*Jackson's eyes bounced up hearing a third voice join the bunch. Only to be properly flattered.* \"You didn't have to do that... But thank you. I owe you one.\" \n\n*Jackson would peer back to the stranger across from him. Carefully analyzing for a moment as he drank down his black coffee, without even a blink. He wasn't typically quick to trust, but the gesture made a good impression on him.* \n\n\"I'm new here.\" *He started, gently setting his cup down.* \n\n\"I'm a runaway. Told my people I was going off to join the army. That was a lie, obviously.\" *Jackson started telling his tale, without the bat of an eye, being loose with the truth. It might not be pretty, but it was his story and he'd sure as hell tell it like it was. The least he could do was be honest with the man paying for his meal. He'd take a moment to chow down the last bite or two.* \n\n\"But, I got family here. My sister is a transplant too, supposedly holed up somewhere 'round here. I have hopes of staying with 'er for a while. So there's a chance I'll get to be regular here. It'd be nice to have the chance to pay you back sometime, Mister..?\" \n\n*Jackson trailed off, hoping to find a name to accompany the face of this kind man. Judging by his intuition, Wes was a bit older and wiser than him, but not quite **Old** Old. He still looked healthy, in his prime, so he couldn't be too far off.*"
},
{
"author": "wesley gray.",
"message": "He'd never had an intention of being anything *But* Friendly, but boy, was Jackson lucky he'd encountered Wesley and not someone more opportunistic. He was also more naive than he looked, announcing so boldly his status as a runaway. As Jackson spoke, Wesley maintained a polite expression, though internally he was a little surprised. \n\n\"I'm Wesley Gray,\" He answered, reaching across the table to offer a handshake. \"I'm a shepherd and a farmer, mostly.\" He spoke with an even, gentle voice, the kind he usually reserved for his girls when they were ailing. There was a sensitivity about the young man before him that Welsey could practically feel. His smile was a patient thing as it bloomed across his mouth.\n\n\"Briar Ridge's the perfect place for anyone lookin' to start over, so you're in good company here. Me, though, I'm a local. My family owns the farm in the east hills. And I reckon I know just about everybody in this town, courtesy of my mama n' her friends,\" He continued. \"What's your name, and who's your sister?\""
},
{
"author": "Jackson Grant",
"message": "\"Jackson, Jackie Grant.\" *He'd gladly reach up and give a respectably firm handshake. Not soft like a limp fish, not with crushing weight like he had something to prove, just right in that sweet spot.* \n\n\"My Sister's Jade Grant. Our parents had a thing for the J's apparently.\" *Jackson would answer sweetly, Wesley's infectious smile spread it's way to the Grant boy. There was a certain tenderness to Wesley's mannerisms that just tickled Jackson pink. Just something about him... Jackson finished off his coffee to keep his mind from wandering.* \n\n\"Shepherd huh? I used to deal with sheep a bit back home. Not quite like you though I imagine. Most of 'em were slaughtered by the time they got to me. \" *That definitely got his wheels turning. He was familiar with sheep, inside and out. Though he did less of herding, and more on the end of butchering work on the side, eventually his luthier work tied into it to, having pulled strings from gut and carving bridges, nuts, and pins from their bones. He knew how to use every bit of a sheep from nose to hoof. It took getting used to, but it was honest work. Dirty, honest work.*\n\n*It seemed like such a small world, sheep needed guidance everywhere. It was almost poetic.*"
},
{
"author": "wesley gray.",
"message": "He took Jackson's handshake and met it with a firm, callous-ridden one of his own.\n\n\"Jade Grant,\" Wesley repeated, chuckling. \"No kiddin'. Awfully small word. As it happens, Miss Jade and I are well-acquainted. She's the librarian, as a matter of fact. Not too far from the biggest oak tree in town. Schoolhouse is down that way, too. You can't miss it.\" \n\nWesley reached for a long and thoughtful sip of his coffee, pondering his next words. The young man before him looked thoroughly lost, symptomatic of that age group. He must have been in his early twenties, maybe a little older. It was only natural for him to be wandering, unhappy with his circumstances and looking to change them. Wesley understood all too well the desire to uproot oneself in search of different soil, but his was the dutiful hero's path. He would remain in Briar Ridge until his heart gave out. \n\n\"You a butcher, then?\" He continued, smiling. \"Might find yourself a job down at the butcher's shop. Emery Aiken's the owner. Real nice person. They shouldn't give ya any trouble.\" Wesley's smile was easy and polite, that of a shepherd without the kind of flock he actually wanted. It wasn't that he *Wanted* Power — but if he won the election, he would have it, and he could use it to keep Briar Ridge safe.\n\n\"Your sister ain't expectin' you, is she?\" He asked then. \"You came at a damned good time. Been goin' through it, Miss Jade has. She's all good n' safe, nothin' like that, but... It'll do her some good to see family, I think.\""
},
{
"author": "Jackson Grant",
"message": "\"That right?\" *Jackson was pleasantly surprised, everyone really knows everybody in small towns, but nonetheless he was happy to hear confirmation that he was stomping around the right place.* \n\n\"Yeah I have been, more or less. I'm kind of whatever's paying at the moment.\" *Jackson spoke, before rubbing along the underside of his jaw. A bit unsure of what title really stuck to him.* \n\n\"But I enjoyed luthier work a bit more at home. Fixing and Making guitars, banjos, fiddles n' such. It's like the crossroads of woodwork and butchering. Brutal, yet elegant.\" *He took the time to spill a bit about his passions before he leaned forward, resting his elbows against the table. A bit more engaged.* \n\n\"She sent a letter, but I just started here before sending one back. So it's a fair surprise for her.\" *Jackson responded before taking on a more somber tone.* \n\n\"She is okay though? Is it something I should know about?\" \n\n*He really did worry about his sister, and his faced spoke it. They had always had each other's back. Jackie had just started to learn proper restraint when it came to his temper , but for Jade He'd be more than ready to squash some issues if need be.*"
},
{
"author": "wesley gray.",
"message": "Wesley's smile was an easy thing to behold. He wore it well, and listened along with genuine enthusiasm as Jackson shared about himself, perhaps inspired by Wesley's familiarity with Jade.\n\n\"No kiddin'!\" Echoed Wesley. \"You're in good company. My brother and I have been fiddlin' for years. Ought to come down to the speakeasy some time and perform with us,\" He offered. \n\nJackson seemed to be coming out of his shell — folk who'd been through some things needed to be coaxed out sometimes, and Wesley was more than happy to give patience to the younger man. In spite of looking a little older than a teenager, Jackson still carried with him that awkward uncertainty which spoke to a childhood he had yet to shake off.\n\nAt the question, though, Wesley elected to give Jade the opportunity to explain it herself. \n\n\"Naw, I don't think so,\" He sighed, \"But she sure will be glad to see you. Matter of fact, her place is just down the road. If you see that big oak down there —\" Wesley paused, pointing out the window. \"—and turn right, she's in the little cottage with the white fence.\""
},
{
"author": "Jackson Grant",
"message": "\"You know, I might just have to take you up on that. Been a while since I got to play along with good folks. I'll be sure to, soon as I've got something strung up.\" *Jackson chirped, and a impressed grin spread onto his cheeks. He had barely got the chance to play with his church band on Sundays back home without kickback from his dad. Much less a speakeasy group, and he had been here all of 30 minutes. He knew he'd come to like this place. It certainly had charm.* \n\n*His eyes trailed and followed Wesley's directions as he pointed out the way to Jade's. Then, Jackie bounced to his feet eager to find his way. But he just managed to hold his horses.* \n\n*Without much thought, he'd plop down next to Wes and wrap his arms around him, squeezing him into a hug. It was simply the best way for him to show his appreciation at that moment. Though, it'd all come back greater in time.* \n\n\"Thanks again, Mister Gray. This all means more than you could possibly know. I'll still owe you breakfast one mornin'. Don't let me forget it.\""
}
] | 305 | 3,312 |
673.538462 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "*Everything was going fine*.\n\nThat was a thought Lewis kept strapped across his chest when he first arrived at Briar Ridge: this single thought and as many clothes as he could fit in was all he had. He had no expectations about the town and it still disappointed him; his expectations about the moonshining, however, were simultaneously ruined and reinforced. Where in the first weeks Lewis saw chaos, now he saw a strict and smart humane system, even if it was upheld by a single school teacher, with a voice so smooth even being scolded by her felt somehow reaffirming. Where at first, he saw an impenetrable wall of rough-built prudes, he now started to slowly but surely see *People*, most of whom were washed ashore to this town almost the same way he did; very few were born in Briar Ridge and stayed there. Where at first, he was scared of their forcefulness and their otherness, now he was thinking that maybe, they were just making fun of him.\n\nLewis would think he was being hazed: treated roughly, played as a crude, cruel joke to see if he passes. But he never saw the end of testing; never saw the reward come, the mean treatment change to the kind one; neither at his father's job nor at Briar Ridge. Wasn't the testing just never-ending? Wasn't everything in life just a smaller test? Was hazing just a made-up concert used by lazy people for comfort? When it would get better for him, it would be a thing he would make with his own hands, not \"Deserve\" By tolerating it. He was going to build his throne or dig his grave by his own hands, damn it, but he didn't plan to die trying.\n\nFor his first weeks in Briar Ridge, Lewis Ashworth survived on crackers, cheese, and a dream. Afterwards, when his stomach started showing signs of giving up, he was begrudgingly forced to cook for himself. To be completely honest, it tasted shitty and bland. His salvation came in the form of a local diner.\n\nLewis didn't remember who he had first heard about the diner from, but when he did, as soon as his workday ended, he went to visit it straight away. If the cozy look of a surprisingly well-furnished room (or it was the hunger talking) made him relax, the smells coming from the kitchen made him smile so wide his cheeks started hurting. However, on that faithful evening, the diner had another discovery in store for him.\n\nBefore this, Lewis believed he was paid pennies. But after Lewis had his well-deserved dinner and took a really good look at his check, he decided that the money he made could help him live quite comfortably, if only inside the territory of Briar Ridge. For now, that was calming. It was calming every time he kept coming. It was calming still.\n\nAnd he kept coming there a lot. As soon as this drop of comfort landed on his tongue, he was hit with a realization of how badly he needed it to be there. How badly he needed *Something* To keep him going. Maybe he wasn't a good businessman, because bare ambition didn't cut it anymore. He was cold. He was tired.\n\nHe wasn't sure which part of Briar Ridge was the most exhausting: the looming danger evident in every step, every whisper, the way shadows stretched and the way forest smelled; the danger the origins of which he couldn't adequately grasp. Or was it the way almost everywhere he needed to be led through handiwork? However intelligent or charismatic he was, at some point, he needed to be able to lift a cart, or drag a bag, or carry the crates, even the thought of which made his back throb. He had not yet discovered a man who would be an exception to this rule.\n\nOr maybe, it was the fact that these two factors combined, the never-ending tremor in his hands from both of them, made him look like a mess. The upkeep required so much more effort than it did in Richmond, but Lewis stubbornly refused to give up. He was always like this; the more Briar Ridge pressed him, the harder Lewis resisted. \"Become like us,\" It whispered, \"Cover yourself in dirt, and blood, and calluses, go run around in the woods at night\". Lewis considered that, probably, he might be going insane.\n\nEspecially on days like these, when everything he did looked legal, the adrenaline wasn't there to uphold his spirits, and Lewis suffered the most. When his brain couldn't sparkle, or get distracted, so there was just sweat, and buzzing annoyance, and matted hair.\n\nBut on days like these, he had a place to be his light in the tunnel when everything else seemed lost. He had his own table there. It was quite nice: a lukewarm feeling of false belonging, of closing his eyes and believing that there was *His* Corner in this town where everything was so hostile to him, and he was secretly just as hostile to everything else. The more tired he got, the clearer he realized: it wasn't hazing, or trying to scare him off. They just lived like this. And the longer he stayed, the more he would probably start to live like this, too.\n\nWho made up the idea that scars should look good on a man? Certainly not a man like Lewis. His beauty was being smooth, slick, impenetrable; wearing his own skin as an accessory. He did his best before he came to the diner: he washed himself, he brushed his hair properly, he changed clothes. Out of it all, his hair certainly looked the best: a rusty wave nestled on his shoulders. And yet, this couldn't drive away a tired sadness hung from his neck.\n\nHe knew, in a minute it would get better: a spoonful or two of the homemade stew or the well-marinated leg of the wild game would get him back into action (or, in a worse scenario, through this day). His overworked hands ached softly. *Everything was going fine*, he reminded himself. And soon, it was going to get even better.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "dzugaia lsu C/allanae",
"message": "If there was one thing in this life that Sugar Lou Callahan valued over all else, it'd be balance: dirt-coated knees under clean white stockings; mascara from a pan, blush from a run through the cold; time below ground, time in the sun. Today, she feared, was not properly balanced. \n\nShe had been in the diner since seven o'clock in the morning, held over from her normal early shift all through dinner 'til now. The other girls'd both been pulled from their jobs by family matters, or whatnot. It didn't matter to Sugar *Why* They weren't there, just that they'd abandoned her to a full day with a roof overhead and shoes on her feet. She was starting to itch all over. She'd pouted a bit when Cook told her to stay (she was sure Cook had a good, legal name, but long as she could remember, Memma'd always called him Cook, and Sugar would too), but quickly recovered when he'd sweetened the deal with a few cents extra pay. \n\nWhat was another four hours? Work at the diner was never strenuous. If every person in Briar Ridge decided to come for lunch on the same day, it would still be hard to consider that a busy afternoon by the standards of establishments in other, bigger towns. Sugar supposed, then, that it was the maintenance of poise that began to ache her after 8 hours. Here was that balance thing she was so fond of! She could summon poise, sure, but at the cost of equal time *Un*Poised. For every toothy smile to a patron, the universe demanded from her one bare footfall upon the Earth's surface. When a debt was accrued, Sugar could feel it like an extra helping of gravity, poured over her shoulders, all slow and heavy and dark like molasses. \n_ _\n\nShe felt it today. Cook sent her out the back door with a bowl of chicken and dumplings for her dinner break, and she kicked off her pumps into the dust. The back of her pale blue and white gingham dress met the ground as she splayed her body out, flat against the young springtime grass, the steaming bowl balanced on her chest where it burned a circle through her apron. She was only hungry for air and sky and stones and the tickle of little bugs in the fine hairs on her arms. The chicken and dumplings could go cold. She'd bring it home for Memma later on. \n\nAs Sugar lay and breathed and let time pass, the moon rose. Cook called her back, but by then it was too dark to track where she'd flung her shoes. The soles of her stockings blackened with damp soil as she searched, and Cook's voice bellowed out of the kitchen for her to *Come back in* God damnit! So, she scurried past him into the dining room, hoping he wouldn't notice the quiet of her steps.\n\nOn her circuit of tables, topping up tea and clearing dishes, Sugar noticed a new face in the clientele– and a striking one at that! Could this be the man Bea had told her about, who'd been in for dinner quite regularly in the past few weeks, making bold and flirtatious conversation? The scandal! Bea certainly was the type to be excited by such a presence, but Sugar was more critical of a person's character past whatever quality they asserted the loudest (which, she had found from her study of diner patrons, was usually the one quality these same folks so desperately wanted to present naturally, but didn't quite, so instead they needed to raise their voices about it). She was more interested in whether or not a person could blow all the seeds from a dandelion in one go, or how loud they could make a blade of grass whistle between their thumbs. How did they guide a caterpillar off the path to safety? Did they keep a cat's whisker when they found it shed on the seat cushion? \n_ _\n\nBea hadn't had any of those details about this auburn-haired stranger, so Sugar supposed she'd just need to find out for herself. She padded up to his table, oddly confident without her shoes.\n\n\"Good evenin', sir. My name's Sugar, I'll be takin' care of ya. We got chicken 'n dumplin's on special tonight– Cook's real happy with it. Old family recipe, 'n all.\" She paused for a breath and to perch her hands on her hips, \"What kin I get'cha?\"\n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "Lewis raised his eyes at the unfamiliar voice, generously smothered with a southern accent like bread with butter, smile on top like the glistening crystals of sugar, - and his heart skipped a beat. It was a woman and she was gorgeous: face like a frame from a black and white movie, a silhouette delicate and thin like that of a bluebell. Her light blonde hair frizzed around her face in waves, shining even under the dull lights of the diner. It must look majestic when the sun has an opportunity to light it up. Lewis's body relaxed; his hands stretched out on the table, instead of a stiff elbow-bent position he held them before without realizing it. And that smile! Oh, and those dimples! Rare beauty, - how come he hasn't seen her before? Was she new, did she just move in? Or maybe, she changed jobs from being the prettiest mannequin at the corner store, wrapped in satin, making people shake out the last of their money just from one bait of her lashes; to here, serving him food. Oh boy, he was so lucky.\n\nThere were women who realized how beautiful they were and the women who didn't. Lewis couldn't decide what type little Miss Sugar belonged to. The ones who didn't realize, loved being reassured of their looks; the ones that did, preferred compliments on anything but. But what was Sugar like? What *Would* She like?\n\nThere was innocence in her eyes mixed with the daring confidence in her pose, intrinsic to a person who knew what they were doing, into explosive substance. *Sugar*. She didn't act like a new hire at all. She looked at him like she already knew what he wanted, and well – was she wrong? *\"I'll be takin' care of ya\"*, she said. *Oh I'm sure you will.*\n\n\"Chicken and dumplings sound delightful.\" Lewis raised his eyes at Sugar, inviting softness painted on his pupils, \"I'd ask for one of those heavenly smiles to go with it, but you're probably fed up with guys like me demanding it from you. Cannot blame them: seeing a glimpse of such beauty, cannot wait to see it again.\" He gazed down, as if slightly embarrassed by his own directness, \"The best thing to see after a long day, I'd say. Right after them dumplings.\"\n\nHe smiled at Sugar, sharing a simple joke and carefully feeling her out. Did she like being joked with? She looked at him like they were equals, and even the tempting \"I'll take care of ya\" Sounded friendly rather than obliging. So, he extended his hand, palm open, for Sugar to shake. Like equals. Would she like that?\n\n\"I'm Lewis,\" He said, sincere, \"It's a pleasure to meet you\".\n\nAt that second, Lewis enjoyed the idea of his hands being roughed up, - that little bit he could enjoy something so annoying. If Sugar would shake his hand, she would feel the callosity, and maybe, feel sympathy for him. Or maybe, she'd empathize: both of them, hard workers at the end of their respective long days. Both of those were fine with Lewis; both would feel like closeness.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "dzugaia lsu C/allanae",
"message": "Sugar's eyes widened as Lewis animated before her. Immediately, he struck her as a thing the world might set loose to sew trickery. The only thing she'd seen that compared to his slick way was how a piece of cloth moved underwater: taken by currents that could only be perceived when they acted on something else. She didn't know what forces were acting on Lewis, but she wondered more than once if he was an unfortunate fox, spellcast and cursed to walk on two human legs. She blinked twice into the silence he left upon extending his hand, and she took it cautiously. She had read enough folktales to be wary of making deals with such tricksters as this, and suddenly she worried that she had so freely given her name to him, as well as a handshake. \n\n\"Oh,\" Sugar started, \"You ain't gotta say all that, Mr. Lewis. You only gotta tell me what you want ta eat.\" Her raised brows flattened as she glanced down to her notepad and carefully scratched the words `chicken and dumplings` with her stub of a pencil. \n\n\"I don't rightly know how you could wet your whistle with my smile, so is there somethin' I can gitcha ta drink instead?\" She kept her mouth pointedly straight, making an unusual expression as she superstitiously tried to avoid showing Lewis her teeth. Her pencil was poised over her notepad, but her eyes were on him, watching for tufted ears hidden in his hair, or constricting slitted pupils. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "Her hand wrapped around his cautiously, carefully, slowly. It was small and warm, its warmth deep-rooted, like that of loose soil on a summer day that had properly soaked up the sun. Her face, however, did not look half as cozy. Sugar's mouth straightened up into a tight-lipped line, not a speckle of her pearly white teeth visible anymore. Damn. \"Am I that scary?\" Almost asked Lewis, but the sentence got hooked to the very tip of his tongue. He knew that it wasn't about his looks. He, once again, had taken three steps, when there only needed to be one. Tired and somewhat lonely, he was starved for attention and closeness, so he went from \"A\" To \"D\" And threw all he had at a pretty face. Lewis Ashworth, losing his touch. Eligible bachelor and Richmond, and now, rejected by a waitress in a hole in between the forest.\n\n\"Didn't have to.\" He agreed tamely, \"I just wanted to. In my book, beautiful women need to be told they're beautiful, otherwise, the world ain't spinning right.\" \n\nLewis peeked at Sugar scribbling down his order. There was something so magnetizing in her movements, so interesting: like everyone learned how to stand, how to hold the pen, how to play with their hair in the same school, and Sugar went to another.\n\n*\"I don't rightly know how you could wet your whistle with my smile\"*, she said. Well, there were a couple of ways Lewis thought of, - on the spot, no less, - that could do just that; but the thought was fleeting and rather sad. At least, Sugar knew how to stand up for herself: he respected that in a woman. He knew the girls could be called nasty things for saying \"No\", in that same diner no less; but frankly, he would know jack shit about that. His closest experience to womanhood was being catcalled from the back.\n\n\"Maybe you can tell me that,\" Lewis said simply: no softness, no coldness, just lightly friendly, taking a step back. Maybe he could still salvage his awkward introduction, \"What do you like to have with your dumplings?\""
},
{
"author": "dzugaia lsu C/allanae",
"message": "Lewis might be classified as refreshing if he weren't so confounding. Sugar wasn't sure what to do with his compliments; she neither accepted nor denied them, just quirked her head like a dog hearing a word it recognized. When his cool, careful tone was replaced with one more familiar, she relaxed, but not all the way. His newest question sat with her oddly. \n\n\"Well, just about anythin', I suppose.\" She supplied, wondering what answer he wanted to hear, \"I kin bring ya a sweet tea.\" She tested it out, her eyes flickering between his. Giving a short little intake of breath, she puffed it out and slowly shook her head. \n\n\"Boy, you know Mr. Lewis, I heard 'bout'cha from the girls that usually work the dinner shift here. I thought they was makin' stories fer laughs, but it's true. You're a funny bird, you know that?\" Sugar confessed, feeling better as soon as she'd shared her thoughts. Her eyes were wide and earnest. \n\n\"Not that I mind, it's jus' that, I get used ta the same typa folk comin' in here. They talk a certain way. Get they food 'n get on with their day, you know?\" She continued, pursuing her stream of consciousness, \"Where you from, anyway?\" \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "Lewis attentively watched Sugar's shoulders relax. He felt his lips quirk up again. So, no seduction. A normal, boring person's voice was in. *Whatever she wanted.*\n\nSugar's voice sounded careful when she answered like she was walking on ice. Lewis got the impression that she was feeling him up the same way he was doing it with her. Interesting. He wondered what, on her side, she wanted to know about him.\n\nEven her insecurity in her words was charming: Lewis wanted to show Sugar that there wasn't any right or wrong answer. Whatever she'd say, he'd take it. He wanted to ask her about alcohol, ask if she drunk to see how she would react; but he only got Sugar out of her spooked state, and wouldn't be risking his progress.\n\nSugar's hesitant olive branch of gossip excited Lewis so much he had an urge to catch on fire. He wanted to go all in, throw his cards on the table, tell her that everything she heard was true without listening first, but that would be too intense. A normal, boring person would never do that.\n\nA side of him wanted to smirk and say *\"Yes, of course they were talking\"*, but he wasn't delusional yet. Even in the quietest of places, he was well aware, his behavior wouldn't be gossip-worthy. He was working on it, of course, but right now, in this diner, he wouldn't talk about the tired pile of a man clogged up in his corner. The girls were very nice to him, of course, but it never went further than a couple of playful compliments. No matter what was said, his hands were always firmly laid on the table, so it was hard to imagine what \"The stories\" Could revolve around. Especially the stories so wild they deserved laughter. Maybe, he thought, when off the clock, Sugar was a more jocular person.\n\n\"I try,\" He said simply. Sugar seemed more relaxed now, and it was the best thing Lewis could've hoped for, \"So, you say, the stories? Can't help but wonder what they are about. Care to share, if it won't get you in trouble?\" The lightest teasing. What trouble can a person get in at Briar Ridge? With its whole population of twenty people constantly decreasing, Lewis doubted anyone there ever got fired.\n\n\"Would you prefer it if I stayed silent?\" He asked without a shadow of offense or hostility in his voice. It seemed that Sugar wasn't about his games, so maybe, asking her directly would warm her up, \"Richmond.\" Lewis added quickly, the word ricocheting off his teeth. It wasn't pleasant, and he tried to chew it off by asking: \"And you?\". A small mischievous gleam lit up in his eye, harmless, when he added: \"Or I can try to guess if you'd like\".\n\nIt was a weird feeling, talking about Richmond here. It seemed like people in Briar Ridge all carried some mysterious sickness that made them think their town was the only town in the world. And, Lewis hated to say it, it started to rub off on him too. Richmond already began to feel like a distant memory to him, like a picture from his parent's old postcard rather than a place where he studied, where he loved, where he lived. It was like that other Lewis was a completely different person.\n\n\"Sweet tea would be very nice,\" He said, that different person, his smile with teeth well-hidden, chaste, \"Please, grab yourself a cup too, if you'd like. I'll pay for it. Consider it a tip for the news.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "dzugaia lsu C/allanae",
"message": "Sugar actually took a step backward— a half step, really. This man! She could feel him reading her, watching her skin prickle and her eyes move. He moved himself to match her. She thought about how a cat looks on over a rabbit nest until the mother is gone, and then it bunches and relaxes its muscles until it's calculated the right moment to bound in and snatch up a baby in its teeth. She thought about how a cat then toys with the little life it has won, tossing it in the air, and bounding over to take it up again before the thing has time to flee. \n\nNot that she thought Lewis wanted to *Eat* Her, no— he'd already ordered the chicken and dumplings. She did wonder, though, if he wanted to toss her about. By the way he was adapting himself to her, she couldn't help but feel confident that he was some kind of predator-type; she began to resent feeling like prey. This was *Her* Nest! Why should she put up with cats all sneaking around it? \n\n\"It rightly would get me in trouble, Mr. Lewis, 'n you kin talk all ya like, but what I'd prefer is ta bring ya your food 'n drink, like it's my job ta do.\" She was standing her ground, but her eyes were still round and innocent, her voice an up-spoken coo. \n\"No need ta guess, I'm from here.\" She clucked, pulling up her notepad and writing down `Richmond,` just in case the girls didn't know it, yet. When she was done, she looked back up at Lewis, trying to discern if he'd changed himself to match her again while she'd been distracted. Her eyes narrowed: he had. \n\n\"I got work ta do Mr. Lewis, I cain't be sitting around drinkin' sweet tea. 'Sides, people usually leave their tips in change, which I would very much appreciate.\" Sugar turned on her heel in a slight huff, hurrying off to the kitchen to put his order in. She was back with a glass of tea in a few minutes, setting her stare on Lewis from across the diner as she brought it. \n_ _\n\n\"Now, Mr. Lewis. I'm gonna ask ya if you'll be needing anythin' else, by which I mean food 'n drink. When I ask ya, you say, 'No Sugar, thank you,\" *Or*, you say, 'Yes, Sugar. I'd like–' 'n then you say the thing you need. That's how things go around here, ya understand?\" She instructed carefully, pleased with herself to have solved her awfully distracting Lewis problem so easily. Truly, it didn't occur to her that he might want to deviate from her rules. \n\n\"Will ya be needin' anything else 'fore your supper comes out?\" Sugar was eyeing him expectantly, her lips parted, as if ready to mouth the words they'd rehearsed a few seconds ago. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "Sugar took a step back, and Lewis's heart stopped. Was she leaving? Again? Already? Was it Richmond? \"I hate Richmond,\" He was about to tell her, \"And I really like it here,\" But something stopped him. She wasn't leaving. She was studying him again, this time with something that looked like suspicion. Maybe she recognized him? Knew his father? But then, she didn't say anything, and Lewis decided to ignore it. If she'll share her suspicions, he'll learn about it one day. If not – then it was just a passing idea, and it didn't deserve his attention, since it didn't deserve hers.\n\nLewis wasn't a fae, of course. He couldn't read her thoughts, however he tried. But if he could, he would've told her that she was wrong: he *Did* Want to eat her. He wanted it so badly he could've had a plate of food before him and still starve.\n\nOf course, he nodded seriously at Sugar sternly telling him about her potential troubles. Even if it was a trick to get him off her, Lewis allowed it. He tried to pretend that he didn't care how she wrote his words down in her little notebook. So, she did want to know him, hm. He bit his lip, delight bubbling in his body. How naughty of her – being so strict of *Him* For his little games, yet making up so many of her own. The diner was far from the rush, and he knew that the other girls never had a problem staying for a chat. In the end, the client was always right, wasn't he?\n\nBut Sugar was scolding him like telling her nice things and making the small talk that she, herself, started, was a special diner crime. \"You kin talk all ya like\", she said, and anyone else would've heard hostility there, - but Lewis heard hope. He asked her if she wanted him to keep silent – and she didn't. It was adorable of her to keep him this invested and entertained.\n\nWas he embarrassing her? He never would've guessed.\n\n\"My tips will be right where you want them, Sugar,\" He called after her, on a breathy exhale, until his breath got stuck crosswise in his throat. She was barefoot. \n\nThe soles of her stockings were brown, but it didn't seem to faze her in the slightest. *Fuck it,* He thought, his heart a drum parade in his ears, *He didn't need to understand her. Why would he need that? Why would he need such a boring, dull, stale thing?*\n\nAnd then Sugar came back. And Lewis probably expected her to calm down, was prepared to warm her up again, but by her determined walk it was obvious that she had decided... Something. Lewis fixed his wide-open eyes on Sugar and prepared to listen.\n\nAnd oh, was her idea wonderful: he liked it a lot. Was she trying to contain him to avoid containing herself? What would the next step be, tying him up and pressing him down to stop him from running his mouth? *Seriously, Sugar, if I got under your skin and now it itches, you could've said just that*.\n\nBut he didn't mind. He was getting used to her wording. And so, Lewis Ashworth carefully put on his most sultriest, softest, velveteen tone of voice and said, breathy, heavy, so completely seriously, with the same good boy gaze he had when he was listening to her give him *Commands*:\n\n\"Yes, Sugar. Of course. I'll do anything you tell me.\" - and then he laughed. He laughed, because it was funny, and because it was hard to keep a straight face when Sugar was so unpredictable and raw and open before him – he just didn't know where to look yet, \"No, nothing else for me. Thank you, Sugar.\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "dzugaia lsu C/allanae",
"message": "Ideally, Sugar would have wanted Lewis' tone more *Neutral* Than it'd been presented, but the content of his answer was satisfactory. Hopefully this meant she could look forward to an uneventful remainder of her shift, now that he'd been informed of the rules. She looked hard at his eyes before she nodded curtly once, smiled a little triumphant smile, and turned to care for the rest of her tables. \n\n\"Cook, I don't suppose you'd let me work in my stockin' feet for every shift, would'ja?\" She asked dreamily, hanging in the pass between the dining counter and the kitchen, her chin propped up in her hands over her elbows as she waited for Lewis' supper to come up. Cook stopped what he was doing and looked, alarmed, at Sugar. \n\n\n\"You aint– you ain't *Barefoot* Right now, are ya girl?\" He demanded. Sugar stood up straight, fear in her eyes. She hadn't considered such a severe reaction.\n \n\"No, sir. I's jest–\" She tried to backtrack, but Cook was already rounding the kitchen door with a dish of hot chicken and dumplings, his eyes immediately falling to the waitress's feet. \n\n\"Oh, Sugar!\" He scolded, \"Where're your shoes at, girl?\" Despite his protest, he handed her the plate. He had no other girls on the schedule, shoeless or not, he needed Sugar and all that came with her. \n\n\"I dunno, sir, I jes'— I jes' musta lost 'em,\" \n\"You take this to that table, then you go 'n *Un* Lose 'em, hear me?\"\n\"Yes, Cook.\"\n\"What was that?\"\n\"*Yes,* Cook.\"\n\n_ _\n\nCook turned back into the kitchen, and Sugar turned to the dining room, weaving around the counter, her brows pulled together. *It was so dark outside*, how would she find them shoes in the tall grass back behind the alley? Lost to her concern, troubled by the confrontation with Cook, she idly set Lewis' plate before him without pausing to assess whatever potentially greedy/curious/peevish look that her new acquaintance may have aimed up at her. She showed no signs of addressing him before she was pivoting again, her mind occupied only with the new objective set for her: find the shoes. \n\nConveniently for Lewis, his table was not so far from the kitchen pass to leave any loud conversations between the staff unheard. If one's ears were... Particularly hungry, any customer in a similar proximity may have picked up on poor Sugar's predicament.\n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "The lack of Sugar's reaction to his little trick surprised Lewis, and slightly cooled him down, but did not upset him at all. So, Sugar didn't mind him doing whatever he wanted, as long as he kept somewhat in constraints of her rules? Well, that kind of predicament he didn't mind at all. Lewis enjoyed her stern look, too: it made his body feel all tingly, and his ears feel warm. She was especially pretty when she was proud of herself.\n\nWhen Sugar left, Lewis leaned back on his chair. He wasn't listening in intentionally, per se; but as soon as Sugar's melodic happy voice turned into a quieter and scared one, his ears immediately tuned into their dialogue. Unless Sugar was lying, and something worse happened to her, she lost her shoes and the man Lewis didn't know was screaming at her for losing them. Lewis's brows furrowed involuntarily. Was he going to go make her search for her shoes? In the dark, during her shift? What a dumb and needless display of power! As if a single person here would complain! The fact that someone wouldn't just let Sugar *Be*, as if she wasn't the best and most captivating thing that had ever happened to this diner, made his blood boil.\n\nSugar came back, and Lewis felt like he accidentally swallowed something cold, and misty, and poisonous. She didn't look at him, her eyes gloomy and shifty, she looked distracted and... Hurt. Lewis felt himself becoming even more concerned. What the fuck was wrong with this guy?\n\nLewis stood up rapidly, food before him forgotten, when she turned away. \"Sugar, wait!\" He called quietly, taking a step closer to her... And then taking a step back. He never noticed how short she was. Before, with her radiant energy, she was everywhere all at once, high as the sun – and he would never call the sun *Small*. But now, a shadow of her former self, she felt palpably fragile. It was much easier to be confident when she was towering over him, not the opposite. It was too easy to be non-threatening then.\n\n\"I incidentally overheard, and...\" He bit his tongue, struggling to look at her; seeing her shoulders tense from worry made him more upset by the second. *Cut the crap, Lewis, she could not care less about your stupid smug defense mechanisms*, \"Would you like it if I talked to your chef? Told him to leave you alone? Maybe he'd listen to a customer. ...If it won't get you in even more trouble, you know. Seems all I ask just adds problems to your list, doesn't it?\" He thought that was all he could offer her. He just hoped his voice didn't sound too intense.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "dzugaia lsu C/allanae",
"message": "As Lewis called out, Sugar finally remembered herself, and the role that overrided her need to find her shoes. She was supposed to be a waitress *Wearing shoes,* But simpler than that, she was supposed to be a waitress. The color of embarrassment overtook her cheeks as she walked back to Lewis' table, half startled to encounter him on his feet. \n\n\"I'm sorry, Mr. Lewis. I shouldn't'a left so soon- is there anythin' you–\" Their words overlapped and Sugar snapped quiet to listen to his confession. He was trying to offer a solution, she quickly realized, but in her mind, there was only one way through this impasse: find the shoes. Talking to Cook would accomplish little more than make him madder. She immediately disregarded that suggestion, but did not disregard Lewis' willingness. If he'd offered some solution, she could take that to mean he was on her team. However reluctant she was to make any deals with the creature before her, she admittedly softened as he offered himself with no offering from her, first. \n\n\"Would'ja help me find my shoes, Mr. Lewis?\" She asked, ignoring all of what he'd said (oh– but she hadn't ignored it at all! She'd processed his words inside the comfort of her own skull, and had paid forth exactly as many words as the situation demanded. With omitted acknowledgement, she really said so much about how useless his suggestion had been, but also about how grateful she was that he'd offered to help, in any case. Say what you want about Sugar's intellect, but she really is an efficient little lady when it counts). \n\"They's out somewheres in the back alley. I ain't suppose you got some matches on ya?\" Sugar debriefed, taking Lewis' hand for the second time, and dragging him out through the kitchen to the alley. The moon, no more than a sliver in the sky, offered little guidance. \n_ _\n\nCentered below the importance of her shoe-objective, was the recognition of the potential consequences for accepting Lewis' help. She could navigate anything in a future in which she was wearing her shoes, and where Cook was no longer upset. She could tend her tables, deliver checks, clean the counter, fill the salt shakers– somewhere at the end of that checklist sat the line item: `Settle debt with Lewis.`\n\n\"I kicked 'em out there,\" Sugar pointed straight ahead, where the grass grew tall, except where a path had been folded down to get to the compost pile, \"I'll go this way, you go that way. Light a match if'n ya got one, it's mighty dark.\" She instructed, setting off to the right, and parting the grass with careful hands. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "Lewis expected his suggestion to be disregarded, for him to be pushed off with polite and distracted \"I'm fine\" And \"I'll manage\". It was obviously a personal matter; and in matters like those, the help of strangers was nice, but not welcome. Sugar, however, had other ideas.\n\n*\"Would'ja help me find my shoes?\"*\n\nFor a second, Lewis stood still. His tongue laid in his mouth, viscous and clumsy. She was asking him for help. *Him*. For help.\n\nAnd before he could've considered how he should react, - Should he be eager about? Uncaring? Should he ask for something in return? – Sugar took his hand. And just like that, he was holding her for the second time in the evening.\n\nIn his heart, Lewis decided he was blessed. The angel came from the skies to him, to cure his loneliness, hold his hand, make him feel light-headed and needed. But in his mind, he was struggling to comprehend her. Did she like him? Was she sweetening the deal? Trying to understand Sugar was like trying to catch water rings with his stupid human fingers.\n\nAs they went into the cold, populated by midges *Outside*, Lewis made his decision. Her brain worked at a speed incomprehensible to him; where he was only walking up or down one step at a time, Sugar could allow herself to jump over five of them at once, just for fun; or roll down the stairs and be as good as new after. Time and time again, Sugar showed him that understanding her was something completely unnecessary in both of their lives. She was right: the best thing he could do was to do what he's told, keep his eyes open, and try to not get in her way. \n\nAnd speaking of keeping his eyes open...\n\n\"Sugar, what do they look like?\" He asked, but she didn't hear him. She already went to search at her designated part of the back alley, as interested as ever in the dark grass under her fingers. He hoped it wouldn't be much of a problem. It would be easier to orient himself by color, of course; but, if he were to find a shoe, he could probably guess it was hers. She was the first girl at the diner he saw walk barefoot.\n\nBut Sugar mentioned matches.\n\nSurprisingly, despite never smoking, Lewis usually carried at least a couple of matches with him, - usually, to his work. When everything became unbearable, he took a piece of paper he didn't need, struck a match over the table or the wall, and watched it disappear into nothingness in the comforting circle of the glowing light. That was his break, a way to turn his brain off and on again. But he never had them in his prettier clothes. His diner clothes. But he mixed and matched his outfits every time, so maybe...\n\nThrough the thin fabric in his pocket, Lewis felt a small wooden stick. His lips curled into a smile. He carefully extracted it out and struck it over the diner wall. The flame flickered.\n\nLewis decided to take it as a good sign. \n\nHe tried his best to cover the ground as well as possible, by walking slowly and holding the match closer to the ground. Sometimes he thought he noticed something, so he bent lower to try and pick it up; but it was always a lump of soil, a stone, or a weirdly-fallen shadow. He got more and more annoyed with himself. A captivating woman asked him for help, and he couldn't find a pair of shoes for her? Lewis stood up, sighed, turned around, and then stumbled over something.\n\nThere was no way. He stopped for a second, allowing the hope to warm his chest for a little bit longer, refusing to believe his luck. He brought the burning match closer and picked up the small kitten-heel leather shoe. It was brown, which, of course, was the worst color to try and find on the ground in the dark, but he found it. Lewis clutched the shoe in his hand.\n\n\"You were completely useless,\" He whispered to the match.\n\nThen, with his hope refilled anew, he tried to look around for the other shoe. He even got to his knees to feel through the grass. But alas, the second brown kitten heel was nowhere to be found.\n\nLewis stood up and shook the dirt off his hands and knees.\n\n\"Sugar?\" He called out, \"How's the search going on your part?\"\n\n||"
}
] | 627 | 8,756 |
841.75 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "l0st36",
"message": "**Characters featured**: James Jennings ("
},
{
"author": "James Jennings",
"message": "For days James had been discussing plans with interested townsfolk, for days he was preparing and going back over his plans to ensure everything looked right, for days he fretted over whether or not this would be a success. It was a relatively simple idea; set up tables and empty boxes in front of the church, invite people to donate supplies or to take what they needed, and simply stand and either observe or engage in friendly conversation. He'd posted fliers a week in advance, his father being more than happy to write them out for him in handwriting far neater than any James could accomplish. It was a sweet moment sandwiched between more reassurances from both his father and brother Jesse that the drive would go off without a hitch. \n\nStill, despite their constant positive affirmations and offers to help, James couldn't shake the lingering stress regarding what could go wrong and what people would think. After Sunday service he was often sore from standing but nothing he couldn't handle after some rest and stretches. This would be a new test to see how far he could push himself, James needing to have the same or even more activity during Sunday service but multiplied by three, the charity event being on a Monday and Tuesday, leaving him standing for hours at a time for three days straight. He was advised by those around him to take breaks during the event but James stubbornly refused, claiming that he was fine even if by the end of the first day his legs were shaking. After the first day he retreated into the church where nobody could see him, finally sitting and letting himself cry. His legs and lower arms felt like they were on fire and not long after he sat down to rest his wrist twisted, contorting and only soothed by the other hand gripping the arm below it and massaging the area. Luckily there was nobody to witness it, James leaving after an hour with the sweat on his brow dried and tired eyes still bright with hope for the next day.\n\nThey had a great turnout and he could only wish the next day would be the same.\n\nTuesday was quite similar with a slight decrease in attendance but not much of a change in donations. It was mostly spare blankets while others donated pickled vegetables and canned food they had to spare. Near the end of the day however James could feel the onset of another twisting, this time in his neck. Hastily he retreated, excusing himself and fleeing back into the church. There he lay on the floor, his fears of someone coming inside and seeing his neck locked looking to the side and his face suddenly twitching only leading to the episode going on longer than usual. By the time he was recovered it was time to clean up but the rest of the volunteers insisted that he just go home, seeming to have noticed that James wasn't doing too well. They said he'd done more than enough and deserved the rest. He didn't learn his lesson and old habits were swift to return. He missed out on something and on the long walk home began to partially doubt that they really meant it. Of course, he rationalized pretty quick that their tones were genuine and faces laced with concern - one person even volunteered to escort him home - but the feeling of inadequacy still remained.\n\nToday he wasn't working and could spend the whole day lounging at home if he wanted to, his father even suggesting that they play a card game later that day, but James refused to stay down. As much as his muscles needed reprieve he still refused, insisting on going out to get some groceries since they had run out of bread the previous night and to maybe pick up some cuts of meat for dinner. His father took out ol' reliable, something he used to remind James of all throughout school whenever he'd get in funks about not being able to keep up with his peers, a phrase his father hadn't used in years - *\"The chicken shouldn't compare itself to an eagle.\"*\n\nThe sentiment was about running your own race, not comparing yourself and your limits to the limits of someone entirely different. The chicken was a bird just like an eagle but couldn't fly as well. This didn't negate its status as a bird or valuable member of bird society, it just meant that their strengths were in different fields and that they provided different things to the table. However, the phrase fell on deaf ears, as James could only imagine himself as the only chicken in a world built for eagles, an image that only fueled his stubbornness. \n\nLong story short, James had left the house, proclaiming that he would be fine and return home soon. The errand run was going well, James grabbing a loaf of bread from the bakery before starting to head towards the butcher for some beef to use in a soup his father often loved making. The whole morning his worries about how he and the event was perceived kept echoing, eventually evolving into the idea that maybe he just wasn't meant to do what he wanted, ignoring the fact that he very much could with much needed breaks. He pushed himself too hard but could only see it as pushing himself to everyone else's perceived average, a baseline he occasionally felt he needed to meet even if he knew that it was a bad idea. Most of the time he was more accepting of his needs and limits but something about being around so many people and a resurgence of negative self talk had only made it more difficult to advocate for himself. Before he knew it the familiar tension in his neck made itself known, sending James rushing to hide so that nobody saw him. This was one of his worst nightmares, having an audience to something like this, and that fear only made it progress faster.\n\nMuscles flexed and twitched around his neck, starting in the back and making its way up until he was forced to stop moving.\n\nGetting to the side of the diner his neck jerked and finally locked in place, a feeling akin to rippling muscle cramps filling his neck and jaw and leading to James leaning his back against the wall. Carefully he slid down, his face stuck looking to the left while he got to the ground and lay on the dirt within the shadow of the diner. As per usual he forced himself to take deep breaths, focusing on his breathing and his environment to calm back down, but all he could focus on was the footfalls of the occasional passerby and a flush of red that filled his cheeks. He couldn't tell if anyone was looking at him but the mere idea of being stared at like this flooded his mind with shame and anxiety - again, only making the experience longer. James tried holding back the occasional groan or grunt but he was partially unsuccessful, a sudden twitch of the face or ripple through his neck startling one out of him. \n\nThe pressure of his upper back against hard ground was slowly making it better, a sack holding a loaf of bread being laid out by his side where he could not see. His forearm crutches were still fastened to his arms over his sleeves, the poles of the crutches ending just beyond his feet. A light brown jacket filled with cream colored fuzz was left open to reveal a plain white shirt underneath. By the time his neck was loose enough to be controlled James' head was pounding as was his heart. He stayed on the ground though, not wanting to risk anything by moving suddenly.\n\nThe rest of his body was even more exhausted than before if that was even possible and it left him wondering if it would be wise to get the meat after everything that happened. Moreover, did anyone see him? Did he scare anyone? The corners of his eyes were wet with tears but merely due to the pain associated with such moments, any emotional tears being willfully held back and reserved for when he wasn't in public anymore."
},
{
"author": "Victorine Astor",
"message": "In her time residing within the quaint town of Briar Ridge, Victorine had become a regular face at the diner. She had no ability to cook and no interest in it either. Though she ascribed to many of the contemporary ideas around a woman's appearance, namely that she should be very slim, she did still need to eat. And so her late morning visits to the diner kept her fulfilled of her usual regimented breakfast of two hard-boiled eggs and an entire kettle of green tea.\n\nWith a daintily-wielded teaspoon, the first of the eggs was cracked through. Her long fingers made the work of peeling and laying aside eggshell almost a graceful thing in their measured slowness. This was a meditative task of sorts. One she did while watching the comings and goings of the townspeople through the diner's window. \n\nWinter was waning, at last. Victorine hadn't quite decided if she would leave this place once the ground had fully thawed. Something about its inhabitants fascinated her. No, there was no real interest in Mrs. Wilson selling her goose eggs down at the town center. She also rarely looked twice at the thatcher's daughter, who'd made especially nice with most of the widows in town. She did look, however, at the way the townspeople's faces grew more tense with the passing of days. The fuller and fatter the moon grew, the more these citizens looked over their shoulders.\n\nThere was an air of suspicion in Briar Ridge overall. It had only grown thicker with the murder of the mayor. Victorine wanted to sink her teeth right into the intrigue. She just needed to find a way in...\n\nStirring a few drops of honey into her third mug of tea, she watched through the window as the boy (or man?) practically melted himself down the wall until he was flush with the earth. *What a curious thing*, she thought, lacing her fingers together and propping her chin on the two pointers. Her poised posture was interspersed with a sip of tea now and again, all in all watching James for the span of several minutes. She found something delightfully macabre in the way he could not seem to control parts of his body, as if he were twisted by invisible forces. \n\nResting her teaspoon on her napkin, she rose. A flash of a finger was given to the waitress with a tilt of the head, indicating she'd be just right back. Before long, her shadow was stretching lanky under the late morning sun, laying straight across James' body. She canted her head, studying him, her face eclipsing the sun and framed by the halo of it. She was a tall, willowy thing, belted neatly into a black trench that brushed across the tops of her black boots. Wisps of silvery hair blew from the long braid hung over one shoulder. \n\nEven in her shadow, tears still caught a glimmer in the corners of his eyes. Heat bloomed pink in his cheeks. He was a boy after all, she decided. \n\nCrouching down beside his head, her body between James' own and the general thoroughfare, she offered a gentle smile. Her lips were too small for her face, and instead the warmth seemed to linger in the golden hazel of her eyes. She stroked back some of his dark hair, her fingers very soft.\n\n\"God is faithful, who will not suffer ye to be tested beyond that which ye are able.\" Her voice was as delicate as her touch, the other hand reaching around to squeeze one of his own, uninhibited by the protrusion of a crutch. \"You must be very strong then.\" The last part was a whisper near his ear. So close, she smelled of lilacs. \"I'm Victorine. I would like to help you to rise and bring you inside. If you think you are able?\"\n\nTW: Disordered eating, ableism ||"
},
{
"author": "James Jennings",
"message": "James lay there, the cramping of his neck and jaw leaving the muscles sore in the wake of such an episode. He would need to turn his head slowly until the soreness went away after a day or two. He learned pretty quickly and moving his neck or other affected muscles suddenly would only result in more pain. It was because of this that the young man could only pan over slowly to gaze at the figure standing before him, their shadow casted from his feet and up towards his head. In all honesty it was pretty intimidating, nobody having responded with such calm stillness after something like this. Their face was blocked out by the sun, that titular ball of fire held behind their head. It was almost like a painting of a shadowy saint, a solid circle of gold being the only indication of holiness amongst silent darkness. A tilted head indicated curiosity or hidden intent. Maybe they were just processing it all before reacting? James sure hoped that was the case.\n\nThen they moved. Well, *She* Moved, stepping to the side and kneeling down. Her hair was braided and fell over one shoulder, platinum blonde to the point of practically looking like white silver. Sharp cheeks mirrored his own in a way, albeit devoid of the flush that had only intensified since it was confirmed that someone saw him - for how long, however, he had no idea, and he hated to speculate until the exact time was confirmed. A tiny, soft smile fell on equally tiny lips. In a scramble to analyze the situation and keep his cool it was hard to understand what her intentions were. Her eyes displayed warmth but the tilted head and prolonged observing still felt off. \n\nHer hand moved, dainty fingers reaching for his head. James watched closely before shifting away once she made contact with his hair. Her hand was gentle, her skin was soft, but at the same time it felt slimy and intrusive. However, he did let her grab his hand, James sincerely hoping that she didn't hoist him up by force.\n\nHer words were odd too. They reminded him of scripture or old English, as if she was reciting a verse or prayer. She spoke of suffering and strength, mentioning God only testing a person based on what He knows they can handle. As the woman leaned in, James tried to shift away again but was instead frozen in thought, her whisper feeling even more intrusive but her words interesting. \n\nShe said he was strong... Wait, was she praying for *Him*? God, he hoped he was wrong because then he'd need to explain to her why he didn't like that. In fact, maybe he'd need to tell her about boundaries too given her current track record. However, he also could tell that she was trying to help in a way she believed would work from her perspective, and that was... Kind of sweet? James wasn't entirely sure since this had never happened before. It was either indifference, concern, or disgust. Maybe she just said that because she thought he got hurt and that was why he looked like this? He didn't recognize her face or voice at all so it wasn't like she knew him since childhood like many of the people in town.\n\n*'I'm Victorine. I would like to help you to rise and bring you inside. If you think you are able?'* There it was, an invitation to help. I mean, at least she was asking instead of forcing it, right? \n\n\"It-\" James began for a second before clearing his throat, his voice coming out more like a crackly squeak since he was still recovering from the rollercoaster of emotions he was forced upon. \"Uh, it's nice to meet you. I-I can help myself up, don't worry. I... I guess going inside and sitting on a proper chair is better than being in the dirt. Just uh... Just give me a moment.\" James concluded, remaining silent from here on out as he shifted his body fully away from Victorine. Even though it would be easier to get up with assistance he still felt like accepting the offer would give the wrong impression.\n\nBesides, he was the one in control of his body if he did it himself, not a total stranger he just met. Slowly James rose off the ground, using his elbows first before moving to his hands until he was sitting upright. From here he leaned against the wall for extra support before sliding one arm out one of his crutches and using it almost like a cane, setting it upright before grabbing the handle. James lifted himself up until his stiff legs could get underneath his body, then relying on them for extra strength and eventually the other crutch that was still attached. It was a slow process but that was for the best since he didn't want to accidentally hurt himself or get dizzy.\n\nJames didn't bother to slide his arm back into the recycled belt since he would be taking them off anyway once he got seated inside. With that James began his stroll up to the front door, going slow at first to make sure he was definitely stable before returning to a more normal pace. \"So,\" James began again with another sigh upon reaching the front door, \"Did you... See anything? Like, how long were you watching?\" He continued, stepping to the side of the door and releasing one hand from the crutch in order to pull the door open, using the other crutch to keep it open before promptly sliding in. \"Just so you know, I'm usually inside when that sort of thing happens and it doesn't happen a lot, so I'm not suffering if that's what you were implying earlier.\" James continued and finally concluded, ending with a nervous chuckle and forced smile as to not appear upset even if it didn't feel the best. From here he simply waited for Victorine to lead the way, not quite knowing where she sat or where she would be sitting."
},
{
"author": "Victorine Astor",
"message": "This was not the first time and would certainly not be the last that someone had avoided her touch. She fancied that she was called to the most wounded of souls, and those were always the ones least likely to accept comfort. At first, anyway. Pursing her lips, she rose in one motion so easy it almost seemed cruel to the boy left laying on the ground. \n\nGirls like Victorine had had grace drilled into them from their first breath. Though she might shirk duty and rebuke tradition, *Stand still and be pretty* Was as innate as breathing. Even motionless, the posture she assumed seemed too elegant for the rustic village she stood within. Feet side-by-side, long arms dangling fingers laced together, her face was thoughtful. It seemed almost coincidental the way she left herself between James and the main walkway, shielding him from view and interruption. \n\nHis body language was clear enough, the way he shifted away from her. She did not intervene, other than to stand vigil, unerringly patient. The pad of one thumb stroked almost imperceptible at the lacquered nail of her other thumb while she watched him. There was some curiosity in her about how he might find his way to his feet. It was not graceful, but certainly practiced the way that he got legs that did not seem to want to obey back under him again. One thick arched brow quirked to see him walk almost normally towards the door. She plucked up his fallen bag of bread and continued to wait.\n\nThere came some more practiced maneuvering on James' part to see both himself and his crutches through the door, Victorine the curious follower. The waitress inside looked concerned but busied herself. \"I came as soon as I saw you,\" The tall blonde woman said from behind him, \"This way.\" A light hand on his shoulder and she was stepping around James to lead him towards a small table by the window. There was only enough room for two, the occupied seat clearly marked by an unfolding meal of two eggs and a piping kettle.\n\nTucking herself neatly back into her chair, Victorine waited for James to see himself seated. \"The mention of God appointing our suffering are the words of Paul in Corinth. He and other Apostles established a church and to say there was a great lot of testing of the faith of new converts, well...\" Her brows flicked up, and she gave a sheepish smile. Her voice was soft and sounded almost stiff with the rigidity of a Midatlantic accent, though it was much more sedate than the vibrant voices heard on the radio. \"That is to say, suffering can be used interchangeably with *Testing*. From what I've seen, it seems you have learned a good deal in the tests of your body. Not only about how to navigate difficulties, but... Perhaps also about yourself?\"\n\nGreen tea wafted fragrant tendrils from the spout of the kettle on the table between them. Her mouth watered, a fact that she kept to herself. Her hands were laced on her lap, beneath the table. Eyes fixed on him, she acted as if there was no food or drink on the table at all. There was none for James, at least not yet, and so it was only polite to ignore the presence of it entirely. \n\nA waitress approached, her apron showing the wear of many many mornings of hard work. It could probably use a laundering too. But it was not out of sorts in Briar Ridge's diner. \"Coffee? Eggs, honey?\" She asked James.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "James Jennings",
"message": "He was quite grateful that Victorine kept her distance, allowing him to do what he had to without protest. However, he was so focused on getting up and into the diner that he'd forgotten the bread. Thankfully the woman, poised and graceful and oh so peculiar, had plucked it up off the ground for him. During his walk to the front door he looked back, noticing the bread in her hand and flashing her an appreciative smile and murmuring along the way, \"Oh, thanks! Totally forgot.\" The transition from dirtied street to clean diner interior was smooth, his technique of opening doors coming just as naturally as anyone else. Sliding in he held it slightly ajar with one of his crutches, allowing for Victorine to hold it open the rest of the way to let herself inside with ease. \n\nUpon entering he wasn't oblivious to the fleeting gaze of concern coming from one of the on duty waitresses, James giving a small smile in hopes that she'd see it and be reassured what all was well. However, his smile faded when Victorine answered his question. It didn't turn into a frown but it most certainly wasn't a grin, his expression being something akin to seriousness or becoming contemplative. If she approached right as it was ending then maybe she didn't see how his neck and wrist tensed and twisted as if they were trying to escape the cage that was his body. As grim as it was he was simply happy her immediate reaction wasn't righteous horror, he'd heard of cases in the past where people with epilepsy or other disorders were accused of being possessed and died due to the negligence and prejudice of others. He was grateful to have a community that cared for him and where most of them treated him like just another human being, not inherently lesser nor inherently inspiring, just human.\n\nReflections aside, James wasted no time and followed Victorine to a table, silently sitting across from her in the empty chair.\n\nAs he removed the remaining belt harness from his arm he kept his head tilted slightly in her direction, listening to her speak and occasionally glancing over with his eyes. Once it was fully removed James slid his legs fully under the table, leaning the crutches against his chair and resting his arms against the tabletop as he fully faced Victorine. The more she spoke the more questions and answers he got. She was probably religious, that was even clearer with the mention of specific people in the Bible. He didn't want to get into the specifics of what was going on to a complete stranger but he was willing to entertain her indirect queries with equally vague or basic answers.\n\nWith that being said, he was unable to really respond before a waitress approached, James offering a small smile and a tiny \"Good morning!\" Almost as soon as she caught his attention. However, he faltered once he was prompted to order food. James looked over at Victorine, seeing her waiting expectantly before looking back at the waitress and then to the table. James let out a small hum in thought, holding a hand to his chin while he contemplated what to get. He just had breakfast before leaving but it couldn't hurt to get a little something. Besides, he had money to spare, and it didn't seem that his company would eat until he had something too. Eventually James perked back up, facing the waitress with a renewed smile, friendly as always. \"I think I'll just have some toast with some jam and orange juice to drink. I don't care what kind of jam it is, whatever you've got is fine.\" James finally answered, the waitress scribbling it down in a notepad before flipping it closed. *\"Sounds good, I'll have that out in a sec!\"* Was all she said before turning around and heading into the kitchen to place the order.\n\nMurmuring thanks to the waitress as she turned her back, James was allowed to get back to Victorine, turning to face her again.\n\n\"Anyway, I can sort of see what you mean, but with the context you've given I also want you to know that my faith isn't being tested. I mean, my faith hasn't really faltered severely that much anyway even if it has been challenged sometimes. I don't know, I just feel like you oughta know that, it always grinds my gears when someone tells me my disability is a test from God, which I don't think it is.\" James began with a slight sigh, wanting to still emphasize that he wasn't bitter and that she'd hopefully get the memo that he wanted to get off of this topic. Some people asked him about any bitterness towards God when it came to how he was born, especially since he was in training to be a pastor, and he always denied any ill feelings towards Him. Sure, he felt like it was unfair at times, but that was just life so he might as well make the most of what he's got. It isn't always easy and some days are far worse than others, but he still lives and provides for his community in his own way, and he's just happy that he's been accepted by them. Speaking of community...\n\n\"So, um... I've never seen you around here before. Are you new to town? I know this isn't a conventional way to meet but I'd still like to welcome you here in case you are. I work at the local church and I'm training to be a pastor if that at all interests you.\""
},
{
"author": "Victorine Astor",
"message": "\"Testing isn't always testing of faith,\" She said matter-of-factly. Her eyes settled on him having seen himself seated. It seemed she had more to say, but in those moments of thinking, she decided otherwise. Whatever it was she thought about him, it didn't play out on her peculiar features. Those were politely friendly, eyes alert, little mouth uncompressed. \n\n\"I suppose you could say I am new.\" Further back in the diner, an older woman had a raucous laugh. She seemed to be catching up over brunch with a old friend and apparently the news was very funny. Victorine's gaze passed over James' shoulder, a flicker of annoyance appearing before fading away. \n\n\"A delight that you are training in the faith.\" Her eyes alighted on James again, studying the details there. Thick, expressive eyebrows over dark eyes. She wondered how they might look in anger, but something told her this gentle-seeming boy was not predisposed to such a dark emotion. A pity. \"It's said a man must have a true calling from God to enter the faith. Though...\" She leaned forward, her voice lowering a few decibels. \"There's quite an awful lot of gatekeeping in faith. Which, between you and me, should be for every person, don't you think?\"\n\nAny opportunity for him to answer was negated by the waitress coming back around. \"Orange juice, fresh squeezed.\" The small glass was set down on the table with a thump. \"Aaaand sourdough toast with sweet cranberry marmalade.\" A little saucer followed suit with two delicious-looking pieces of toast. \"You two let me know if you need anything, alright?\" The waitress gave James a friendly wink before turning on her heel.\n\nVictorine watched her go, feeling grateful that she'd been quick about bringing him around something to eat. The napkin she'd folded and placed on the table made its way back into her lap. \"I appreciate the welcome.\" Her fingers straightened the folded corner of the linen napkin below the table, eyes focused there. \"But I must admit, it would be nice to know your name.\" The girl looked up from the stubborn napkin corner, offering him a small smile."
},
{
"author": "James Jennings",
"message": "James supposed that Victorine was correct on testing not always being a test of faith, it just was so hard to not focus on that specific interpretation when the bible was thrown into the mix. Regardless of her previous statements it was easy to perk back up when she confirmed his suspicions, a good shift in topic that he so desperately desired. His face naturally broke into a wide smile that caused his eyes to squint ever so slightly, his back straightening beyond it's usual slouch with the mood rising. He couldn't help but turn his head to the side to follow the sound of laughter, recognizing it as one of joy and recollection. For some reason this invigorated him, just hearing someone be happy sending a wave of energy through his still aching bones. He didn't catch the spark of annoyance from Victorine though, having been too focused on the positive emotions of the laughing woman to dig into the other lady's fleeting expression.\n\nEven as the topic of faith continued - this time at his own indirect suggestion - he remained content. Sure, Victorine had a manner of talking about it that alluded to some bad experiences or ill feelings, but he was willing to discuss it further and reassure her that no such discrimination would take place here, not so long as he had a say. As Victorine leaned in, James leaned back the same amount, having quite liked the distance the two kept, and especially after how close the woman had gotten when they first met. James opened his mouth to respond before another voice disrupted the two, his eyes moving from Victorine to the waitress who was already back with his order. Polite as always James flashed a smile and leaned back more to give her space to set his foot down, carefully eyeing his orange juice and the toast he was given.\n\nThe little wink and invitation to let her know if they needed anything else wasn't lost on him and on instinct was responded to with a small thumbs up and a whispered *'will do'*.\n\nJames went for the orange juice first while Victorine got settled again, using both hands to hold onto the glass carefully. His fingers shook before they grabbed ahold of the glass, the action of grasping seeming to lock them into place while the other hand held it by the bottom, the fingers of that hand still twitching. His grip on things wasn't always too reliable so he was pretty used to airing on the side of caution by acting like everything he held was covered in oil. Once he swallowed and set the glass back down James gave Victorine another flash of a smile before softening, feeling rather glad that she appreciated his welcoming words somewhat. However, his eyebrows were shifted upwards apologetically when she also mentioned that he never told her his name. \"Oh yeah, sorry about that I must've forgotten. Uh, I'm James, James Jennings!\" He began, holding out a hand across the table upon revealing his name as an open invitation for a handshake. \n\n\"I do agree that some of the discrimination in the church is ah...*Disconcerting*, but I assure you that we do our best here to include everyone in the faith.\" James continued whether Victorine took his hand or not, getting right back on track. \"I've lived here my whole life and for as long as I can remember we've been pretty accepting all things considered. Sure, it ain't perfect and we still have work to do, but just know that you won't be treated as less because of who you are around here, m'kay?\"\n\nIf Victorine accepted the handshake James would retract by this point if she hadn't already, beginning to start spreading the cranberry marmalade on his toast as he kept talking. \"I mean, I haven't been disrespected specifically by the *Church* For being born the way I am, and the church here doesn't have any poor stances on women or gay people as far as I'm aware, so all things considered I think we're doing okay. Sometimes when people come in there's kind of a culture shock when comparing it to the rest of the nation. It's a shame really, you can't control who you love or how you feel inside, so why judge?\""
}
] | 833.5 | 6,734 |
439 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Lily Brooks",
"message": "The silver coin had left their pocket, stolen from her. A smile spread across her face, one might expect a frown instead but Lily knew exactly where that coin was. It was in the hands of one Jasper Hewitt, no doubt he was twirling it between his fingers as he made his way to the diner now, a smug smile on his face. Lily shook their head and chuckled, pushing open the door and waving at the waitress as she walked in.\n\nTheir game had started when Jasper, unaware of Lily's past, had tried to teach her, a well-practiced thief, how to pickpocket. The silver coin that Lily had stolen from the diner all those weeks ago had changed hands between the two numerous times, unseen and unnoticed. The coin was as much a game as it was a way to see if either of them had turned into one of Briar Ridge's mythical wolfmen. Wolfmen that Lily had not yet started to fear, by now she accepted they were real, but they'd left Carina and them alone so in her eyes, they really weren't that big of a problem.\n\nLily settled in the booth furthest away from the door. It gave her a good vantage point and lowered the chances of prying ears and eyes successfully noticing if the flask she carried accidentally tipped some less-than-legal liquid into her coffee cup. Oopsie. They waved a hand when the thief of her coin walked in, hoping to catch his attention."
},
{
"author": "Jasper Hewitt",
"message": "A poetic mind may have found the coin toss an appropriate metaphor, the twin faces of stark clarity and hubris held in uncertain limbo till the moment of landing. An optimist might have called it fate, while a realist would cast their vote on plain stupidity. If Jasper was any of these, or all at once remained to be seen.\n\nHe'd broken character. Some days it got harder to smile and play along, on days when the world felt chipped around the edges, what was real and make believe fracturing to prisms between the cracks. He'd seen Lily take the coin, blind luck they had not been caught but not everyone could be held to his standards. \n\nCard tricks, that's what he'd told her at first. For entertainment purposes. Respectable enough, grounds enough for the deftness of his hands to stay on. Maybe he wanted to truly help, maybe he just enjoyed the thrill of dipping back into the game, if only as play. She'd managed to take the coin back sooner than expected, something Jasper would credit himself for of course. As the coin switched home between their pockets, so did some fragile truths too. Not enough to make a whole picture, those fragments were to be under lock for eternity, but enough to where, for the most fleeting instances, Jasper could feel like himself.\n\nEither way, the edge of the silver coin spun between his fingertips with comforting familiarity, before eventually slipping into the breast pocket of his jacket. He was currently not the man who should be tossing silver about like he could buy the world. His schedule for the day did actually have time to accommodate a few hours of self indulgent metaphor peppered lamenting about his fall from grace, however that would have to wait till later in the afternoon.\n\nStepping through the doorway, Jasper inhaled the familiar scent of the dinner. The meetings were never etched in stone, but his hunch about crossing paths with Lily today had rang true. After a polite nod of greeting to the waitstaff he shrugged off his jacket and followed it beside him, slipping into the seat opposite like many times before. \n\n\"It feels like it's been an age. Time in this place seems to only move when it feels like it.\" He complained, a joke padded with unnecessary dramatics. \"Or maybe it has been and I thought to make it easier for you to get your coin back.\" He added teasingly."
},
{
"author": "Lily Brooks",
"message": "The woman who had left the silver coin as a tip initially had caught Lily, and followed them as Lily skillfully led her away from the more densely populated area of town to its outskirts. She'd allowed Lily to keep the coin, and then Lily never saw her again, vanished without a trace, like she'd been some kind of socialite ghost. She had looked the part too. But dwelling on the past wasn't one of Lily's hobbies, at least the one person who had seen right through her was gone now. Lily's persona remained firmly in place, even if more and more of her past was slipping through cracks here and there. These were cracks she herself created, truths she gave up willingly. Jasper had been on the receiving end of some of those truths, just as he'd been given some lies. Nobody in Briar Ridge, outside of Dimitra who had recognized her from a previous life, had been privy to Lily's full story, and they didn't quite know if anyone ever would. \n\nJasper had told her he was skilled in card tricks, and that certainly explained the nimbleness found in the man's fingers, but it didn't explain the full picture. He presented himself as a proper man, not one who engaged in criminality. Lily knew of very few people who could steal unnoticed without having walked a road that stood in opposition to the law. But she wasn't going to pry for information, not this time, not when she figured out that friendship was built on trust and not on gathering information for power.\n_ _\n\n\"How kind and benevolent of you,\" They said with a grin, wondering where that coin was hidden this time. His sitting across from her certainly made it a difficult endeavor, she may just have to wait until they were up and moving again. No matter, they could be patient if it served them, the coin would come back one way or another, she cared much more for the company than their game, even if she did enjoy it. \"Keep your eye on that dollar, you and I both know it'll vanish from whatever pocket you've stored it in pretty soon,\" She said and winked. It was a cheap ploy for him to pat or glance at said pocket, one she was sure he was much too experienced to fall for, but trying never hurt. \"So, we both live to see another day, and you've yet to sprout fur where it shouldn't be sprouting from, I take it?\" She had no clue where Jasper spent his full moons, only that he'd been doing it safely so far."
}
] | 490 | 1,317 |
491.777778 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Victorine Astor",
"message": "As evening encroached on afternoon, the diner began to fill. The bell on the door rang out a silver cheerful sound with each entrance and exit. Mostly these were bachelors tired from a long day of work looking for fare filling and simple. Here and there sat the occasional ladies who just wanted a teacake and some place to gossip. Seats were beginning to fill and Victorine's own waitress gave her a couple glance to see if she was still occupying the space.\n\nMid-February in Briar Ridge gave way to any type of weather. Sometimes snow, sometimes rain. Colorful bursts of the earliest blooms were usually nothing more than dandelions but welcome splashes of cheer against gray slush. Victorine had spent the better part of the afternoon watching the rain pour down against the window panes and hoping it might let up before she was to leave. \n\nFortunately, her patience was worthwhile. A silver half-dollar, dull with age, was tucked beside her plate for her waitress' patience and attention to keeping her tea kettle full. Stepping outside, Victorine saw the sky alight with the brightness of a coming sunset after rain. The streets were still damp and eaves still dripping but the air was clear, if cold. \n\n\"Far too cold,\" She murmured to herself only a few paces from the door. Pausing near the window, she pushed home all of the shiny black buttons on her woolen trench. Made of polished buffalo horn, they were an inconspicuous touch of luxury on the practical coat tailored to her slim form. She preferred only half of them buttoned *For fashion's sake*, but the cold curled its fingers down her collar where she would not permit it. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Lily Ann Brooks",
"message": "A rumbling in her stomach alerted Lily to the fact that she had not eaten anything for a full day. Hunger came with a distracted mind and a distracted mind in turn came with sloppiness, something they could not permit themselves to exhibit. Time to sample the local cuisine.\n\nAfter walking around for a bit Lily spotted the diner, rewarded with another complaining sound from her stomach. They found a table in a corner that allowed her to overlook the diner, and more important to overhear some of the conversations held within. Nothing as entertaining and useful as idle gossip. They ordered and paid for a simple meal. Eating it while shamelessly listening in on a group of women. If they wanted to keep the details of their talk private they should've spoken at a less obnoxious volume. \n\nA patron sitting nearby stood up and left, a sliver of silver caught her eye, a silver half-dollar. A day's work for some in this town. Lily never said no to easy earnings. If the diner staff had wanted to claim it as a tip they should've been paying better attention to their customers. As they made their way out of the diner she walked past the table. With a smooth and well-practised gesture the half-dollar found its way into her pocket. _Thank you kindly for your patronage._ She continued walking as if nothing had happened, hoping the brief glance around would prove adequate and nobody had seen her swipe the coin.\n\nLily exited the diner, wrapping her coat tightly around her to shield from the cold left behind from the recent rain. Rain felt cleaner here somehow. They took a deep breath, filling their lungs with the crisp humid air and started walking into the direction of the room they were renting."
},
{
"author": "Victorine Astor",
"message": "One of the many privileges that came with being born wealthy was the ability to be generous towards others while experiencing no personal loss. A silver half-dollar, ultimately, was nothing to her. But she still felt smug satisfaction in spying the smile through the window, like a phantom benefactor. The tendency towards these gestures was because she was both good and kind, and certainly not because holding sway over peoples emotions was its own form of power. \n\nSo it was that in tightening all the fastenings of her coat, Victorine's eyes took a little longer than a glance in looking through the window. The waitress that she'd come to be familiar with in the afternoons was named Maggie. And it was not Maggie's hand that retrieved the silver coin, but the hand of another. Setting her small mouth in a hard line, she watched the smallish woman pocket the money and make her way out of the diner.\n\nShe was slick and seemingly unbothered. A fact that stirred Victorine's ire. Perhaps the young heiress felt safe in Briar Ridge. These were not the wide, paved streets of Washington DC or New York City. The eyes here were not often greedy. And though the words may have been uneducated, they were often genuine. These facts instilled the muddy roads with a softness that urged the girl to moving. At a distance, of course. \n\nThe tall blonde woman was, unfortunately, not one that blended much into a crowd. She knew as much, and kept her distance. Or so she thought. She made no effort to conceal herself otherwise, because who was she if not someone with all the right in the world to walk where she pleased?\n\nShe was confident in following the thief, even from the denser area of the town center to where the road grew rough, and buildings were further apart. These were residential areas. Folks here and there made their way home, but the crowds had gone. Though the sun still lingered in the sky, it was sitting low and lantern lights had already begun to wink alive on the other side of dim window panes. \n\nHer interest in finding where this little thief was going had begun to dissipate. Or perhaps that was the gnawing anxiety of common sense finally come to harangue her subconscious. Sighing, she walked double time, closing the gap between herself and the girl she had trailed.\n\n\"Hello,\" She said, coming along beside her. It was not uncommon for the residents of Briar Ridge to say hello to any stranger in passing. But it was less common for them to keep pace and walk along beside them. \"I thought I saw you at the diner back there.\" *Thought* Became *Thott* And *Diner* Nearly lost its letter *R* Altogether. Her crisp accent was unquestionably Transantlantic, though spoken at a natural clip, without the fervent melodrama of movies and radio. She seemed almost friendly, purely conversational. She even offered a little smile.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Lily Ann Brooks",
"message": "Lily left the diner unaware that she'd been spotted. Her sleight of hand had not been covert enough. _Sloppy._ She may have failed at going unnoticed, the blonde woman prancing about like she owned the place was doing an even worse job at staying hidden. Lily had long since understood the importance of staying aware of one's surroundings. Especially when those surroundings changed but the people in them did not. The woman was following her, that much she knew. Her motives were a mystery. Had she come to collect the bounty that still remained on her head? Had she been sent to finish the job those men had failed so miserably at? Whatever the reason, Lily did not want the impending confrontation to be held in a place with onlookers. Lily was far too new to town to have any sway on its people. On top of that, should this woman be connected to the ashes of her burned past, she'd rather not see those scattered on the wind, blown into the eager eyes and ears of Briar Ridge and its inhabitants. \n_ _\n\nShe kept her pace steady. Step one of leading someone to a place of your choosing was making them believe you were not leading them at all. If the blonde figured out Lily was on to her she might start doing things entirely unaligned with Lily's best interests. She was not sure how long the other had been following her, but over the course of a considerable number of minutes, the thief had managed to get them both closer and closer to the edge of town, away from prying eyes. The revolver she kept hidden on her person burned against her skin. She would not hesitate to use it, should the situation call for it. It had served her well so far. The sound of hasty footsteps in her direction made her hand shoot to her skirt, hoisting up part of the fabric to get to the weapon strapped to her thigh. The action had been much easier when she still wore short dresses. How did women do this here? Before she was able to draw her weapon the blonde had already started talking. Her words were non-threatening, much to Lily's surprise. Brooks stood still, one knee exposed, skirt in hand, just barely covering the band hidden higher up on her leg. Had this been a situation of real danger, Lily would have been screwed. She'd have to find a solution to this particular problem later. Pants maybe.\n_ _\n\n\"Sorry, thought I felt a bug there.\" Not one of her best lies, perhaps one of her worst in fact. She quickly pushed her dress down again, smoothing it out while taking another step back, just to create some extra distance between her and Victorine. She had an accent she'd heard before. One belonging to fancy folks. Fancy folks that, in her freshly formed opinion, did not belong in Briar Ridge. Then again, Lily did not belong here either, and yet here they both were. Her own accent was also non-local, she was raised in an orphanage near New York City and hints of that origin still lingered in her intonation. She'd moved around a lot and as a result, so had her speech. Her words came out woven in an accent formed by years of intermingling and existing in different cities. She was working on pushing it to sound more Southern, but did not have nearly enough practice yet. Locals would easily be able to notice that she was not one of them. \"You may have, what's it to you? Why are you following me ma'am?\" Her tone was accusatory, as if Victorine was the one at fault here, not Lily. In Lily's mind this rang true, she didn't know the silver coin had originated from Victorine's purse. The friendly tone of the other did not match her actions. Friendly people did not follow others halfway across town. Lily did not return Victorine's smile."
},
{
"author": "Victorine Astor",
"message": "Of all things Victorine expected from this person, it was not that she would start hitching up her skirt in the middle of the path. Victorine was the last person on earth that might wear a gun under her skirt, so Lily's lie was clearly not believed, but her real intention was also not suspected either. Victorine's dark bushy eyebrows raised, her gaze alight with curiosity. \"An insect, of course,\" She said, glancing around the slush-filled wintry roads.\n\nSomehow, Lily's unsmiling expression did not seem to faze the tall woman from half a foot below her. In fact, she only seemed to smile more, a practiced expression that was equal parts demure and sweet. \"Well, it is such a lovely diner, don't you think? I often go there for eggs and tea, but I've seen people eat delicious looking things like hashed potatoes and the most divine smelling fried rashers. Have you tried them?\" \n\nIn the yard of the house nearest them, a large dog barked, his noise sounding hollow in the chilly air. Fortunately, he was tethered, but his message was clear. He wanted these two to move along from the borders of his property. As with many things, Victorine seemed to pay him absolutely no mind, waiting for Lily's expected agitation. A few drops of drizzling rain pattered down on them, catching up in her hair like tiny pearls. \n\n\"I also found it quite interesting that I left the waitress a half dollar, and I saw it go into your pocket rather than hers.\" There it was, that accusation. Strangely, it came with the same friendliness, wide-eyes slow blinking, the tone not at all matching the meaning of the words. It wasn't clear whether she expected explanation, defense, or simply to be returned the coin. Catching people off balance with vagaries was its own special kind of finesse.\n\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Lily Ann Brooks",
"message": "There was snow still covering nearby bushes, the temperature far too low to be hospitable to any crawling creatures. \"_Thought_ being the keyword there, I was mistaken. Obviously.\" She smiled, a smile that did not fully reach her eyes. She had a bad feeling about this woman, a feeling that only grew stronger as she continued to speak.\n\nLily's head snapped to the direction of the dog, Victorine remained calm and unbothered. That was something that made Lily incredibly uncomfortable. She was not used to someone else clearly having the upper hand in a situation. She was not used to having nobody to fall back onto, nobody to pull her out at the last second. They were not used to failing. Maybe she was not as good a criminal as she believed herself to be.\n\nVictorine was onto her, Lily had barely been in Briar Ridge a few days and already she'd lost her touch. Stealing in populated places was so much easier, they couldn't hide here, couldn't melt into the anonymity of a crowd, there were no crowds to be found here. She'd have to adapt, find new ways of sneaking things neatly into her opened pockets. They'd have to accept that she was not adapted to her current environment yet. The thing that bothered her most is that someone who clearly was not trained in the ways of moving through the world unnoticed had noticed her. Victorine reminded her of the nuns in the orphanage, a holier-than-thou attitude and harsh words spoken in sweet tones. People like that never failed to make Lily feel on edge. \n_ _\n\nThe kind tone of this woman made the blood in Lily's veins boil. It was a heat that did not show on the outside, Lily had mastered the act of _'yes sir, of course sir, no ma'am you are right that was my fault, yes ma'am I will atone'_ long before she stepped foot anywhere near Briar Ridge. Being able to remain calm while facing accusations, whether well-founded or not, had proven to be an asset. Lily was someone who would remain stoic when yelled at, plotting revenge quietly while acting remorseful. She was also someone who knew when she was beaten, and this was one of those moments. Lists of options raced through her mind, scripts, emotions, actions, all part of complex and well-practiced formulas. They made a split-second decision and hoped it was the right one. _Use what you have, twist it if you must, and hope for pity._\n\n\"I'm sorry I-\" She looked down, breaking eye contact with Victorine. \"I really needed-\" She nervously rubbed her hand. \"I can give it back just\" They look up again \"_please_ don't tell anyone. I just got here, I can't go back, I can't be-.\" They paused, taking a deep breath, time for the truth. \"I have nowhere else to go.\" She could easily do without the dollar, but she truly had no place else to go. If the people of Briar Ridge found out she was nothing more than a common thief, would they still welcome her?"
},
{
"author": "Victorine Astor",
"message": "Her head canted to the side, the sunset glowing faint behind her. There was something knowing on her face, a subtle albeit persistently perverse sort of satisfaction. Did a manipulator recognize their own kind? It was impossible to say. Her dark hazel eyes gave a glimmer, and the painted lips pulled just so to the left. She was no threat, certainly, with her hands sweetly laced in front of her. But there was an unyielding self-assuredness that could be found unsettling. \n\n\"Well well well,\" She said on an exhale, a graceful sort of breathiness that lofty ladies tended to take on. Her fingers unlaced. Like a pair of leisurely doves, they floated beneath Lily's jaw, one on either side. Resting there, the thumbs gave a stroke across each pretty cheekbone, the touch light but too intimate for strangers. \"Sweet girl, how did you find yourself in this quandary?\" Pulling away, her fingers trailed from Lily's face. The very last one of them, the index finger, tipped her chin up as a parting touch. It was almost harsh.\n\nThese actions, seemingly like all of them, measured Lily in observation. Stirred her to a response, something else to study. \"Were you born in an unfortunate situation?\" Her brows knitted together in sadness, and she shook her head. \"I don't think so. You are far too sweet. And you are not from around here, that much is certain. So tell me, my darling, I know I must be prying just a little, but indulge me, hm? Why are you with nowhere to lie your pretty head?\" \n \n||"
},
{
"author": "Lily Ann Brooks",
"message": "Victorine's thumbs stroked their cheekbones and Lily froze. Her breathing sped up. She'd been in a position where she was treated like an object to be studied before. Hands had grabbed her chin, turned it this way and that to appraise her potential value, to see if hers was a face that could prove to be an _asset_. Fingers had trailed across her cheeks before, and she had pretended to enjoy it. No such pretense was present now. As the blonde woman's fingers left their face, the thief snapped out of the memories. Her right hand shot up to grab Victorine's wrist as her index finger tipped her chin up. \"_Don't-_\" The word was spoken through gritted teeth. She took a deep breath and she unclenched her jaw. \"-touch me.\" She released her grip, roughly pushing the arm away from her. Her hands itched to hike up her skirt again, to reach for her weapon, to run again. But she couldn't, she wouldn't. She was done running. \n\nThey recognized a predator when she saw one, someone who thrived in the manipulation of others, someone who relished in wrapping people firmly around their fingertips. Lily had been one, but now it seemed she was a mouse and Victorine the coiling snake. The other woman had an air of innocence, but Lily was convinced that something much more sinister lurked behind that mask. Lily did not enjoy being studied and something about Victorine made it hard to uphold their mask.\n_ _\n\nShe huffed. \"You know nothing about me. Or about the circumstances of my birth.\" There was a hint of anger in her voice. Who the hell did this woman think she was? _Remember Lily, she knows you're a thief, she has something over you, however small._ She couldn't very well tell this stranger what she'd done. Not when she was still a wanted criminal. _My darling_, sickly sweet words, they had the opposite effect on Lily. In another context Lily might have seen this as affection, as flirting even. But not here, not now. \"You're right, you _are_ prying. Why I am here is quite frankly none of your business.\" She reached into her pocket and pulled the coin out, holding it out for Victorine to take. \"I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but I want _nothing_ to do with it. There. Take it. You caught me, red handed even. _Happy?_\" They feared it wouldn't be that easy, but whatever plan Victorine had, Lily wouldn't go along with it willingly."
},
{
"author": "Victorine Astor",
"message": "If the tall and pretentious woman was after a response, she'd gotten one. Her eyebrows raised at her arm being grabbed and shoved away. It was a practiced expression that did not reach her eyes. \n\nWhat trauma lay behind this other woman's response? What darkness? What pain? What she wouldn't give to know the intricacies of it. To heal and comfort. What she would give to feel more of that rage, pushing her away, futile with the effort. But she realized quite suddenly, that she had clearly taken the wrong approach. If ever there had been a niche in the guarded walls that comprised Lily's person, even the smallest crack to slip through, she'd missed it. Those walls were closed up tight. \n\nVictorine only received the smallest taste of what she desired in the tinge of anger present in Lily's voice. It was subtle, but it was there. Victorine had overturned her confidence, had stirred something dark held close within Lily. No doubt, she would regain her assuredness away from here and now, but the urge to keep prying at those walls, with force if need be, surged like a hunger in Victorine. \n\nHer eyes went so wide, looking voracious, as if they might swallow Lily whole. Whites surrounded the golden-brown irises. Lily was reflected in the black pupils. Possibilities unfolded. Yearning bloomed. The dog letting out another string of barks from not far off reminded her of time and place.\n\nNot here. Not now.\n\nShe swallowed that hunger, and breathed deep, an audible inhale through her nose. Her mouth spread into a smile. \"You're right,\" She whispered. Whatever Lily was right about, Victorine didn't say. Her eyes glanced down at the coin, as if it meant nothing to her. Turning on a heel, she tightened her coat around herself and walked back the way she'd come.\n\n||"
}
] | 397 | 4,426 |
743 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "francis estep",
"message": "Something in Francis Estep's body was keeping him alive when he should be dead and gone. Call it magic, or call it a disease. Perhaps death would have been a greater mercy than the curse he was curled into, urging his traumatized chest to keep rising and falling. \n\nThe man had regained some color since he'd been found beneath the brambles, first having stirred at the shrieking of his mother. \n\n*\"He's dead!\"* She'd cheered when she saw him, clapping her hands with a disturbing, manic energy, *\"He's dead, oh thank Jesus!\"* \n\nFrancis had then fluttered open his bruised eyelids, it seemed, purely to spite her glee. She roiled in response, and fell in a tantrum to the snow. His father was stunned to silence by the whole ordeal, but was allowed to follow the mournful procession to the hospital alongside his daughter and Marianne Wilburn. Barbara remained under the watch of a neighbor, lest she try to finish her son off for herself. The elder Esteps' time in the forest was still entirely mysterious, but perhaps of all people, Marianne might understand the madness that afflicted them, having seen and heard what she had that morning. How a mother could so comfortably celebrate the fall of her son, though, might have proved particularly elusive.\n\nAt the doctor's ward, once he was cleaned, warmed, and made comfortable, Francis' death mask was only slightly brightened. He was made to drink some warm broth and only barely regained his voice. He spent his first words asking after his mama, and why she wanted him dead. Dotty assured him she'd just been in shock, that's all. She smoothed his hair back from the side of her brother's bed from where she bookended it against Marianne across from her.\n_ _\n\nThere were tears on Dorothy's cheeks. She'd kept her eyes dry through Frans' triage, through wringing her hands outside the curtain that had been pulled around the bed, but she'd cried when the doctor told her that her brother was going to die. Of course she'd cried, and only more intensely as Francis' injuries were described; what pain he must have suffered, his blood freezing him to the ground until he was found. \n\nHow many times had she wished him dead in their youth? How many times had she fantasized about pushing him into the Powell? He'd been awful. He'd stolen so much of her childhood from her, replacing wreckless joy with constant overthought. He had manipulated her and twisted her and planted ugly, knotty bulbs of self doubt in her heart, tending them carefully as she grew. He was the reason for so much hate and suspicion in her, and yet, she cried here at his sentencing. The blood they shared meant more to her than history in that moment and as with any situation where Francis was involved, she would question it later. She would roll it around and around and around in her head. She may even feel shame for her sobs, disappointed she hadn't summoned a righteous rage to spit on his chest and storm off to dig him a shallow grave. But now, she felt sad that her brother was dying. Now, she honored what she felt, as she looked her sadness in its eyes. \n\nThe doctor had given him some medicine from a dropper for the pain, and it changed the expression on Francis' twisted face. Unburdened, the freckled man's brow smoothed. He swallowed, and coughed with effort. He whispered again for ma and pa. He whispered the names of each of his siblings. He whispered for Dotty, and she went to him. \n_ _\n\n\"Stay outta the woods, Dot, okay? Ain't nothin' for you there.\" He struggled, and she soothed him quiet again. He seemed to be acting out a dream, his eyes half closed, and his cracked lips barely moving. Overcome with another wave of emotion, Dorothy relinquished her seat to her father, who moved stiffly to claim it but then only hovered there, standing shakily over his son. \n\n\"You're free now, Francis,\" Marvin told him, offering a string of coherent words- a rarity since his own time in the forest. Free from what, he didn't say, but Francis knew, and he recognized understanding in his father's voice. Frans smiled. \n\nOf course, he was free from the moon; he was a tide unbound, allowed to flow and ebb as he pleased, though it was undoubtedly his time to ebb. His parents had both recognized his curse with new eyes they'd earned in the woods, though they received the truth with wild differences. They had seen him for what he was, perhaps for the first time in his life: a werewolf. A beastly man. A liar. While Marvin pitied his curse, his mother loathed him as a monster. Dorothy had learned her place in the center, abstaining from questioning his disappearance each full moon and choosing instead to clean up the damage he had wrought in their household, as had always been her role. \n\nFrancis had chosen not to see any of it, opting instead for his typical station of survival at whatever cost. \n\nDorothy reached for her father's hand while turning her face away from the bed. As she led Marvin away, her eye caught on Marianne. They hadn't exchanged much more than sodden glances and clasped hands since leaving the orchard for the doctor's, but now, Dotty knelt beside Mari's seat. Reaching up behind the nape of her own neck, Dotty untied a length of string she'd been wearing beneath her sweater. \n\nA red cotton string was looped through a trio of gold rings. Dotty tied it around Marianne's neck, and the rings settled low on her chest. \n_ _\n\n\"Francis's. He loved 'em. Always had 'em on, but not for a while now. They're yours.\" Dorothy had to keep her words clipped, for it was all the sound her strangled vocal chords would allow. She supposed she was crying for Marianne as much as she was crying for herself. She saw the love in that girl, and saw the true warmth in her brother's eyes when he'd spoken of her. As she left Mari and Francis alone, she couldn't help but mourn the dances they would never share. While she knew Francis didn't deserve her, she mourned the sweet dreams of romance that bloomed like a tangle of roses from the corners of Mari's mouth. She only wished her brother could have been the man that Mari thought he was, but now, through some twisted grace, she supposed he would be just that, after all. \n\nWith Marvin and Dotty gone, and the doctor and his staff hovering on the outskirts of Francis' deathbed, Marianne was alone with him and the gift Dotty had left her. If she picked the rings up and looked real close, she would see where the gold around the insides of each band was worn down to the wrong color. She would see how they weren't really gold at all, but pure silver with a thin shell of yellow. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "Had she been told that tears would save him, Marianne Wilburn would have wept enough to burst the banks of the Powell all alone. \nBut Francis would not be salvaged by her cries. She knew, now, that there was no Lord looking down upon Briar Ridge. No prayer she sent to heaven above would be heard. But then, she had learned that a long time ago, in her heart.\nWhat tears she had shed had been silent ones. Absent was the wailing of a Wilburn woman broken. When Dotty and Marvin made their gentle exit, as the curtain around the bed was drawn shut, the only sound out of place was the laboured breathing of a man who would not see morning light. \nHis hand lay motionless against the white bedsheet, but it would not be cold, for it remained wrapped in Marianne's two smaller ones. Any scratches she might have sustained from those wicked briars that had entangled his body were forgotten, though they'd sting when she came to wash them, if she could bring herself to wash from her skin the last chance she'd ever have to hold his hand. \n\nShe was quiet, for a long moment, gathering what thoughts she could. She'd refused to allow herself to think it over, clinging to the hope that somehow, he might survive this, until she heard the doctor's grim, resolved words bearing the news that Francis was dying.\n\nIt seemed so hard to believe, looking upon his sweet face, What medicine the doctor had given him appeared to have worked a miracle in easing his pain, a fact which she could be nothing but grateful for. How sick it would have been for him to spend his last moments with his lips twisted in agony, crying out for a mama who did not come, for an end that could not come quick enough.\nHe could rest, like this. With a blanket drawn over his chest, concealing bandages beneath which were wounds that would never get to heal, he looked for all the world as though he were simply walking the line between wakefulness and sleep - tired from a long day out in the orchard among the apple trees, but safely home to her before dark, where she could make him his tea spiked with that sweet-sharp brandy he'd taught her to love, and together by the fireside they could build a life.\n\n*Could have* Built a life.\n\nThere was, of course, no future to be shared now. Whether she had minutes or hours with him was at this point uncertain, but weeks, months, years were out of the question. A deadly combination of his wounds, the spilled blood, the stealing snow... All of those had set in stone that the life she had fantasised with her head upon her pillow would not come to be. \n\nSo she would take this moment, long or short as it may be, and make it one to last in her heart until the day it ceased to beat and she would join him in what, if anything, lay beyond this life. \n\nShe rose from her chair only enough to press her lips to his forehead, a lingering kiss holding sentiments she could not yet say aloud.\n\n\"I'm still here,\" She told him, softly, for through his half-lidded eyes she wasn't sure he could see her, and even if he were to open them, could he make her out through the great, long dark that lay ahead? \"And I'm sure not going nowhere.\"\nA shaky sigh crawled its way out of her throat. \n\"I'm sorry, love.\" \nIf they had been quicker to find him, could he have been saved? Warmed and sewn together and loved enough to live?\n\n\nHad she been told that *Love* Would save him, why Francis Estep would have lived forever. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "francis estep",
"message": "Francis Estep had never had much interest in fairytales, but now, his mind felt suspended in one. His imagination was wide awake, drawn out from slumber by Marianne's delicate kiss.\n\nHe was light and getting lighter, airy on wings of oak and cobwebs above himself. He could see Marianne kiss him, and could map the tangle of their fingers on the bed. How long had she been here, holding him? There was a sense of her that surrounded him– clinging to him from the forest. Had she been here all along? Had she been nested beside him under the brambles? Surely she had been. Surely she would have been, if she could, and that meant just as much. \n\n\"Marianne,\" He croaked, turning to her. The opium gave him a false sense of strength, and even though his skin may have been tearing further with the effort, he dragged their clasped hands onto his chest. Delirious, he shifted his attention to their skin there, side by side. His eyebrows knit together from the result of his study, and he found her eyes again. \n\n\"You're hurt,\" He complained, remarking on the scratches she'd earned from her fight with the woods. His eyes were the widest they'd been since she'd found him, though they were only slightly more open than half lidded. \n\"Got into trouble without me.\" \n\n_ _\n\nFor Marianne, Francis would suspend himself in the performance he'd put on for her at the speakeasy, all those weeks ago. When he saw her, his mind defaulted to that station: charming and soft. With time, that mask would have hidden any nature of sins. Lies, adultery, jealousy. He could have lit their house on fire and claimed he'd only done it to keep her warm. Their love would have been poisonous and addictive, just the same as the bitter laudanum that lingered beneath Francis' tongue. His death saved her from so much pain, but her heart would transmute it all, anyway, bringing it to her in the form of grief. Maybe Francis would have been sorry for taking her dancing if he were a better man. The drowse of drugs robbed him of the opportunity for remorse, though it was doubtful that his ego would have permitted it in any case. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "Despite it all, hearing her name on his lips still was just enough to make her smile. She watched as his eyelashes fluttered, fighting against what threatened to drag him down below, all for the sake of spending a moment beneath her touch, and who would she be to deny him? Though on the tip of her tongue lingered a protest that he'd only cause himself more damage by moving, she let him take her hand to his chest, and fancied that beneath the thick layers of dressings that she could feel his heartbeat, thready as it may be as Francis Estep clung hopelessly to life. \n\n\"I'd argue,\" She began, in a whisper, still leaning forward so that he might see her face in his peripheral vision, if he could coax heavy eyes into laying upon it long enough, \"That it's *You* Who got into trouble without *Me*.\" Her words were punctuated by a sigh, and how she wished she could lean into him all the way, rest her head upon his broad chest and have his voice wash over her, as though he were the vast ocean, and she but a grain of sand upon the beach where his waves crashed. She would have allowed him to sweep her up in the ebb and flow and carry her forever with him, had he wanted to. \n\nShe had been prepared to follow him wherever he might go, only for fate to drag him down the one path on which she could not walk behind. Like all those who went before him, Francis was to travel on alone.\n\nHer gaze joined his on their entwined hands for a moment, but she would not let it linger, for fear of missing something in his expression that she might want to hold with her forevermore. \"The only trouble I ever find myself in is by your side, Fran. I thought you'd know that by now.\" Ever since she was a child muddying her skirts chasing him through the orchard, that had been the way things were. He had always brought out a side of her that didn't exist when they were apart - a side which threatened to wilt and fade entirely when he was gone. \"I wouldn't have had it any other way.\"\n\nShe thought of the briars first tearing at her skin, and then, as though tasting their fill of her blood, drawing away and giving up his frozen body to her touch. Had the forest taken pity upon her? Had the icy ground felt guilt for all that it had stolen and was still yet to snatch away, and was that what had led to its withdrawal? It had allowed her a last moment of hope that he might be saved. A piece of her heart still sang out a desperate plea to the heavens that the good doctor might have been wrong, that Francis would defy all odds and have the strength to pull through to dawn's first light and beyond. That he would live to draw her into his arms again and this time, she would not let go when they ended their dance. \n\n\"They don't hurt so bad anyway. I've had worse. I'll have worse again.\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "francis estep",
"message": "Marianne's voice became an ocean around Francis. Her words knit into phrases, knit into songs. They echoed and huddled around him, and before long, there was a placid smile on his face, eyes closed. The content of what she was saying was all but eroded away while the sounds remained as pillars. He leaned against them, nearly falling asleep in his comfort. \n\nBut no— it was rude to sleep when visitors were here. Francis slowly turned his head to Mari, and searched her face with drowsy eyes. A cut on his neck split from the pull of misaligned skin, and the blood quietly colored the white of his pillowcase. He didn't notice. \n\n\"You're hurt?\" He asked, confused now. He was trying to piece back together what she'd said while he was drifting off, but since he only had the outline, the details were evasive. Quickly, his thoughts jumped, flashes of memory from the last few hours pricking his mind like thorns. \n\n\"Was my mama here?\" He asked, his voice small like a child's, \"I thought I... I wanted to tell her...\" His eyes fluttered closed again. *No,* He fought, *Why was he so tired?* \n\n\"I'm sorry Marianne.\" Francis pronounced carefully, like a drunk trying to project sobriety through slurred speech, \"I don't know why I feel this way,\" He apologized, trying feebly to squeeze her hand still wrapped in his. His words were agonizingly slow, compared to his coherent speech patterns. He wouldn't have wanted Marianne to remember him this way: duller than a rusted pruning shear. \n\n\"Can we still go dancin' tomorrow?\" He was simply amplifying his dreamlike thoughts, trusting in his mind despite the pattern of watery subconscious logic to which it had defaulted. As soon as he'd asked the question, he was certain of these fantasy plans they'd made for another applejack-flavored date at the speakeasy. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "His smile, though fleeting, calmed her, as it always had. For only a moment, she was rewarded for all she had weathered with a little of the Francis she knew, the man she so loved, though it was truly only a shadow of what warmth he had once looked upon her with. She would take what she could get now, for as long as she could take it, as her thumb brushed across his knuckles and she squeezed his hands tight. \n\nHe had forgotten, already, that he'd seen and questioned the cuts on her palms. No matter, for there was no use in troubling him further with that which would not linger, would heal given time. Time that Marianne had. Time that Francis was not blessed with. She would waste no more of what little she had left with him, and so instead of answering his question, she kissed him again where confusion knit his brow into a frown. \n\n\"Your mama stayed home, love,\" She whispered. \"The full-moon night tired her so, Dotty thought it best she remain there.\" A half-lie, for Barbara's absence had not been for her own good, but for Francis's, unpredictable as her reaction to his return had been, but where was the need to tell him that his mother, the woman who had borne him from her own flesh and blood, had crowed like a harpy upon recognition of his demise?\nThe Estep matriarch had not been a wicked woman, in Marianne's memories. She had been a haze of Pears'-soap green and powder-puff pink, of apple juice and sweets hot from the oven, and she had been loving. The woods had changed her.\nThe woods, in the end, had changed all of them. Some beyond repair. \n\n\"You needn't be sorry for a thing,\" She continued on, wanting nothing more than another of his smiles, another taste of honeyed words and of the charm she had fallen for. It was selfish, she thought, to want more of him, when he'd so little left to give to her - to anyone.\n\nBut she could not help but hope for the impossible, for Marianne Wilburn had always, at her core, been nothing more than a helpless little girl, wishing on stars just as diligently as she prayed. \nShe prayed no more. And there were no stars brighter than the sparkle that had once been in Francis's eyes. \n\nTo dance with Francis again would be a dream she would not come to achieve, not for all her wishing, not for the fire of a thousand suns that burned in her chest with longing for it.\nFor as long as she would live, Marianne would wish that she had had one more night to spin and sing and laugh in his arms. \nFor as long as *He* Would live, she would let him live in his laudanum-tainted fantasy, in a place where he felt no pain. \n\n\"Of course, darling... Tonight, when you sleep, all you're to do is close your eyes and when you open them again, we'll be able to dance and dance 'til our feet can't hold us no more... It'd be an honour to dance all my nights away with you, if you'll have me.\"\n\nShe would never take another dance partner again. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "francis estep",
"message": "It made sense his mama would have been tired by the full moon. Francis was tired, too. He yawned, but his bruised jaw kept the motion soft, and the medicine kept the pain from registering. *I'll see mama after I sleep,* His warm happy mind reasoned. Maybe she would bring biscuits and apple butter, just how he liked them: brushed on the top with buttermilk to brown, and sprinkled with just a touch of salt. Francis wondered why he wasn't hungry, or thirsty, or anything at all really. The only thing close to any sensation or emotion he could register was exhaustion. And why was exhaustion in such pursuit when the sun was so high in the sky?\n\n The longer he tried to locate the center of himself, that place where all his feelings grew and tessellated, the more he felt like the seed head of a dandelion: a small, pale bud shrouded in downy, loose-tethered petals. Just one gust, and he could—\n\n*Of course darling...*\n\nFrancis had forgotten he'd even spoken, but oh, wasn't someone here, speaking to him? Answering his question? And it was someone familiar. \n\nHe felt warm, post-rain summer mud on the soles of his feet, and laughter at the back of his throat. He tasted the still-warm icing of hickory cakes. He saw an open novel, half buried in blankets as he brushed snow off of his hat. \n_ _\n\nWhen had they gotten to Marianne's cottage? He needed to give her the cakes Dotty made while they were still cooling! Or wait– didn't he make them himself? And he needed to take off his hat! It was rude not to. But wasn't there some reason he should keep it on? \n\n\"Marianne, I– I'm sorry. I think I need to lie down a while.\" He opened his eyes again, just a crack. When he saw her sitting there, though, the sunlight at her back casting her as an angel in shadow, he blinked misty-eyed into her brilliance, inspired away from sleep for just a moment longer. \n\n\"Oh,\" He breathed, a tear carving down his cheek. Delirious in awe, he reached out to touch her, to find that he already held her hand. At this, another tear traced the path that had been laid by the first. And another, and another. His lips, in a blissful smile, began to tremble with the effort of the expression, wet with salt water. \n\nHe was so tired. \n\n\"You're so beautiful.\" He told her, and his eyes closed. His thumb smoothed up, then down the back of her hand. \n\"An angel in the sun,\" He said, and the corners of his mouth twitched and dropped. As his weakened, fever-hot heart rounded into a final beat, the motion of one last sliding tear rendered the exit of his soul. \n\nHis hand would encircle Marianne's for as long as she would hold it. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "She did not tell him not to cry, for she was sure he didn't even know he was doing it. The tears on his cheeks came not from pain nor distress. She could only brush them away, the hand that wasn't wrapped tight in his brushing over his cheeks, tracing out the constellations in the freckles dusted there, each one a little star in its own right - fitting, though even if each star shone as bright as the sun at her back, they would never quite compare to the light that Francis had brought back into her life. \n\n*Beautiful*, he said, and shatter did her fragile heart, as his lips formed the shape of *Angel* And she knew, deep in her chest, that soon he would see an angel true. She could only hope that one would come, perhaps was already here, a moment away beyond the curtain to take his hand when it slipped from hers and ensure that he would be safe, wherever he were to be taken next. \n\n\"I love you,\" Marianne whispered. She only hoped she was not too late for him to hear it. \n\nA woman who did not believe found no peace in prayer. Someone else would read the last rites, would call upon the heavens to ensure an ascendance to paradise for Francis Estep. All that Marianne could find in herself to do was fall silent, and brush from his cheek the last of those bitter tears, and stay.\n\nShe remained where she was until the daylight shifted to a sunset that set the sky aflame, and only then did anyone come. A nurse - a name she could not recall - appeared seemingly from nowhere, placed a hand upon her shoulder, told her *It's time to go, Ms Wilburn*, told her *He's gone, sweetheart*, and Marianne wanted to snap and scream and cry, for she knew he was gone, how could she not, she had watched the final fall of his chest, heard the quiver of a last breath dissipate into still, bleach-scented air?\n\nBut wail she did not, in fact, she made no sound as she rose from the chair. \n\nAround her neck hung the chain that bore Francis's rings, placed upon her by Dotty upon her departure, and as Marianne made a quiet exit of her own, she paused in the doorway to look at them. He had worn them devotedly from the moment he'd purchased them, and made no secret (at least to Marianne) of his pride in his ownership of the jewellery, though it was only now that she considered the absence of them as of late. They had been missing the day he had taken her to the barn to dance... How many times before had he left them behind without her taking notice?\nPerhaps he had damaged them somehow, working in the orchard. She studied them for a moment, turning each ring in her hands, looking for signs of misshape or tarnish. If she were quick, she could have them sent to a jeweller in the city, restored to their former glory to be buried with him when he went to rest.\n\nThe sun caught the inside of the largest ring, and something about the way it gleamed made Marianne bring it in for closer inspection.\nThe silver shone bright as day in small patches where the plating of gold had worn away with hour upon hour of daily wear.\nAnd Marianne Wilburn understood *Everything*.\n\nThe walk home could have taken hours for all she cared. She walked the well-worn route in a daze, unaware of both her surroundings and her steps. The brook to the south of the garden splashed her all the way up to mid-calf, and she was still dripping as she crossed the threshold. \n\nA silver cross hung beside the front door, aged but well-polished to avoid the dirt catching in the ornate carvings. \nShe took it from its nail, looked upon it for only a brief moment, and turned on her heel to hurl it as hard as she could into the bushes that lined the property. \n\nTo Hell with it. To Hell with it all."
}
] | 656 | 5,944 |
805.428571 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "*Don't give up now / there's already so much at stake / if atlas falls / i'll rise up and carry us all the way / it won't pull me down / the weight of impossible days / i'll stand tall / i'll rise up and carry us all the way*\n\nThe first time that Valerian Barca wakes up, it is because he has been greeted by his father, and he is faced with an angel. Well, he's faced with Hazel, which is basically the same thing. He falls asleep again not much later, his body succumbing to the fatigue and the pain. The official diagnoses of all of his injuries haven't quite been put together yet, but the sight is grim. He lays there, underneath blankets and his clothes all but cut off of him to get to the lacerations — the left side of his face has a deep scar, his chest has a gash in the center of it that is violent, wretched, and as if someone has put a hole in his chest. His back isn't much better, though it has some slight cover from landing on his back when he was pounced on. His legs are the same - the front of them torn all to hell, the backs of them rendered painful yet not useless.\n\nBut he is breathing. The time of death has been redacted. He has been watched over with thorough devotion, and right now, his body needs rest... Alas. Valerian Barca isn't a quitter, down to the molecular level. Like hell he was going to lay here and be silent when he knew Hazel watched over him - when he knew someone would tell Florian and Olivia, and sure enough they would brace the cold to join their older brother down here. Something in his heart warms at that... Knowing that when he woke, he wouldn't be alone in a cold, clinical hospital.\n\n_ _\nHis eyes open, one at a time - the right one first, then the left. Whatever damage has been sustained to the eye leaves him with a bloodied cornea. Whether or not he has sight in it is anyone's game. Still, his first breath is heavy, and he turns to the left to expect Hazel there, but he frowns when she is gone — turning to the right, then, that smile returns, if only because his baby brother is looking down at him, cursed with the expression of something broken. How Atlas has fallen, how Sisephyus has been bowled over by his boulder. How Prometheus has trembled under the weight of the hawk. He smiles, silently, and reaches up for Florian, a cold hand cupping his baby brother's cheek.\n\nAre his hands still stained with coal dust? Or have they been baptised now in blood?\n\n\"Florian,\" He whispers, for he cannot make any sound stronger than that. \"My baby boy.\" The expression sprawled across Valerian's face is ephemeral; without his glasses, he sees Florian just fine for now (he's far-sighted; you can't blame the man) until they inevitably get closer. How humiliating a thought, that he cannot see what is directly in front of him, but instead both the future and past have always been clear as day. His thumb moves gently over the artist's cheek before he lets go, looking down at his bandaged, bloodied legs.\n\n_ _\n\n\nIf only he knew that he has broken promises thrice-over. If only he knew sometime along the way, Valerian's heart stopped, frozen in time for everyone to wait and see what's happened. He coughs, his hand moving to his rib - whether or not it was broken in the attack, or broken during the CPR, is unknown to him. He exhales, slowly, and returns his gaze to his brother's face. \"You'll forgive your big brother... Won't ya?\""
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "The time between the attack and his arrival at the hospital was a blur. He could vaguely remember Olivia and Marianne's voices on the way there. Their words had been ones of comfort. He thinks he may have told them that he was fine, that he couldn't feel his injured leg anyways. He couldn't be sure.\n\n_retract the time of death, Mr. Barca is alive!_\n\nThat sentence brought the world to a screeching halt. Mr. Barca... Only one answered to that name outside of Florian, and Florian had not been dead. \n\n \"Valerian!\"\n_ _\nIf his legs had worked he would have raced to that room, fallen over his own feet, unable to keep up with the speed his heart ached for. He pushed forward on his pushrims, but remained firmly where he had been when the world shattering news had been called through the clinic. Someone was holding his chair back, taking away his independence, _a knife to his heart_ a voice was telling him he needed to be seen to _no he didn't, he was fine, how many times would he have to repeat himself before someone would believe him_, that he would only be in the way in Valerian's room now _a kick to the bruised part of him that felt like he was always in the way_, to let the doctor get Valerian stable first _please..._ that he would not want to see him in his current state _I can handle it, I need to know he is breathing, I need to see that he is alive_. He lashed out, something he would come to feel shame for later, but could you truly blame him? The boy felt like a cornered animal, all he could think about was getting to his brother, God help anyone who got in his way.\n\n\"Get your hands off of me! Let go! I am not in pain, I am FINE. _LET. ME. THROUGH!_ Let me see my brother!\" He was desperate, driven by raw emotions, by raw need. He didn't care about the damage he was doing to his reputation, to hell with keeping up a good name, to hell with the image of kindness, to hell with diplomacy, to hell with it all. When helplessness took hold of the youngest Barca, it left as hot, burning rage. He fought free from the hands of whoever had the gall to hold his chair back in order to pin him down, his own hands met pushrims and he in turn was met with the vision of his brother sprawled on a bed. The smell of iron hung in the air. A familiar horrible deep tone of red stained the sheets wherever he looked. \n_ _\n\nHis brother's body lay there, broken and ripped apart, just like it had in Florian's nightmares. His body couldn't choose between sobbing and screaming, both clawed their way up his throat, clashing into one another and resulting in a pained, strangled, haunting sound. Tears blurred his vision. Hands were on him again and he didn't fight back this time. \n\nAt one point the combined efforts of Olivia and a nurse managed to convince Florian to allow them to see to his leg, tourniquet was replaced with bandages and the claw wounds cleaned, an exchange made easier by his lack of need for numbing of any kind. Maybe the illness had been a blessing, a boon reserved for this specific situation. He watched over Valerian, refusing to leave his side, and not for lack of trying. His constant watchful eyes on Valerian's chest, making sure it kept rising and falling at a steady pace. If one were to glance at the bed after some time had passed, they would see that Florian had fallen asleep by his bedside, his head resting on his folded arms, nestled in the empty spot of mattress by his brother's hip. The fatigue caused by everything that had come to pass had proven too much for even his monumental stubbornness.\n\nWhen he woke up he was faced with the hospital bed again. It had not been a nightmare. It was unmistakably real. Hazel was no longer there either, she deserved her rest too, Florian would watch over Valerian for the both of them. Valerian still looked so frail, a long gash ran across the left side of his face, the side where Florian was sitting, watching intently for any changes in his brother's breathing, for any signs at all that the borrowed time he was living on had run out once more. He knew Valerian was strong, but he feared that even he was not strong enough to make it through this. The doctor had told him that they had done all they could to give Mr. Barca a fighting chance, at least for right now. And that it was mostly up to Valerian to push through now.\n\nFlorian hoped, no- he prayed, that his brother's headstrong character would prove victorious.\n\n_ _\n\nSomething in his brother's breathing shifted and he opened his eyes, the right its normal hazel color, the left stained with red. Florian found himself unable to stop recoiling upon seeing the bloodshed eye. And Valerian smiled, how was he smiling right now? Florian didn't know if he wanted to cry or laugh in that moment. His breathy \"Valerian\" An answer to his brother saying his name. \"Oh praise be, hi\" He leaned into the touch, taking hold of Valerian's hand and letting out a relieved laugh. His brother's voice was soft, it seemed like talking was taking a tremendous effort. His natural accent slipped through the cracks, a further sign that he was beyond exhausted. It didn't surprise Florian, who was immensely grateful that Valerian was able to speak at all.\n\n_my baby boy_ Was he brother? Was he father? Was he something else, something that defied defining, something nestled snugly between those two concepts? Whatever Valerian was to Florian, the young man knew he loved him. He knew that seeing him the way he was now tore his very soul apart. Valerian had always been strong and brave and seemingly invincible, how did he look so small, so decisively mortal in this moment? _At least I promised I wouldn't die..._\n\n_There—do you feel that? That's a pulse—retract the time of death, Mr. Barca's alive!_\n_ _\n\nWould he forgive his brother? \"Of course I forgive you Valerian. You're not to blame here.\" He didn't know what hurt more, the fact that Valerian could even think that Florian blamed him for the attacks, or the fact that the attacks had happened in the first place. \"I'll _always_ forgive you.\" And for the first time that was wholly and entirely true. It was there he let go of the resentment he'd been holding on to for the years which his siblings had abandoned him. The tears that fell washed away the anger, the hatred and the blame he cast over them. When faced with the permanence and unending nature of death, those three years were just a blink of the eyes in the grand scheme of time. An incredibly insignificant blink. \"Just don't...\" ~~Die again~~ \"Don't do that again. I can't-\" _I can't lose you again, I can't see you like that again._ He couldn't get himself to say those words. He squeezed his brother's hand, gently, not wanting to be the cause of more pain. \"I meant it when I said your ghost would come to regret it.\" He wiped his tears away, a useless action, more kept coming. \"I want to hug you so bad, but I fear I'd hurt you.\"\n_ _\n\nThose words echoed in his mind: failed him on two accounts... It had been three. Valerian failed to keep himself from getting hurt, failed to keep Florian from getting hurt and failed above and most painful of all; to keep himself alive. Florian considered not telling him, to let his brother believe that his soul had not left, that his body had not been an empty shell, that his heart had continued its rhythmic drumming in his chest without pause. That he had not died. No, he deserved to know. \"...But it was three, Valerian.\" He regretted the words the moment he said them. There was no taking them back now, he moved forward in that regret. \"You left this world. Val you died.\" His voice broke, shattering into pieces like his heart had done, _d i e d_. \"You were gone for two minutes.\" _I am so sorry Valerian,_ his face read, _please forgive me for telling you._"
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "There it was again. *You had died,* Florian said, just as Hazel did. How he embraced Hazel after, how he felt such shame: he had been a fool, tried and true. There was so little he could actually do in the face of chaos that it made him sick. Alas— he can't bring himself to vomit here and now, not when there was so much at stake. (He reaches idly on the other side of the bed. Where was Hazel... Where did she go?) \"So I've been told,\" He laughed softly, shaking his head, \"I suppose I can't even hide that from you, can I...? You've gotten so perceptive... Seeing right through your idiot older brother's lies...\" \n\n*No, I'm sorry,* His face returned to his brother's expression, *I'm sorry for trying to protect you.*\n\n\"I'd ask if your legs hurt, but... But I know better,\" He says, reaching for his brother, to clasp a hand around one of his, to showcase some semblance of strength. *I can protect you, still,* This body tells him, just as he had come to embrace Hazel. When did he get to be so selfless? What happened to doing whatever it took to survive? Why is he so comfortable with the fault of his own death so long as Hazel and Florian remained upright? Surely, Olivia too is running around here, somewhere, helping the good doctor with whatever he may need so long as she is healthy... \"But you should get those bandages done up right at some point... Keep you from gettin' infection.\"\n\n\"Dad's doing fine,\" He whispers, because that's all he knows how to say. His free hand - the one that Hazel held just a few hours ago - rests itself atop his chest, and he smiles softly. \"He's happy. Resting, finally... He doesn't have to work to take care of us anymore. By God, he ripped me a new one, though, if you remember what he was like when he was right angry. Told me to get myself back together and get home to you... To Haze... To Liv...\" He groans, again, and trying to think too hard causes him to want to pull his knees to his chest, but that hurts more than anything he's ever tried to do. It's as if just *Existing* In this moment causes him pain, and he can't bear to think about what that might mean for himself, for his future.\n\n\"Which one,\" He whispers, nodding to Florian's legs, \"Which one of those bastards got you?\""
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "He already knew, that was good, Hazel must have told him. She'd been there when he first woke up. Fitting for her face to be both the last he saw before he died and the first when he made his return. \"You're not in the best shape to be lyin' right now Val. I am sure when you get back up on your feet again you'll be quite capable of foolin' me once more.\" Perhaps he was getting more perceptive, or maybe he was just more aware of the fact that his brother could, and did, lie to him. \n\n\"I can't feel any of it now, but I think I.\" He stopped, should he add more worry onto the heavy load he knows his brother already shoulders? It had been bothering him, he had long given up hope that he would ever feel his legs again, that he would ever stand or walk. But in that split second when those claws had broken skin, he had felt it. However improbable that was, he had felt pain. \"I think I _did_ feel it, somehow. I could've sworn I felt _somethin'_, just for a second and then it was back to nothin'. Might've just been my mind playin' tricks on me, phantom pain or what have you.\" He knew realistically that it had just been phantom pain. But Florian was a sucker for hope in places where it shouldn't be found. If it had been real pain, did that mean his body was mending the connection between his spine and his legs? No, no that was a dream he had crushed years ago. \"I'll get them redressed when you rest again Val, I promise. Liv already dragged me to a nurse to get the wounds cleaned.\" Right after he'd first seen how Valerian looked, right after the time of death had been retracted. After he'd been seen to, Hazel had been with Valerian. Florian had stayed out of the room until Valerian had fallen asleep again and Hazel had left. The two deserved their privacy, and he could wait with the knowledge that his brother was breathing somewhat steadily again. Florian had watched over the sleeping form of his brother until he himself had fallen into a restless sleep.\n\n\"Olivia's alright, as is everyone else who sheltered at Miss Marianne's. I am sure she'll want to see you after me.\"\n\n_ _\n\"You saw dad?\" Heaven then, not Hell. For all the wrongdoings Valerian had committed the Lord still welcomed him. Florian couldn't remember much of their father. All he had left were the framed pictures that watched over the estate and a handful of fading memories of things he'd said and done when he was still alive. He smiled as he listened to Valerian recalling the meeting. Their father was still looking over them from above, finally at rest. \"I am glad he was waitin' for you there, that you weren't alone. And I am glad he kicked you out and back to us.\" Concern spread across his face again, his brother was clearly in a lot of pain in that moment. \"Hey, _hey_, take it slow alright, I'm not goin' anywhere.\" He held onto his brother's hand, _God_ there was so little strength in that grip. How the mighty had fallen indeed.\n\n\"It was dark brown I think. It looked almost like it had clawed into its own shoulder? Lord only knows why it would do that though. It must have gotten to somethin' or, God forbid, _someone_ before it got to me. It was covered in blood, and the majority wasn't its... Own...\" _No._ Gears were turning in his mind. A hypothesis was forming in his head. It couldn't be. He didn't want it to be, not for all that it would imply. No, nonono that blood was likely just some unfortunate deer's, or somebody else's, may God rest their soul. Werewolves didn't have agendas. Werewolves didn't target brothers. Especially if those brothers were in different places, separated by a long stretch of town. He swallowed, _gotten to someone..._ Nobody else had seemed as injured as his brother. Nobody else in the small hospital had been bleeding as much as him. No dead bodies had been reported during the night or the morning (not yet anyways). His expression had slowly shifted into one of fear again. His words came out hesitantly. \"Val, how did the wolf that did this to you look? Please tell me I am crazy for thinkin' what I am right now.\""
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "\"Big,\" He manages to say, and he leans back, looking at the ceiling, trying to recall the moments before his own death. He remembers being between Hazel and the front door. He remembers the pain, the agony — a ghost pain courses through his ribcage, and he tries not to cry out in pain. He cannot worry Hazel or Florian like this; he can hear his sister's voice somewhere in the background, somewhere running around helping the nurses. What a good egg, he thought; what a kind soul. \"Brown, I think. It was so dark, I can't quite remember, but it had these horrible eyes... If there was a man under all of that skin, I couldn't tell.\"\n\n_ _\n\n\n\"We'll kill 'em,\" He whispers, eyes glazed and hazy, \"We'll find out which one of those mu'fuckers did this to us... And we'll kill him.\" Valerian Barca is not a violent man—in fact, Florian has probably never heard his brother wish for the deaths of others, instead passively stilling silent as he wrote letters of condolences to impoverished miners. But for Valerian, a diplomatic man, to wish the death of another being, *Especially* A Briar Ridge resident... It's almost damning, how easily he has broken in the face of his brother's injury. In the face of his own pride. How *Dare* They do this to him. How *Dare* They break him in such a way.\n\nHe groans, his free hand holding the side injury. *Fuck,* That hurt. \"Flori,\" He whispers, his eyes closing, \"Did it hurt this bad when you got sick?\""
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "It had been the same wolf. For whatever reason there was a monster out there that wanted them both dead. The same murderous, horrifying eyes had targeted them both before sinking claws, and in Valerian's case, teeth into them. He knew deep down that there was someone under all of that putrid flesh, but he could no longer see that. All he wanted was for it to feel the same pain it had put them through. \n\nHe nodded, that wolf had been marked for death the moment Florian found out that Valerian had almost been ripped from this world for good. They couldn't wait for a cure any longer. Both brothers abandoned part of their morality there. Both signed the death warrant of whichever one of their neighbors had done this. And they signed it blindly, seemingly with very little remorse. ~~For now.~~ \"We will. They'll pay in blood, I promise you.\" He had not learned his lesson yet, not learned from the previous broken promises. He had never thought himself a selfless man, and maybe he was just selfish. He was selfish for only wanting death when his own kin was affected. He was selfish for breaking down when faced with the mortality of his brother and himself, yet wanting someone else's life to be taken as payment. Maybe selfish was what he had always been when it came to his family, what he always would be. \"This won't happen again.\" Next time it decided to turn its hungry maw towards them, there would be hell to pay. Hell in the form of a silver bullet with that beast's name engraved in it. He needed death for it, and nothing less.\n_ _\n\nHow those wolves had ripped Florian's gentleness from him. How they had stripped him of his kindness. Had he been a fool before? Had he been naive for trying to see the best in everyone? Stupid for believing that there was a peaceful way to resolve this? It was only through blood and death that he finally saw the world as it truly was, one where only those who fought tooth and nail could come out on top, one where violence was the only way to ensure survival. One where wishing death upon a neighbor was not unthinkable, and seemed the only option. \n\nHe gently rubbed his thumb across the hand he was holding, hoping to be able to offer a small semblance of comfort. He hated seeing his brother in pain. \"Towards the end, in my back.\" His illness had been an infection of his spine, the treatment required to have halted it before paralysis set in did not exist yet and wouldn't for years. He was doomed from the moment it had started. It had begun with fevers, light back pain, pins and needles and muscle weakness in his lower half. Towards the end of the infection the prescribed painkillers didn't work anymore, the pain in his back was constant and Florian had found himself thinking of death. And then it stopped, he felt nothing anymore, including his legs. \"But this isn't that. You won't end up like me.\" _I won't accept that._ Maybe one day the Barcas would be forced to face the fact that the laws of God and nature would not bend just because they wanted them to. \"You're strong, you'll pull through, but you'll need to rest. If it takes me havin' to force you to lay down when you get out of here then I'll do just that.\" It was Florian's turn to take care of Valerian, instead of the reverse. \"Sleep if you have to, Val. You're safe here.\""
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "*You won't end up like me,* Florian says, as if being like Florian would be anything to be ashamed of. Valerian tries to tell him that, but the words don't bubble to the surface. One of these days, Valerian Barca would be able to tell his little brother how proud of him he is — not just for surviving, but for living. The loss of his legs did not take his love of painting nor his drive to want to do more, nor his anger. (*If you need to be mean, be mean to me.*) \n\nHis breath is heavy — in, and then out. In a perfect world, in a modern world, perhaps he would be still asleep, breathing in oxygen from a tank and placated with the sweet sedative of pain medication. But this is not that world. This is a rougher world, a world where men turn into beasts and hunt them for sport. How tired he is, already; how hungry for revenge he is. \n\nThe laws of God and nature *Will* Bend for the Barcas, they just don't know it yet. *Valerian,* The emperor, underneath the boon of the god Mercury, messenger of the gods. *Olivia,* Wife of Augustus, eye of Rome. *Florian,* The emperor who rose after the death of his brother, the angry soldier who spoke not to Rome proper but their annexes. Just as they have changed history, those named after them refuse to bow to the status quo of anything. Of *Anyone.*\n\nValerian looks up at his brother, and the only thing written across his features is a gentle expression of fatigue. Soon, the withdrawals will kick in, and soon, Valerian will be sick with himself. Soon, he will need to fight his own body to survive in more ways than one—it is an illness, an injury, a trial that there is no one better to teach him how to handle than the man across from him. Just as Valerian has taught Florian so many things, it's Florian's turn to teach his brother. And this time, Valerian is listening.\n\nWith a nod of his head, and a closing of his eyes... Valerian is asleep.\n\nHe looks disgustingly peaceful."
}
] | 732 | 5,638 |
969.125 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "*I'd find a way to promise you forever*\n*Even if forever means i'm gonna have to sell my soul today*\n\nFive people carry Valerian Barca into the good doctor's office at 4:12 a.M. Hazel Calhoun is one of them. In her quest for help she pounded so hard on Ruth Hansen's door that the hunter nearly pumped her full of lead. Already the side of her fist is purpling. There's an ugly tear in her dress where she caught her skirt on something, tripped and split her head open on a knuckle-sized rock. She can hardly feel any of it. Her face looks as though it was etched from stone, set into something cold and distant and robotic. (It is still pale and slicked with sweat.) Hazel prides herself on her ability to keep her head. She can keep her head. *Keep your head,* She starts to try to chant, but Valerian's agonized moans have made a home in her memory, and *Keep your head* Becomes *Please, God – please, God.* She doesn't cry, though. Hazel is not a crier. It's an instinct long-silenced. \n\nSomehow the world shifts and suddenly they're walking into Dr. Olander's office. Someone yells something and a few people move to clear a table. The room is abuzz with activity: candle light illuminates yard after yard of blood-soaked gauze, and limbs bent at awkward angles thanks to the broken bones therein. Those who are lucky enough to retain consciousness can only whimper out their agony. Metal tools clink against one another; conferring voices argue back and forth about who to help first, who's bleeding from where, what needs setting, who's not breathing. When they set Valerian down on the table, the sight of him transfixes her in the worst way. Hazel survived an epidemic – she knows the pallor of death, its visage embedded into some of her earliest memories. \n_ _\n\nSomething inside of her unhinges. Hazel has never loved anything enough to be so afraid to lose it, except maybe her mother, who she has already lost in just about every way one can lose one's mother. She cannot remember her mother's name or her face, but she remembers the way it felt to be loved. With so little context by which to color that memory, it is most easily felt in the moments of profound absence – there is some kind of poetic irony in her having been introduced to that love only to see it absent in the world around her for so many years. Valerian knows that love, though. She hears it in the way he speaks about his siblings, in the way he cares for them. She's seen it in his weeping like a child to think of them alone during the blizzard. The very first time he had met her, he'd bought a blouse for Olivia. In a quiet sort of way, Hazel has known for a while that she has been lumped in with the younger Barcas – someone he views as worth protecting, someone for whom a sacrifice was worthy. \n\nIt's a kind of poetic justice – in committing so brilliantly to his role, in eschewing his humanity for his family's survival, he has condemned himself to death. How funny, then, that the parameters of her reality have at last defined themselves in the caving-in of this new world. How divinely comical that she might think to have found joy here, that she might think herself deserving of peace. They have both come home to Purgatory, set upon by Hellhounds until there is nothing left to be devoured.\n\nOnly a fortnight ago, she was amazed by how earnestly she wanted to protect him. Now when it really counts she is unable to deliver. Someone shoves her backwards and out of the way, and she lets them do it. She'll let them do it if it means they're treating him with urgency. The reluctance on some folks' faces says enough. \n_ _\n\n*\"We need to call the time of death,\"* Says someone. An otherwise loud and chaotic doctor's office is suddenly muffled, as if underwater. She has sunk to her knees. Hazel does not cry. She does not cry because it is loud, and messy, and inconvenient, and because as far as her working memory is concerned, it has never, ever yielded positive results. The reflex is so tightly buried that she doesn't remember how to relax whatever emotional muscle she's clenching like a vise. Even now, shaking here on her knees as grief threatens to swallow her whole. Someone speaks up to defend him. It's not enough, she knows. He's dead – they're doing chest compressions on a corpse. \n\n*I should have told him I loved him,* She thinks. *I should have kissed him. I should have known it would end like this.* It is not the first time she has acknowledged that she loves him, but it is the first time she has used the word, even if only within the confines of her own mind. What a shame it is that she will never say it aloud – no one here deserves to know, and certainly not before Valerian. How bitterly unfair, she thinks, that finally she has gotten to experience what it might be like, only to have it ripped away. His moans of agony echo in her memory, punctuating the sound of her own heartbeat in her ears. \n\nShe finds purchase along the far wall to pull herself up to her feet. Hazel is unused to losing her balance. She's a solid and sure-footed person. Now, though, she has been so thoroughly hit by the horror and grief of the moment that when she stands, she looks as though the wind could blow her over. Even still, she doesn't cry. Her face is pale and a little green, glossy with a sheen of perspiration, but there's nothing in her stomach to even retch up. \n_ _\n\nFrom where she's standing now, she has a clear view of the top third or so of his face. Every once in a while, someone moves and she is horrified by the open angle of his mouth, the deathly pallor of his skin. She has already told herself that he is dead, point blank. Still, she cannot seem to look away or move. Miraculously no one makes her do it. Right now she lacks the capacity to even register the judgment in folks' eyes, but on some level, Hazel is aware of the way they regard her as though Valerian is undeserving of her reaction. The weight of this is crushing. The world goes black at its edges. \n\n*\"Do you feel that?\"* Snaps a voice at the very periphery of her awareness. *\"That's a pulse.\"*\n\nTime passes. Someone's shouting. Hazel feels herself get shoulder-checked, hard, and she careens backwards into a display case. By some miracle, the glass doesn't shatter, but she can feel the spots on her shoulder blades that will bloom purple in the coming hours. She couldn't care less. *Mr. Barca's alive* Is the solitary buoy in an otherwise black and churning sea. Even now, though, she is unmoving. Hazel always knows what to do. She never freezes like this, but so consumed is she by dread and grief and denial that she cannot seem to get her limbs to do anything but waver there, threatening to drop her to the bloody floor. The next several minutes ago by in a blur, and Hazel can't identify what exactly has happened until the room is all but empty, save for a few souls, and the sheet has not been pulled over his face.\n_ _\n\nShe isn't sure exactly how she winds up at the side of the bed. There's a chair there – it's covered in bloodied rags and gauze. In the next moment that refuse is on the ground and Hazel is seated. She folds herself there next to him, and with a hand so light and ginger it doesn't even touch his skin, she lifts the sheet to glimpse at his bandages. \n\nIn spite of knowing what she will see there, a gasp leaves Hazel's mouth. The wound up his abdomen has been wrapped and packed and stitched, but he looks so *Liquefied,* As though the wind could blow and send heaps of flesh sloughing off of his bones. And his poor face – his face, so handsome and boyish and soft. It bears now the kind of gash she knows will not heal as forgivingly as he would like. For the first time since she has known him, he bears at long last the full extent of the consequences of his actions. She wants to protect him all the more for it. \n\nSometimes, when it loves, the prey becomes the predator. Sometimes, love blackens the lamb. There is a darkness in Hazel's features that suggest she is *Daring* Someone to say something. Instead, they clear the room. She trembles – with rage, with relief, with the enormity of her emotions. What does she say, now that they're alone? It's not like he can hear her. \n\nMaybe he can. Even if he can't, they'll be words for him – for no one else's prying ear or judgmental eye. She'll spend the rest of her life repeating them, anyway.\n_ _\n\n\"Hi,\" She begins, and immediately her throat clenches. Hazel chokes back a cough. One hand comes up to clutch Valerian's in her own – she tries not to think so hard about how cold and clammy he is. The other hand wraps itself around the base of her throat. She gasps, and shock washes over her face to feel her eyes sting with tears. She's unused to the feeling – it burns. Hazel scrubs at her eyes and, sniffling, leans inward to press a kiss to his temple. After a moment she pulls away, buries her head in her hands, and begins to weep. \n\nIt is a soft and hoarse and wheedling sound. After so many years of restraint one might think that Hazel's tears might be like the breaking of a dam. In reality they are something closer to rain in the desert after a long, dry winter. Even so, what might have been cathartic under other circumstances is instead a sound born of pure overwhelm. Maybe the crying continues for two more minutes, or maybe twenty, but after about five she manages to do it in silence. \n\n\n\n*I can't believe how much I need you. Please come back. Please stay here,* She thinks, and her face contorts as she begins to weep again, leaning over to bury her head in the crook of his neck. The skin there is stained with iodine, and smells like blood and sweat and sterilizing alcohol, but there is some of him, too."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "When Valerian Barca leaves his childhood home, guitar in hand, there is a woman at the end of the driveway. She has no features, yet he knows she is not his mother, nor his sister, nor any of the friends he has made a youth. There is a woman at the end of the driveway who is holding an embroidery needle in one hand and is covered in valerian flowers, and she is calling to him: *What took you so long? Everyone's waiting on you. Why did you make me wait, Valerian?*\n\n*Why didn't you tell me you loved me, Valerian?*\n\nHe goes chasing after her, the guitar strapped to his back by the armstrap, and when he reaches the end of the driveway, she is gone. His head turns around left, and then right, brown eyes wide. He yells out a name, though the language he speaks it in is discernable, the identity of the unknown woman obvious to him yet his subconscious refuses to acknowledge it. He sees her now at the end of the sidewalk, of the paved path that was made when Florian's legs went out, neat bricks lined in alternating patterns so his wheels wouldn't get stuck in the mud anymore. He goes running after her, and he is wearing a black cardigan when he reaches for her, her visage wisping out of existence. She is in front of him again, this time deeper into town, and he goes running, running, running—\n\n*HAZEL!*\n\n_ _\nHe calls out her name, and the woman turns to look at him, here. Her features fill in with the pieces of her that Valerian has committed to memory. The future, personified: the reason he is packing everything up and starting over. The only living being in this world worth being a good man for that isn't related to him by blood. His hand trembles when she takes it, examining it like she was going to take that needle and stitch him back up. She's already fixed too much of him for him to ask any more of her, and he promises, in that moment, that she won't have to do anything more. That she can rest, finally, and if she wants to survive, she can survive alongside him. How he loves her so. How he was a fool for not telling her.\n\n*I need you,* She says, *Please come back.*\n\n*How do I get back to you,* He asks, desperate, now taking her other hand in his, not caring how the needle sinks into his flesh. Let her hurt him; let her ruin him if she so wanted. There is nothing that Hazel Calhoun could do that would warrant any malice from Valerian Barca—*No grave could hold my body down, I'll crawl home to her.* Hazel says nothing in front of him, but instead turns, pulling her hand away from him and her needle out of his skin, and she points — points right into the outskirts of town, to the ruins, to the barn, to the *Cage.* To be known is to be loved; while the predator does not become prey when it loves, it can cage itself. Make itself small. Make itself safe and known.\n\nHe steps into the cage. (He's not sure when he got here.) His arms are heavy as his hands touch the bars, fingers loosely holding the iron. His eyes close. He breathes— in, and then out—\n\nIn... And then out...\n\nIn. And then. Out.\n\n_ _\n*Hi.*\n\n\n\nOne arm rises, slowly, to wrap around her, ever the protector even in his most weakest time. Even when he is bleeding and broken and bruised, he makes himself a shield for her, protecting her from the ne'er-do-wells of Briar Ridge who will never understand what they have. Who will never understand how she has *Changed* Him, made him better, domesticated that which sits in his belly once named ambition. He protects her tears from ever reaching anything other than his skin, and his head turns, hiding its grotesqueness, its scarring, against the side of her face.\n\n\"*Hello, my dear,*\" He whispers, his lips soft against the edge of her hair, \"*Sorry I'm late... Let me get a look at you... Let me see that you're okay.*\""
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "His voice is hoarse with pain, dehydrated and raspy, but nothing has ever sounded sweeter than the knowledge that he is *Back.* Valerian's arm comes to find purchase atop her body and she indulges in the sensation for a moment – how beautiful it is to be *Home!* – before she gently moves his arm back down. Hazel laughs, a silent and breathy expression of sheer relief to see him conscious.\n\n*\"Sorry I'm late,\"* He says, and Hazel's smile is so tired but so wide. She is quick to bring a hand to his hairline, stroking back wavy locks where his sweat and her tears have been. \n\n\"No, I'm fine,\" She says tearfully, sniffling as she frets over where to put her hands, where to comfort him first with no experience. \"Oh, I was so worried.\" *I thought you were gone,* She thinks. *I missed you so much,* But she can't bear the thought of overwhelming him too quickly, going *Me me me* At someone just back from the dead. She's forgotten all about the cut on her temple – but it's stopped bleeding on its own, and if it scars, it scars. Hazel tends toward vanity, it's true, but she wants to remember this in some carnal and tangible way. \n\nShe can't scoot her chair any closer, and just finds his hand with her own. There's a sharp inhale as a jolt of pain shoots up her arm, and she registers that in pounding on Ruth's door, she's stupidly bruised her left hand – her sewing hand. The flesh there is purpling from the bottom of her hand to the edge of her pinky. It hardly matters. It's only an excuse to spend more time with him. It's not like he can squeeze too hard, anyway.\n_ _\n\n\"There's a bandage over your eye. That's why you can't open it,\" She manages to get out as she collects her breath for what she hopes is the last time. The sky is still not light out but the room has begun to purple. A candle flickers on the distant table. Hazel is reminded of mere weeks earlier, nestled up (a safe distance apart) on the floor together among furs and blankets. She fell asleep first – she knows she did, because she never would have done it on purpose. She fell asleep first because for the first time in her working memory, she has found a home within another person. \n\n*\"You were dead,\"* She whispers, and her voice is quieter. Hallowed, as though the office is instead vaulted ceilings and stained glass. As though something in the eaves can hear. \n\n*\"Let's just be together, okay?\"*"
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "She pulls away, and he's half high on the morphine and half-lost to the pain as he looks at her, smiling, gazing over all of her. She in, in the most wonderful of ways, his guardian angel - the woman who brought him back to the world of the living had her face, and selfishly, he'd never tell her that. That's something he wants to take on his own, to keep and to hold — that his soul knows hers innately, and in some way, hers wanted his. Their hands meet, and he is freezing to the touch, indulging in whatever warmth she wanted to give or could give. Her hand is bruised, though, and he turns it over in his own briefly, looking at it, frowning at it. He has more to say on it, but he's not in the best state of mind to be interrogating her as to how she got the bruise, if it hurt, if she needed something to stop the swelling... Any attempts at doing so would likely end in slurred inquiries.\n\nHis other hand rises to touch his face when she says he's been bandaged. It's tender to touch, even behind the gauze, and it falls to his chest just a moment after. That surely would scar—he wonders what it looks like under there. If he'll lose his eye. If she'll think he's handsome with the grotesque nature of the skin being the way that it is. He's certain that while Hazel likes her vanity, she may not be so cruel as to abandon him for looking a bit off-kilter in the presence of the werewolf's attack. His lips purse in thought, and he turns his head to look at her, to keep his gaze focused on her and only her. What a fool he was - what a stupid, stupid man he was.\n\n_ _\nShe's alive. She's *Safe.* She's uninjured, save for this unknown bruise on her hand that he will ask about when the morphine stops trying to take him out completely. He wants to be awake and present for this moment; he wants to not waste any more time. *You were dead,* She says, and he nods. He knows. He couldn't have spoken with his father otherwise; he couldn't have been called away otherwise. He is cold, cold to the point of shivering, and when the blankets affix themselves around him a bit deeper due to a mild scoot that warrants a hiss of pain, their eyes meet.\n\n\"*Hazel,*\" He whispers, trying to get her attention again. She has seen him in many stages over the last few months: egotistical and brave, charismatic and self-serving, fearful and small, annoyed and angry, loving and seductive, and now... Broken and frail. As if the outer shell of Valerian Barca had been chipped away, leaving only the softest meat of his heart for her. She could reach in and take it, if she wanted, probably — there isn't much separating the organ from the open air at this point, isn't there? He reaches up to caress her cheek, his hand trembling with the attempt, and he he smiles. \"My Hazel. I promised you dinner... Promised you... Everything.\" He laughs softly; it becomes a cough.\n\nOh, how Atlas has fallen — how broken he is here in front of her, and perhaps that's the part that makes this next moment so tragic. He had imagined perfection: a dinner date, a proper courting... But he's not sure if he'll even make it through the night. He's here with her, sure, but who's to say the cold cannot still claim his injuries? Who's to say that the wounds will not get infected? Who's to say that something may not happen, and his brush with death will become a proper dance — even Lucifer must be slain, doesn't he? He cannot go any longer without allowing himself this. He is the only one who can do this.\n\n_ _\n\"Together... Yes, I quite like that.\" He whispers, taking in a shuddering breath as he tries to keep his voice steady. He doesn't cry — he cannot cry, quite literally, with the bandage on his face and the injury it guards. (His tear ducts are damaged; this is common; they will heal with the rest of him, however long that takes. He *Will* Heal.) He imagines their home together; the Barca Estate, repaired. He imagines sitting by the fire, lazily picking through some song or another on the guitar while his head rests against her knee. She sits on the couch, embroidering something, making a face whenever he plays the wrong note. There's a dog sleeping in the kitchen, desperate for some sort of warmth by the oven boiling soup. Florian and Olivia have both found love — the house is theirs, and theirs alone. There is quiet for the first time in so very long, and he is *Desperate,* Maddened, to make that a reality. He will heal. He *Will* Heal. \n\nHis brow furrows. \"*I should have kissed you. I should have told you that I...*\""
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "*\"I promised you dinner,\"* He says. *Fuck dinner,* She thinks, and smiles gently at him. It disappears when he coughs. She knows that must reverberate – she knows that must *Hurt.* Hazel's stomach knots to imagine his pain. Her grip tightens on his hand, warm and reassuring. Miserably, she sniffles, but smiles nonetheless. \n\nIt's too early to tell whether Valerian is not yet cognizant of the extent of his injuries. Either way, it should have been expected that he might try to power through them. *Did you think you were the exception?* She had asked him months ago, and in every action he had taken since, he had affirmed her question. Hazel's hand comes to collect his own when it flutters up to her cheek. Gently, she lays it back down. \n\n\"Stop it.\" Hazel's voice is soft, ragged, raw. Somehow she manages at the same time to be insistent. \"You shouldn't be doin' all of that.\" *We still don't know if you'll make it through the night,* She thinks, and new tears spring to her eyes at the cruelty of this place. Stubbornly, she wipes them away before they can fall. (They are really not so different.) Her hand comes up to stroke his hair. She has never done this for anyone before but she remembers how it felt to have it done to her. The comfort it brought was always so grounding. The rhythm she adopts is slow, feather-light, intentional. \n\n\"When you're better we'll have dinner,\" She promises, leaning in close to him again. Hazel rests her head on the edge of the bed and gazes up at him. She's never seen him at this angle. It strikes her that she ought to commit this to memory, too, just in case. Of its own accord, her hand squeezes his, just the once. \n\n\"And we *Are* Waiting 'til you're better, 'cause we're goin' out, so I won't have any arguments,\" She continues in a murmur. *I want everybody to see. They can choke on it.* \n_ _\n\nA comfortable silence envelops them for a long few moments. Hazel drinks in the opportunity to be so close. The circumstances are so far from what she would have wanted, but at least in some small way the stars have aligned for this little moment. *I'll protect you. The shop can wait. The world can wait.* \n\nHis brow furrows, and her own furrows in kind to match it, immediately displeased by anything less than content on his face. When he speaks next her stomach flips, and she only smiles, a wide, sad, forgiving thing. He hasn't finished the rest of his sentence. Whether it's because of exhaustion or hesitance is anyone's guess; either way, Hazel could never blame him for it. \n\n\"I expect you'll get another chance,\" She answers after a moment, and in spite of the circumstances there is something a little cheeky in her eyes, just for him. It disappears in the next half-second. \"Whatever you have to tell me can wait. I think you should try to rest some more.\" She chuckles gently. \"Been tellin' you to do that for months. Guess you'll have to listen to me, now.\""
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "Her hand is in his hair, and he is not unlike a cat here, eyes closing (*I love you,* The expression tells her, *Tell me you love me too.*) as he relaxes under the cool touch of her palm. She gazes up at him, sure, but he does not feel anything other than the weight of the hospital bed shifting under her gentle press. If he knew that she looked at him simultanouesly so reverently and mournfully, he might take his position as a de facto corpse more seriously. Alas. Time will heal all wounds, even the ones that line the walls of her heart with every glance she takes to him. When was the last time *He* Was taken care of? When was the last time anyone brought him into their arms, kissed his brow, stroked his hair, and promised that he would be alright?\n\n_ _\n\n\nHe finds what strength he has left to squeeze her hand three times. *I love you, I love you, I love you.* The smile that rests on his face as he blinks, slowly, the glaze in his eyes now a combination of adoration and fatigue. He surely will fall asleep, broken and fatigued of no fault of his own, while his body fights against the injuries and infections, but for now, this moment is theirs. He has it written across his face: *I cannot wait to tell you anymore. I have to tell you now, in case we are faced with the worst.*\n\n_ _\nAlas — now that he he has said it, ironically, he feels more empowered than ever. *I love you,* He remembers himself saying, feeling the way it so easily left his mouth, like a hymnal. He will command his body to fight, to overcome these injuries, to feel the body and the bone snap back into place. Even if he deals with pain for the rest of his life, even if the Valerian Barca of the now must rest more often, he will know that he did so in order to live the life he wants to live. Selfishly, he wished he'd met her before he ran away, fearful of his truth, but he can no longer live in the past — at least, not about himself. His father has commanded him not to. In some ways, then, it is fitting that Octavian stayed behind in the house while he pursued Hazel out of his own madness — if his father is the past, the woman he loves must be the future.\n\nIt is signed in blood and love, then: he will give it all up for her. He believes her, now, when she looks at him like he is deserving of more than this world's cruelty. It is signed in blood, then, that he would do what is best for him— no. For *Them.*\n\nTo hell with the rest."
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "He loves her. In her youth she dreamt of this moment, and thought it might feel like seeing the world in color for the first time. In truth, though, that color has been slowly bleeding into her field of vision for months now. He loves her, and it doesn't come as a surprise. He loves her and it feels like a prayer – not a prayer of reverence but of last rites. He loves her, verb, as what may very well be among his final acts. \n\nTheir dynamic has been a hilly one, highlighted by the push-and-pull of traded vulnerability. Among the few constants is Valerian as protector: for his siblings, for Hazel, for the things he holds dear. He, too, was forced in some way to abandon his childhood before he was ready. He has had no one to protect him, and yet he has never complained. \n\nIt couldn't have been much longer after they'd met that Valerian had decided Hazel was someone worth protecting. He had snatched her away from the snapping jaws of a monster; he had put the gun into her hands when she asked, and taught her to point it. Hazel had been self-sufficient for so long that at first, she had scarcely known what to do with the way he sought to protect her, to keep her safe. A younger Hazel might have found that repulsive. This version of Hazel relishes the feeling of being seen as worthy of a soft and gentle existence. This version of Hazel is okay with admitting that she has wanted nothing more than this peace and safety and ease for as long as she can remember. \n_ _\n\n\"I love you, too,\" She says, and her admission is the utterance of an oath etched across her heart. She has come to be so defensive of him – protective in her own right – but that defense was always underscored by self-preservation. He had suggested a night at the Speakeasy and, fearing judgmental eyes, she had turned him down. Fearing consequences, she had eschewed a public alliance with him in favor of playing it safe. The way her priorities have shifted is nothing short of the world having turned on its axis. She had felt the truth of it in the way her heart plummeted into her stomach to see him fall, there, when both of their gunshots were rendered useless. It had been written into law when she stood beside him, stalwart and glaring in the faces of those who would sneer. It had been etched into her soul when she shouldered past them in spite of having been shoved and body-checked and snarled out of the way. Hazel protects what she loves. She will not be shamed for loving. She will not allow the one she loves to be shamed, not when he wears the evidence of his efforts in spades.\n\nNot when it has been such a long time coming. She couldn't have predicted the potency of those instincts, but Hazel has always been so quick to bare her teeth when she needs to bare them. The sun is teasing at the horizon and the sky has long since begun to purple. At some point in the darkness, the lamb has donned the wolfskin: Valerian lies weak and vulnerable before her, and Hazel, bloodied and full of righteous anger, will not abandon him. There is a darkness to her which seems unfamiliar but which Valerian has seen before, in little glimpses. She wears it now like a badge, like a cloak, like a warning. \n_ _\n\n\"And I'm not leavin' you,\" She adds, decisively, in a soft voice which betrays the gravity of this admission. So many times she has been the rat who jumped from the sinking ship. She will be its captain, now. \"I'll take care of you. You don't have to worry.\"\n\nHazel's eyes are heavy and wet with emotion. She doesn't dare let go of his hand before his grip loosens on its own. Selfishly, she doesn't want to let go; in another world they are in some bright, electrified hospital with a wide, clean bed and she has curled up beside him. This is Briar Ridge, though, and such pleasures are denied even before they leave the realm of dreams. \n\n\"Sleep now,\" She murmurs, because he needs to. \"I love you,\" She says again, because she wants to."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "She loves him, too. The way his face changes is nothing short of impossible, the way his ~~eyes~~ eye widens slightly, the way whatever blood remains in his body finds his cheeks. She *Loves* Him. He could die a happy man, but he won't— no. Valerian will live. Valerian will live, if only so he can take Hazel Calhoun to dinner at his home, and make her a meal. He will live, if only so he can spoil her with being in a home that is warm and comforting and not one she has to cover with doilies to have some semblance of dignity. No, he will live, so that she can become a Barca, so that she can be his *Wife,* So that he can be her *Husband.*\n\nHis devotion is as heavy bleeding as his wounds are, and he smiles— how beautiful he is when he smiles, even if it is a little one, even if it is reserved only for her. *I'm not leaving you,* She says, and he knows. He knows now — however could he have been so foolish as to be this way when she just needed more time? How could he have been so stupid to do anything but let her set the pace? How *Stupid* Could he have been to think that there is any greater bliss than this?\n\n_ _\n*I love you,* She says, because she wants to, and it is all he needs to listen to her. He will follow her every command obediently like a starving dog, a whimpering hound waiting outside her door. No longer does he have to scratch at the door for entrance, though, for she has built him his own space that he can come and go as she pleases. He can curl up by the fire while she sits on the couch, tending to their wounds of the physical or otherwise.\n\n*I love you,* She says, and he thinks he may finally understand poetry, the way that the sonnets lilt and tilt this way and that. He thinks he knows music again, and the thinks he could write ballads on the way her lips form around the words. He thinks he might be a patron of the arts now, if all of the arts look and sound as beautiful as Hazel Calhoun does when she says *I love you.* \n\n\"Okay,\" He whispers, and he leans his head back against the pillow. His hand has yet to fall slack, his body yet to be lost to the whispers of the necessary slumber. He'll do what she asks, because she knows what's best for him like this. There are few people he would listen to while so vulnerable in such a way, but with Hazel Calhoun, he would open up his ribcage and let her reach in to claim his heart (or crawl between the bones, replacing that small portion of himself that Adam gave up to create Eve; it pales in comparison to what Valerian would give up for Hazel).\n\n_ _\n\"I love you,\" He whispers one more time, because he has to have the last word, and he's smiling as he falls back asleep. It is a gentle and tender thing, the way he loses himself back to the unconsciousness of gentle slumber. His body calls for him to rest, and this time, his mind permisses such a thing - safe in the gaze of the woman who has told him *I'm choosing you.* His breathing slows first into something low and deep—gentle, and necessary for this kind of rest — and then, finally, his hand loosens.\n\nThe third finger on his left hand is still looped against hers."
}
] | 827 | 7,753 |
613.25 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Mitica Lakatos",
"message": "Mitica prided himself in being able to be mostly independent, relying on the land and what little money he could gather for anything he couldn't forage for or do himself. Even when he didn't have access to proper medical care he somehow survived, being stabbed, falling ill, being stuck in an abandoned house during a fierce midwestern thunderstorm. These experiences may have contributed to his reluctance to see a physician, not seeing his symptoms as anything he couldn't handle given his track record. Then there was the fear of paying. How could he pay for the medical bills when he had to ration out every cent for food and couldn't even afford a new coat? Would he be in debt or be outright rejected at the very sight of empty pockets? Finally, the most damning factor of all, there was his lack of experience with doctors. He had only seen a licensed physician when he was hospitalized, practically being dragged out from underneath rubble and having little choice in the matter if he wanted to live. He paid off his debt through working odd jobs, mainly custodial in nature, but he didn't know if he'd be able to do that this time. Sterile rooms and beds in a row only brought bad memories. Men and women in white coats and wielding needles struck him with fear, the kind of fear a child might feel when being chased by a chicken. It felt foolish and childish but oh so real, and even though he knew that the chicken meant him no life threatening harm Mitica couldn't help but squeal and run away.\n\nHe refused any assistance up until it became too much, a simple walk into town for supplies ending in him waking up with townsfolk crowded over him, his back to the ground and eyes cast towards the sky. He was having a hard time breathing, something that began as the occasional wet cough and pang in his chest if he breathed in too deep, but it soon grew into something much more serious.\n\nBy the time he passed out he had developed a fever, grew exhausted easily, lost most of his appetite, and had quite a bad case of brain fog. It was most likely this fatigue and inability to take deep breaths that caused him to grow unsteady and pass out. Luckily he didn't fall too far, having noticed the dizziness settling in and reacting by slowly lowering himself to the ground before fully keeling over. Draga, the loyal mutt that always seemed to know what to do, began to whine and bark as if to get people's attention. Some townsfolk had already noticed Mitica's odd behavior before the barking started but it still helped turn heads.\n\nHe was practically carried to the doctor's, quiet confused protests doing little to stop those who had found him from forcing him to get help. His feet trailed behind and felt like jelly, his only real option being to follow their lead. With that being said he still put up a fight, as upon entering he felt something click, his mind transported somewhere else. Suddenly his body was filled with a burst of energy, fueled entirely by the need to get out of there as fast as possible. His scramble to escape the two people who were helping him walk was mostly in vain, that energy leaving him just as swiftly as it came. He was reduced to a crying, coughing, delirious mess in a waiting room chair while the two who helped him inside told a nurse where they found him and what they noticed upon first glance. He was given reassurances and eventually led willingly to a bed for examinations and much needed rest. He felt so small and he still did as he lay in bed today.\n\nMitica's symptoms had only gotten worse but at least he was in professional care now. He was constantly clammy but also chilled to the bone, shivers making his muscles sore. Apparently he had pneumonia and he was probably predisposed to such a condition through his bout of hypothermia only a month ago during the blizzard.\n\nOut of caution he was assumed infectious and as such it was recommended that anyone visiting wear a face mask or other covering to keep their mouth and nose safe from any airborne pathogens. He slept most of the time and ate what he could (mostly soups) and was constantly given fluids to drink. He was actually incredibly thankful that there wasn't an IV in his arm this time (even if he doubted anywhere besides a London hospital had ready access to such technology. It wasn't easy to come by, not by a long shot). Occasionally he'd wake up and become briefly panicked without the familiar weight of Draga against his side and the unfamiliar room but would eventually calm down once he remembered what happened. Surreal and oftentimes distressing dreams also weren't uncommon, an expected outcome given his stress levels and high fever. He'd only been stuck in this room for 3 days but it felt like an eternity, the day spent alone except for the nurses who would come in to give him food or record his vitals every now and again. It wasn't like he was awake for long but he couldn't say that the loneliness wasn't getting to him."
},
{
"author": "Hirano Akira (Ping Ye Qiu Liang )",
"message": "\"Mr Lakatos? Are you okay? Mr Lakatos..?\" \n\nThank goodness Akira wasn't there to witness Mitica's consciousness fade due to his illness. Instead, it was Mako who saw it all as the old man went to pick up his pain medicine. He panicked, of course, as it seemed for a moment that he was going out of breath at the sight of a close family friend passing out right in front of everybody at the doctor's office. He took extra time to get back home for this reason, as it was him who offered to take care of poor Draga. The sight of the hound entering their small home made Aki's stomach drop. \n\nCursing her circumstances, and blaming herself, the woman was still bedridden from the mysterious illness, she only hoped that Mitica wasn't dealing with the same thing... Or worse. It took her three days, but she finally had gotten enough strength to stand up on her own.\n\n\"Oi! Where do you think you're going?\" Mako, with the eye of a hawk, spotted his daughter trying to sneak out of the front door. \n\nAkira huffed as her hand barely touched the doorknob. How did he find her? She was tryin' to be sneaky! \n\n\"Mita is still in the hospital.\" She said.\n\n\"And the doctors said he'd be okay.\" Mako replied, a miracle as pneumonia was nothing to scoff at. \n\n\"I just..\" Aki paused for a moment as she felt Draga nudge against her leg, she looked down to pet him \"...I don't want him to be alone. \"\n\nMako put both fingers between his eyes and sighed. There was no way in hell he'd be able to change his daughter's mind, he was no one to call her out on walking while still being in pain. She sure was a Hirano through and through, and Mitica a part of their little broken family.\n\n\"Okay. But please, come back before dinner.' The man said, giving his child a gentle, loose hug. \"Take care of Aka-chan on my behalf, okay?\" He then turned to the hound, stretching him behind the ear. Did Draga even understand Japanese? Ah, perhaps it didn't make a difference if they spoke English either way.\n\nAkira stepped outside alongside her furry friend. The first time she managed to do it on her own since the appearance of her mysterious disease. She brought a mask to wear at the doctor's just in case, although she had the feeling that whatever happened to her body wasn't contagious. \n\nAki knew the road well, though she wasn't in a hurry particularly. She was able to appreciate the sunlight and the wind on her face, the way winter was slowly making its way for spring to come. It all felt foreign to her, like she didn't belong, but she had her priorities.\n\nWith the guidance of the nurses, she found Mitica's room. She took a deep breath before gently knocking on the door, with Draga putting his front paws against it, excited to get in.\n\n\"Mita...?\" Akira said, her face covered in the mask as it muffled her voice only slightly, still audible and distinguishable enough. \"Are you awake..?\""
},
{
"author": "Mitica Lakatos",
"message": "At the time Mitica was ashamed to see Mako Hirano amongst the witnesses, his first night at the hospital leaving him with even more time to ruminate on it until he was rife with regret. He supposed that the only good thing to come from it was that he knew who would take care of Draga, the kind man having offered to take his beloved hound in for the duration of Mitica's stay. As much as he hated being away he knew that it was for the best, especially knowing Draga might be able to keep Akira company as well since he wouldn't be able to at the moment. \n\nSpeaking of Draga, that's exactly who he was dreaming about right before Akira showed up. It wasn't distressing for once, simply strange and surreal. The roles were reversed this time, Mitica on all fours while a anthropomorphic Draga wandered through the forest. Elias was there too, also crawling around, with Poppy standing on her back paws and surveying the area. People trotted beside him, each paired up with a dog or other pet. The strangest sight was that of Blanca with her horse towering over the crowd as they stood on two hooves. Draga spoke to him and, even if he couldn't do anything but make animal noises, it seemed that this dream world version of his dog knew what he was trying to say. Draga explained what they were going to do, complete nonsense that Mitica could no longer understand or decipher while awake, but he did agree with Draga about something. The two smiled at each other and then he heard something, something muffled at first before growing clearer. It was knocking, each knock piercing through the fog of dreams until it was torn to bits, and thus rousing him from his sleep.\n\nIt wasn't a startled awakening, Mitica blinking his eyes open hesitantly and with some lingering confusion as to what was going on before the sun's rays shocked him out of his stupor.\n\nIt was the afternoon and he didn't remember being given breakfast or being checked on in the morning, but as he begrudgingly rose to be sitting up in bed an empty glass and mostly consumed bowl of oatmeal on a nightstand beside his bed told him that he must've been half asleep when he was first woken up. Rubbing his eyes with his palms Mitica didn't fully process the voice on the other side of the door, merely assuming it was one of the nurses coming in to check up on him despite them never waiting this long or referring to him with that nickname.\n\n\"Yeah, come in.\" Mitica mumbled, his voice more wet and gravelly than usual due to the sheer amount of hacking and coughing he'd been doing recently. His wooden foot was sitting on the ground near the foot of his bed and his glasses were still situated on the nightstand, a stray hand reaching towards it to retrieve them. As part of the examination he had to remove the bandages on his damaged hand and hadn't bothered to put them back on, let alone ask for spare bandaging to use, so the two little finger nubs were out in the open. They were pretty sensitive most of the time but given how predictable the temperature was inside he wasn't having many troubles.\n\nHis hair was a poofy mess, especially since he had just woken up, and comically was somewhat flattened on one side.\n\nHe had to be changed out of his old clothes for the examination also and, once again, hadn't bothered to change out of the white gown they put him in. It was comfortable enough so he had no quarrels. His old clothes were resting on a chair facing a desk he was yet to use. As much as he wanted to wrap up in his cloak he also knew that getting any warmer wouldn't do his fever any good, no matter how cold he felt on the inside. Shakily putting on his glasses Mitica began to try and fix his hair a bit, moving stray pieces that were stuck to his forehead off and habitually scratching his beard while he waited for the door to open. Hopefully not looking too much like a soaked stray cat would up his confidence a bit, just enough to calm his nerves about this entire situation. Thankfully, the person (and dog) who would soon enter probably didn't care about how his hair looked or what number he'd rate himself on the pain scale, so such hopes for confidence and looking mature meant little in reality."
},
{
"author": "Hirano Akira (Ping Ye Qiu Liang )",
"message": "Slowly, the door creaked open to reveal Mitica's good companion and friend. With a sigh of relief, Akira smiled behind the mask, perhaps her face was obscured by the cloth, but she hoped the way her eyes looked at him were able to express her emotions. \n\n\"They let Draga in but they made me wear this.\" She chuckled, making a small gesture as she pointed to herself. She then walked into the room, coughing a little bit. \"I mean, I don't blame them. They sure think this is contagious so they don't wanna take any risks.\" \n\nAkira looked around her surroundings a little bit, mostly to make sure she didn't accidentally trip over the wooden foot by the bed, and pulled the chair from one side of the room closer to Mitica. Since her body was still aching from whatever mysterious illness she suffered from, Aki made sure that her own movements were slow and paused. She involuntarily exhaled as soon as she sat, as if her body was relieved to be able to catch some rest after the excruciating effort that walking was. \n\n\"I heard you worried lots of people when you came here...\" She said, almost as if she was getting ready to scold the old man for not taking care of himself. But Akira had to bite her tongue, she was no one to criticize, as she'd be chastised for the same self-destructive habits. \n\n\"Glad to see you're doing better. I wish I came sooner.\""
},
{
"author": "Mitica Lakatos",
"message": "When the door opened to reveal Akira and his dog Draga the only thing Mitica could do was stare in absolute shock. Were they really here? Moreover, what the hell was Akira doing up and about? He barely caught what she was saying through the millions of questions and mental notes floating through his still groggy head. Was this another dream? Maybe a dream within a dream perhaps... Yeah, that was possible, he'd had them before. However, it surely was not, as a far too real impact against his bedside made him realize that he was entirely awake. Draga ran forward and placed his front paws on his bedside, a familiar long snout and beady eyes peering up at him with what he could only describe as ecstasy. It nearly brought tears to his eyes seeing the hound's tail wagging a mile a minute and his little tongue dangling lazily from his jaws. \"Awww, c'mere bebe! I missed you too, c'mon.\" Mitica exclaimed joyously after a few seconds wasted to cherish the scene. Not caring if it was against the rules Mitica patted one of his hands against the covers to invite Draga to jump up, the dear mutt quickly listening and hopping up. \n\nUsing his intact hand to stroke the dog's back as he got comfortable Mitica turned to fully face Akira who was pulling a chair over. The light feeling in his heart was quickly dampened, like wet fur had been draped over his shoulders. She was here, but why? Was she feeling better or did her father allow her to leave? Did her father even know? Before he could really ask though she spoke first, reminding him of the mild scene he caused to land him here in the first place.\n\nMitica couldn't help but glance away guiltily, expecting her to continue and begin reprimanding him - he probably deserved a good scolding after pushing himself so far - but none came. Instead he was drawn back to face her as the mood changed, Mita sensing some sort of guilt in her words.\n\n\"You don't need to apologize, Aki. You've been sick, I would hate for you to get worse because you wanted to keep lil' old me company.\" Mitica began, flashing her a tired smile while he kept absent-mindedly running his hand along Draga's fur. It felt nice to have his dog's weight beside him again, it felt grounding. He was just about to continue his thought before a tickle rose up his throat, Mitica sensing this and holding up a hand as if to ask for a pause before turning away and coughing into the inside of his elbow. After a few moments of hacking something up Mitica took a moment to look at what exactly it was, seeing nothing but phlegm on his gown sleeve. Bashfully he simply rubbed his arm against his side to get the stuff off before continuing for real this time, pushing his glasses back up with his free hand and resuming petting Draga with the other while he did so. His chest hurt quite a bit now but it would fade away after a while like it always did.\n\n\"How are you and your father Mako doing?\" Mitica began, clearing his throat for a moment to dislodge whatever gunk remained in his throat. \"I hope I didn't scare him too bad. Speaking of, does he know you're here? I'm sure you know this but he cares lots about you and I can only imagine how worried he'd be not knowing where you were, especially given what you're going through right now.\""
},
{
"author": "Hirano Akira (Ping Ye Qiu Liang )",
"message": "Seeing Draga and Mitica be reunited after days filled Akira with joy. She never had a pet, but she knew what distance could do to a person, even if said separation was fleeting. Even if her smile was obscured by the mask, her eyes gave away her expression despite her mysterious illness. \n\n\"I think I got used to the pain and chills after a bit. It's all good!\" She joked, muffling her coughing with her own sleeve out of habit. It was almost as if whatever she had was contagious, though she was very aware that it wasn't. One could argue that she did this to not give a heart attack to any nurse or doctor that would happen to walk in.\n\n\"Papa knows I'm here.\" She said, waving her hand to dismiss her own well being. \"He tried to stop me but ...You know I could convince him, he's nobody to call me out on these kinds of things, when he insists on going back to work once spring hits!\" \n\nAkira laughed again, her voice wet and stifled, but she was clearly in good spirits despite it all. \n\n\"I know he worries about me, though. I know you do, too.\" Her voice quieted down. \"I don't know what I'd do without you two, that's even more reason for me to come here, you know?\""
},
{
"author": "Mitica Lakatos",
"message": "He didn't know whether to be happy or saddened by the fact Akira claimed to have gotten used to her symptoms after a while. On one hand he was glad she wasn't suffering as much but it also felt terrible knowing she had those symptoms long enough to get used to them in the first place. He'd gotten used to not having a foot and having joint pain but that still didn't make it enjoyable when it ultimately got in the way every now and then. Still, there wasn't much he could do about it even if he was healthy, so it was probably best to not think about it too much - at least for now.\n\nMitica's concern over Akira's father knowing where she was immediately melted as he was reassured that he knew. Part of him felt even more pleased that he tried to stop her, that meaning he most likely gave her a few rules to go by during her outing. Sure, he also hated how both of them had a bad habit of pushing themselves really hard, but he'd make do with small victories. It wasn't like he was much better either, that being evident by this very scenario.\n\nEventually his smile faded again as Akira got serious, her voice quieting down as she admitted to not knowing what she'd do without both himself and her father. He wanted to wander over and give her a hug but his sore muscles and distance made him hesitant. His petting of Draga stopped while he thought, his dog seeming to notice this change in atmosphere. Mitica felt a wet nose nudge his hand again, killing two birds with one stone - asking for more pets and making sure his owner didn't overthink things too much.\n\n\"I don't know what I'd do either.\" Mitica admitted, deciding to say what first came to mind while he resumed stroking Draga's fur.\n\n\"I know what I *Was* Doing before I met you and a few other kind townsfolk but I never realized how much happier I'd be when I didn't let fear take the reigns. I guess... I guess this is the result of one of those times. Truth be told, I was scared to get help.\" Mitica continued, not really knowing where he was going or thinking about what he was saying until it escaped his lips. \"I, um... I don't like hospitals.\" He concluded in a whisper as if he were confessing to something terrible, looking away and tensing his shoulders.\n\n\"But-\" Mitica started back up after a moment, trying to turn the focus back to Akira, \"But I'm glad you found people. I know that we won't always be here and I know I won't always have *You*. I don't know, I guess just... Just know that you'll find more people who care about you if you put yourself out there.\" He continued, looking back up at Akira and flashing a smile he hoped was comforting before backpedaling a bit, \"Uh, if that makes any sense. Words just kinda...\" Mitica didn't finish with any words, only using his free hand to gesture with, flicking it out from his mouth as if to demonstrate words flying or being ushered out. The last word he was looking for never came to him so he hoped the message made it across with gestures."
},
{
"author": "Hirano Akira (Ping Ye Qiu Liang )",
"message": "\"I can see that you don't like asking for help.\" Akira tried to sound stern, stiffing a chuckle while trying to cover her masked complexion. She meant her own words, however, as she had became aware of how the two struggled to follow their own advice. They were always willing to help others, but who could help them if they didn't allow people in their lives even?\n\n\"I understand though, hospitals suck, I do sense this sort of bad energy sometimes whenever I get here... I wish for a day when this place won't be as regularly visited as these days.\" \n\nWhat Mitica said was true, however. Akira had found people. As much as she tried to push them away, she didn't have the strength to act mean to do so. Or perhaps, a small part of her still didn't want to be alone, for isolation was her biggest punishment and her biggest fear. \n\n\"Hmmm..\" She hummed, her gaze giving away a melancholic expression as it was concealed by the mask she wore. \"It makes sense Mita, yes. But I don't think I deserved it. \"\n\nAkira shook her head, trying to avoid the conversation to shift to herself. \"I can't, I just can't...\" \n\nHer eyes then searched for the night table, gesturing to a tray with a glass and a bottle with water.\n\n\"Need some?\" \n\nA topic change, just anything to avoid being the center of anybody's attention."
}
] | 671 | 4,906 |
837.933333 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": " blanca ochoa cervantes ",
"message": "*Ego crush is so severe / god, it's brutal out here!*\n\nShe had learned so much in the last stretch of time about the resilience of her own body and of her mind. Whether Blanca had been out for minutes, hours or days was a mystery to her – there was only red for a while, and then blackness when, miraculously, the worst of her pain had begun to ebb. Dreamless, incapable of coherent thought, she lay suspended in darkness with no real idea if this was permanent or not, and without the energy to care very much.\n\nWhen at last she could feel the presence of gravity, her back against a surface besides the ground, there was a rush of adrenaline as she put it together – she didn't know where she was. Her body worked overtime to try to crank her eyes open and sit up. Her body, thankfully, was still too weak and groggy to obey her; her eyelids relented eventually and, after several fluttering attempts, Blanca blinked blearily into the gray light of the doctor's office.\n_ _\n\nThe hacienda where Blanca's family had made their home was more than a residence. It was a micro-community in its own right, stocked by cousins, the women they'd met along the way, and the children many had together. Even if she was hardly the favorite child at the moment, she'd undoubtedly garnered a surplus of concern about her whereabouts, especially considering – \n\n*My mare,* She tried to say aloud. *Lucia.* What came out of her mouth was: \n\n\"Muh. Mmm.\"\n\nA deep exhaustion had etched itself into her face, assuaged only temporarily by the rest and critical care she'd received. Blanca felt the moment she became aware of the pain she was in, and though it was far subdued compared to what she could just remember she'd endured, the discomfort inspired a wave of emotion. Vulnerability. She was here, injured and incapacitated, with only the doctor and the nurse and the ghosts of whoever had died in this room. Without the energy to project any surety, and very much overwhelmed, Blanca's eyes filled with tears. She took in a breath and held it, willing the furnishings in the room to come into further focus. They did not, and in spite of her best efforts, her lip quivered. Fuck."
},
{
"author": "Doctor Elias Olander",
"message": "Rest and time and quiet could do a great lot to heal a broken body. Blanca benefited from at least two of those. The position of the doctor's ward in the town center around Christmastime made *Quiet* A less than likely proposition. In place of the quiet, she had the attention of Briar Ridge's doctor.\n\nThat very same quietude missing in the streets around the ward was altogether too present at his home some nights. Rather than returning home the past two nights, he'd taken the other patient's room in the ward as his own. The bed was as good as any. With a disposition that had never made friends with things like sleep or peace, it was easier then, to check his patient every few hours.\n\nPain relief was something he could not be generous with. There were too many questions he had unanswered about Blanca. Meager doses of opiates would be just enough to take the edge off and that she would likely not remember the few things he'd asked her in the two days past. Her answers had been about as unintelligible as the sounds he heard now from her room.\n\nWhat was the time? Leaning back from his place at the desk in the office area of the doctor's ward, he wondered when dawn's wan light had sneaked up on him. He set a pot of coffee on the stove, tossing another wedge of seasoned birch in the fire. Around the time the stove's old iron door was squealing shut, she was mumbling more than she had in the past 48 hours, and he could make out the faint sound of her straining within the linens of the bed.\n\n\"Try not to move too much.\" He leaned against the door frame of her room. Even barely-conscious patients could often comply with commands. This was one he'd had to tell her a few times in the past days. Dark thread against her skin made tidy rows of sutures on her abdomen. Created with a practiced hand, the stitches were taut enough to hold her together, but not so tight that breathing would put them at risk. Sitting up, on the other hand, was an idea best left to dreams. The deep bruising along her ribcage had spread dark purple far wider than the gashes, as if they were fingers reaching around for her spine. They would signal their own painful reminder that was certain not to help her emotional state.\n\nThe quiver of her lip was visible by the sliver of dawn illuminating her sharp profile. She showed more awareness than he'd seen in a while. \"Miss Cervantes, you may not remember, but you were injured. You've healed remarkably well, but you're still recovering.\" Three short steps carried him across the small room, close enough to seek out her dark eyes for awareness.\n\n\n||"
},
{
"author": " blanca ochoa cervantes ",
"message": "It appeared that the tables had been turned. The hunt was coming back to her now – in fragmented pieces, most of which seemed out of order, but back it came. Between recoil-inducing snapshots of tusks aimed for her vital organs therein lay memories of her own judgment of the doctor and his shot. A whole lot of good it had done her. It seemed these last few months that the Universe had its own lessons in store for Blanca, and so long as she continued to ignore them, she'd reap the consequences. \n\nPerhaps it was time to reevaluate. She could feel her mind coming back into focus as the lines between thoughts became clearer. The room was simple, but far from austere; in spite of the weather, a low, gray light filtered into the room in what was an aptly medicinal, color-bleaching sort of way. Elias' face came into her periphery, and turning her head to face him inspired an effort that Blanca swore should have been paired with the sound of stone scraping stone. When at last she found his eyes, there was something comforting about the reservation there – another assurance of pure intent, of her safety here. Blanca's upper arms were lead at her sides, but her forearms carried sweeping fingers in a slow, grazing motion down to her torso where the bruises bloomed under her touch, enough for her to know without looking that she was likely the color of eggplant. \n_ _\n\nGrateful as she was to have been taken care of, Blanca found herself internally cringing at the total helplessness of her circumstances. *When can I leave?* She wanted to ask, but a creeping memory dampened her zeal: the tearing of her flesh, the feeling of it almost like knitwork come apart. Charlie, bleeding on the snow. She was hardly a stranger to injury, but none so severe as this – even when she'd been thrown from a hot-tempered young horse or kicked squarely in the side, she'd never suffered more than a cracked rib. The only real scar she bore worth looking at was the one on her thigh, tucked out of sight. (She prayed that the nurse had been the one to see it.) To have this many *Holes* In her body was a sensation with which she was thoroughly overwhelmed – suffice to say, the Blanca who lay in the sterile white bed was about as far away as she could get from the Blanca who'd ridden up to the hunt that day, confident and sure. There would be nothing gained from posturing here – in the most literal sense, she couldn't even deliver. Blanca's dark eyes were soft and bore in their depths the truth of her having resigned herself to this situation. \n\n\"Thank you,\" She croaked through a dry throat, because it seemed like the important thing to say. The use of English here was another added hurdle: she'd gotten used to speaking it regularly, but there was a comfort in retreating into Spanish that she both could not and would not afford herself. In another world she knew she was lying dead right now, likely having tried to get herself home on horseback. She didn't often find herself indebted to others, mostly because it was a dynamic she tried to avoid, but Blanca could afford to change the rules for someone who had saved her life. \n\nAnd then, of course:\n\n\"My horse...?\""
},
{
"author": "Doctor Elias Olander",
"message": "Elias had seen it many times before. Rousing. Recollection. Exploration. Eventually some understanding. He fathomed it all moved two or three times as slowly for the patient rather than the observer. \n\nThere was a clear distinction to him when a patient was truly cognizant rather than acting off of rote instinct. The subconscious at play, stirring to life again. The awakening of self was visible in the resigned way her eyes roamed the room. She no longer wept in fear or cried words he couldn't quite decipher. \n\nWith a few more moments' realization, she would understand that at some point, she had been undressed and her body washed. She was now dressed in something resembling a short chambray tunic. Laces down the front had been fastened loosely. Formalities were not something the doctor had much patience for, but he still possessed basic courtesy. Sometimes. He was not just a doctor, but a man, and she was a woman alone. He busied himself, giving her an unobserved moment to gather her wits back around her. \n\nA chair was moved to sit beside her and several things gathered to rest on the small nightstand of dark walnut. One leatherbound book, a pen, and a tall glass of cool water. \n\n\"Let's get you upright before you start asking questions, hm?\" He straightened his wristwatch, taking a look at the time before leaning over her. His arm behind her back was firm, doing most of the lifting of her torso. She had the other arm to hold onto in front of her, so she could help pull herself to sitting. They were both young and strong people; despite the injury clawing its bitter way around her torso making itself known, it would not stop her from finding herself propped up against several chicken feather pillows.\n\n\"The Mayor saved you some of the hog's ribs. For... Those that you paid with. But you should start with water.\" The glass of water was passed into her hands, the doctor watching her close to ensure she could hold it on her own before he fully let go of it. He settled on the chair, plucking up the book and pen to scribble a few notes. Pausing, Blanca and the face of his watch were given another inspection before he wrote more.\n\nThe pen against the page was agonizing, and it seemed he tortured her deliberately in his writing before finally giving answers. \"Lucy? Is very comfortable sharing a small paddock with *Chula* Down the road. Mrs. Meyer's donkey. I presume you're familiar.\" \n\nThis being the first instance these two had spoken more than two real words to each other, it became clear Blanca was not the only one speaking English as a second language. He'd dropped the, frankly, silly-sounding pitch shift of his parents when he'd entered primary school but there was still a softness on the consonants and a lean to some of his vowels that indicated something other than privileged and pretentious bastard from New York. \n\nFortunately, he had spoken English for a very significant amount of his adulthood, nullifying much misunderstanding between them. It was clearly intentional then, the directness of his next question. \"Miss Cervantes, I've been told that is your name, is that correct?\" His pen hung poised over the page, eyes expectant on her before continuing. \"Is there any possibility that you are with child?\""
},
{
"author": "swanronson11",
"message": "Please do not kill him, he is just a simple stupid man"
},
{
"author": " blanca ochoa cervantes ",
"message": "The doctor's hand on her back was so clinical that she hardly registered it as a hand at all. A very genuine appreciation flooded her. Blanca was no stranger to roaming hands, to excuses and oversights, to the hundreds of little losses of agency written into the female experience. She had come to expect those kinds of things from men who looked like Elias – men who benefited from this country and its government, men who had not had to fight the way her family had. There was a sort of *Taking* With which those kinds of people were terribly comfortable. That greed was absent from Elias' touch, and the comfort Blanca felt upon relaxing onto the pillows was a profound relief. \n\nSomeone had haphazardly re-braided her hair, likely so it wouldn't tangle against the pillow. She had a distinct feeling that it had been the work of the nurse rather than the doctor. When Elias assumed his position on the chair beside her bed, Blanca watched him with keen eyes. Their gazes met as he, clinical and critical, scanned her for details of which she was hardly aware. In turn she, intuitive and shrewd, scanned him for the same sort of esoteric knowledge, as though he had left much room for her to find anything. The dragging of his pen across the page seemed to punctuate the idea that Elias was, at the very least, a difficult man to read. In the coming weeks, that mystery would prove tantalizing to Blanca, who loved nothing so much as figuring a person out. For now, though, she was content to parse through the strange lilt of his English. \n_ _\n\nFor some reason, she couldn't seem to shake the phantom sensation of the warm, dry climate from which she'd come. Though she tried more often than not to keep those memories locked away for convenience, it appeared that in her vulnerability, all she wanted was to be back there. Even indoors she could see the frost on the windows outside. She'd long since grown used to winters here, adapting in her own way, but Blanca felt a part of herself shrink a little. There much to be grateful for – she'd have to bring the good doctor a gift – but in tandem came crawling back the things from which she so often found herself running. \n\nLucia was safe, with the donkey that Blanca had sold to Mrs. Meyer a few summers back. She knew better than to expect him to actually know her horse's name, but she noted the effort with genuine surprise. It wasn't that Elias was... *Rude,* Necessarily, but he certainly didn't hide the way he thought of himself. *So what?* She thought. *Neither do you.* It was different coming from a man, though – different still, coming from a white man. \n\nReluctantly, she cut him some slack. He had saved her life; there was room for her to give him some grace. That decision was made a millisecond or so before his question, and Blanca took a long moment to respond, doing her best to ease back into that collected persona she'd come to wear so often. \n\n\"No,\" She said flatly, \"I am in *No* Way with child.\" Dìos mio. She knew it was a valid question, of course, but Blanca, unused to the procedural nature of Western medicine, found herself visibly appalled despite her best efforts. In the next moments that expression melted away into something a little harder to read, but pleasant nonetheless. Whether it was a genuine expression was up for debate. \n_ _\n\n\"Ochoa Cervantes,\" She corrected him. \"Blanca Ochoa Cervantes. The last names –\" She paused to take a breath, momentarily adopting a stunned expression as it dawned on her that she was injured enough for speech to be laborious. \"We use two, in my culture,\" She explained, her expression wandering. It was silly, of course, to be ashamed of one's weakness in the presence of the doctor who saved one's life. Pride was a wretched beast, though, and hung heavy in the air above her head, broken and weak. She took a long, slow sip of water as if trying to really savor it. It was crisp and cool as it pooled in her belly, an oddly comforting reminder of her own corporeality.\n\n\"You stitch better than you shoot.\" Over her tunic Blanca could feel the places where her skin would need to knit itself back together. The look on her face was appreciative, if a little reserved. She had, indeed, resigned to her circumstances, but she had yet to decide exactly how she felt about them. If the lead she could feel in her limbs was any indication, she wasn't leaving here tonight. She prayed that her cousins had come to look for her, if only so that she might lick her (proverbial) wounds in the comfort of her own bedroom. It was a thought she regretted. Her eyes went glassy as she blinked back tears, a futile gesture for someone whose resolve was already so visibly cracked. \n\n\"Sorry,\" She murmured, entirely irritated with herself. That annoyance manifested on her face for only a moment before it dissolved into something unabashedly morose, almost cartoonishly so. Ever reliant on her pride, Blanca refused to make eye contact. \n\n\"How much longer do I have to be here?\" She asked, careful even now not to sound too ungrateful. \"And what about, er... Charlie?\" She guessed. \n_ _\n\nShe stole a glance at the doctor when she figured he might not be looking. Again she was faced with the asymmetry of him. Elias made sense, in theory, but his face didn't match his life. Even in a town as poor as Briar Ridge, a doctor's income should have provided him with the money not to look so gaunt. It was a curious inconsistency, and one she found herself filing away for further reference."
},
{
"author": "Doctor Elias Olander",
"message": "Slowly blinking, his gaze was sedate on her, seemingly oblivious to at which point specifically he'd brought all those walls shuddering up around her. They were almost endearingly obvious though, reminding him of the few times he'd upset his very own little sister. The baby sibling and only sister of three brothers, she'd learned to clam up like that too. Prideful. Wounded. Defensive. Stubborn. Anger turned inward.\n\nWhere Blanca eschewed eye contact in her vulnerable moments just then, he studied it. He'd seen her enough around town. She had a face that looked prone to passion, like she could burn a man right in half if her gaze were ignited, her strong brows furrowed in foreboding. It was a stark contrast to see her swagger stripped away from her. He found it fascinating.\n\nWith his pale eyes and morose pallor, he could fade right into the wintry landscape outside, so distinctly dissimilar from the familiar landscape that left Blanca longing. He was as cold as anything else in this world she was facing. All save for the flaxen hair that threatened to go the color of honey and cornsilk at the spring's first peek of sunshine. There was that glimmer of something that could become sweetness in him, stowed safely away. Perhaps there was a little of the symbolic warmth siphoned off in the gentle way he spoke to her, the way his professionalism seemed to slacken.\n\n\"You have nothing to be sorry for. I've seen the most hardy of soldiers reduced to far more emotion with far less severe injuries than yours. And you're right, I'm shit with a gun. I was fortunate enough, I suppose, to see the horrors of the trenches without ever being inside of one.\" He sighed a little, rising from his chair, the next part added as some kind of cheeky and ego-saving aside, something only Blanca would have insight to. \"I only went to ensure no one was killed.\"\n\nLeaving the room without warning, soft noises followed, passing through the doorway of the room that was hers for the time being. A cabinet being opened and closed, ceramic or glass on wood, the pouring of liquid. Blanca would have a few moments to herself, but he was back before long. He set something looking like a small glass thimble on the nightstand, and beside it, a mug of fragrant black coffee. Water simply wouldn't do to carry away the bitter flavor of laudanum.\n\n\"The taste is miserable, but now that we have answers for your medical records, you can have something stronger for the pain. You don't have any weaknesses of the heart or lungs.\" Plucking up the book again, he jotted down several quick notes. Through the conduit of a stethoscope, he'd listened to both of the aforementioned extensively in the past two days. Though he'd guess her blood pressure was working double time to cope with the trauma now that she was awake. It would hurt more in the coming hours.\n\n\"Charlie was sent home with...\" There was a certain kind of wordlessness on his lips that was distinctive, as he searched for the correct variant of formalities he was so fond of. Mister? Miss? Well, the people of Briar Ridge were always teaching him something new. \"Charlie was tended to and sent home with Emery Aiken. I expect a good recovery.\"\n\n\"If you promise to lead your horse by the reins and avoid too much bending or lifting in the next two weeks, I suppose you can be allowed to leave within the next day or two.\" He said *Allowed* Like it was his decision whether she stayed here or not. From the way he looked at her, *His* Patient after all, it seemed he believed he held that ordinance. \"But first I need you to tell me why the need for two names, in your culture. Attribution to both mother and father, or...?\" \n\n\n||"
},
{
"author": " blanca ochoa cervantes ",
"message": "Perhaps it was because Blanca herself was so of the earth, but she found herself equal parts intrigued and disconcerted by the pallor of his face. She knew, of course, that whiteness implied a greater variation in skin tone for any number of reasons. All the same, she had never been a woman who quieted a gut instinct when she felt one: there was something *Off* About Elias, something discordant about his humors, betrayed by the nearly corpselike shadows played out in soft planes across his features.\n\n*\"I only went to ensure no one was killed,\"* He said, with the sort of wry and unwritten humor that Blanca could appreciate. A display of humanity, however small, did not go unnoticed and certainly was not unappreciated. Elias wasn't the *Good doctor* To whom the townsfolk often referred, but he was still good. There was something refreshing about a person whose kindness was not performative. It was doled out at arm's length and in glimpses, but sparingly enough that when it did appear, that little dose was a genuine one. \n\nEven just the smell of the coffee did wonders for Blanca's alertness. This only came back to bite her as the acridity of the laudanum soaked into every corner of her mouth. Blanca stifled a gag and swallowed down the medicine as best she could, though there was little she could do about the way it made her eyes water. She heartily welcomed any opportunity to divorce herself from a little more of the pain radiating from her abdomen in waves; nonetheless, the coffee was a welcome chaser. Something told her to go out of her way not to make a face – she had the gut feeling that Elias might derive some amusement from it. \n\nSo many *Questions.* Two could play that game.\n_ _\n\nSuddenly aware of how many of her muscles she'd been unconsciously tensing, Blanca relaxed into the pillows to the best of her ability, waiting to feel the effects of the laudanum. His use of the word *Allowed* Was amusing, particularly when paired with the tone in which he used it. A younger Blanca might have vaulted herself off of the bed as soon as she felt able and forced herself back home. This version of her had had the pride kicked out of her one too many times, and as much as it wounded her pride, she would, in fact, be staying in bed until told it wouldn't kill her to book it home.\n\nA pair of dark and inquisitive eyes found Elias' as he posed his question about her family names. It was rare that anyone bothered to ask about her two surnames – rather, they usually just chose one and stuck with it. Perhaps it was silly to be surprised that a man of science might be compelled to further investigation, but there was an honesty in being seen that Blanca could appreciate.\n\n\"That's right.\" Blanca's smile was genuine, if weary and small. \"The father's name comes first, and then the mother's. My father is an Ochoa and my mother is a Cervantes. I could give you all of *Their* Last names, but we'd both be here a while, and I don't think you plan on spending your day chatting me up,\" Said Blanca, suddenly aware of the weightiness of her eyelids. After a moment, though, she prepared to contradict herself, observing the angle at which he held his head, the careful shifting of his eyes. \n\n\"How does a man like you end up in a place like this?\" Asked Blanca in a careful tone, her voice like smoke and velvet. \"Rare for anyone to find themselves in Briar Ridge without a warrant or something worse on their back.\" \n_ _\n\nShe was joking, but only halfway. Elias' education was betrayed simply by the manner in which he carried himself, the incline of his neck, the way he chose his words, articulated himself. For him to have wound up in a town of outlaws, outcasts, miners and shiners was odd – not out of the question, but odd enough that Blanca, with her insatiable eye for patterns, could notice it. \n||"
},
{
"author": "Doctor Elias Olander",
"message": "The doctor's eyes were fixed on her swallowing down the dose. As he directed, she abided. That was the way of his world in this very particular moment, and he couldn't help but wonder how often she might be so passive. Probably not often. Seeing someone grimace against the taste was always a bemusement but watching the power of medicine at work as she relaxed into the pillows was the real satisfaction.\n\nThe dose and time were marked in the journal before it was closed and slid away on the nightstand. It would do well that one of the nurses didn't accidentally portion Blanca an overdose. That would take some real explaining. \n\nHe nodded at her confirmation, and even returned her genuine, albeit miniscule smile. *That's right* Were probably some of his favorite words to hear, an old need for attention stemming back decades. Then it had been from his teachers and professors. Such as it often was for a youngest son. \n\nOchoa and Cervantes had a certain rhythm to them that weren't lost even on a non-musical man such as himself. There was half a mind to tell her that he would be chatting, to impart his own culture in the conversation. Some explanation of the great many *-dotter* And *-son* Suffixes of the surnames from his motherland. \n\nBut Blanca was right in her assessment that he held all things, even kindness, at arm's reach. Whatever he'd opened his mouth to say died on his lips. Blanca's only half-humorous peppering of questions brought his gaze honed on hers. For the first time it seemed readily apparent that he was aware that she saw him. She really saw him. She observed some intricacies, clever in recognizing nuance that others had not.\n\nIn his first months there, there had been some of 'what's a fancy fella like you doin' in a place like this?' or more often, raised eyebrows and unspoken questions. He'd kept his presence low for a long time, only treating people that came around to his house for the purpose of barter or by word of mouth. Of course, word of mouth was its own special force in a town as small as Briar Ridge. The natural suspicions of the local citizens were not as sharp as the astuteness in her dark eyes. She'd cut right through his formalities of professionalism and all his nonsense work ethic. He sat in front of her as just a man, for a very few moments \n\nHis gaze pinned hers in place for three or four solid breaths of what could only be described as palpable tension. And then it faded, like smoke wisping up into the atmosphere. \"I'm afraid to say I did kill several people, so I suppose that would explain the warrants.\" He gave her a crack of a grin that didn't reach his eyes, the tidy facade sliding back into place behind a guise of dry humor.\n\n\"Truly, I am a person of great, almost insurmountable curiosity. If you have heard the rumors, Miss Ochoa Cervantes, I'm sure you're aware of some manner of *Plague* Affecting this area.\" He looked askance of her, but he almost seemed hesitant, or was it afraid, to look too long at her. \"Plenty of people aren't even able to look at their kin without suspicion these days. I guess that's one of the good things about having no family here. Is your own family large?\" His hesitance ebbed away, only coloring the edges of the inquisitive look he had on her. He was, if anything, an incredibly meddling and impulsive man. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": " blanca ochoa cervantes ",
"message": "There were a long few beats between the asking of her question and the answering of it. His eyes reminded her of turning over a smooth piece of seaglass in her hand, only to find jagged clarity where its other end had been snapped off. The directness of his gaze was sudden, and felt almost like a challenge; never one to back down, Blanca held the stare in kind, frosted glass and burnt mahogany coming to size one another up in the sort of way that each could recognize as familiar. Blanca regarded him anew when that tension faded, and her brow quirked up in bemused surprise when he spoke.\n\nPerhaps this was the discordance she'd sensed – but something in her gut said *No.* After a long moment, Blanca nodded once. The doctor's smile was clear in its intentions, but whether it had achieved them was another story. For as long as she could remember, Blanca had been sizing people up this way. She had spent her formative years around soldiers, and knew well the slotting-into-place of that faithful façade. As much as she respected him, there was something about that which made Elias seem just a hair less trustworthy. True to her nature, that sense of mystery had only served to capture Blanca's intellectual side. Her insatiable desire to understand the inner workings of things (and people) had reared its head, and she felt a sense of curiosity not dissimilar to the way she'd felt when she, Elias and Mitica had stared into the darkness of the wood. \n_ _\n\n\"Circumstance is a funny thing,\" She intoned upon learning that he had taken lives. *I won't pry,* Said the look on her face, *And I'm hardly one to judge.* It wasn't something with which she was entirely unfamiliar; she had seen men die, too, quickly and slowly and in other ways. The idea that someone like Elias could be capable of killing anyone was a little silly at first; Blanca knew what a well-fed, strong man looked like, and even beneath his coat, the doctor's shoulders alone gave away the relative gauntness of his frame. To hear him describe himself as a man of *'almost insurmountable curiosity'* Was a helpful reminder not to give too much away about herself. He had established himself as someone who likely bore no ill intent, but that didn't mean Blanca trusted Elias. She felt her head tilt a little to one side as she pondered how to answer his questions. \n\n\n\nShe knew, of course, about the werewolves. Of course a doctor might call it a plague, even if only for propriety's sake – the threat of the beasts seemed only to grow in size and in magnitude with every passing month. The idea of the safehouses was still a relatively new concept, though. Were such things an option for the doctor, who had to be available to save other lives? For all she knew, maybe he was one of them. Such was the gamble of making friends in town these days: since the Sheriff's demise, it was an unspoken truth that anyone could be a beast in disguise. For Blanca, who was in the middle of a gambit all her own (and known only to her), it was a risk largely worth taking. Even so, she doubted Elias had fallen victim to the *Plague,* As he called it; she had seen his face upon the discovery of the blackened entrails in the forest. \n_ _\n\nBlanca wished more than anything to be able to reach for her confidence and pull it on like a favorite sweater. Her persona was nowhere to be found, it seemed: armed only with herself and her inner machinations, she was a little more on her guard than she might have liked to be. In the end it was a war between this self-preservation and her desire to know more, and there had been heavy losses on both sides by the time she leaned into the conversation.\n\n\"There are a lot of us,\" She confirmed without answering *Yes* Or *No,* As was her way. She could mean anything – a family of eight was *A lot,* And so was a family of thirty. There was no way to discern her proper meaning, a fact of which Blanca was shamelessly aware, as indicated by the smirk she wore. There was a game to be played in the giving and taking of information. Blanca lacked a formal education, and only spoke English thanks to her former proximity to soldiers. Compared to Elias, she was hardly an academic or a scholar. Nonetheless she was an intellectual in her own right, and the assertive look in her eyes sought to defend that claim before it was tested.\n\n\"We own a ranch. Horses and donkeys and mules,\" She explained, without saying much else about it. There were, after all, only so many reasons that anyone would need a consistent supply of mules. Were it up to Blanca, they wouldn't breed them at all, but that was only one little facet on what was an otherwise very large iceberg. \n\n\"They're probably not happy with me for skipping out on work.\" Blanca smiled, a wry expression. Regardless of the reason behind her absence from the ranch, she would surely face consequences manifest in a lack of involvement in activities for at least a few days. For someone who so valued the control she had over her environment, it was sure to be a teeth-grinding experience.\n_ _\n\n\"You must live alone, Doctor,\" She observed, tilting her head to find a cooler spot on her pillow. Realistically, it was a fair enough observation for a woman to make. On a doctor's salary, gauntness was rare; there was no one cooking anything for him at home if he looked like that. *Madre de Dios.* Pitiful. \n\n\"Where'd you come from, then, hm? Anybody waiting for you back home or do they know all about these warrants of yours?\"\n||"
},
{
"author": "Doctor Elias Olander",
"message": "Many times over, the doctor had seen the bitter flow of opiates sweeten in their swift trek through someone's bloodstream, loosening lips and softening tongues. That was most often a side effect rather than intent. *Good* Doctors did not ply patients for their own ulterior motives; he had taken his Hippocratic Oath. Still, he was surprised and possibly even a little impressed that she managed to remain so clear-headed in the face of a significant dose of laudanum minutes before. \n\nIt was no real surprise that Blanca would want to play her cards close to her chest on the matter of her family. *Everyone was these days.* But, he visibly perked at the mention of her large family. Whether that was through the thought process that at least one of them would have to have fallen victim to the plague or because he simply found the idea very interesting was impossible to determine. \"Those with a large family are very fortunate.\" *Usually,* His flicker of the brows said.\n\nBlanca's general style of dress, when she was dressed, made sense with the fact that she belonged to a family of ranchers. A smile dared to tickle itself at the corner of his lips before fading away. He was very curious about all those horses and donkeys and mules.\n\nIf Elias was aware that she thought of him as both gaunt and good, he would be quick to argue. He knew enough about the human body, even his own, to know that exercise and nutrition were probably the two most important factors. Though he usually paid at least fair attention to both, they'd fallen to the wayside lately. There were a great many things to do, and more importantly, a good many mysteries that preoccupied his mind.\n\nHe did not know her assessment of him, however. Even a man as insightful as he was seemed surprised by the observation that he lived alone. Without a wife or girl to nag him to look after himself, more specifically. \"Please, call me Elias.\" It was *Ell-lee-ess* Rather than the way most folks said *Ell-lie-us*. He never corrected them when they did.\n\nHe should have been going. Heading back to that home where no one else lived to get some much-needed sleep. But a conversation that actually interested him was rare enough to come by that he had trouble letting it go. The way she smirked when she met his eyes promised that she knew plenty he didn't, and he wouldn't have an easy time getting to it. That was something he liked very much. \n\n\"I don't live alone, in fact.\" He rotated his wrists against the stiff cuffs of his navy blue shirt, an idle habit, before settling back into the chair. \"You've met my roommate once before. Beautiful girl. Shame about her leaving her hair all over the place.\" He doubted she'd notice, but if Blanca listened closely enough, she would hear the soft snores of that very same dog in the neighboring room. \n\nThat was, of course, if she could pick it up over the muffled sounds of people rumbling around in the street outside. Curtains blocked the view but couldn't entirely block the sound of feet shuffling to this or that task. Chickens bokked by, herded by a gaggle of giggling children. A man very distantly yelled out that he was selling fresh bread. The town was waking up. \n\nNo one was waiting for him, he wanted to say. The less any single person in Briar Ridge knew about him and where he'd come from, the better for those he'd left behind. But then, he'd clued into the fact that if he wanted to know more, he would have to give her something.\n\n\"I do have a family. A mother and father. A sister and two– a brother. They no doubt have wondered where I've gotten myself off to,\" He said, his voice a little softer than it had been. \"I'd send them a letter if it were...\" A breath and a half hung in the space of his thinking, \"So simple as that.\" His face had softened a little too, looking sad but resigned. There it was. He'd put a single shred of trust in Blanca. Though it was a small gesture, someone as clever as Blanca might intuit that this was a very rare occurrence. \n\n\"I am surprised that none of your own large family has inquired after you in town.\" The man could be gentle, when he wanted to be. He was ginger in the way he admitted his curiosity, knowing full well that family could be a sensitive topic. \"What did you say, they'll think you're skipping out on work? I could write you a doctor's note for your absence,\" He teased, lightening the mood just a little. \"But, do you leave often for them not to worry after you?\" *Or are there other reasons, they aren't worried* Was the question left unsaid.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": " blanca ochoa cervantes ",
"message": "If Blanca was being honest, she *Absolutely* Felt the laudanum. Her blood felt as though it had turned to honey, and she found herself delighting in the way her body sunk *Just so* Into what was ultimately really not a very comfortable pillow. She was working overtime to maintain composure, as though there was something dishonorable in allowing medicine to affect her. It was silly, she knew, to care so deeply about appearing weak, particularly in front of the doctor who'd saved her life. Even so, resolve was an invaluable quality in Blanca's world. She clung to it like a buoy in a storm, even if her body couldn't keep up with that desire. Slowly and little by little, Blanca's eyes gave her away: that openly critical, earthy look was gone in favor of something softer, more relaxed, less inhibited. The rancher was asleep, but the woman herself remained awake. She wore the *Usually* In his eyes on her face in kind; it played along the edges of a smirk that disappeared in the ensuing moments.\n\n*\"Elias,\"* She repeated, carefully turning over each syllable with her tongue as if to examine it up close. It was not unlike the pronunciation of plenty of Spanish names, and rolled off of her tongue with ease. \"I've heard plenty of folk mispronounce that.\" She swallowed the *O* In *Mispronounce,* Making it a hollow sound. \n\n\"You don't correct them?\" She observed, a little smile finding its way onto her face in spite of her efforts to the contrary. \"Oh, I always correct people. But then, you don't have to work quite as hard for their respect.\" The deeper meaning there was written in the space between them, in the calluses on Blanca's hands, in the degrees he had earned.\n_ _\n\nThere were entirely too many sounds outside. Blanca detested the din of a bustling town, even if she had come to love that town, in her own way. So many residences were just outside the doctor's office – she couldn't imagine having to endure all of that overlapping sound, all day, every day. She greatly preferred the sound of the wind in the trees, donkeys talking.\n\n*You've met my roommate,* He said, and in her gentle haze it took her longer than she would have been proud to admit to understand he meant Poppy. She'd always been told that donkeys and dogs didn't get along with one another, and as such, they'd never had dogs on the *Rancho.* Whether that was actually true was outside of Blanca's realm of knowledge, but she loved animals so dearly that she longed to feel comfortable around them. \n\nHis response to her question seemed to ground her a little and Blanca felt a little guilty for having raised it. *Two – a brother.* This was a man who thought before he spoke. In the entire time they'd been speaking, and in the conversations they'd had prior, in the woods with Mitica Lakatos, Elias chose his words with care. He was quick to correct his stumble, but he had stumbled nonetheless. There was something about that which Blanca appreciated, less like a moment of grace and more like the reception of a gift. \n_ _\n\nShe was a proud thing, and could easily have found herself behaving as such, but her pride had been wounded and her inhibitions lowered. Blanca had long since abandoned any airs she might have put on. It was, admittedly, rare for Blanca to feel any empathy at all for a man these days – rarer still when it was for a man like Elias, tall and white and smart, and handsome in the sort of way that always opened doors. She understood all too well the importance of her family. With increasing frequency these days, she missed them even as they were a wall or a fenceline away. To have known such closeness and to miss it so dearly was a pain she wore, too, albeit in a very different way. If Blanca was summer heat and Elias was a winter chill, then perhaps each of their burdens wore the same face: he, cut off and far away from those he loved, separated from them by death and by distance; she, face-to-face with her own beloved family and receiving either brimstone or a steel jaw. \n\nHer family. They likely weren't looking for her, if she was honest with herself. It wasn't that they would have each come to that conclusion on their own; she knew she had cousins who cared about her, and her sisters might have pushed back if enough time had passed. Ultimately the only person who could order such a thing as a search party was Blanca's father. The look on her face was one she quickly reigned into something more casual, but in the moment she wore it, the brief angling of her mouth suggested that the topic was a sensitive one. \n\n\n_ _\n\n\"I leave often,\" She responded carefully, in a measured tone, if a hazy one. \"Most of the time I just tell them not to look for me.\" A pause. \"I don't get a lot of pushback.\"\n\nShe said it lightly enough, but there was something lacing her voice – something sharper than just melancholy, the sort of edge which came from someone whose wounds were raw and regularly reopened, someone who was too physically close to their pain to really heal it. There was something else there, too: apprehension, perhaps, on her part. Just because a game was at play didn't mean that either of them had agreed to the other's rules. The smile that appeared on her face just then was darker than it had previously been. She could recognize that she had been offered a rare glimpse at him in having heard what she assumed was honesty. \n\nBlanca's neck felt as though it were holding up a slab of concrete. She angled her head to one side and watched Elias all the while, shamelessly observing him with the level of attention that suggested she was committing details to memory.\n\n\"As for that letter you can't send...\" She began, testing the waters. \"I'm more than happy to teach you to read.\" Humor lit up her dark eyes, the corners of her mouth playing at a smirk. \n||"
},
{
"author": "Doctor Elias Olander",
"message": "\"Not much point, is there? In correcting the ignorance of others. I can't say I care too much about people's respect.\" There was a world-weariness in this man. Something of decades more than his own thirty-one years. Nevertheless, he said this as if he were totally ignorant to the privilege of respect he received everywhere he went. He didn't care about respect because it was his birthright in a world that favored an educated white man that could make a tidy sum for himself. He had not lived life without it. \n\nBut then, he must have been aware of privilege and the lack of it for others to some degree, because he was so fond of headstrong women that simply would not quit without a word about whatever they disagreed with. That much was written in the expression on his face. Subtle as it was, there was a bit of bemused endearment in the crinkle at the corners of his eyes. \n\nSome small dose of vulnerability had crept up in this unlikely early-morning conversation. A feeling of an unlocked door creaking open slightly. Not everyone lived as reserved as he did, he knew that much. But his patient was, in her own right, someone that seemed to play her cards very close to her chest. She wore pride like armor; perhaps he was a fool in thinking some of it had fallen away. That possibly-misguided trust was the only way he could make an accidental admission as he had. He would chastise himself over the unintentional slip of the tongue later. \n\nFor now, his attention was leaning in, analyzing the shift of her voice. He knew that sort of tone and had always envisioned it as something metallic and bitter on the tongue. His eyes were on her face, as if he could read the truth between the words. Her family sounded very different from his own. Why wouldn't she hear discontent at her leaving on her own? Didn't her people know these lands were afflicted with something dark? Or was she so strong-willed that it was pointless to cross her?\n\nNone of these questions were something he gave voice to, but they would be filed away and pulled out later. Thoughts of the Ochoas and Cervantes would be inspected like a mysterious thing in those long musings before intoxicated exhaustion finally pushed him over the edge to sleep later this day.\n\nHe'd ventured far enough down that path of consideration that her shift in tone caught him by surprise. She had an excellent sense of humor which was greatly appreciated, albeit unforeseen. He laughed, an unexpected and genuine sound, if brief. \"I'm afraid I make a terrible student. A professor of mine often said I was too smart for my own good. But you know? As time has gone on, I realize that was a polite way of calling me an arrogant ass.\" He gave her a cheeky wink, unabashed in acknowledging what was often thought of him. \n\nAs much as he would admit to himself he enjoyed her conversation far more than he'd ever expected, he could see the fatigue on the way she laid her head. The way her eyes stayed alert against the will of the body was a character trait he didn't come across often. When he did, it was always worth noting. Only a person of strength or stubbornness or both could fight the drug-addled slither of somnolence. The body stitching itself back together across wounds of that capacity was especially draining. Pushing physical limits past exhaustion was only for him; patients needed rest.\n\n\"I don't expect I'll be back here for several days. I have some matters to attend to. You'll be in the care of the nurses and volunteers until then. In fact...\" He twisted his hand to expose the face of the watch. \"I think Nurse Roswell should be bringing around breakfast in an hour or two.\" Taking a deep breath, he gave her a stern look. Somewhere inside of it, there was a coloring of askance. \"You need to stay and rest for at least two more days. I bill triple for stitches I have to resuture due to foolishness.\" It was impossible to tell if he was joking. \"I'd like to inspect your wounds before I leave. May I?\" That was an echo of what he'd asked her when she was fading out of consciousness a few days ago. The difference was that now, he actually waited for permission. \n\n\n||"
},
{
"author": " blanca ochoa cervantes ",
"message": "Among the most frustrating parts of this experience was the dissonance between the way she *Wanted* To behave, and the way in which exhaustion forced her to behave, which was to say that Blanca didn't necessarily appreciate having to be authentic in front of someone who had not yet earned that facet of her trust. Here she was, though, having given it to him anyway in spite of her own judgments. It was true that Blanca could be mercurial with her vulnerability: a vise one moment, an open book the next. That was, at least, a constant: she regretted already what little she'd shared, and yet in the same breath could not seem to stop herself. For someone to have taken an ounce of interest in her who wasn't her own kin was refreshing. There was no spiderweb of information here, and no network of gossip to navigate. It was more freeing than Blanca had expected to be able to just *Talk,* And though she still didn't appreciate being stripped emotionally bare, perhaps there was something to gain in it. \n\nShe never would have trusted Elias, after all, if she hadn't been forced into doing so. So often, she found that the worst possible outcome was the one which only happened in her head. She had seen the violence of men in her youth, and grown into a fiercely guarded adult. As much as she hated to admit when she was wrong, the truth sat as naked as she did: her concern had been misplaced. It wasn't *Incorrect,* Though. Blanca could admit when her instinct was misguided, but she would never dismiss it altogether. \n\nThere was a crinkle just then at the corners of his eyes. Blanca couldn't help but notice it where he had previously worked to keep his face smooth and unreadable. She understood why a doctor would have developed the habit. She wished that she herself had not had to develop it at home. Was that why she seemed so eager to talk, in spite of her exhaustion? \n_ _\n\nBlanca had much to learn, it seemed, about the nature of her own prejudice: here in the most unlikely of places, she had found a kindred spirit, of sorts. She had often been chastised in her youth for her predilection for turning a conversation over in her mind, plucking words apart layer by layer. Here was someone who did the same, unabashedly so – oh, to be a man – and in spite of her efforts to keep her curiosity at bay, Blanca's eyes were bright and curious, in stark contrast to the shadowed sockets where they rested. For a moment the gleam in her eye matched his own. When it died, it did so by her hand, equally curious in the analytical sort of way which had always tended to grasp her.\n\nHe laughed, and Blanca's ear twitched, as if she was genuinely surprised to hear him capable of the warmth. It was a pleasant enough sound, if only because it wasn't the gregarious barked-out laughter she was so often used to hearing, but it struck her that it was not something she was likely to hear again. True to her nature, the idea that something was inaccessible to Blanca made her want it all the more. *\"I have some matters to attend to,\"* He said in the same sort of tone she used when she didn't want to elaborate on her own agenda. Blanca's dark eyes adopted a look of respect. \n\nOh, goody. Breakfast. Whatever *That* Was to these people. The task of holding her eyelids aloft occupied enough of Blanca's attention that, perhaps to her benefit, she couldn't roll her eyes in response. What really got her attention was the information that she was looking at another two days here, at *Least,* And the souring of her mood was evident for a moment in the gentle twitching of her lips. She couldn't help herself, though, in the end. \n_ _\n\n\"I'll open something back up if I need to talk to you sooner,\" Came the cool reply. Blanca was sweaty and injured and undoubtedly looking worse for the wear, but she was still Blanca. Even if he was serious, she absolutely was not. That little smirk was back, but only for a half-moment; it ghosted away in the next breath. She was stalling, after all. \n\nThe next few moments were silent. Blanca gave him a long and decisive look before wordlessly pulling down the sheet which covered her body, wrapped in bandages and very much looking held-together. \n\n\"A parting gift from me, to you,\" She intoned, weakly flourishing a hand across an abdomen she could not truly see, but which she could *Feel* Was stitch-ridden. \n||"
},
{
"author": "Doctor Elias Olander",
"message": "As odd a match as any might be, these two, their personalities had such concinnity in between them that her humor could play him both ways. She'd made him laugh against his own measured countenance and now annoyance passed over his features. It was a snap expression, quick in finding her face, brows lofting in irritated disbelief. Didn't she know how precise those sutures were? How practiced? \n\nThe flash of her smirk made him realize he was a damned fool. He was very tired, he realized. A state that left his thoughts moving more slowly, more easily surprised than he might usually be by her teasing. \n\nHer bent towards sarcasm had done its job. He'd almost forgotten, for a few moments at least, the empathy he'd felt for the unease his role could place on his patients. His female patients particularly. This was a relatively newfound empathy. Having spent nearly the entirety of his career treating soldiers and then businessmen, the facets of bedside manner had been limited mostly to mannish wit and brevity. Briar Ridge had been his first real foray into treating women for anything other than needing a prescription of barbital. The lady's choice, of course. \n\nOne decisive look flashing from her dark eyes set gravity back in his bones. A body was just a body, when it came to science. Something to observe or treat for ailment and injury. But this was her body. He'd reason she was damn protective of it, in a way many women had to be. In a way most men were oblivious to. An inkling of memory came to him, of her jerking away from his touch, even while mortally wounded on the creek banks. And then of course, there was the affront with which she'd answered his first question this morning.\n\nA gentle sort of thoughtfulness was on his face and in his mannerisms as he pulled the chair closer. His knees brushed the frame of the bed. \"I trust you won't make an escape after I leave.\" His hands were beautiful things, made up of long lines and masculine proportions, all marbled through with the delicate ropes of veins. They were agile in rolling up the edge of the ward-appointed tunic an unconscious Blanca had been dressed in. \"I loathe to think of what a savage huntress Nurse Roswell is if she's sent after you.\"\n\nIt was all jest, of course. A gentle and lighthearted bedside manner nearly as much for himself as her benefit. And because he seemed to be especially reflective on the woes of women just then. \"She saw to it that your hair was braided.\" His voice had gone quiet in the short distance between them. \"And shooed me out of the room to have you washed and dressed.\" \n\nHis gaze inspected every inch of her wounds. \"Hmm,\" Passed his closed lips, before he rose from the chair. Just like doctors to not explain themselves. \"Don't move,\" He offered on his way out the door. Not too distantly, there came the sound of water in a basin, and then more shuffling of doors and drawers. \n\n\"If the wound bed dries, it's more stubborn to heal.\" Coming back through the door, he dried his freshly-washed hands on a small towel. It was tossed over the back of the chair. The lid of a small aluminum jar made a pleasant, hollow sound in being unscrewed and set aside. \"That can cause infection, scarring, wound reopening...\" Blanca wouldn't know, but he was almost never so informative in his treatment of patients. Perhaps he sought to put her at ease.\n\nIf his words did not, the pleasant aroma from the liniment he warmed between his fingers certainly might. It smelled sweet and soft, of honey and lavender and something herbal. The drying edges of her wounds going a darker red across her ribs were softened with the spread of moisture, gentle as it could be with such an application. For a few moments, he seemed the painter, eyes voracious, fingers attentive. And then he was reaching back for the towel to wipe his fingers, blue gaze surveying every stretch where tawny skin had been ruined and put back together. \"You shouldn't be dying just yet.\" \n\nThe tunic was rolled back down and the blanket folded back over her, all business again. He rose, resting his hand on the back of the chair. His fingertips drummed there in idle thought for a few moments before he thought better of it and put the chair back from where he'd fetched it. \"I'll check in on Lucia before I leave and see to it she hasn't eaten all of Mrs. Meyer's pansies.\" That was as much for him as Blanca. He liked an excuse to give the mare a good rubdown, and more importantly, wanted Blanca to rest easy so that she could heal.\n\n||"
}
] | 872 | 12,569 |
221.6 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "Lorelai was used to the hustle and bustle of a busy infirmary; she was used to having to try and quickly tourniquet someone's leg or dig a bullet out of a gushing wound. She had hoped things would be calmer when she'd come back to Briar Ridge, but now it felt like she was at war all over again. \n\nShe lived for the days where the most she had to do was treat a child's cold or a particularly bad scrape with some farming equipment. \n\nShe was just doing inventory, checking off each piece on her checklist and writing down how much she needed to order, when the door opened behind her and she slowly turned. \n\n\"Welcome, welcome,\" She said, flashing a smile and setting down her clipboard. She hoped and prayed this wasn't a serious injury, for both her and her patient's sake."
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "The acrid smell of antiseptic always caused a sinking feeling in Owen's gut.\n\nPerhaps it was due to his extensive time in recovery only a few years earlier, or maybe his nose was too sensitive to the fumes- either way, the discomfort always seemed to keep him away. The painful memories only added to his deterrent, so why was he here now?\n\n\"Evening, ma'am.\" It's clear that he's feeling despondent, his good eye echoing the hollowness of his blinded one. It'd been so easy to stick that werewolf with his pitchfork- like sticking a knife into butter- and it *Scared* Him. All of this scared him, and he didn't know what to do, what to say, how to feel-\n\n\"Are there any salves for burns that you could spare? I irritated mine during the full moon something fierce.\"\n\n*Don't think about it, just... Just get what you need and go home.*\n\n\"I know you're all busy, so I can go home if you don't have time right now.\"\n||"
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "She was used to seeing the look of fear in a man's eye; she had seen it so many times in the eyes of soldiers, she knew how to handle it and navigate it. \n\nShe kept a safe distance, not wanting to advance too quickly and frighten the man who appeared more like a cat with its hackles up than anything else. \n\n\"Evening,\" She said, turning back to the cabinet and pulling it open. \"Don't you worry yourself at all, I've got enough time for all my patients,\" She said, voice smooth and sweet as apple pie. \"Have a seat, sweetheart, I've got just what ya need.\" \n\nLorelai removed a tin from the cabinet and turned back to him, taking a tentative step in his direction. \"...'fraid I can't spare the whole stock, what with what's been goin' on, but I can surely apply a little here and there for ya.\" She promised, uncapping the tin. The container was about halfway full of a thick, pasty substance. \"I promise, I'll be real quick with it, and then I can send ya on your way.\""
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "The thought made Owen's mouth run dry.\n\n\"N-No, you don't have to do that, miss.\" He swallowed, \"I just- I can come back when there's more to buy- I don't-\"\n\nWhen was the last time Owen let anyone touch him in that capacity, to soothe the burns on his body? His mother had helped in the first few months of his recovery, but he'd waved her off on the fourth, insistent that he could do it himself.\n\nTruthfully, he just didn't want her to see him cry anymore.\n\nHis skin prickled uncomfortably as he stood there, unsure where to set his eyes until he finally settled his gaze onto the floor. He didn't leave, thankfully, but it was clear he didn't know what *Else* To do besides flounder.\n\n\"I don't want to be a bother, and I know you've got so many other patients, so I don't want to take you away from them...\"\n||"
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "She capped the tin and set it down patiently, waiting as the man seemed to work through what he wanted to say to her. \"Yer no bother at all, sir,\" She promised him. \"Thankfully fer you, ya came at a good time. I just got errybody down with their medications and all, so they'll be sleepin' like babies,\" She picked up the container of salve again and gestured to the chair. \n\n\"I promise on my mama and my daddy that I'll be extra gentle and extra careful and quick with ya,\" She said softly, like she was talking to a frightened deer rather than a grown man. \n\n\"Owen Barnes, ain't it?\" She was familiar with him, albeit not as much as some of the other patients who came in. \"I remember, your mama used to come in to get your ointments,\" She came slowly closer to him, fingers dipping into the salve. \"How is she doin'? Hopefully ain't nothin' too bad with the werewolves if I ain't seen her in here,\" She said softly. \"I say that an empty clinic is a good thing these days,\" She whistled a little and tried to smile warmly to put him at ease."
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "The mention of his name released some of the tension in his shoulders, and Owen followed Lorelai's gesture to sit. It does give him some comfort to know that most would be sleeping, the anxiety that had settled low in his stomach starting to ebb.\n\n\"I am, yes.\" He nodded once, eyes darting down to the salve once before jumping up to her face. \"Mama's doing just fine- I'm just trying to get out and do more of these things myself. I've been out here in town to help with the moons, and she's focused on making sure the farm and grandkids stay safe. Wolves don't seem too interested in heading that way, thankfully.\"\n\nOwen's eyes fluttered shut in preparation for her hand, hands curled into fists on his legs.\n\n\"I don't... Remember names very well, and Mama knows too many people for me to keep track. What's your name, miss?\"\n||"
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "She was thankful that her bedside manner seemed to be putting Owen Barnes at ease; she liked to help people, but she could only help people who wanted to be helped. She'd dealt with her fair share of people who would fight her off while in pain; it was incredible what fear could do to people. She'd even had a man at war, arm shattered to bits, terrified of a needle she'd tried to give him. He could look down the barrel of a gun and see carnage, but couldn't handle a single pinprick needle. It was peculiar, but something Lorelai had grown to accept. People were complicated creatures, after all. \n\nShe picked up the salve and stood beside the chair he sat in, her fingers dipping into the cool ointment. \"I'm 'bout to touch ya,\" She told him. \"It'll be cold, alright?\" Lorelai slowly began to apply the cream to his burned skin, feeling the texture of charred flesh and the healing scars that were left behind. \"Lorelai Roswell, I take no offense in not being remembered,\" She said, brushing her fingers down his cheek and applying an even, thick coat of the past. \"God knows, people ain't focusin' on my face or my name when they're in this place, most times.\""
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "Even though he expected it, Owen still flinched once Lorelai's hand met his skin. The paste was cold, just as she said it would be, and he wasn't sure if he should have sighed or hissed at the feeling.\n\nIt didn't surprise him, though, when the pang of *Yearning* Shot through him. He'd been the one to wave off his family's offers of help, both to spare them from his discomfort and to avoid their pitying looks. Yet, he still missed being touched and the feeling of closeness it brought.\n\nOwen let out a shuddered sigh, and he felt wetness gather at his lashes. Lorelai didn't need this, she was just doing her job, and she most certainly didn't need a grown man crying over a caring touch, but his heart ached as he wished for more. He felt so *Small*, as raw as the day the fire made its mark on his flesh, and the fear that had wormed its way into his chest finally burst.\n\n\" 'm sorry, Miss Roswell,\" He whispered, tears spilling down his cheeks. \"It doesn't hurt, I just...\"\n\nEmbarrassment choked him, and he left his eyes closed, unable to look her in the eye.\n||"
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "She didn't notice at first, diligent in her task at applying the burn cream. At first, she thought, her touch must've hurt him. But it became apparent that these tears were not ones of surface level pain, but those of something far deeper inside. \n\n\"Oh, sweetheart...\" She said softly, and she set the salve to the side. Her hands enfolded one of his and squeezed. \"It's alright, you don't need to apologize for nobody here,\" She assured him. \"You know how many men I seen on the battlefield cryin' for their mamas? This ain't nothin' I ain't seen before...\" She promised him, her thumb brushing along his knuckles. \n\n\"Whats'a matter?\" She asked, releasing his hand only to grab a chair and have a seat by his side, her hand taking his again to squeeze. \"Whatever you tell me ain't leavin' this room, Mr. Barnes, I assume you'a that.\""
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "How can he explain that her touch was what made him cry; that he was so desperate to feel someone trace his scarring kindly, and upon it finally happening, it reduced him to tears? Red-hot shame sat heavily on his chest at the thought, and at the realization his mother would be *Heartbroken* If she ever found out.\n\n\"You didn't look at me like I was something broken.\" Owen sniffled and angled his head down. \"My family loves me, but if I ever say a thing about my scars, they look at me like I'm a kicked puppy- like I'm something that needs to be *Fixed*.\"\n\nHe laughed waterily, but a sob quickly cut off the sound. \"Everything's just too much after that last moon, too, and I'm so tired. I stuck one of those wolves like a damn pig and I keep thinking about it, keep seeing its face, and haven't even told my family because I know it'll be that same damn thing again. I just... Couldn't keep it in between that and you.\"\n\nOwen's hand trembles in her own, unable to even squeeze back. \"You don't even know me, and I'm here crying like a baby and taking up your time.\"\n||"
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "Now that just done broke her heart to pieces. Lorelai was a sympathetic woman, with lots of siblings, and a big loving family was a sure fire way to be a motherly figure in most anybody's lives. She squeezed Owen's hand again and stroked her thumb over his knuckles. \n\n\"Don't you worry about my time,\" She told him seriously, shifting to gently put her hand atop his head and stroke his hair, like a mother might soothe her son. \"Ain't nothin' to apologize for, Mr. Barnes. You ain't broken; not in the slightest.\" \n\nShe shook her head and tutted softly. \"You take all the time you need to let it out. God knows, it ain't been easy for nobody, Mr. Barnes— specially not the ones gettin' bit up by wolves.\" She shifted, turning to look at him more and stared straight into his eyes. \"Yer braver than I am, able to do somethin' like that. Wouldn't be surprised if ya saved people by doin' that.\" She gave him a smile and squeezed his hand again. \n\n\"And don't you never apologize for cryin' again. It's good for ya; if ya bottle it up too long, ya explode and... That ain't good neither, sir. Not at all.\""
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "He would have crumbled on that chair if Lorelai wasn't there, her hand covering his own. It was a simple gesture, but it grounded him and tore the darkness away from his heart.\n\nWhen she placed her hand on his head, though, a gut-wrenching sob tore through him, and he finally let himself cry fully. It wasn't a pretty cry, no; Owen's entire body shook with the weight of his tears, and his unmarred skin flushed to a tired red. Shame still coursed through him, but he prayed that the other patients remained asleep through his bout of tears.\n\nOwen's sobs softened slowly, until only a few tears trickled down his cheeks, along with the occasional sniffle.\n\n\"I don't think I'm brave, Miss Roswell.\" He finally said, voice small, \"I-I don't know if I should be glad I didn't kill it, or angry that it's still alive. I just don't know, and it scares me.\"\n\n\"I wish... I wish I could help more- do something more than just hurt.\"\n||"
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "She let the man cry on her shoulder, her fingers soothingly stroking his hair. He reminded her of her younger brother; though she wasn't sure if she was younger than him or older. It didn't matter; the way he wept made her feel just downright awful, and she wanted to soothe the pain he had in his heart just as much as the pain he faced physically. \n\n\"You're plenty brave,\" She insisted, turning her body to pick up the salve tin again. With his head turned upwards as it was, she gingery reapplied the ointment to his skin; he'd damn near cried some of it off, after all. \n\n\"It ain't an easy time. Now we know these things could be our friends...\" She smiled sympathetically. \"What you do, protectin' people? That's important. Yer so important, Owen.\" She dropped the formality and squeezed his hand tight. \n\n\"We need more men like you in this world, and I mean it honest. Yer so full of goodness, I promise you, ain't not a thing wrong with ya.\" She brushed some of his hair off his face, like a mother doting on her son. \"If ya do too much, yer gonna get exhausted with yerself.\" She told him. \"But ya know, the coalition's always takin' volunteers for all sorts. I'm sure if ya really wanted it, they'd find ya more to help out with.\""
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "Her sentiment would have made him smile, if he hadn't been so focused on not getting snot on her clothes. The hand stroking his hair was soothing, too- almost enough for the ache in his chest to fade into cinders.\n\nAlmost.\n\n\"I don't... I'm no fighter, Miss Roswell. I only just started helping at the safehouses in the past two months, and I don't think I'm any good at protecting, either. I still want to help, but all I'm good at is working in a field; not patching people up, like you do here.\"\n\nHe shifted in his seat, then wiped at his good eye with the back of his free hand. \"I want to try, though, I want to do *Something* Other than sitting around, feeling useless.\"\n\n\"There's... I could always help here? I don't know anything about medicine, but I can carry things, people.\"\n||"
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "She felt for Owen's pain; he didn't feel like he was any help here. But that just wasn't true— every man, woman, and person in Briar Ridge was an important part. Everyone was a gear in the machine, helping it run smooth. Everyone helped everyone round here— it was just how it was. \n\n\"You wanna help round here?\" She said, eyes brightening. \"We'd be more than happy to use an extra hand round the ward, yes sir!\" She clasped his hand between two of hers and squeezed. \"Not only lifting people, carrying heavy stuff, but we could always use a hand in cleaning and all...\" \n\nShe tilted her head. \"I'll have to check with Doctor Olander, but I'm sure he'd be more than happy to have you on as some hired help.\" She squeezed his hands again and stood up. \"Now see, look how helpful you can be! Yer just as important here as any of us. You ain't useless none, Owen Barnes.\" \n\nShe promised him this and squeezed his hand again. \"Yer helpful in the best of ways. I promise you that.\" She had finished his treatment and moved to stow away the tin. \"Now...\" She whistled. \"You think you can do something for me now?\" She asked hopefully."
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "\"I'm good at carrying things, and I don't mind cleaning up; I've got too many little nieces and nephews to worry about a little dirt or blood.\" His lips quirked up in a small smile. \"I know how to deal with kids, too- I can keep them busy if their parents ever come in here with something and need someone to watch them for a bit.\"\n\nOwen ducked his head, his smile widening at Lorelai's words. He was still a little sniffly, but her words were effectively getting through to him; his back slowly straightened up, and he would look her in the eye more often. When she stood and squeezed his hand, he finally squeezed back.\n\n\"You've... You've done a lot for me in such a short time, Miss Roswell- if there's anything I can do, I'd be happy to help.\"\n\nA small, distant part of his brain warned that this sounded like something his sisters would pull, to ask him to preform a chore of some sort, but he shoved it away.\n||"
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "\"Honest to God,\" She said, laying a hand on her heart. \"I ain't a tall woman none, and I can't rightfully reach nothing above my head,\" She said to him, sheepishly shuffling her feet a moment before she walked to the inventory closet and pulled it open. \n\n\"All I really need from ya is just... A hand on getting down that box,\" She pointed above her head, cheeks red in embarrassment. \"And I didn't wanna hop up on a chair, on account of that being not rightly professional and worryin' about fallin' and busting my head wide open.\" \n\nShe cleared her throat and sighed a little. \"I know it ain't exactly exciting but... You'd be doing me a real help.\" She put her hands behind her, clasped tight as she looked at him expectantly. \n\nShe hoped that Owen would be easier, kinder to himself after this. He seemed like such a nice young man!"
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "Owen blinked once, twice, then finally fell into a fit of barely restrained giggles. He'd expected something with the same severity as their conversation, not such a simple task. Still, it wasn't wholly unexpected: he towered over most people on his best days.\n\n\"Of course, Miss Roswell, I don't mind at all.\" He flashed her another small smile before standing and walked over to the inventory cabinet in a few short strides.\n\nThe box was easy to spot, and Owen had no trouble hefting it down from its spot, barely straining his muscles doing so. Once he had brought the box down, however, he looked almost... Awkward with it- shifting in the same way Lorelai had just done.\n\n\"Er... Where do you need this? I should have asked first, sorry.\""
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "She held her hands out to take the box once he'd retrieved it for her, almost dropping it once it was handed over. \"Oh— I'll take it, don't you worry your head over it.\" She groaned as she set it on the table and popped it open to take out a few stock items and tuck them away in a cabinet. \n\n\"You've been awfully helpful already, look at that! I don't think I got much else for you to do today...\" She put her hands on her hips and did a little spin to take a look around. \n\n\"Unless you wanna stick around and keep me company, I don't know if I've got much else,\" She laughed a little and sheepishly rubbed the back of her neck. \n\n\"But if nothin' else, come back tomorrow and I'm sure I can figure something out,\" She promised him with a glittering smile."
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "Owen hovered near Lorelai as she took the box, hands held out in front of him in preparation for something going wrong. He was almost startled when she groaned but settled back once the box was placed on the table without issue.\n\n\"I don't mind staying, Miss Roswell- I'm sure something will come up that I can help with, even if it's just handing you stock.\"\n\nHe sat back down and offered her a small smile in return. \"You're good company to keep anyways, if I may say so.\""
}
] | 221 | 4,432 |
326.375 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Mitica Lakatos",
"message": "It had been quite a few days since the initial attack, each passing full moon bringing more and more violence and bloodshed. While he was left unscathed it seemed that someone he'd just seen well and dandy the day before was not so lucky. In fact, she wasn't doing too well with her wounds, a fever having settled in and being sent to bedrest. Over the next couples days Mitica had been hard at work, trying to gather materials and put together something for good luck. Dried grass and reeds made a great medium, his eight fingers working tirelessly to create a small humanoid figure. It was almost a foot tall and colored like straw, this creation resembling a doll a young girl would own. In fact, he made something similar for a special lady a long time ago, and now he was doing it again even though she was gone.\n\nBy his side trotted a hound that stood with its head meeting his hips, this dog refusing to leave his side as it had for a few days now. Hopefully Akira would find comfort in Draga just as he had. He was named after the word \"Darling\" In Romanian, a little nod to his distant roots. \n\n*Draga meu*, my darling.\n\nReaching the door to the doctor's office Mita stepped sheepishly inside, Draga shifting closer as they entered. Before long he was directed towards the back, having been granted access to one of the injured. Peeking into the room Akira resided in Mita knocked on the wall to announce his presence, eventually making his way inside with a woven doll in one hand and a hound by his side. \"Akira? I hope I didn't wake you.\" He commented with a slight smile. He was relieved to see her in one piece but it also pained him to see her in such a sore state. He tried to imagine absorbing all her pain as he approached her bedside, hoping that somehow it would urge the powers at be to give her some relief."
},
{
"author": "hawker_hurricane0",
"message": "Unlike the first few days, Akira didn't spend the morning and noon sleeping. She was restless, the reason? The simple fact that she was feeling 'well enough' to go back to work. \n\nA woman like her didn't want to leave her poor old father in charge of the farm, especially as age started to weaken his back and knees as years went by. She couldn't stop repeating how much she was needed back at home, in spite of the grimace she'd make as she'd try to get dressed on her own.\n\nDoctors and nurses had to held Aki back, all in the end convinced her to stay as she reluctantly was returned to her bed, now sore after trying to move while still in bandages. Thankfully, Mita didn't have to see that, now that peace had returned when he came.\n\nAkira's thoughts of getting up from the bed were still in her mind, however.\n\n\"Mitica...?\" The sound of a familiar voice snapped her out of her trance. Not only she got a visit at the hospital, but it also meant that Mitica was well and alive. \n\nA wide smile formed across her lips. \n\n\"Come on in! I'm so glad to see you!\". Aki said, wasting no time to greet his dog. Her eyes glazed over the hound as she gave it some gentle pats, chuckling in spite the obvious pain she was in. \"Thank you for coming. I really appreciate it..\"\n\nThen she turned back to the man. Curious that he had the doll with him, she tilted her head."
},
{
"author": "Mitica Lakatos",
"message": "As Akira recognized him and luckily wasn't asleep a wide smile fell over Mitica's face, one that almost rivaled hers. Draga seemed a bit hesitant at first, still pinning himself close to Mita's side, but with some gentle coaxing words and a good sniff of Akira it seemed that all was forgiven. The canine's whip-like tail flicked back and forth and his eyes lit up, creeping even closer to the point that he was one inch away from resting his head on the hospital bed itself. \n\nMitica didn't know what this dog had gone through but he was just glad he found peace and love at last. He watched Draga as his head was gently stroked before turning back to Akira, wandering to her bedside just as the hound had done. \"I'm happy to see you too, Akira. How've the doctors been treating you?\" He responded softly, readjusting his glasses for a moment. Despite the lighthearted mood that encapsulated their interaction so far Mita couldn't help but recognize an underlying layer of pain and grief. He knew he'd need to address it eventually but for now he decided to keep things rolling on the upside.\n\nAkira looking inquisitively at the doll wasn't recognized for a moment, Mitica becoming confused before he looked down at his hand and realized that was what she was looking at. \"Oh, this!\" He exclaimed before thrusting it forward, hoping that she'd take it from his hands. \"I brought a little gift for you. I know you're a grown woman but I feel like everyone needs something to find comfort in.\" Mita explained with a pinch of anxiety filling his voice, desperately hoping she wasn't offended somehow. \"I made it myself. It's been a while since I last did this but I'd like to think it came out okay.\""
},
{
"author": "hawker_hurricane0",
"message": "At first, Akira assumed that the little doll belonged to Mita's dog. She expected anything but a gift. The woman's hands reached out and held the doll gently, almost as if she were too scared to break it.\n\n\"Mister Mitica...\" Her voice started low. Trying to contain her excitement, her eyes seemed to glow, her smile grew larger. She didn't feel like she deserved such kindness. \n\n\"It's beautiful...!\" Aki's fingers ran over the humanoid figure. It sparkled a distant memory when she was a young child back in Japan. She wasn't the kind of girl to own any dolls, but she'd remember being fascinated by the dolls she'd see during the festivities in March. \n\nLike a small child on Christmas, the woman held the gift close to her chest, almost bouncing from her spot where she sat. \n\n\"Hehehe... You didn't have to, but I appreciate this so much!\" She said. \"You put so much effort in this and it looks so good for being done in a long time... How did you make it?\""
},
{
"author": "Mitica Lakatos",
"message": "A huge wave of relief fell over and practically drowned Mitica, Akira's joy at this small gift filling his heart with warmth. As she examined and later clutched the doll Mita couldn't help but be reminded once more of another life he once lived, one a whole ocean away. No matter where he went he saw her, no matter where he went it seemed Essie was still following him around. It almost made him emotional as he hopped up and took a seat at the very end of Akira's bed. \n\nAs his expression softened with bittersweet memories it seemed that Akira was waiting to brighten his eyes back up again. At the end of the day he loved to teach and guide others, it was sort of what he lived for and what he tried to accomplish through his work. He certainly wished he had the materials on hand so that he could show her right then and there but maybe he could demonstrate later when she wasn't feverish and sore.\n\n\"I'm glad you asked!\" Mita gleefully responded, moving his hands up and gesturing as he tried to explain his process. \"I take long grasses and reeds and dry them out on a rack. I'm usually not too picky, I'm sort of used to using whatever I can find.\" He began, motioning with his hands as if he were weaving two imaginary strings or strands together. \"The body and head are pretty easy, you just make a sort of loop or spool with the reeds and tie them off into segments. The arms and legs tend to be actually woven so they take the longest. It's kind of hard to explain without a visual, at least for me. Sometimes I'd tie little pieces of cloth on them to mimic clothing but I don't have any to spare right now.\"\n\n\"Usually I'd make these as tiny gifts for birthdays or to honor spring coming in but I think you deserve one regardless. Everyone needs a companion in battle, after all.\""
},
{
"author": "hawker_hurricane0",
"message": "Akira's entire attention span went over the explanation on how these dolls were made. Almost as if her life depended on it! She watched the different parts of the small humanoid figure and rotated as Mitica pointed out how each of them were made.\n\n\"That sounds like it takes a lot of time and effort..\" The woman's eyes went back the man's, still in awe for the process. \n\nShe looked at the little gift again, almost as if this little doll was all the medicine she was needing after the full moon's attack. \n\n\"Hehe... It does look ready for battle, I feel even more protected right now.\"\n\nSlowly, she reached out for her nigh table on the side. There was something that resembled a tiny bag on it, no bigger than a person's palm. It was colored in bright red with a few patterns resembling leaves, there was an inscription on the fabric in kanji that translated to \"Protection from evil\", it was pretty obvious that it was handmade.\n\n\"This is an Omamori. It's an amulet used for protection. My father gave it to me as soon as the attacks started.\" Akira chuckled, as she tied the amulet to the doll. \n\n\"Since our friend will be a companion in battle, I figure he could benefit from this... Isn't that right?\""
},
{
"author": "Mitica Lakatos",
"message": "Through the haze of a wiry beard and cloudy glasses Mitica couldn't help but become flushed at Akira's compliment. Any time he was given kind words it always made him feel warm inside to the point that it was near feverish - hence why he blushed easy. Sometimes it was easy to discredit the amount of time, effort, and skill it took to do certain things, especially if you did them frequently. To be reminded of it made the tiny mistakes and doubts in his final product simply fade away. With a small laugh Mita thanked her, being happy to see her in higher spirits than she was before. He certainly hoped it would protect her, give her more confidence and comfort in these troubling times.\n\nIt wasn't long before the spotlight shone on Akira instead, Mitica gladly letting their conversation shift focus. He hadn't noticed the little pouch before, being too focused on Akira's well being to truly take account of the rest of the room's details. As she gently snatched it up Mita leaned in slightly to get a better look, tilting his head in curiosity and pushing his glasses back up once they began to slide down his nose. \n\n*'Omamori.'* Mitica repeated in his head, having never heard the term before but now wanting to know all about it. As he watched Aki tie the amulet to the doll's neck his smile grew, feeling delighted to know that she was still happily connected to her roots in some way despite what the world threw at her. Once it was fully fastened Mita leaned back to his typical upright sitting position, placing a hand on Draga's head and giving her some gentle pats. \n\n\"Yes, of course! He'll be small but mighty, believe me.\" He chuckled in response to her final remark, liking the idea of a tiny straw person being brought to life and fending off demons in the night. \"Say, did your dad make this amulet? It certainly looks like it took a lot of skill and effort to make, too. It really is beautiful.\""
},
{
"author": "hawker_hurricane0",
"message": "\"He does look mighty indeed!\" Aki chuckled as held her new little friend with both hands. Gently, she placed it next to her on the bed, ready to guard her from any evil with its newfound powers. Perhaps it was about time the doll needed a name? Aki had a few in mind, both in English and in her Japanese native tongue, though she would need to consult her father about the later. \n\n\"Oh?\" Her attention was drawn back to reality, as she turned to Mita. \"Ah, he didn't make it, no.\" She said as she shook her head. Her expression softened as she stared back at the doll. \n\n\"Originally, my grandmother got it from one our many temples back at home.\" Aki's voice had a hint of nostalgia. \"It was a gift from her to my parents before we moved to America. She said it was to bring us protection and fortune. Now you can see why my father would give it to me on the first place.\" \n\nA giggle escaped from her lips. \"I guess there's truth to it, after all. I managed to survive the attack and the doctors said my recovery will be free of any complications.\""
},
{
"author": "Mitica Lakatos",
"message": "Mitica instinctually followed Akira's gaze, moving to and from the doll as she did. As she spoke of her grandparents and homeland it easily gave him a very nostalgic feeling, remembering simpler times of his own. He could only imagine what the temples she mentioned looked like since he'd never been in one anywhere let alone in an island nation like Japan. Hell, he never even got close, the furthest east he'd ever gone in his lifetime was the southeastern tip of Italy. \n\nEven though he never knew his grandparents there was still something special about the idea. Having some sort of heirloom or trinket to remember your home by was also something special and he was extremely grateful that Akira had something like that. Keeping in touch with your roots - should you so desire to - could be difficult in a place so different and far away, that was for certain. Even if Mitica spent his young life living a nomadic lifestyle filled with uncertainty and struggle he still wouldn't trade it for the world and always cherished the good times he had while on the road. \n\nTo hear that Akira's recovery should be free of any complications was a huge relief, Mitica's shoulders relaxing even more so as he released a large sigh. \"Good, I was just about to ask.\" He remarked, having always had a bad habit of expecting the worst. \n\nForever curious Mitica decided to move the subject back to origin stories, hoping dearly that his next question wouldn't come off as prying. \"Um, if you don't mind me asking, why did you and your father come to America in the first place? Again, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, I'm just a bit curious is all. I have my own reasons so I'm sure you have some of your own.\" He'd ask rather sheepishly, holding his hands up as if surrendering to further insinuate that she had all the control regarding what to say and what not to say."
},
{
"author": "hawker_hurricane0",
"message": "\"Well, glad I answered your question!\" Akira giggled. Her recovery was going well, so well that she decided to not mention the fact that she tried to walk on her own that morning. She couldn't wait until she could return to her routine, after all. Her entire body felt restless since she hadn't been able to work on the farm. \n\nNow, Mitica brought up an interesting question. Akira's giggles were replaced by humming as she pondered. \n\n\"Well, the reason is simple.\" She began as she readjusted her position to something more comfortable for her aching shoulder. She didn't see anything wrong with his question, both of them were foreigners. \n\n\"We wanted a better life. I was told that this land was one of opportunity.\" \n\nA sigh escaped from her lips, as Aki almost got lost into her own childhood memories. She was only five when she and her parents took the long trip to across the other side of the world. The Russo-Japanese war left its mark, even if at the time she couldn't understand it. \n\n\"How about you? I'm guessing you came here for a similar reason?\""
},
{
"author": "Mitica Lakatos",
"message": "It was incredibly relieving knowing he hadn't struck a nerve. He was probably worrying too much. Actually, over these past few days since Akira had gotten hurt he was starting to realize just how afraid he was of losing her now whether it be through saying the wrong thing or the beasts that roamed the wood. They'd only known each other for a short period of time but for some reason he felt the need to hang on for dear life. Companionship was like food to a starving dog. He was willing to fight for it and couldn't help but feel the need to protect it with gnashing teeth and the loudest bark he could muster. \n\nHer answer was simple but satisfactory. It was to be expected as that was why many immigrants ventured away from their homes, the other reason being that they had no other choice. He fell under none of those, at least not directly, and when Akira turned the question back on him Mitica couldn't help but feel nervous. How much detail should he put into it? How much did she really want to know?\n\nWith a small laugh Mita shook his head, \"I'm sorry to say that I didn't. I never imagined myself leaving Europe before I decided to take the leap, actually. It's sort of a long story.\" He tried to keep a grin but it eventually faded into one far smaller than before, laced with nostalgia and sadness alike. \"The truth is that the wagon I live in now originally belonged to my niece. I used to travel the countryside of Europe with my family, living a nomadic lifestyle and just trying to get by since it didn't really feel like we belonged anywhere. Um, after the bombs fell in Britain we were separated and I didn't know if I'd ever see them again.\" \n\nMitica paused for a moment, taking a second to pet Draga some more for comfort. No matter how many years passed it still hurt to recall. Still, Akira deserved to know.\n\n\"After I recovered from my injuries I got word that a young woman matching my niece's description had won a ticket to America after playing her cards right quite literally. I knew that the chances that it was her and not just some other Romani woman was slim but I didn't feel like I had much choice. So, I saved up my money and bought a cheap ride to the US to try and find her. After years of wandering around I found her here in Briar Ridge with that same wagon I live in today.\" By the end of his story it was hard not to get misty eyed but it actually felt good to get it off his chest. He'd never quite told anybody before and it was as if a chunk of rock was removed from his heart, no longer weighing him down as much."
},
{
"author": "hawker_hurricane0",
"message": "To feel like he didn't belong anywhere. Those words struck Aki deep within her distant memories, shortly after she moved to America. Far away from home, years without seeing her extended family, the death of her mother when she was this young. All of it happened while she tried to adapt to a new lifestyle, a new language. Yet, no matter how hard she'd try, it never felt enough. \n\nThe man's words were bittersweet, as well as nostalgic. \n\nHer eyes glanced over Mita's hand as he would seek for Draga's comfort. All while she listened to his life story and about his niece. She said no words all while he spoke, sensing that he needed to get a weight like that out of his shoulders.\n\n\"I see..\" Akira spoke, keeping her gentle tone as she had noticed that the man's eyes got misty. She feared for his niece's destiny, for she hadn't been able to see her. \n\nShe had the urge to ask the question, but she didn't in fears to bring back the pain from the past. Instead, With a small grunt, Aki reached out for Mitica's shoulder in the best way she could, using her good arm. \n\n\"Going all the way up here just to look for your family... Not everyone does that. I fthink that's admirable.\" Akira gave him a reassuring smile."
},
{
"author": "Mitica Lakatos",
"message": "At first Mitica didn't look back at Akira, only down at Draga as he looked up at him obliviously, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth and just happy to be pet. It wasn't until Akira spoke up that he looked in her direction, her soft tone being a great comfort since it felt like he just bore his heart raw and beating to someone else. It was hard being vulnerable but when people responded with empathy and kindness it only made it easier to trust in the future. \n\nSeeing her try to touch his shoulder Mitica moved forward a bit to help, gladly welcoming this sign of sympathy and not wanting her to strain herself any more than she had to. Simply being touched in such a manner was enough to further increase the odds of more tears spilling forth. It was her smile and words that made it impossible, the dew covering his lower eyelids evolving into a light drizzle, a bittersweet smile of his own crawling across his cheeks. \n\nHe tried to say thank you but upon opening his mouth no sound came out, only a sore tightness in his throat and sinuses. Mita pulled back to collect himself, not wanting to start really crying when this conversation shouldn't be focused on him but rather on the brave woman before him. Mitica removed his glasses with one hand and wiped away tears with the other. \"Thanks, I, uh... I think I needed to hear that.\" Mita finally responded with a chuckle, putting his glasses back on with a sniffle and some forced deep breaths. \"Sorry to make that conversation get pretty depressing for a moment there and sort of make it about me. Um, do you remember anything fondly from Japan? Is there anything else from there you still like doing or making?\""
},
{
"author": "hawker_hurricane0",
"message": "Akira wasn't going to judge Mitica if he were to cry. If anything, she had the urge to let him know. There was no judgment from the woman, she saw a bit of herself in the man. The two were foreigners in a new land, one that was both welcoming and hostile, where the two most likely had to adapt just to be perceived in a more positive manner. \n\n\"You're very welcome.\" She said.\n\nMita spoke first, making Aki give him a small nod before she laid back down, letting out a tiny '_ow' as she did so. Now the conversation went back to her, something she wasn't quite used to.\n\n\"I surely miss my grandma's cooking.\" The woman sighed, more from the pain rather than the still living memory of her extended family. \"My pa and I tried to replicate her recipes but... Ingredients are hard to come by, especially here.\""
},
{
"author": "Mitica Lakatos",
"message": "He felt much lighter than before, as if tears had built up over the years and weighed him down until now. He could cry alone but doing it around someone he knew he could trust made it all the more effective as releasing tension. However, he was also glad to move on, ready to listen to Akira speak again front and center. Draga was just happy to be around people, as usual. \n\nIn his mind he tried to imagine what her grandmother looked like, his mind shifting from idea to idea while she cooked different things in each iteration. For the most part though he imagined her with gray hair and skin worn down by decades of sunlight. The idea of warm, homemade food took center stage in his mind next, remembering some of his own favorites out on the road with his family. They didn't have much but polenta was a staple since all it required was corn meal and butter. However, on special occasions they might try and make balmos or even cabbage rolls. Even if her own recipes were most likely very different from his own he still felt curious and, in all honesty, hungry.\n\n\"When you're recovered do you think you and your father would be willing to teach me?\" Mitica eventually asked, Draga moving a bit closer to Akira and attempting to lick her hand, potentially sensing that she was still hurting or just wanting affection. \"I know it's nothing like the original but I'm sure your substitutions are enough to make it still taste great. I mean, even the person making it can make it different, doesn't matter how close you stick to any given recipe.\""
},
{
"author": "hawker_hurricane0",
"message": "Aki didn't hesitate to give Draga the attention she seeked the moment she felt the lick on her injured hand. In her eyes, the hound deserved the world for being such a good companion. The moments of her hands were slow, but her stubborn nature made it possible to give the pup some good pats and scratches behind her ear. All while she hummed in thought to Mita's invitation.\n\n\"Well... I don't mind inviting you over for dinner. My father loves visitors!\" Akira returned her gaze to Mita, not letting Draga go. Her dark eyes seemed to be shimmering as the topic of being able to share her own experiences and culture were brought up.\"Draga can come too, of course~\"\n\n\"Thought you're right..\" She then said after giving Mita's words more thought. \"We're still keeping our family's memories in way. \""
}
] | 324.5 | 5,222 |
340.777778 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Hirano Akira (Ping Ye Qiu Liang )",
"message": "Akira wished for anything in the world but for this day to come, she dreaded it with all her heart as the Full Moon victims pilled up. Jade became a victim yet again, and now she was fighting for her life.\n\nWhen Aki first set foot on the hospital, she could barely breath, she could barely stand. She wanted to scream her name on the top of her lungs, to ask where Jade was, to beg the gods to put an end to this never ending nightmare once and for all. \n\nBut she couldn't, this was all real and it was happening, she knew it was all real as she felt her leg twist after falling on the hallway.\n\n'I should've told her I loved her...' Was perhaps a selfish thought, something Akira could barely afford these days. As a woman, she was certain that she stood out amongst her other peers, she had assumed that Jade would had never wanted her this way, that she mourned for Arthur's sudden departure and breakup. \n\nBut at the very least, letting Jade know that she was loved would've perhaps given the woman peace before the horror, even if it came from the wrong person. Akira didn't mind letting her go, that on itself was an act of love, so long as she knew how many people cared for her.\n\nKela was the one to calm her down, bless his soul, picking up his friend and remnants of her own self up. She had been guided to an observation room to put her leg back in place. It didn't seem serious given the nature of the fall, but of course a nurse or two nagged her about her own safety.\n\nAkira paid no mind to what they had to say, she wasn't there to answer their questions, for she had one priority; she needed to know where Jade was. Thus, she was guided to the room, where the waiting game began.\n\nAki would've waited a hundred years if that was necessary. \n\nAfter giving Kela a reassuring embrace before he left, she slowly made her way within already familiar hallways due to her own past experiences. \n\nSitting there, right by the door, was Jackson. Seeing the young man there made Aki gulped, sh\n\nE felt a pit on her stomach for what she heard of what happened during the full moon. He saw it all. He had seen how Jade was turned to shreds in April's maw, tender flesh cut and torn like it was nothing. Deep down, Akira knew the poor woman couldn't control it, the curse was stronger than sheer determination. \n\n\"Jackson Grant..\" She said, her voice now calm, but raw and damaged after losing herself when she first arrived. \n\n\"I'm sorry for what happened... How... How is she?\" \n\nAkira knew they brought Jade back, but she didn't know anymore details. Was she breathing well? Did she lose any limbs? How much blood had she spilled? Was it too late? Would she be the same? Would she ever wake up?"
},
{
"author": "Jackson Grant",
"message": "*Despite all the Kicking and screaming first thing that morning, the doctors and nurses treated Jackson quite well. He was given time to properly wash, a fresh set of clothes from the lost and found ( a bit baggy on him), and was even offered breakfast, which he politely declined. He stomach couldn't handle a meal right now.* \n\n*One of those mornings, he never expected to spend it picking specks of dried blood from his hair and under his fingernails.* \n\n*But as he settled in, and had cleaned everything possible, it just became a waiting game. So there Jackie sat, huddled up against the wall in the seat closest to the door, close as he could be to any news.* \n\n*Stuck in a daze, some place between wired awake and dreadfully tired after going on 24+ plus hours without a proper minute of shuteye. Fight all he may, but in time, sleep would be coming for him.* \n\n*But, someone managed to stir him awake.* \n\"She's-\" *Jackson started in a sharp tone. Ready to shoot back a sarcastic response like 'Oh, she's all sunshine and rainbows!'* \n\n*But, he caught himself. Looking over to see a somewhat familiar face, he was relieved to have done so.* \n\n*He uncurled, sitting up straight to try and appear just a bit more presentable. Taking a much needed breathe before he spoke.* \n\n\"She's got a pulse, breathing on her own again. Pale as a blank sheet of paper though. Needed all sorts of stitches and staples. Doctors done all they can. The fact she made it this far is a miracle.\" *Jackie explained, equally worried and hopeful, before motioning to the seat next to him.* \n\n\"Please, have a seat. Akira, right? I've heard a thing or two about you. Good things I should say. Jade seems to have a soft spot for you.\"*"
},
{
"author": "Hirano Akira (Ping Ye Qiu Liang )",
"message": "Jade was breathing, she had a pulse. Akira had felt her heart on the back of her thread until Jackson confirmed that his sister survived, at least for now. Did this mean she was outta the woods yet? Only time would tell.\n\nAki never had siblings, but she had many cousins back in her homeland so close to them that they may be her sisters and brothers, many of which probably already formed families to carry the modest legacy that was the Hirano bloodline. She could only imagine what the poor young man was going through as she put herself on his shoes.\n\nShe felt his pain like her own, and she also felt the guilt creeping down her spine as she took a seat, nodding. \n\nOne life was exchanged for another on that night. \n\n\"I met Jade after January's attack..\" Akira said, still remembering the way the woman looked at her like a cat that had been abandoned in the rain, covered in someone else's blood and mud, shaking as she still held the gun she had used in an attempt to shoot at the werewolves that mercilessly attacked her loved ones. On that day, friendship blossomed, Aki had taken her to her own family home, she offered the older Grant sibling tea to calm down, she heated the water to wash her hair and even lent Jade some of her baggy masculine shirts, just so she could stay fresh and warm on that day. \n\nBut no matter what she did for her, Akira always felt the same way. She felt like she was falling apart on the daylight, such feelings were only intensified as her heart began to flutter every time they interacted, with each hug shared, with each dessert she baked for her, and the red scarf Jade had knit for her as a gift.\n\n\"If you need anything, Mr Grant... Please let me know. Jade has become very close to me and my father in the last few months, we'll do anything for the both of you.\" She said, her jaw unclenching."
},
{
"author": "Jackson Grant",
"message": "\"Just Jackson is fine. Jackie, Jack- something like that. I don't feel old or mature enough to be a Mr. Grant yet. But thank you, I appreciate you being so kind.\" *Hearing her speak just managed to make Mr. Grant's lips curl upwards a tinge. He'd lean over to rub shoulders and nestle his head against Aki a moment to share a bit of warmth and show his appreciation.* \n\n\"So many times, when we were little, I'd get in fights, fall outta trees, come home black and blue, bloody, whatever it came to be that day. And Jade would nurse me right back to health, even gave me stitches when I'd refused to go see a doctor.\" *Jackson's smile grew a moment thinking about the old bittersweet memories.* \n\n\"I must've worried that poor girl to death doin' all the things I'd done.\" *He reflected a bit more somberly. His throat starting to tighten up.* \n\n\"I think I'm starting to pay for it all now...\" *The fighter that he was, Jackie tried his best to hide his tears, blinking away to avoid having to out himself by blatantly wiping his eyes.* \n\n*Truth was, he hated that all he could do was wait. Watch, try to hold it all together until there was some resemblance of certainty about the situation. It all felt like some cruel joke.*"
},
{
"author": "Hirano Akira (Ping Ye Qiu Liang )",
"message": "Seeing the young man close to breaking down broke Akira's heart. His expression was something the woman had seen in every Briar Ridge citizen for almost a year. The pressure of standing strong in the face of adversity, the guilt that came after failing to protect your loved ones, the idea of seeing them suffer after being maimed by werewolves' jaws. \n\nShe let Jackson seek comfort on her side, making the rest of her body react and wrap up the younger Grant sibling, as much as she could, by using her one arm. Her callused palm rubbed his back in soothing circles, showing the gentle nature of her touch despite all the injuries she had sustained. \n\n\"Hey, it's okay to cry...\" Aki whispered, giving Jackson the space to rest his weary face on her shoulder. \"It's not your fault, you've done what you could. I'm sure you fought to defend your sister.\" \n\nThe mental image was something Akira couldn't bear, she wasn't strong enough to witness what Jackson had on that night. Hearing the news alone was enough to almost break her spirit.\n\n\"It's not your fault...\" She repeated. In reality, it was nobody's. Not even April's, the curse discriminated no one, how could she recent a wife and a mother? The beast was more powerful than sheer determination."
},
{
"author": "Jackson Grant",
"message": "\"I know, I know...\" *Jackson sniffled, and wiped his eyes with newfound comfort as Ms. Hirano took the time to ensure him it was okay.* \n\n*He didn't say much, not for a good while at least. He just took time to tame his shaky breaths and reel himself back in. There really was no right way to feel about it. Jade's killer was already dead, and her kids were orphaned. There would be no revenge for Jade unless Jackson wanted to stoop down to the ranks of a baby killer. Which he did not. There would be no Justice in it.*\n\n*He just hated feeling like a victim to it all. Especially when he wasn't even the one torn to shreds or shot dead. He just wanted to get out there and make sure this doesn't happen to him, his family, Ms. Hirano, or any other kind soul that lived in this damned town.* \n\n*But the hardest part of it all? Having to rest. With so much to be done, so much suspended in the air, Jackson needed rest more than anything. Needed it so bad it drove him to tears.* \n\n*But as he calmed, his eyes slipped closed and he drifted into a bittersweet bliss. Walking a tightrope between dead asleep and barely coherent. Given the opportunity, Jackie could end up snoozing and drooling over Aki's shoulder.* \n\n\"You're... A very kind woman. I 'preciate you comin' checkin' on Jade. She means the world to me.\" *He said, before a chuckle shone through.* \n\n\"Usually, she'd be my shoulder to cry on right about now.\""
},
{
"author": "Hirano Akira (Ping Ye Qiu Liang )",
"message": "People often called Akira kind, gentle. For many years, she'd fall apart whenever they'd utter those words, for she stopped believing them. The woman let out a shaky breath, her eyes began to soak. But, was she even worthy of shedding tears by then? Redemption required actions, not emotions. \n\n\"It's the least thing I could do for you.\" Aki managed to keep voice firm. \"She did everything in her power to nurse me back to health after I lost my whole arm...\" \n\nHow else could she make up for breakfast brought to her bed? Was there a way she could give back the way Jade changed her bandages? Would she even able to wash her hair the same way the older Grant sibling did now that she wasn't whole?\n\nWhat else could Akira give to this family? To Briar Ridge if it wasn't her own life? No, it'd be selfish to fall back into that place again.\n\n\"I'm sure she'd hug you tightly as soon as she recovers.\" She said, managing to meet her gaze with Jackson's with a good pat on his shoulder. \n\n\"She's stubborn as hell... Though I'm sure you know that hehe. She'll make it out of this, I know this.\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Jackson Grant",
"message": "\"You can say that again.\" *Jackson couldn't help but agree, finally getting back to sitting up straight and supporting his own weight. He was definitely looking a bit brighter now, his eyes were still weary and his mind long overdue for proper R&R, but things were starting to lighten up. He had his hopes.* \n\n*He had heard some bits and pieces, but hearing Aki speak about Jade nursing her to health was news. Gave him a new angle of insight into the situation.* \"You know, I was curious about the arm situation, but I wasn't sure if it'd be rude to pry... Was it one of those things that did it to you? Like the one that got Jade? I'm still in disbelief at everything that's been happening.\" \n\n*That was no lie, Jackson had been pinching himself in the morning times to make sure this bizarre little village wasn't dreamed up while stowing away in a box car somewhere.* \n\n\"No matter where you go, it's seems everyone's got their own flavor of trouble, you know?\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Hirano Akira (Ping Ye Qiu Liang )",
"message": "Making Jackson feel better was a small victory for Akira. She smiled at the young man as she shifted back to a more comfortable position on her seat, paying no attention to the soaked fabric on her shoulders. However, the woman's expression changed, tightening her jaw as she glanced over her right side. It was the sources of many curious eyes over town, as well as many questions. The younger Grant sibling didn't receive any judgement for asking, however. It only came natural, nor he'd be the last person wanting to know what happened on that full moon.\n\n\"Yeah... It was one of those things.\" She said, frowning. \"The curse doesn't discriminate, from what I understand... It'll just make the afflicted attack anyone without reason, they lose themselves... That's why they even fight each other. The hunger is that strong...\" \n\nAnd with that explanation, that'd give away the fact April had never meant to hurt anyone. As if that wouldn't make the situation even worse than it was. A mother, a wife, forced to maim her neighbors and loved ones against her will, murdered like al animal, less than human. \n\n\"No matter where you or who you are... We're all victims here, in the end. \""
}
] | 287 | 3,067 |
476.36 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Ernest Estep",
"message": "It wasn't like he wasn't used to working a hard ass job. He'd been working on a damn tree farm, hauling big ol' things of lumber for years now. God knows, he'd gotten his fair share of injuries and all - but he hadn't anticipated getting injured this fast into stepping foot on the orchard. \n\nHe'd just gotten here, dammit! One misstep into a goddamn gopher hole and he'd twisted his ankle all to hell. He'd been so focused on looking down at the papers in his hand, he hadn't been paying no attention - rookie mistake. He really oughta know better, huh? \n\nFive years ago... Who had been the doctor that many years ago? He wasn't sure he could remember now. It surely wasn't the one he'd had as a child; he was pretty sure that fella had retired sometime when he was a teenager... So he wasn't rightly sure who's office he was 'bout to walk into. Ernest managed to hobble his way all the way to the doctors, pushing himself through the door so he could lean himself on the desk that sat at the front. \n\n\"Anybody in?\" He called out, and a woman of small stature popped out of the back, peeking her head out. Lorelai Roswell wiped her hands on her pristine white apron, ironed all professional, and smiled. \"Ernest Estep, as I live and breathe. Been a few years, ain't it? You done grown...\" She turned over her shoulder. \"I think the doc is finishin' up in the back, but I'm sure he'll be out in a minute if ya give him a second, go on and take a seat,\" She said, picking up her notes."
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "Things had slowed down significantly since the rush of the full moon. He wouldn't say that things were back to normal, far from it. From letters from unknown senders alerting him to someone needing help in secret to the two prematurely born children infected with an illness he still could not even hope to understand, things were very far from normal. Nevertheless, he was grateful to be seeing to the usual, as he explained to the woman sitting in the room that her boy would need to take things slow for at least two weeks, but that he'd make a full recovery. \"And Ben, be sure to check for leaves on trees next time. Rule of thumb: no leaves by this time of the year means the tree is likely dead and not suitable for climbin'.\" He smiled, he wasn't condescending in any way, his own sister had made a very similar mistake in their youth, he could hardly blame the kid for not knowing. He was just glad the fall hadn't been worse.\n\nWhen he walked out again, he was greeted by someone waiting. It was a new face, but then so was he, he could hardly expect to have met everyone in town by now. He was certain he'd never met this man before though, Nathaniel would have remembered a face as handsome as his. He didn't allow himself to linger on that thought for more than a second or two, this was a patient. \"Good afternoon, I'm Doctor Ashworth,\" He said, stepping closer and holding out his hand for an introduction, a friendly smile on his face. \"What's your name and what brought you in today?\""
},
{
"author": "Ernest Estep",
"message": "Ernest took those few moments to breathe and take in the cooler air of the clinic. It was calm now, but he could only imagine what kind of activity happened in here when something bad happened. He was sure the small clinic could burst at the seams, especially with a nurse like Lorelai Roswell steering the ship. She had a sort of nervous energy to her at times that he couldn't help but be curious about. \n\nHe could hear the doctor talking in the back; clearly not a Briar Ridge native, but his voice sounded nice. He had a soothing voice, and more than likely a fantastic bedside manner. Ernest closed his eyes a moment and let his head fall forward, elbows on his knees as he just let himself take one, deep breath. \n\nOf course, as soon as *Doctor Ashworth* Exited, he stood up and outstretched his hand. Those were the motions, he'd done them a thousand times; you stand, make eye contact, shake their hand firmly but not too firmly. Of course, he wasn't usually so rattled by making eye contact, but this particular doctor... \n\nWell, Ernest would be selling him short if he said he was attractive. He was handsome, and beautiful at the same time. Beautiful unlike a gemstone but beautiful like a waterfall, or a sunset, or a lush forest of trees. It piqued his interest, and he damn near forgot to let go of his hand as they shook theirs together. \n\n\"Ern'st,\" He said, fumbling the word and clearing his throat. \"Ernest Estep. Ya mighta heard o'my brother's orchard just on down the stretch there— unfortunately, due to... Circumstances, that there orchard b'longs to me now.\" He shoved his hands in his pockets and let his eyes flicker around Nathaniel's face. \n\n\"I done messed up my ankle. Swollen all to hell in my boot— stuck my foot right on down in some damn rabbit or gopher hole, almost broke my nose on the way down, too.\" He hadn't taken his eyes off Nathaniel's in the last three minutes, and he forced them off and away. \n\n\"You ain't from here, are ya?\" He said after a moment."
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "The man had the most beautiful brown eyes. Nathaniel found himself wondering what hues currently hidden would surface if sunlight shone upon Ernest's face. He wondered how his smile looked, Nathaniel imagined it to be warm and welcoming and beauti- _Focus Ashworth._ Good Lord he was having unprofessional thoughts.\n\n\"A pleasure to meet you Mister Estep.\" He'd heard about the orchard and vaguely recalled overhearing something about its previous owner having passed away, but he wasn't entirely sure. He couldn't remember his name either, something with an F or an S maybe? _Circumstances._ Was there more to it than what little Nathaniel knew? It wasn't his place to ask, nor was this the time to do so. He didn't liken himself to a chattering gossip either way. His profession involved a lot of secrecy, patient doctor confidentiality meant he was privy to a lot of information he would never share with anyone. If Ernest had wanted to share, he would have.\n\n\"Well I am glad the damage seems to be localized to your foot only.\" He smiled at Ernest's comment. The foot likely wasn't broken, seeing as Ernest was standing on it and seemed mostly fine, that was a relief. Of course he couldn't be fully sure until he did a proper assessment. \"I'd like to get a closer look at your ankle if you'll agree to that, there's an examination room right there,\" He said, gesturing towards it. \"I can help support you if walkin' hurts, no trouble at all.\" \n_ _\n\nHe chuckled softly, he liked Ernest's straightforward and down-to-earth treatment of him. \"You're right, I'm not. I was born here but I was raised in Richmond. My father landed himself a well-payin' job out there and took my mother and me along.\" Nathaniel left out the small detail that the job had not only been with S&C, but a direct betrayal of the very miners who'd been Samuel Ashworth's comrades prior to his ruthless climb on the corporate ladder. His father had been proud of it, Nathaniel saw it as a cowardly move, but he'd never say that to his father's face. After all, without his father's snitching and professionalization of throwing people under the bus, he'd have never been able to go to medical school.\n\n\"I only moved here a few weeks ago,\" He said. They'd been an eventful couple of weeks, that much was certain. \"I suppose it was technically a move _back_ here but I don't remember Briar Ridge, I was only two when my family left.\" He still got lost more often than he'd care to admit. He was similarly still working on remembering everyone's names and the general who's who of the town, but he was learning and getting better at it all."
},
{
"author": "Ernest Estep",
"message": "It wasn't much trouble to walk; there was a tenderness every time he put weight on it, but it wasn't enough to make him holler. However, the thought of leaning just a little on Nathaniel was a mighty swell idea... But he decided to show instead how *Strong* He could be, rolling his shoulders back a little as he followed the doctor back to the examination room. \"I got it this time, but I appreciate ya,\" He told him, keeping his weight off his foot as much as possible. He was relieved when he could sit on the edge of the table, and he rolled his ankle experimentally and winced a little at the motion. \n\n\"You and I are alike, then. Movin' back home,\" He said, both hands planted on the table, fingers curled over the edge of it to keep himself in place. *Wonder what else we got in common,* He couldn't help but wonder. \"Born and raised. Moved 'ways out north for a while, five years ago. Came back just the other day,\" He gestured vaguely with his hand, clearing his throat afterward. \"So you ain't know your way from the forest t' the creek, am I right about that?\" \n\nErnest shifted in place, eyes flickering up as Lorelai Roswell entered and grabbed something out of a cabinet just behind Nathaniel. \"I've been meanin' to take ya on a tour, but—\" \n\n\"You oughta be awful busy,\" Ernest said, clearing his throat again and feeling a bit embarrassed for cutting off Lorelai. She didn't seem upset by the action, and he continued speaking. \"If yer in need of a tour guide, I'm as good as any. Not much done changed 'round here in them years,\" He assured Nathaniel. \"I can do the pointin' and... Kill two birds with one stone, remind myself where it's all at.\" He tapped his fingers on the edge of the table. His stomach was in knots. Of course, the doctor could think he was strange and decline, and then he'd have t' go and find another doctor... But there ain't no other doctor, so what was he doin'? Was he out of his damn mind?"
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "Although Ernest seemed to strongly favor his non-injured foot, he was capable of hobbling around. That was a good sign. Another good sign presented itself when Ernest rolled his ankle without being prompted, even if the motion did hurt. \n\n\"I'm hardly qualified to say this but, welcome back Mister Estep,\" He said, wondering what exactly Ernest had been getting up to _out North_. \"How far up North did you end up?\" He briefly looked at the door when Lorelai came into the room and started going through cabinets. \"You would be, indeed.\" Nathaniel had been in the woods before, he wouldn't say he'd gotten lost since he didn't really know where he was going when he went in there. Technically that meant one couldn't truly get lost right? If there is no known destination, one couldn't divert from it either. (He'd definitely gotten lost.) \n\nNathaniel was about to take Lorelai up on her offer when Ernest cut in, in a strangely insistent manner. It was true though, Lorelai was very busy. They all were, but not every minute of their time was spent in the hospital. He was about to point that out when he realized that Ernest had presented him with the perfect excuse to get to know the new owner of the orchard better. Pointing out the workload would be one of the more foolish things to do here, so he kept his mouth shut.\n\nThe reasoning of Ernest needing to reacquaint himself with Briar Ridge seemed _mostly_ sound. Nathaniel could overlook the odd argumentation this time. \"So long as you don't overwork that ankle of yours, yes, I'd gladly take that tour with you.\" He flashed Lorelai an apologetic smile and mouthed _sorry_, he didn't want her to think that it was in any way a personal slight against her. He hoped that agreeing hadn't been the unprofessional thing to do. Maybe he was allowed a little unprofessionalism from time to time.\n_ _\n\n\"Speakin' of which,\" He said, turning back to Ernest. \"Would it be possible to get your boot off? I think I might be able to get it stabilized without you needin' to rely on crutches, but I make no promises just yet.\" Nathaniel remembered a paper he'd read where a physician claimed to have found a way to heal sprained ankles without needing crutches. The reason he remembered that particular paper was because, like any good scientist, he'd tested the claims on his own injury. You could hardly blame him, he'd been running up the stairs when he tripped (quite violently one might add), two days before he was set to start a new job. He couldn't very well show up to the hospital using crutches, now could he? Present-day Nathaniel was rummaging through the same cabinets Lorelai had just done, looking for the required materials."
},
{
"author": "Ernest Estep",
"message": "\"Vermont. Pretty far up there. Just 'bout as far up there as you can get 'fore you hit Canada,\" He said. \"Unless you head on up t' Maine... I ain't go up that far, but I heard they got some big ol' lighthouses.\" His eyes flickered down to his boot, and he reached down to busy himself with the laces. \n\n\"Was workin' on a tree farm. Y'know, them big ones you see in rich people's houses durin' Christmas? Or the department stores?\" He chewed his lip, worrying it between his teeth. He had a tendency to habits like that; sometimes even doin' it til he'd damn near bit through and drawn blood. A nasty habit, and one he tried real hard to stop. Of course, easier said than done... Especially when he had a knack for doin' stupid shit like *That.* \n\nHe really hadn't meant to interrupt, and he knew his excuses were flimsy at best. Maybe it had been a little soon, to try and talk to the doctor that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. He was gonna end up sayin' somethin' real stupid, he just knew it. He ought to keep his mouth shut, but o' course, he never knew when t' quit. He supposed he must get it from his older brother. \n\nLorelai just seemed amused, shrugging her shoulder in response to her employer, and watching as Ernest finally gave his boot a tug. It hit the floor with a sturdy *Thud*, and his ankle really did seem a bit swollen, didn't it? He touched it with his own fingers and hissed, shaking his head. \"I think I can manage, just a little tender,\" He said, stretching his leg back out to allow the doctor to properly examine him. He felt another wave of embarrassment as he made eye contact with the nurse, who just smiled and made her exit. \n\n\"How long you been doin' this... Doctor schtick?\" He asked Nathaniel, trying to make conversation to fill the silence that he feared."
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "Ernest had worked on a tree farm, logging around big heavy pines, he must be strong then – _Stop it, Ashworth._ Strength was good for physical health, that was all, looks weren't important to medicine and thus shouldn't be on his mind, _at all._ Maybe he should get another cup of coffee, and stop himself from getting distracted. It had already been a busy day after all. \n\nThe Ashworths had had a Christmas tree for a number of years, even if it was a 'senseless' distraction, it also served as a way to flaunt their wealth. Nothing brought more joy to his parents than forcing everyone around them to see how successful they were. Nathaniel suspected that his parents did also enjoy decorating it as a family, they almost seemed loving and functional when they did that. _Almost._ \"I know the trees, we had one a couple of Christmases, likely not as big as the ones you're describin' though,\" He said, moving to the next cabinet. _Where did they put those rubber strips..._ \"We used to decorate it, my parents, siblings, and me,\" He said, reminiscing for a second. \"We could never quite agree on a theme though, usually mother's vision was the one we executed in the end. She had an eye for those sorts of things.\" He wasn't sure why he'd chosen to share that information and he promptly shut his mouth again. \n\nUpon finding the material he was looking for at last, he turned around again. He placed the strips on a nearby table. \"I've never been that far up North either, much too cold for my likin',\" He admitted. \"Though I can imagine it must have been a sight to behold when covered in snow.\"\n_ _\n\n_Schtick?_ Nathaniel laughed at that, clearly not actually offended by the perhaps poor choice of words. \"I assure you it is much more than a mere _schtick_, Mister Estep,\" He said, rubbing his hands together so they wouldn't be incredibly cold in comparison to the undoubtedly warm ankle. From Ernest's pained hiss, he suspected it was more than just _a little tender._ But he had also been warned about the stubbornness of the people of Briar Ridge, so really what could he do?\n\n\"But I have been one for, uh,\" He took a moment to think. \"Six years now? Yes, that's it, six.\" Nathaniel had graduated at age 24, one of the younger students in his class. The fact that a good number of his classmates, at least those born men, had been drafted into the war had helped. The education went on but at a smaller scale, he'd been able to get a lot more experience a lot quicker without the competition of men who thought themselves better than him. Of course, he'd had to listen to a different name then, something he stopped doing the moment he graduated and moved away from Baltimore. It still deeply stung that his degree was not attributed to one Nathaniel Magnus Ashworth. At least he was Doctor Ashworth regardless, his legal first name didn't matter much in practice. \n\nHe pulled over a chair and sat down before focusing on the injury at hand. \"Does that hurt?\" He asked as he gently touched a few areas near the injury, checking for broken bones. It shouldn't hurt if it was merely sprained, so he was hoping for a no.\n\n|| I had to do a bunch of math for this reply Griff I hope it was worth it"
},
{
"author": "Ernest Estep",
"message": "So, the Ashworths had money. He s'posed you had to have at least a little money to go to medical school; but still. And he wasn't much to talk, cuz the Esteps had money too - but there was usually a difference between *Briar Ridge wealthy* And just about everybody else. Being wealthy in Briar Ridge really just meant not havin' to worry 'bout keepin' food on the table in the winter or keepin' the house warm. It was maybe havin' a record player, a new bicycle when yours broke. He wondered what kinda money the Ashworth's had - were they the type t' have big shiny wrapping paper on their gifts at Christmas? Did they have pin-straight uniforms for expensive boarding schools? He wanted to ask, to pry into Dr. Ashworth's mind for just a moment, but decided against it. \n\n\"Winter's beautiful up there, 'cept the cold,\" He managed to crack a small smile. \"Everything is all covered in snow like it's powdered sugar. Makes all the houses in town look like gingerbread cottages.\" He kept his eyes cast downwards at his swollen ankle, afraid that looking up at the doctor before him might send him into some kinda word vomit all over again. Maybe he was too stupid for his own good, cuz Nathaniel was *Laughin'* At him, and he felt his ears burn. \n\n\"Six years,\" He repeated, ripping his eyes away now that Nathaniel had set to workin' on his ankle, and he found the ceiling to be quite interesting now. \"Long time to be doin' anything. You must like what you do.\" Of course he did, idiot. Clearly, he did. Hell, could he be more scatterbrained lately? When the doctor asked for his attention, he reluctantly dragged his eyes away from a scuff on the ceiling, eyes falling back on the crown of Nathaniel's head instead. *He's got real long hair,* Ernest thought. *Looks soft.* \n\n\"Huh?\" He pulled himself from his thoughts and swallowed. \"No, it ain't hurt,\" He said, the question catching up to him after a moment. \"Just when I do this-\" He twisted his foot around and winced. \"Ain't broke, is it?\""
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "The doctor smiled at Ernest's description of houses looking like gingerbread covered in powdered sugar, what a wonderful way of phrasing it. \n\nSix years was a long time, Ernest was right. Nathaniel planned on continuing the job for much more than that, he'd found his calling and that was something he didn't take for granted, not many could say they felt wholly and fully in the right place in their job. He'd do it even if he wouldn't get paid, though he lacked the finances for that particular hypothetical, so for now he'd gladly work for his money. \"At the risk of soundin' incredibly pretentious,\" He said, briefly looking up and noticing Ernest's sudden fascination with the hospital ceiling. \"I think I'm where I'm meant to be,\" He admitted. \"I've always wanted to help heal and make people feel better. Animals too,\" He added. \"I just find that they're not as willin' to tell me what's goin' on with them,\" He said, letting out a soft chuckle. \"What better place to do that than in the medical field?\" \n\n\"You're a lucky man, Mister Estep, it's not broken, just sprained,\" He said, getting up and grabbing the strips. \"Which means that I should have you up and runnin' in no time.\" He stopped himself, running would be far too optimistic. \"Well at least _walkin'_, perhaps hold off on runnin' for now,\" Nathaniel said sheepishly.\n\n\"This should stabilize your ankle, it might not be what you're used to but this way you won't have to rely on crutches.\" The promised tour could happen, he shouldn't feel as happy about that as he did. Regardless of all that, it would be good for him to see Briar Ridge, and maybe getting to know Ernest a little better in the process could be a bonus, a very welcome bonus indeed."
},
{
"author": "Ernest Estep",
"message": "\"Don't think that's pretentious at all,\" He said honestly, a flicker of a smile on the corner of his lips. \"...'sides, gotta have somebody out here, lookin' after everybody. Takes a helluva lot, don't it?\" He let his eyes fall to Nathaniel's then, finding it only fair that he at least *Try* And look at the man currently nursing him back to health.\n\n*Lucky man, indeed.* He didn't say it out loud, of course, but he couldn't help but think it. He s'posed he was luckier than most, in a lotta ways. Grew up not havin' to worry 'bout a roof or food on the table, had the ability to work and earn his keep, and now... He was damn lucky to have a handsome fella like *Doctor Nathaniel Ashworth* Workin' on his ankle like that. \n\n\"I'll take walkin' over hobblin',\" He mumbled, that light smile on his lips curling up just a bit more. \"Guess I oughta... Watch where I'm goin' from now on, otherwise ya might find me right back here on this table.\" Though, the prospect wasn't one that he disliked, in all honesty. At least he had more than half a mind, and wouldn't do it on *Purpose* Just to see the doctor. \n\nLorelai, who had previously left the room, now popped her head back in. \"You headin' out on that tour, sir?\" She asked Nathaniel, wiping her hands on her nurse's uniform from having just rinsed her hands in the wash basin. \"It's beautiful out, this place is slow... Could step out a moment with Mr. Estep,\" She suggested, and Ernest could just kiss her (if either of them swung that way). \n\n\"They say... Good weather is good for healing, or somethin' like that, don't they?\" Ernest said, though he wasn't sure that was something that anyone said at all."
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "\"It sure does take a lot, I am glad it's not just me. I wouldn't be anywhere without the nurses and the occasional volunteers,\" He admitted. Even with them, the small hospital saw a lot of people and Nathaniel had the perhaps unwise habit of feeling personally responsible for every single person that set foot in the place. Not only that but he'd seen symptom presentations that he had no clue how to treat properly, people affected with lycanthropy whose physiology he had much too little understanding of, he was grasping at straws with no known medicine to fall back on. In the case of Ernest Estep though, he was confident in his abilities to help, this was easy, this he could do.\n\n\"I would agree with that, try to avoid steppin' in new holes if you can, at least for a couple of weeks,\" He said, taping the bandages so they would support and stabilize Ernest when he walked again. \"You should be able to walk mostly normally now, but it might still feel tender. If you're able to, please come by in about three weeks so we can see if you've fully healed, and if you find the pain gettin' worse before that please do not hesitate to visit either.\" \n\n\"Oh, uh,\" He muttered, looking up to reply to Lorelai. \"If you're sure you'll manage without me?\" He had more than enough confidence that Lorelai and the other nurses could run the hospital without him, he wasn't questioning their capabilities. His sense of duty to the place, new as he may be, had grown exponentially since the full moon and the pain he witnessed in its duration. He turned back to Ernest, who mentioned the wonderful weather and wisdom about its possible healing effects, and really, who would he be to doubt that previously mentioned wisdom? \"Yeah, _yes_, I'll step out, thank you Lorelai.\" A moment, they'd need more than a mere moment to do a proper tour right? He selfishly hoped so.\n\n|| ender??? Maybe???????????"
},
{
"author": "Ernest Estep",
"message": "In this case and time, Ernest would find himself to be incredibly normal and average. He wasn't sure he'd like to be abnormal or *Interesting* When it came to medicine, especially here in Briar Ridge - he was quite happy to be delightfully and completely mundane in that regard. \n\n\"I dunno if I could begin t' even do half'a what you do, Doc.\" He said, and he flexed his foot a little as the bandages were secured in place. There was a tenderness to the movement, but the bandages restricted him enough that he could no longer flex it beyond where it should be. \"I swear, you got magic in them hands, fer sure. I'm startin' t' already feel better,\" Ernest said as he slipped his foot back into his sock, and fit it all back down into his sturdy work boots. The laces were coming together again when Lorelai had entered, and he was flickering his eyes subtly between nurse and doctor. \n\nLorelai just smiled and waved her hand with a dismissal, a chipper hum on his breath as she turned to exit the room once more. Ernest straightened up real proper, putting his weight on that foot and finding it far more manageable. At least he wouldn't be hobbling 'round the farm, lookin' like a damned fool. \"Promise, I won't keep ya from yer work too long now, Doc. I know you got real important business 'round here.\" He gestured around. \"But I can assure ya... The castle will be aw'right without it's king fer a little. 'Sides, we's only goin' a hop and a skip on down the road.\" He assured him with a small upturn of the corner of his mouth."
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "\"We all have our strong suits, I couldn't phantom runnin' an entire orchard and yet here you are, doin' so,\" He said, starting to tidy the room again. He had his back turned to Ernest when he complimented his skills and allowed himself to smile widely, out of sight as he was. Pride swelled inside him, alongside something else, but both felt warm and welcomed. Nathaniel prided himself in his work, he always had, but showing that felt like gloating or boasting, which is something he didn't do. \"Just doin' my job, but I am very glad to hear it's workin'.\" \n\nErnest was right, Lorelai and the rest of the nurses were more than capable of running the hospital without him there. Didn't he deserve a break every now and then? Nathaniel wasn't good at taking breaks, whenever he did, guilt was quick to rear its ugly head. Either in the shape of his father calling him a lazy, no good slacker, or in the shape of his own overperfectionism and need to be help everyone. He was a hypocrite, he knew that, he was well aware that rest was instrumental to health. It would be a shame to waste such a sunny day. \"You're right, you're right,\" He admitted. He also knew that the nurses wouldn't even mind if he took a little bit longer. It had been a really slow day. \n\n\"Lead the way Mister Estep,\" He said as the two stepped foot outside the hospital.\n\n|| tour time tour time :D"
},
{
"author": "Ernest Estep",
"message": "He took a few tentative steps on his ankle, before he deemed himself alright enough to continue on. Ernest wasn't keen on looking like a fool, 'specially not in front of the doctor. Although, he couldn't help but start to feel a jitter in his stomach - he was the one leading the charge here, expected t' take Nathaniel up and around Briar Ridge on some kinda walkin' tour. *I can do that, I done lived in this town my whole damn life.* Ernest needed to give himself a pep talk, otherwise he was just about ready to throw in the towel before it had even began. \n\nAs the door to the doctor's swung open, the two men headed into the afternoon sun. Ernest was mighty grateful for the breeze, and he squinted 'round the area in search of the proper way t' lead Nathaniel around. \"Well,\" He pivoted around, gesturing back to the doctor's. \"This here is where most babies are born, if they ain't born in their houses,\" He said, and he managed a small, joking smile. He pivoted back 'round, keeping pace with Nathaniel, and gestured as they began their journey down the path. \n\n\"Now, see, over there's where Francis once knocked my front tooth out. Thank the Lord it was only a baby tooth, and he swore up'n down it was an accident, but... I ain't born yesterday.\" Ernest shook his head. \"And over there'ns the schoolyard. Alma Cooper teaches there, but she ain't taught me when I was in school. She's a helluva lot nicer than the old witch who used t' teach there, cuz... Well, I reckon she smacked me 'cross the knuckles with a ruler more times'n I can count.\""
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "He chuckled, it was a warm sound. \"Babies, yes, I suppose we do get to deliver those as well from time to time,\" He replied with a smile. The birth of a child was amongst the most wonderful occurrences that could happen in a hospital. There was something miraculous about that new life, seeing the happiness on the faces of new parents, it was beautiful. Sometimes a small part of him found himself jealous of those parents, knowing he'd never get to experience that. \n\nHe briefly looked shocked when Ernest casually told him that a man of his own flesh and blood had allegedly been the reason he'd lost a tooth, even if it had just been a baby tooth. Nathaniel found himself thinking that Ernest would still remain incredibly handsome if he missed a tooth. \"And here I thought that Lewis, my younger brother, did regretful things. At least he never set me up to lose my teeth.\" He shook his head. Lewis and Nathaniel's relationship was far from perfect, they had their disagreements, but they could hardly be described as physically violent towards one another, far from it, in fact, they weren't verbally violent either, they left that to their parents. Nathaniel wasn't a violent man, and never had been. Lewis, in an unfortunate turn of events, was someone others occasionally, perhaps _more than_ occasionally itched to cause violence upon, much to Nathaniel's horror, who wished Lewis would at least think about keeping himself out of trouble. Blessed with their father's talent for getting on people's nerves and their mother's inability to stop talking, Nathaniel believed that Lewis was a recipe for disaster. Physical altercations were rare, luckily. Nathaniel had long since given up trying to get Lewis to change his ways, even though he would if he could. And yet Nathaniel loved his brother deeply, even if he made unwise decisions from time to time.\n_ _\n\n\"Cooper,\" He repeated. \"Isn't that the name of the Mayor as well, are they family?\" Not only Francis it seemed, but the old school teacher too had been unkind to Ernest, he wondered what else a younger Ernest had gotten up to. Did he grow up beneath the orchard's apple trees, sneakily plucking fruits to eat with his friends? Did he run around in the nearby woods, climbing trees, or was he more calm and reserved? Had he enjoyed school or did he take every excuse to get out of that classroom? Had he always been in possession of that seemingly effortless charm or was that something that he'd had to work on? \n\n\"Were you a troublemaker as a child then? Or was it just a case of an environment that believed you were?\""
},
{
"author": "Ernest Estep",
"message": "When he saw the look of surprise cross Nathaniel's face, he couldn't help but to think that that was a nice and new look he hadn't seen before. He was gonna enjoy committing every little new thing to memory, 'cuz it wasn't like he could come right out and ask a man like Nathaniel if he was interested in men. Not that he reckoned Doctor Ashworth was a violent man, but he certainly didn't want to catch even a glare in response if he could help it. Besides, he sure had his way to find those kinda things out. \n\n\"Francis ain't-\" He paused. \"Francis *Wasn't*...Real violent.\" It still felt odd, to speak of his brother in past tense like that. Made his stomach feel real sour for a moment. \"He was a good brother sometimes. But I think I must'a right pissed him off that day, tripped me up and I fell. Knocked my tooth out, and when I went cryin' to mama, he swore up'n down it was *My clumsy ass*.\" The story would've usually conjured up some level of disdain, but now, it seemed almost fond. A smile even curled up at the corner of his lips. \n\n\"Lots'a families in Briar Ridge, you'll see that soon. Alma Cooper- the lil sister of Mayor Charlie Cooper. And 'fore he was mayor, his Pa was, too.\" Though he'd been filled in on *That* Little nugget of information; that William Cooper hadn't simply *Resigned* From his post, but was flat out *Murdered* For bein' a werewolf. \"Like the Coopers, us Esteps been 'round for a while now. Ya got the Bigby's at the general store, 'cept the nice lady that done run it was... Killed a while 'go.\" He grimaced. \n\nErnest was momentarily caught off guard by the question, and he swivelled his head back 'round to look at Nathaniel. His cheeks couldn't help but to color a little pink, and he looked straight ahead again for fear of losing focus. \"I was good. Did my work, worked hard on the orchard and all. Always tryna make my Ma and Pa proud. Think teachers always think yer doin' wrong. Though... I always was tryna skip doin' my numbers.\" He admitted."
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "_Estep, Francis_ he remembered the file now, _Deceased. Cause of death: werewolf attack._ Nathaniel wouldn't speak ill of the dead, even if he did believe that Francis tripping his brother hard enough to lose a tooth was slightly more violent than the usual sibling bickering should ideally be. Especially if Francis then went on to blame Ernest for it. The twins and he had had their fair amount of disagreements growing up, the usual stuff: snitching on Nathaniel to stay in the good graces of their parents, arguing over whose turn it was to do certain chores, and stealing snacks. He'd willingly taken the blame for things Lewis and Mabel had done out of some innate drive to protect them, to let them continue to believe that their parents were good people. Maybe it was partially his fault that Lewis thought he could get away with as much as he did. Nah, he couldn't possibly take credit for that, that was all Lewis.\n\nNathaniel understood the strange reality of feeling love for people who weren't good to you, like his parents. Maybe one day he'd get to express that to someone. \"I hear you, and I am sorry for your loss, Mister Estep.\" There was a lot of that in Briar Ridge: loss. \"What are siblings for if not to occasionally annoy us greatly. My little sister used to strike deals with me to change chores, and then somehow I would alway end up doin' both of ours,\" He reminisced.\n\nNathaniel was taking in all the information and storing it in his head. One might expect the Doctor to be an organized individual, but unfortunately few things were further from the truth. However, information, so long as it pertained to his brain-based storage, that he could organize well. He was great with names. \"Have the Coopers always been mayors or is that coincidence?\" His parents had talked about Briar Ridge occasionally, the Estep name had sounded familiar. \"My parents told me us Ashworths had been here for a long time as well, before they moved us out to RIchmond,\" He said.\n_ _\n\nErnest blushed, and Nathaniel felt something inside him jump at the fact that something he'd said had elicited that reaction. He just hoped he hadn't unwillingly shamed Ernest for something. He wanted to see him blush again... _Focus, Ashworth._\n\nIn what would probably come as a surprise to exactly nobody, Nathaniel had always done well in school. He chuckled at the mention of numbers. \"We all have things we are good at, I for one was terrible at languages, if you can believe it,\" He shared. There was a reason he preferred to memorize things rather than writing them down or reading them aloud. Nathaniel was a slow reader, and always had been. He enjoyed it, just as he enjoyed his crossword puzzles, but anyone with a keen eye would pick up on the fact that they were never of that high a complexity, and that one of the books scattered on his desk was a dictionary. A very well loved dictionary. He didn't share it with many people, he was a Doctor, he was supposed to be intelligent. He was, but that didn't take away from the fact that words had the tendency to swim on a page for him, and that he needed that dictionary every time he wrote anything."
},
{
"author": "Ernest Estep",
"message": "Admittedly, it was also strange to hear other people talk about Francis' death. If he was being honest, there was a part of him that hadn't fully taken it in yet. He hadn't even visited Francis' grave properly; maybe it was fear of having to face him? He wouldn't be looking at his brother's smug face, but a headstone in it's place. There would simply be stone looking back at him; and Ernest didn't want to tackle all of those feelings just yet. He hadn't made up with him since they'd fought before he left. They had both said terrible things; Ernest had tried to hit him where it hurt. And perhaps Francis hadn't *Deserved* To be forgiven, but now it was too late to ever find out if he had been capable of it. \n\nHe needed to snap out of it; he focused on Nathaniel's words and sucked in a breath. \"Naw, 'fore it was the Coopers... It was somebody else,\" Though who, he could not recall. In all fairness, he wasn't paying too close attention when he was a kid - he was more tuned into the orchard and all that business, rather than Briar Ridge politics. \n\n\"Can't imagine you were ever bad at nothin' in school,\" He said. \"You got this... You got this thing 'bout ya, like yer real smart. Guess you gotta be, t'be a doctor.\" He could bet that Nathaniel did real well in school, and probably was even at the top of his class and all. \"I got better with numbers, since then. On-the-job experience and all. Guess I can count myself lucky on that one; but when I was in school, ya couldn't get me t' understand dividin' and all that...\" He shook his head. \"Still gotta count on my fingers sometimes, though.\" Ernest chuckled to himself and gestured down the path they were taking. \"Just down over there, through the woods is the lumberyard 'n all. If ya ever need somethin' fixed, y'can talk to JD or Dallas...\" He trailed off. \"...'n over there's the Ol' Davis Barn.\" He asked curiously. \"Y'know, if yer in need'a liquor, I can spot you a bottle of the good stuff from the orchard for free.\""
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "He smiled at the compliment. Nathaniel _was_ smart, that was a given. He prided himself in that intelligence, it had brought him far in life, as had hard work. \"I used to spend hours at my desk tryin' to understand why words were pronounced in a certain way but spelled another,\" He confessed. He left out the part where he would get so frustrated he hardly knew what to do with himself, such was the pressure to perform, such was the fear of underperforming. \"I got better at it over time, I had to be, but my mother has always told me I have horrible handwritin'.\" The typewriter he owned was a blessing for both him and those who received written correspondence from him. \"I do feel bad for the poor teachers who had to decipher it,\" He joked, but there was a hidden truth in the statement. It had been something he felt shame for. Something about Ernest made him believe that it was safe to share such things with the orchard man.\n\n\"Oh! I have been meanin' to talk to someone about buildin' some shelves for my guest bedroom,\" He said, now knowing who to go to. \"I'll have to pay them a visit.\" \n\nSurprise painted his face again, _the good stuff,_ Briar Ridge truly did not adhere to Prohibition laws. He knew about Cooper shine by way of Lewis, and Ashworth shine by way of Mabel, but the twins had a history of being lax with the law (and the careers of others), it was almost to be expected that they would eventually end up in the business of moonshine. Nathaniel couldn't judge them too harshly, however, he thought it strange that a government deemed it beneficial to remove alcohol from society completely. If anything, alcohol had become _more_ dangerous now that it was produced unmonitored. That didn't stop the Doctor from partaking in it on occasion, he trusted Mabel and Lewis to not outright poison him. \n_ _\n\n\"You produce alcohol?\" There was no judgment in his voice, just pure surprise. It made sense, liquor was created from fruits, and that was the business Ernest was in. Had Nathaniel been a braver man, he may have suggested that such a bottle was best shared with company; or just the two of them, somewhere secluded. Unfortunately, Doctor Ashworth was not a brave man. \"For free?\" He asked, hardly feeling deserving of gifts or southern hospitality as it was. \"I would insist on payin' you, Mister Estep, especially if it is as good as you say it is.\" On second thought, maybe he was a brave man. Or a foolish man, only time would tell. All he knew was that he would like to spend more time around Ernest in the future. \"Or at least sharin' it with you, hardly seems fair to not get to enjoy the fruits of one's own labor.\""
},
{
"author": "Ernest Estep",
"message": "\"Hey, I think you was born t'be a doctor then,\" He pointed out. \"Ain't they say that all doctors got shitty handwriting? Guess yer in the right profession then, ain't ya?\" And besides, who needed nice handwriting when you were smart and looked *That* Handsome? Ernest thought that was definitely a quality he could personally overlook; not that he said that part out loud or anything. Admittedly, his own handwriting could be sloppy, and he wasn't always the best with spelling neither, so he had no room to talk anyhow. \n\nHe was surprised at Nathaniel's surprise; it wasn't like anybody in Briar Ridge took much care to hide exactly what was going on here. This place was running off the shine and brandy produced here, and everybody knew it. Hell, Estep Apple Brandy was pretty notorious up the coast, but maybe Ernest thought quite highly of the family business. He chuckled a little under his breath and shrugged his shoulders. \"Apple brandy, that's right.\" He mumbled. \"Not the only thing we got, 'course,\" He assured the doctor. \"We also sell just the apples themselves, 'cuz we got some of the best. And we even sometimes sell cider in the fall, and apple butter 'n all the good stuff you can get out an apple. But the brandy's prolly the best thing we sell since the laws changed.\" \n\nThe pair had come to a standstill towards the edge of town by now, halted by their conversation with one another. Just down the way, the apple trees of the Estep property teased the sky, showing off their big, sturdy trunks and green, lush leaves. Many wouldn't be ready for another few months, when the air was more crisp and the fruit would be heavy and sweet, but the trees were still pretty. \n\n\"No need to pay, Doc.\" He insisted. \"Please... Call me Ernest,\" He mumbled, soft and almost shy in his delivery. \"I can just drop you off a bottle to the clinic, no need t' worry 'bout payin. Consider it a thanks,\" He looked down at his ankle. \"For usin' them magic hands on me.\""
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "Ernest wasn't the first to remark that Nathaniel had essentially been destined to become a doctor. Nathaniel didn't much believe in destiny or fate, but he agreed regardless. \"I suppose you are right, people do say that, don't they,\" He said. \"It's due to the large amounts of abbreviations we use, it becomes a jumbled mess rather quickly I'm afraid.\" That in combination with needing to jot down notes quickly while talking to a person, it truly was a recipe for disaster. Luckily none of the nurses in Briar Ridge had questioned his occasional spelling errors. Not yet at least.\n\n\"Apple butter,\" He echoed. \"It has been a considerable while since I've had that, I'll have to swing by come fall.\" He gazed at the lines of trees with their crisp-looking green leaves. \"It has to be quite a sight when all those trees blossom,\" He remarked. Nathaniel had studied biology in the two years prior to starting medical school but had always been much better at the fauna than the flora side of that particular science. From this distance, he had no clue if the blossoming season had already passed or not.\n_ _\n\n\"Just doin' my job but thank you ever so kindly Mist-\" He corrected himself. \"_Ernest._\" He smiled. Maybe being seen with alcohol at his job wasn't the best course of action. He couldn't have people talking about their doctor being seen with illegal contraband, even if it was condoned in Briar Ridge. He had a reputation to uphold. \"How about you uh,\" He said, briefly wondering if he was pushing things. \"Drop it off at my place instead?\" Nathaniel Ashworth, known to be a shy man, was now essentially inviting Ernest over to his house. Wonders never ceased, it seemed. \"To avoid people developin' incorrect assumptions about what's in my cup while I'm workin',\" He added hastily, plausible deniability in case Ernest didn't feel comfortable with that suggestion. Nathaniel wouldn't be surprised, nor would he push if the answer was no. \"Or I could come by the Orchard, do you live near it?\""
},
{
"author": "Ernest Estep",
"message": "\"How about this-\" He suggested, and he nodded his head down the path that wound through the town square. This tour had become much less a tour and far more a conversation through town, which he was not complaining about in the slightest. In fact, he was enjoying himself immensely; Nathaniel was real well-spoken, he was eloquent, and he was smart. And 'sides from that, he was gorgeous too. When they were walking, Ernest allowed himself brief glimpses of the doctor's profile, and he soaked it in. The slope of his nose, his cheekbones, his jawline... \n\n\"How about, I come on by your place with some of that sweet Estep brandy,\" He suggested. \"And then another time, I invite you over to the orchards t' see the blossoms?\" The place was gorgeous this time of year; they were right at the perfect time for blooming, and the entire place was covered in the white flowers that would eventually cover the ground. Apples wouldn't be properly ready until closer to fall, but there were a patch of apple trees that could be started to harvest in just a few months, in late summer. \"Can give you some apple butter from the personal stock.\" \n\nAnything to keep seeing Nathaniel, if he could. Hell, he wasn't so sure he was brave enough to make any real moves on the doctor, but just catching a glimpse of him would be enough to satiate him. \"The house is situated right on the property; big ol' thing, can't miss it. I can give ya a better tour of it than I can of the town,\" He said, a little bashfully. \"Know that orchard like the back of my hand... 'cept the gopher holes, I guess.\" He looked down at the offending ankle."
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "Ernest had agreed to Nathaniel's invitation. Not only that, he was inviting him over to the orchard as well. To see the blossoms, no less. He couldn't, or perhaps shouldn't, look into that particular sentence's meaning any further, even if he really wanted to. Walks beneath the blossoms sounded like something beyond a friendly tour, but he feared that would be giving himself false hope. It was much too early to start reading between the Estep's words. Ernest just had a very welcoming personality, that had to be it. Even if it was purely about friendship, Nathaniel had found he greatly enjoyed Ernest's company and would not turn down any opportunity to get to spend more time with him. \"I would like that yes, gladly,\" He replied. \n\nHe would even accept the free apple butter, despite him genuinely wanting to pay for it and the brandy both. To Nathaniel, accepting things for free felt like he was using people, especially in a town like Briar Ridge. Nathaniel had grown up in wealth, while most people here had not. He knew gifts didn't work like that, and it did feel nice that Ernest wanted to share with him, he had to admit that. He just had nothing to give him in return. Maybe he could find something.\n\n\"In your defense, those gopher holes probably weren't there the last time you were here,\" He pointed out, smiling. \"I live in a cottage near the clinic, the one with the white porch and oak tree,\" He described. \"It's home to a family of red squirrels. I got the better garden animals between the two of us, it seems.\" Nathaniel loved most animals and enjoyed sitting on his porch or on the windowsill to watch the squirrels racing around, collecting the bits of food he scattered around for them to find. \"There is not much there to tour I am afraid, but I have got some nice glasses that I hope will prove worthy of Estep brandy,\" He said, already looking forward to it.\n_ _\n\n\"I should,\" He hesitated, sighing. \"I should get back to the clinic.\" He clearly didn't want to. He'd much rather stay here and talk with Ernest. He was sure they could find something to talk about until the sun started setting and they actually _had_ to go their separate ways. \"Thank you, for showin' me around. You're very kind, and I do hope the rest of your return to Briar Ridge will go smoothly from here on out,\" He said."
},
{
"author": "Ernest Estep",
"message": "If only he could peer into Nathaniel's brain for a moment, to quell the fears that he was having. Ernest could and *Would* Have assured him that every little thing he was picking up on, was in fact exactly what he thought it was. Ernest was fond of this man already; and he was eager to get to know more and more about him. He wanted to learn more about his family, more about his childhood. What was it like, growing up outside this place? Ernest didn't have any reference for what it was like to be a kid outside of the holler; he wondered where Nathaniel went to school to be a doctor. Was it real hard? He'd said he'd struggled with it a bit, but he had a hard time believing it. \n\n\"Sometimes, y'can see lots of little woodland things hidin' out in the orchard. Used t' chase bunnies 'round the trees. Didn't realize til now that I was prolly scarin' them poor things half to death.\" He cracked a sheepish smile, eyes glancing back towards the clinic, in the direction which they'd come. \"But I seen that house 'fore, yeah. Nice place, and I seen people swig brandy outta old boots 'fore, so I'm sure yer glasses are good enough.\" \n\nParting was such sweet sorrow, wasn't it? Ernest felt a small pang of reluctance to go, but Nathaniel was a busy man. He had a clinic to attend to; he didn't have all day to spend with Ernest just so he could stare at him. Though, if Nathaniel offered, he could be content just watchin' them pretty lips smile and form words, even if Ernest hadn't a clue what he was talkin' about.\n\n\"I hope so too,\" He said in return, tipping his head to him. \"And I hope you find yourself settlin' in well, despite... The circumstances 'n all.\" He used his good foot to kick a rock, hands stuffed in his pockets. \"It was awful nice to meet you, Dr. Ashworth... Er, Nathaniel. I hope I'll be seein' you sooner rather than later, and not in yer office.\" He cast him a cheeky half-grin before he tucked his head and turned to head towards the orchard."
}
] | 463 | 11,909 |
745.666667 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "A white sheet covered the now human form of April. He had done what he could to remove the bullets and suture her wounds, she deserved that dignity. Four bullets. Four bullets had been lodged into her. Shot, like an animal. With each metallic clang of those pieces of death hitting the surgical container, Nathaniel felt his heart sink. The two silver bullets had left almost necrotic-looking damage, it was as if the people afflicted with lycanthropy developed an acute and lethal allergy to the material. He'd have to figure out a way to cut out the use of silver in his practice, so he wouldn't accidentally harm the very people he swore to heal.\n\nHe noticed someone walking up beside him. Gracelyn: the town's funeral director, stepped to stand next to Nathaniel. He'd since wiped his tears away, slipping on the unfamiliar mask of a doctor who had everything under control when he decidedly did not. Medical school could never have prepared him for what happened in Briar Ridge. Medical school had never taught him how people behaved when they feared for their lives when the source of that fear infected their neighbors (was it the wolves who were infected, or those who wanted them dead, or both?) It had never taught him how to behave in the face of a town turning on itself. \n\nNathaniel may have been born in Briar Ridge, but he knew he was an outsider. He had learned of April's name when it had fallen from the horrified lips of those who dragged her in. He knew nothing about her outside of that name.\n\n\"Who was she?\"\n\nWhat was her story, _tell me so I may keep it alive_, tell me so I may carry her legacy with me, so I may put more than a mere name to her ghost when it starts to haunt me."
},
{
"author": "l0st36",
"message": "**CW/TW:** Death, mentions of childbirth in the first part"
},
{
"author": "Gracelyn Price",
"message": "April's death was... Strange. Gracelyn had honestly expected her unborn children to die with her but it seemed that life had other plans. She wasn't there to witness it but by the way people described it it almost felt as if her children were trying to escape a poisoned, dying host. Yes, that made them sound like parasites, but it was the best way Grace could describe it. However, she was just glad that a couple people in town were already showing interest in seeing them grow up loved and nurtured. She felt bad for them and April's other children. None of them asked for this, nobody did - especially not Ike or those babies.\n\nDriving up to the doctor's office to retrieve the body in a truck repurposed to act as a hearse (they couldn't bring up an actual hearse when she and Ike first got here) her mind easily wandered back to her old friend and business partner. Where was he? Was he dead just like April or wandering around, lost and alone? Parking the car near the back and as close to the clinic as possible Gracelyn did her best to put a mask of her own on too. Taking a deep breath in she took the keys out of the ignition and opened the driver side door, hopping out with a long exhale. Dressed in a white tucked in button down, black slacks held up with a dark belt, and worn black oxfords, Gracelyn made her way to the passenger seat of the truck, taking out a worn leather briefcase that had a foldable stretcher on it - just in case the doctor didn't have anything like it to use at the moment. Honestly, she hadn't been in there since they got a new doctor so she wasn't quite sure if anything had changed.\n\nFinally locking the car Gracelyn made her way inside, moving around to the front with briefcase in hand and her keys in her pocket.\n\nGoing right in she merely gave a nod to one of the nurses at the front desk, most of them knowing why she came here and usually not needing to say much to get the point across. Sure enough, she wasn't stopped as she walked into a back room where she assumed Dr. Ashworth would be. She was used to doing stuff like extracting bullets and sewing up open wounds for her clients but she didn't push too much when Nathaniel insisted on doing it himself. She had her suspicions as to why - a few suspicions actually - but for now she would just watch and gather more information before prying.\n\nSetting her briefcase down near the door Grace approached, stopping when she was directly next to her colleague. He was only one year younger than her but part of her felt ages older, probably because death was typically her domain and was what she dealt with on a daily basis compared to Nathaniel. Her ruminations on what might be going on in that little head of his were abruptly halted when he spoke up. She had been looking straight at the white cloth, imagining his handiwork and what April looked like underneath when her eyes were torn from it, her head turning to face Dr. Ashworth as he spoke.\n\n*\"Who was she?\"*\n\nShe wanted to analyze his face and tone more but the question caught her off guard. Who was she? Who was April? What was she like when she was alive? Truth be told, the raven haired mortician didn't know much, but she wanted to scrounge up something. Her brow furrowed and eyes squinted while she dug around in her head for something to give the man, anything to put him at ease, while also doing her best not to get dragged away by questions of her own.\n\nEventually she took another deep breath in before turning back to respond, allowing her face to look somewhat solemn and resigned. \n\n\"Well... She was a mother as I'm sure you know, not just to two newborns but also two others. I don't remember their names but I know they're older, around 14 or something but don't quote me on that. I'm glad they've got a whole town willing to raise and support them - I'm sure you know the saying, it taking a village to raise a child and all that. She went to church quite a bit but I only saw her enter and leave every Sunday 'cuz I've never gone to service if it isn't for work. Honestly I didn't know her that well but I don't know many here that well either. I heard she was quite generous, motherly too. Never experienced it first hand though, just heard it through the grapevine.\" Gracelyn said quietly, not wanting to lie or give incorrect information. She kept her body turned towards Nathaniel but her eyes occasionally drifted away, not always sticking on him as a person but something beyond. Shit like this was always hard to talk about, no matter how desensitized to it you were.\n\nAfter a few moments of silence she piped up again, hoping to maybe lighten the mood with some teasing. \"You know I could've prepped the body, right? It's kinda in the job description. Still gotta transfer her to the morgue and get her all gussied up for the funeral if it's open casket, after all.\" God, she sure hoped he took it the right way."
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "April had left behind two other children, Nathaniel's heart sank. Two more youngsters would now grow up without their mother there. Two more innocent souls fallen victim to a violence that they didn't deserve, that they didn't choose. April had been a pious woman, a midwife, her very job had been to bring new life into the world before hers was so violently ripped from her. April didn't look old enough to have fourteen-year-olds as children, but Nathaniel wasn't going to question that.\n\nNathaniel had experienced death, but never murder. He'd placed the blame for death on himself before, his failure and inability to remove sickness from a person's body, but this was a sickness that infected and festered outside people, it plagued the town itself, it rotted morals and contaminated love for neighbors. He couldn't hope to treat this, even if he tried. It was an ailment that was too large for any one individual to take on, it would require Briar Ridge to see, _really_ see what she was doing to herself and to change her ways. It wasn't too late, it couldn't be. He'd seen the tears of those dragging April into the hospital while she still looked like a giant wolf, there was remorse there, regret and pain. Maybe her sacrifice could turn the tide.\n\n\"Thank you,\" He said, taking what information Gracelyn had and storing it in his mind in an attempt to keep her memory alive, to form an image of who April had been, the life she had lived before it was so violently ripped from her.\n_ _\n\nNathaniel let out a weak chuckle, but there was very little joy in it. \"I know. I'm sorry,\" He said softly, trying to remain composed. \"I just- I couldn't leave her like that. Those silver bullets, they were affectin' her skin, eatin' away at her. I-\" He took a deep breath, exhaling hard. His father's voice sounded in his head, calling him weak for feeling sad about a woman he didn't even know, calling him pathetic for having to hold back tears over motherless children he had never even met. Maybe he was weak, but he was also human, merely a man. A man who had never witnessed so much suffering in such a short period of time. A man who had never seen how war looked, and whose tolerance for failures of his own doing was exceptionally low. \"I'm sorry,\" He said, roughly wiping away the tears that had formed in his eyes. He was a doctor, he shouldn't be crying, and his behavior was incredibly unprofessional.\n\nHow did Gracelyn do it, how did she look upon the face of death knowing its cause, and continue on? He'd heard dozens of names of those injured and lost to the war Briar Ridge waged upon herself. \n\n\"How do you do it?\" He asked, looking away from April and towards Gracelyn. \"How do you see so much death and continue goin' on like normal?\" It was Nathaniel's job, his calling even, to preserve and extend life, he knew Gracelyn's job did so too, in a sense. It preserved the memory of the deceased, it conserved so that those who remained might celebrate and mourn, but it still stood in direct opposition of what Nathaniel had been trained in. His victories meant his patients would get to create new memories, and Gracelyn's meant that those remaining could hold on to those memories. In a way, they were two sides of the same coin, but Nathaniel felt the side opposite of his own was dark and heavy."
},
{
"author": "Gracelyn Price",
"message": "**Cw/tw: brief mention of potentially vomiting (just once tho), mentions of war and severe injuries, mention and implied mention of murder**\n\nGracelyn easily smiled at Dr. Ashworth's quiet *'thank you'*, giving a silent nod of her own to show she got the message. He was clearly hurting, and that became all the more apparent the more and more he spoke. At his description of April's injuries she could hear his voice growing rougher as tears threatened to spill, her own smile fading slightly and her gaze softening. Part of her wanted to reach out, to hold his hand and reassure him that it would be okay like she would offer any grieving family member, but she refrained and just decided to let him speak - for now, that is. It wasn't until she saw him wipe tears away and apologize did she jump in, cautiously reaching out and touching Nathaniel on the arm, rubbing it in a hopefully comforting gesture if he accepted physical contact. Despite the gentleness of her movements her eyes hardened again and voice grew serious.\n\n\"Hey, don't apologize for feeling shitty or crying, okay?\" Grace said, her tone making it sound more like a demand rather than a request, albeit with clear concern lacing every word. \"None of this is easy. We're in uncharted waters here and no amount of medical training or experience could prepare *Anyone* For this.\" She continued, her eyes looking away from Nathaniel's face ever so slightly as she recalled the sorrow and anger she felt witnessing her friend Ike transform or try and get that silver bullet out all alone in the funeral home's basement or seeing the old sheriff's body where there once was a beast, shot and killed before her very eyes. The smell of his blood was awful and if it weren't for her past exposure to chemicals and rot she probably would've hurled right then and there.\n\n\"So don't be so hard on yourself. Cry all you need to, it's better than bottling it all up - trust me.\" Grace said, finishing her thought and releasing Nathaniel's arm if he allowed her to touch him in the first place, turning to look at April's covered body again for a moment.\n\n*'How do you do it? How do you see so much death and continue goin' on like normal?'*\nThe question certainly caught the woman slightly off guard, her steely gaze softening once more as she thought of what to say, her eyebrows furrowing while she searched for the right words. It took her a while, occasionally opening her mouth and saying a few syllables before closing it again to backtrack. After what felt like forever of looking for the perfect words Gracelyn sighed defeatedly, deciding to just say whatever came to mind and knowing it might be easier to explain with some backstory even if she hated talking about herself when someone else needed help. \"I... I know this sounds bad but I have to distance myself from the person. Like, not see them as a *Person* Entirely? Sorry but don't know how to explain it, it's sort of easier when you're dealing with someone who's already dead. I have to see them as both a person with a life and family but also as a piece of work, a statistic, as numbers and just a chunk of meat. It still hurts though, believe me it does, and, uh... Okay, please don't tell anyone I do this but after a really bad day I just go home and cry. Like, I break open a sad book I *Know* Will make me emotional and just let it all out. Usually it's some tragic romance story, typically not my favorite genre any other time but it gets the job done. I also sometimes go out shooting targets or work out if I'm feeling angry from a cadaver who suffered a lot before death.\" Grace explained, her mouth going and going and not wanting to stop.\n\n\"I actually have a punching bag I use a lot and I typically imagine it as the person who wronged the cadaver I recently worked with.\n\nUh... I guess you also just sorta get used to it. You don't get used to it entirely and it'll still hurt but, um... I-I've worked in a couple sanatoriums over the years and was a volunteer for the Red Cross during the war. Lots of injuries caused by bombs and burns, pretty sure that's what's desensitized me to violence so much. Most of 'em died of infection but we did our best to comfort them. After a while I just sort of distanced myself mentally from them, saw all my patients as the same entity just transformed into a new form or spread across a whole room full to the brim with burn victims, one that'll just die again but needs comforting all the same and that we still need to *Try* And save. It sounds pretty bad when I say it out loud but it got me through the war at least.\" Gracelyn continued, eventually stopping her little rambling session looking more nervous than before and certainly feeling a little awkward once silence fell back over the room. It was subtle but she couldn't keep her feet or hands still, occasionally shifting her weight and reaching up to fidget with her earrings or adjusting her sleeves. She hated being vulnerable like that but it could hopefully help Dr. Ashworth feel less alone. She just hoped he got the answer he was looking for and she didn't just dump a bunch of shit onto him for no good reason."
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "He smiled weakly when Gracelyn all but demanded he not apologize for feeling torn up about April's death. How he had failed to save her. Her touch had brought him some comfort, and she was right; there was no medical training broad or specialized enough to teach one about lycanthropy. There were no classes on how to react to the rotting skin caused by silver bullets. No lectures covered the management of a town turning on its own in fear. And yet Nathaniel still expected himself to remain professional throughout it all. He still demanded that he not lose a single life, and within his first month of staying here, he had already failed. He knew April was beyond saving the moment she arrived, and that by saving her son and daughter, Lorelai and he had done all they could have done. But guilt had latched onto him and was there to stay.\n\n\"Your secret is safe with me, Gracelyn,\" He promised. He smiled as she described her ritual: purposely triggering an emotional reaction to work through her feelings. He could hardly imagine Gracelyn, composed as she now seemed, beating up a punching bag. Nathaniel was aware that bottling things up was not necessarily the best way to handle emotions, but he couldn't allow himself to cry in front of Gracelyn. He had to remain composed. He could feel when he was alone at home, he could use those feelings to do something productive instead. Let his sadness and disbelief drive him to do something instead of wallowing in it and letting it pull him down. Even if in doing so, he pushed himself beyond his limits, forgot to eat and sleep, at least he was being useful. He liked being useful. It mattered very little to him if he went slightly hungry, if it meant helping another person that was a price he was more than willing to pay. He had a debt to pay now.\n_ _\n\nHe listened attentively as Gracelyn told him about her work during the Great War. He had never seen it up close, a blessed side-effect to his body not aligning with his true identity. He couldn't imagine what she had seen and been through. He hated war, hated how it took so many lives and ruined even more. \"I am so sorry you had to see so much sufferin',\" He said. \"I am sure you were of immeasurable value to those who you comforted, even if they did not make it,\" He assured, letting the room go quiet for a bit. He didn't want to see his patients as numbers. He had always believed that the moment he no longer saw the human behind the medical procedure, it would be time for him to retire. It was the humanity, the individuals he got to know through his job: each and every one of them with their own lives, hopes, and dreams, that made his such a thankful and rewarding profession. Being able to care for and help people was what drew him to the medical field. Nathaniel had always cared a lot, perhaps too much. He knew that, but in admitting that he would inevitably prove his parents right. He struggled with that. They, of course, saw him as entirely too gentle, and Gracelyn was not implying anything near the Ashworth's beliefs, merely that Nathaniel had to take care of his own feelings with more purpose. But it still bothered him. He'd take her words home with him to fully process later.\n_ _\n\n\"But I suppose you're right,\" He admitted. \"I have always had trouble with distancin' myself from patients. Not in the sense that I behave unprofessionally, but in the sense that I, well, I see it as a personal failure if I am unable to help someone. I tend to take it all home with me,\" He confessed. He carried a strong sense of responsibility with him. \"I find it hard to accept that there are things that are simply beyond our current understandin' of medicine. That there are some things we just cannot fix. We have so much knowledge, but what is all of that worth if we can't even use it to help those affected by the _curse_ as people call it,\" He questioned. \"There is _nothin'_ out there that can help fix this, and I fear you and I will be seein' a lot more of each other in our professional capacities the longer this goes on.\" He had seen the files of those who had died. It was a long list of names that _Abrams, April_ had just joined. \n\n\"I grew so used to bein' able to cure people,\" He sighed, faced with his own shortcomings. \"But this? I don't even know where to begin tryin' to comprehend what is goin' on here.\" He had known about the werewolves, and that the mechanism of infection had to be either by bite or by claw, but there was nothing else he knew. They were weak to silver somehow, but he had no idea why or how. He had looked at the twins as they shifted with nothing short of confusion and amazement at what he saw. \"Werewolves shouldn't be real,\" He reiterated. \"And yet they somehow are.\" He was lost, so hopelessly lost. \"It's easy to get lost in research but there are no scholarly texts on this. We're powerless to do anything about it all.\" He couldn't stand not understanding, just as he could not stand being unable to help."
}
] | 922 | 4,474 |
474.3125 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "Briar Ridge had welcomed him home, in its own, odd way. Nathaniel had taken up residence in a small cottage near the hospital. It would take him some time to get truly settled in, but the promise of work awaiting him was a welcome one. He knew how to do his job, it had been a constant that he could always fall back on. As it turned out, he had his work cut out for him. Mostly in the sense that the majority of the things he'd grown accustomed to; running water, electricity, a small army of nurses and fellow doctors to use as a sounding board, were all missing in Briar Ridge. Nevertheless, he was hellbent on making it work, for the town's sake, it had seen enough blood spilled, and he hoped to play his part in staunching it wherever possible.\n\nHe arrived at the hospital bright and early, wanting to look over the status of supplies and the way files were organized, taking note of frequent patients or people he'd like to pay extra attention to. The name James Jennings stood out to him. He was noted to have a permanent disability that required regular check-ups, one of which was scheduled to take place soon. Someone named Hirano Akira was noted to have suffered an amputation of her arm recently. Unwillingly it seemed, it was marked as the result of a werewolf attack. He'd have to see what he could do for her, losing a limb was no small change.\n\nHe looked up from his reading, alerted to the sound of a door swinging open. A woman walked in, dressed in clothes that indicated she may be one of the nurses, she matched the description of Lorelai Roswell to a t. Just who he was hoping to meet.\n\n\"Good mornin', you must be Miss Roswell, a pleasure to meet you.\" He extended his hand for her to shake. \"I'm Nathaniel Ashworth, you may have heard my name in passin'.\" Better his name than that of his shine making siblings. \"I'll be servin' as Briar Ridge's doctor. I look forward to workin' with you.\""
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "Lorelai was all out of sorts at the loss of their resident doctor. Dr. Elias Olander had been her employer, a confidante, and a friend. He'd not always been the warmest but he'd been a constant through this mess... Their makeshift clinic had felt a bit more empty. She'd taken it upon herself to keep this ship afloat during this period; her hair was a little bit of a mess in it's haphazard bun and her clothes were a bit wrinkled. She had assumed she would be the one getting things started today - much to her shock, she was not the first one arriving today. \n\nNathaniel gave her a start as she entered, and she even gave a mouse-like squeak of surprise at his presence. *He must be the new doctor,* She thought. \n\n\"Miss Roswell...\" She repeated the words back with a smile. \"You ain't gotta call me all that. Just Lorelai is fine by me,\" She promised, a wave of her hand after she'd shaken his. \"It is mighty fine to see your face, Doctor Ashworth,\" She said to him, taking off her coat and setting off to put on her nurse's apron. Her attire wasn't nearly as formal as that of the nurses in a traditional hospital, but she kept herself neat and tidy with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. \n\n\"I'm sure you been filled in on what's been goin' on here?\" She asked him curiously. \"Lord knows, it ain't pretty. Brave, comin' on back here.\" She looked over her shoulder and huffed a little laugh. \"I try t' keep a light heart 'bout it all. Otherwise... Y'just end up cryin'.\" Lorelai was honest about it all. She'd hate to see somebody else go into this whole mess with little understanding of exactly what they were dealing with. \n\n\"You got a family?\" She asked. \"Wife? Kids?\" He looked young, but that didn't mean hardly nothin'. \"We're 'bout to see a whole lot of each other, Doctor Ashworth, so we best get along like friends. You agree?\" She winked as she turned to begin her work, organizing their supplies."
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "Startling Lorelai had not been his intention, not the best first impression he'd ever made, that much was sure. \"My apologies! Didn't mean to scare you.\" He smiled apologetically and then nodded, just Lorelai it would be.\n\n\"Ah, yes.\" _The goings-on._ \"My siblings informed me of what plagues the townsfolk. Some type of sickness that makes a number of them lose control and turn to beasts under the full moon. It seemed quite far-fetched initially,\" He admitted, \"But with the number of people and medical files that corroborate their stories,\" He gestured at the files he'd been reading. \"I fear I have no choice but to believe them.\" He had yet to hear about the part where a cure supposedly relied not on science but in witchcraft. \"Have there been any efforts to research a cure, or preventative measures, vaccines and the like?\" \n\n\"I have found it is often in the darkest places that people are the quickest to crack jokes, better to focus on victories than on losses, no matter how hard those may hit. You are certainly right there, Lorelai.\" He said, as if he didn't carry all those losses with him wherever he went. He remembered the names of those he failed, he saw it as his duty to keep them alive even if it was just in his mind. When he failed to restore someone's physical body, the least he could do was to allow their names, part of their stories and identities, to continue to exist through him by committing them to memory.\n\nHe had not expected the wink, this had to be the small town charm his parents had told him about.\nNevertheless, skipping right to behaving like friends seemed like a good plan. \"I wholly agree, here's to new friendships and gettin' along well.\" He raised his cup of coffee in an approximation of a toast. \n_ _\n\n\"The only family I have here are my younger siblings; Mabel and Lewis. A pair of twins, four years younger than me.\" The two ran shine operations, as far as he knew they worked together. He tried not to mingle in their less-than-legal activities, both in action and in knowledge of the aforementioned crimes. \"Given their penchant for trouble I am certain one, or both of them, have required your services at some point in the past.\" He shook his head, some things never changed. \"Our parents reside in Richmond but our family lived here for generations before they left. My siblings and I found our way back here, seperate from one another. It was them who informed me that I might be of use here, actually.\" In a way, he owed them the position. \n\nSome had said that Nathaniel was married to his work, and they were right, to a certain extent. He'd had some brief romances in the past, but never anything long lasting. He wanted children of his own, but the thought of carrying a child himself made him uncomfortable in a way he couldn't quite articulate.\n\n\"How about you, is there a mister Roswell out there? What brought you to Briar Ridge?\""
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "\"Well, unless somebody else done said it to ya— I'd like to be the first to welcome you back to Briar Ridge,\" She said kindly, fiddling with some of the instruments idly. She liked to keep her hands busy, otherwise she could get lost in her own thoughts for a little too long. \n\n\"Ashworth does sound familiar... I've treated half'a this town since I became a nurse, so I wouldn't be shocked if I've patched one of 'em up!\" She chuckled to herself as she shifted to look over the inventory. She liked to do it before she left and when she came back... Just to make sure. \n\n\"I don't have a fella, no,\" She said, biting the inside of her cheek a bit. \"Never had one, not sure I ever will. I had my cousin stayin' in my apartment for a while and that was about enough of that,\" She admitted. \"He sure did like to pester me.\" \n\nLorelai rolled her eyes a bit and smiled anyhow. Ah, family... What could you do with them? \"Anywho, no matter. Sure you'll find somebody nice here, if that's in what you're wantin' in life.\" Lorelai knew of all people that sometimes, things didn't pan out that way. She'd resolved herself to being lonely for the rest of her life, at this rate. \n\n\"But I done lived in this town my whole life. Born and raised,\" She said. \"Only time I ever left was to be a nurse in the war. That was it.\" She whistled a little. \"How old are you, doctor?\""
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "\"Thank you kindly. I don't remember much, I left when I was barely two years of age. Richmond was my home for far longer.\" He was sure he'd settle in well enough, with some time. \"I am all too familiar with that pesterin', trust me.\" He loved his siblings, he did, but they could be real pains in his ass from time to time. As for Nathaniel, he wanted to find his _someone_, he did. It was a dream he was afraid would never come to fruition, finding love, starting a family, growing old alongside someone, sharing their lives, and watching their children grow up and figure out who they were, and what their place in the world was, he wanted it all so badly, but he knew it might not be destined to be so for him. He had chosen to live as his authentic self, knowing that it might be at the cost of that domestic dream he held in his heart, knowing that even if it was, he'd choose himself each and every time. Despite that, maybe he would find love in Briar Ridge, the town was a supposed haven after all. \"Maybe I will find someone, for now I am focusin' on gettin' in the rhythm of life here.\"\n\n\"I'm thirty.\" Which put him solidly in the cohort of men who should have been drafted in 1918. He wasn't, of course, on account of him not being a man in the eyes of the law. He couldn't very well use his old excuse of having a mystery medical condition, he was going to be around Lorelai a lot and outright lying to her felt unjust. He disagreed with violence and hated wars, but he could respect those who went to them not to kill but to heal. He was unaware how much war lingered in Briar Ridge, and not only of the Great kind. \n_ _\n\n\"I uh, didn't get drafted myself,\" He said, unsure why he was telling her. He wasn't going to explain the reason for it at this point in time. Not if he wasn't pushed for it anyways. \"Nor did I _want_ to get drafted,\" He admitted. \"I didn't dodge it, not actively, no treason was involved I assure you. But I, _well_ I did not try to get that particular clerical error fixed. I'd just gotten accepted into medical school you see, I wasn't about to let a war take that away from me. I knew I could do more good as a doctor than I ever could as a soldier.\" If he'd been able to go as a medical professional maybe he'd have considered it, but as a soldier? No chance. \"It is not somethin' I openly advertise about myself, so I would appreciate it if this could stay between us.\" Undoubtedly there would be those who saw his actions as cowardly, and maybe they were right. \"Regardless of that, you have my respect for goin'. I am sure you were of immeasurable value to the people you helped save. Glad you made it back here, from what I hear this place gets mighty crowded after the full moon. Do we get volunteers to help out at all or is it goin' to be you, me and the other nurses against whatever comes through those doors?\""
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "She was intrigued by the doctor; the way he held himself, the way he spoke and the cadence in his voice. He had a familiar twang without the slow drawl that seemed to inflict the voice of Briar Ridge natives; the shortening and lazy tongue that the people seemed to possess. It was signature; Lorelai herself possessed it too. She supposed his voice sounded odd to her, and likewise, hers probably sounded strange. \n\n\"No matter, I won't tell a single soul,\" She assured Nathaniel. \"Nobody's business but yours, anyhow.\" She didn't know how he'd avoided the draft, but she could reckon it was something medical. That was almost always it, if he wasn't dodging the draft. \n\n\"I always wanted to be a nurse, yknow? Thought joinin' would help. It did, a whole lot.\" She was organizing the bandages dutifully as she spoke. \"I learned a helluva lot there. Patched up people with their legs blown off. Held a man as he died in my arms.\" Lorelai had frozen up a moment, voice soft and serious before she snapped back out of it. \n\n\"I learned a whole lot!\" She said, trying to remain chipper though the conversation had taken a turn for the worst. \"But I don't think the war prepared me for these damned full moons.\" \n\nLorelai exhaled in a rush, looking up now at the doctor. \"It'll just be us and the nurses, sir. It always is. It's... Going to be very hard,\" She told him. \"It always is, on the full moon. Them things go crazy. I ain't been attacked, but I'm waiting on it\" \n\nShe shook her head solemnly. \"We lost a few. It's sad, even if they aren't blood, they're family.\""
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "He still held on to some of the accent found in Briar Ridge, given to him by his parents and theirs before them. However, it was less pronounced than in Lorelai, noticeably so. Nathaniel had been made to adapt to the sound of academics and scholars, and somehow those had decided that his natural sound did not belong in their circles. It was an accent he never managed to fully cover, though he had come close. Now that he found himself surrounded by people who sounded like his ancestors did, he stood out once more, he still sounded different, and always would. It was a fact he'd grown accustomed to. Technically he was native to Briar Ridge, but his voice would always reveal that he didn't grow up in town. \n\nHe smiled at her. \"Thank you, Lorelai.\" Maybe one day he'd tell her the real reason for his never having served. As for her involvement in the war, it told him that they had something else in common. Both had always felt a calling for healing. She'd likely seen more blood than he ever had. Nathaniel had witnessed gruesome injuries, but the horrors of wartime medicine far outranked anything that had come into the hospital halls he frequented. The Great War apparently paled in comparison to the full moons, it made a shiver run across the Doctor's spine. \"We share that then, I have always wanted to be a doctor. I used to take in wounded animals to try and nurse them back to health, much to the dislike of my parents.\" He smiled, though the topic had shifted to a subject the horrors of which he would soon see for himself, with very little to smile about. Nothing gives one knowledge in medicine like hands-on experience... \"I am sorry you saw what you did there, no one deserves to witness war and its effects.\" \n_ _\n\nLorelai was waiting to be attacked. It hadn't even crossed his mind that the hospital was not a sanctuary in the eyes of the lycanthropes. \"Let us both hope that won't happen.\" Whatever drove the poor infected people, he hoped it wouldn't aim their paws towards the clinic. \"My deepest condolences for those you've lost, I can't imagine what it's been like,\" His voice had softened. \"I know this should go without sayin' but I promise to do whatever I can to stop more people from dyin'.\" People who, in his eyes, included the infected part of the population. \"I do hope we get to see more than just the grim aftermath of full moons here. And please, like you said, we're goin' to be seein' a lot of each other, no need to call me sir.\" Even if he couldn't deny that every time he was called sir a part of him quietly sang with joy, at the knowledge that he was seen as a man."
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "Nathaniel Ashworth... He was an interesting man. He wasn't as serious as Doctor Olander had been, and for that, she might've been a bit grateful. There had been times where she'd worried about disappointing the doctor, like he was a strict father. He really hadn't been so much older than her, but she still felt like he was watching over her with a pointed look. Doctor Ashworth seemed a lot more gentle, a lot... More patient, if she was being honest. Of course, she would never speak ill of her previous employer - but their differences were vast, she was noticing. \n\n\"I'm sorry, my mama done ingrained in me all types of manners,\" She apologized. \"Dr. Ashworth, I assure ya, there is still a lot of life left in Briar Ridge,\" She said. \"People still be gettin' married and havin' babies... World still turns, even when tragedy happens. Ain't that just somethin'?\" Lorelai smiled a little to herself, turning her body fully around to look at her new boss. \n\n\"You got a lot of heart, sir.\" She bit her tongue and smiled apologetically. \"Lot of people in this town ain't feel that way about the werewolves like you do. I think... I think they ain't know better. I didn't know much what to think, 'fore April Abrams done turned herself in. She was a midwife, and the best one too. Sad to see her in that jailhouse, all big and pregnant. Makes ya realize how human they really are.\" Lorelai exhaled in a rush. \"We done lost a lot of folks on both sides. The mayor... The sheriff. The general store owner, and the fella that runs the apple orchard.\" She looked Nathaniel over a moment. \"It ain't easy work, but I s'pose ya figured that when ya came.\""
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "Nathaniel smiled, he'd been raised to be polite as well, though not to be kind or gentle. His good nature was all his own, it was something he had fought to keep, something he wished was more visible in his younger siblings, though he understood why it wasn't. His parents had believed that nothing could get someone as far as force could, Nathaniel held the opinion that forging bonds and taking care of others would yield much better outcomes than stabbing them in the back. Growing up, his father had often labeled him as weak for those views, but Nathaniel had clung onto them like a lifeline. In a way, his patience was a means with which to defy his parents. He was too afraid to stand up to them directly, too ingrained with a sense of forced respect for his elders, but being the caring black sheep in a family of wolves, that suited him just fine.\n\nLorelai seemed to share that caring nature, you saw it in most who had a calling for medicine. Of course, some were called to it for prestige, he'd had classmates who believed themselves better than others for their white coats. Fellow graduates who enjoyed the title more than the work. Nathaniel had never been much of a leader and saw nurses as just as vital and important as anyone else. Lorelai had much more experience in Briar Ridge and its specifics, if anything it should be him looking up to her. All he could hope for was for them to operate on an equal level, or for him to grow in confidence as someone who was looked up to, maybe they'd get to either one day.\n\nThe strength of the human spirit shone through in Briar Ridge. Lorelai was right, life didn't pause just because tragedy occurred along the way. There would always be light. \"You're a resilient bunch, you are,\" He said. \"I like that in people.\" \n_ _\n\n\"I don't expect to be able to sway anyone's opinion, nor is it my place to do that. All I can hope to do is heal those who come through our doors, be they werewolf or not.\" He could understand why people would turn to violence and hatred, they were the easiest choice when one was afraid. Painting a target on the thing that scares you is much simpler than looking beyond and seeing similarities and humanity in them. But imprisoning a pregnant woman? \"Has anyone gone to visit her? I can't imagine the jailhouse is a proper place for a pregnant woman to stay, werewolf or not,\" He said, clearly worried for her health. \n\n\"Rural medicine requires creativity, that it does, though I did not expect it to be _this_ complicated,\" He admitted. \"My siblings, they tried to explain the situation in their letters to me. I initially thought it to be less _violent_ of an affliction, but from what you're tellin' me-\" His words trailed off. It wasn't going to be pretty, that much he knew. Losing people was an aspect of life that nobody enjoyed, but for hospital staff, whose whole lives were dedicated to preserving life, death felt that much heavier. \"I don't suppose you know anything about how it spreads, or how to slow it down?\""
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "\"I think that's a real swell idea, Doctor.\" Lorelai's chest puffed up a little. She could get behind this new doctor's ideas - she felt similarly about the wolves; that they were people too, that she still had a duty to serve and protect them, just like the rest. Maybe she had been afraid to say it before, but now... Well, she was just grateful that the doctor himself had spoken up about it first. \n\nLorelai grimaced, her lips set thin and eyebrows furrowed as she thought about April Abrams in that cold, dank place. She knew the woman had turned herself in, but still... Couldn't they hold her somewhere more humane? She was sure April would even be alright to staying in the doctors ward, under the supervised eye of the doctor and nurses. It wasn't like she could do much harm outside of the moon. \n\n\"I've been to visit. They keep a good on her, I'll say that. Don't rightly let nobody in with much more than a few pills. She don't even got a blanket, I'm afraid.\" Lorelai was not fond of that, and she thought to the way the woman had looked up at her with those big, blue eyes. How sad and *Human* It all was. Lorelai couldn't help but to feel a little choked up after she'd left. \n\n\"Unfortunately, there ain't much *We* Can do. All we can do is... Well, treat the people who make it through the night,\" She explained. \"We figure, it's gotta be through a bite 'er... A scratch, some kinda thing transferred through contact. Can't begin t' tell ya if it can be transferred through blood or saliva but I figure we'd be crawlin' with wolves if that were the case.\" She grimaced. \"Not sure there's much to do to slow it, neither. I know there's been some talk in the coalition 'bout cures and... Somethin' bout wolfsbane. Can't pay me enough to even think about usin' the stuff.\" Lorelai shook her head."
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "His heart felt lighter when Lorelai expressed her shared beliefs, he'd been afraid that his views might not be shared by those he worked with. Nathaniel was a man who was very willing to compromise on most things, but he would not shift his boundaries when it came to patient care.\n\n\"I am assumin' whoever is holdin' her won't agree to a blanket through means of doctor's orders, then?\" He sighed, maybe he could advocate for her, somehow. He was still so new to town, his position would likely not mean much yet, even if it came with a title that was often respected. The title of Sheriff still far outranked that of Doctor when it came to the circumstances of April's imprisonment.\n\nHe nodded, listening attentively as Lorelai explained what little was known on the condition. An illness that spread through contact but not through blood or saliva, how curious. That did make it significantly harder to study. On top of that, Nathaniel didn't think anyone infected would be likely to donate blood for research, outing themselves came at much too high a cost, he was beginning to see. What could even cause such means of transfer? Perhaps whatever pathogen caused it had an extremely short-lived survival rate outside of a host, it needed to be introduced to the bloodstream near-instantaneously. That would mean that mere skin contact with the bodily fluids of those affected wasn't enough but a bite or a scratch that penetrated to the dermis would allow the pathogen to spread and infect the injured person. Maybe lycanthropes had specific areas that produced the pathogens like venomous animals did their toxins, Nathaniel thought the theory to be somewhat absurd. Then again, the existence of werewolves was absurd in and of its own.\n_ _\n\n\"Wolfsbane,\" He echoed Lorelai's words, disbelief colored his words. \"Are people wilfully poisoning one another? Do they not know how dangerous that plant is?\" As far as Nathaniel knew, there was no antidote for aconitine poisoning. He thought that at least the people here, who lived in an area where it was evidently available, would know to execute extreme caution when interacting with it. He shook his head. \"They're more than welcome to look for a cure, I might go offer my help for that if it looks like they're onto somethin', but I agree, poison is out of the question.\" He'd even go so far as to think weapons in general had no place in a hospital, but he knew they provided a sense of safety for those who wielded them. So long as the barrels remained firmly pointed away from the people inside, he could consider condoning them. People wouldn't shoot others while looking them in the eyes, right?\n\nHe looked at the wall where a chalkboard displaying the planned appointments for the coming days was hung. \"At least we still get to see broken arms and mysterious rashes,\" He said. \"Some things never change.\" He smiled briefly. Focus on the things you can fix, not on what you cannot, not on failures. Easier said than done."
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "It was frustrating to work in medicine when the thing you were trying to cure just simply did not seem to have an answer. Then again, she was just a battlefield nurse, and she wasn't sure even the top doctors in them big fancy universities would have an answer for this kinda thing. The real issue lie in that the diagnosis was outrageous; werewolves! The cure, she was sure, could be just about anything. Hell, if someone told her the cure was t' dance with a teapot on her head, she would say it was about as worth a shot as any. Nothin' made real sense in Briar Ridge anymore. Why even try and apply real medicine to anything? \n\nThe most they could do was manage the symptoms and help the people who got hurt. That was what she was there for. She'd laid in bed a thousand nights trying to think of how to help these people, and she came to the conclusion that she couldn't find the answer in the cracks of her bedroom ceiling. \n\n\"They know exactly how dangerous that plant is, I assure ya,\" She exhaled in a rush. \"I don't know if they rightly care at this point.\" Lorelai bit the inside of her cheek. \"People start forgettin' that there's people behind them wolves, I think.\" It made her sad, and April Abrams was a prime example. She was a midwife, a mother, and people wanted to put a bullet between her eyes. It terrified Lorelai, if she was honest. \n\nBut Doctor Ashworth was right - there was always the everyday maladies to tend to. Sprained ankles, rashes, bee stings, and hammered thumbs... She would take a hundred patients with splinters and fevers over what had been going on here. She couldn't help but chuckle and sigh as she looked out the window, out into the wider expanse of Briar Ridge. \"If you'd like, I can pull all the patient records for wolf attacks,\" She suggested. \"Might help ya see exactly what yer dealin' with.\""
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "\"If you could, I would like that, yes,\" He replied to her question regarding the files. He didn't think he could hope to learn much about the infection mechanism, but at least he could get a better idea of the damage he could expect come the full moon. Be somewhat more prepared for all of it. If anyone could truly be prepared for the destructive force that Briar Ridge became each full moon. Not just its werewolves, but its non-werewolf inhabitants too, as he'd come to find out.\n\n\"I do truly hope they'll see the error of their ways _before_ we start gettin' patients with wolfsbane poisonin', be they human or otherwise.\" There wasn't much one could even do against wolfsbane outside symptom management. People had to be more than desperate to turn to weaponizing it. \"I have full faith that people here are more prone to healin' than they are harmin'.\" He could hardly imagine a nurse to be willing to kill in cold blood.\n\n\"How long has this been happenin' for?\" If people had lost sight of the humanity in their neighbors, he feared it had been a long time already. Fear could make people do awful things indeed."
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "\"I'll collect 'em right away,\" She told her new boss, already set to opening a drawer full of papers. Lorelai was diligent and meticulous with keeping notes and files, and she was easy to thumb through the multiple names and pull them out one by one. *Abrams, April. Abrams, Eli. Barca, Florian.* She pulled each one, setting them in two distinct piles - the ones she knew to be werewolves, and the ones she knew were only *Attacked* By werewolves. She was good at multitasking, flipping between this and the conversation at hand. \n\nLorelai grimaced. \"There are a whole lotta people in this town who are hellbent on killin' than savin'. I ain't one of em by no means. I don't want nobody, man or wolf, dead on one'a these tables.\" She did pause as she shuffled some papers. *Estep, Francis.* \n\n\"The attacks? Since last... What was it, May? June? No later'n July.\" She thought a moment. \"But if yer talkin' about the wolfsbane, that there's a newer development. They been producin' silver bullets, but the wolfsbane oil's a new one. Can't say I like the idea of it flyin' 'round in the hands'a folks who don't know what they're doin' with it. Don't realize how deadly the stuff can be.\" It had occurred to her that it could be far more dangerous than anyone realized. \"Already lost a few people in town to them wolves and bullets alike.\" The look of agony on Carina Templeton's face with the passing of Charlene Bigby. The screams of agony from April Abrams at the loss of her husband. The devastation of Marianne Wilburn as Francis Estep faded into darkness."
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "He thanked Lorelai as the files kept piling up: _Barca, Valerian. Bigby, Eddie. Cooper, Alma._ Dozens of people had been attacked so far, with a few people having been brought back from the brink of death, much to Nathaniel's shock. If this had been going on for that many months, with no known cure or specific cause, that pile marked with _deceased_ would only continue growing. Only one of those known to be infected was still alive: _Abrams, April. Abrams, Eli. Cooper, William. Rowe, Noah._ He could hardly blame people for wanting to remain in hiding: _Cause of death: bullet wound._\n\nThere had to be something in common between those infected, a cause, some sort of pattern, but there were so many attacks and only a few of those were noted to have led to a recorded infection. Maybe his search was one that was doomed to fail, but that wouldn't stop him from trying. It had to have started somewhere, perhaps the incubation period varied per person, or some had the capacity to generate more efficient antibodies than others, he truly had no clue.\n\nNathaniel knew himself well enough to know that these cases would be ones he'd be taking home with him in his mind, mulling them over, trying to see connections in shapes he might not be able to even recognize. He didn't even know what he was looking for, after all.\n\n\"Maybe these people will come to their senses before their poison gets to be used?\" A senseless hope, perhaps. Silver bullets, wolfsbane, he feared what the next step would be. \"I cannot imagine what that has been like,\" He said, suddenly worried about the safety of his own siblings. They'd been fine so far, which brought him some level of comfort. \"Judgin' from these files, you have managed to save a lot of people as well, Lorelai, let that count for somethin' too.\" There was always hope."
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "\"Wouldn't hold yer breath,\" She said softly. \"They's already startin' up on usin' the wolfsbane. I know that much - already started on coatin' bullets.\" She shook her head, a twist in her mouth at the thought of it all. \"And I fear it's set to only get worse. Mayor William Cooper, you know, he was shot in cold blood 'fore he could even stand trial for his crimes?\" She glanced to the window, peeking up at the jailhouse again. \"Ain't that just awful?\" \n\nShe felt bad for them Cooper kids, and Miriam Cooper, too. Sure, their loved one was a werewolf, keepin' it secret and all, but he didn't deserve to be murdered neither. \"Silver bullet. Big, round hole... Oozin' black blood that stinks to high hell. Like *Rot.*\" Lorelai shivered at the thought of it. She looked between the pile of files and papers, and though she knew Dr. Ashworth was right, she couldn't help but still feel so *Lost*. She had tried her best but people were still dying. \"It all feels like it's for nothin' when werewolves are droppin' like flies.\" She said quietly. \n\n\"I'm glad yer on board here, Dr. Ashworth. We could really use a real fresh perspective on it.\" She took a seat slowly, like her bones were far older than they were. There were days where she didn't leave the clinic at all. She slept in blinks, poured over files, tried to wrack her brain around to think of something. Anything. Dr. Olander's departure had taken a toll, but this was hopefully a new beginning to maybe even figuring out a cure. \"I don't think I can handle any more people dyin',\" She said quietly. \"But I know ain't nothin' I can do to stop it.\""
}
] | 433.5 | 7,589 |
617.6 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "miss m. lefevre.",
"message": "Oh, *Now* She's gone and done it. And the worst part is, she doesn't even know *What* She has gone and done. The Muse is a fickle being, one that's hard to placate unless Maeve was giving *Every last ounce* Of attention to him at any given point in the day. He was *Stuck* To her like glue, and *Yes,* She knows the role of a good woman is to tend to her husband in all of his needs before all else, but there are so many people in Briar Ridge who were affected in January. There were so many things she still needed to do. She knows she needed to go see Akira Hirano and her father, and bring them supplies before the February Moon. She still has yet to see Alma and Rhett, both of whom were injured, or so she recalls, and she is their *Friend,* It is her *Job* To go see them.\n\nAlas. There she was, at seven in the morning, looking at the backs of her legs in the mirror after her bath, at the *Distinct* Claw marks down them. It was going to be so hard to pass those off as anything other than the hands of a man who was begging his woman not to leave the house again. If she took a step forward, she'd be able to see the exact intention: the Muse had held onto her legs as she left last night to go bring Sheriff Guerrero some soup, and she pulled away a bit too hard. It hadn't hurt then, and it hadn't bled, but *God,* You couldn't tell that from the current markings, could you?\n\n_ _\nNo matter: it was still cold. She could bandage up her calves just fine, and in a matter of moments, she would be back and better than ever, with the scratches hidden under a long, woolen skirt. (Surely she had one around here from last winter's fashions; she wouldn't be opposed to looking a bit out of style if it meant her peers didn't get the wrong idea about the Muse. He was a good man, yes, he just had needs— needs that Maeve couldn't fulfill. She would make it up to him, though, in the summer— she would wear that sweet red dress he loved so much and sit out with him in the yard. They'd have their first picnic together, and she'd giggle at everything he has to say, and things would be idyllic. She could wait. She could.\n\nShe opens up her medicine cabinet, and she finds no gauze.\n\n_ _\n\"*Shhhii—sweet honey, iced tea,\" She huffs, shaking her head. Oh, there was going to be no way that the general store would have gauze or bandages to sell after January's nonsense. Whatever was had surely was given or bought by the hospital in need, and she didn't know when they would get another shipment of things in. Which meant that, despite her best intentions, she would have to go see Doctor Olander for a proper tune-up. It's been quite a while since she's seen a doctor at all, all things considered, and she'd heard that Briar Ridge's current MD had a bit of an attitude problem, but he was an educated man, and Maeve was an educated woman. She surely could hold her own against him.\n\n_ _\nThe nurse that took her information was very kind—when Maeve said all she needed was some disinfectant and bandages for a non-werewolf related injury, she almost looked... *Relieved* That it was something normal and not otherwise within the extraordinary. Escorted back behind the curtain, the nurse asks to see the injury, and Maeve daintily pulls up the hem of her skirt to the knee — a respectable and modest length that kept both her dignity in tact and the wounds on display. Making a noise of interest and confusion, the nurse writes down some things on her chart and tells Maeve to take a seat. *The good doctor will be with you soon,* She had said, and Maeve nodded, adjusting her skirt again and sitting back down.\n\nHer jaw sets; the last time she had seen Dr. Olander was when she had helped during the January werewolf attacks. She was a decent help, running towels and water and everything in between for the nurses without getting in the way. She only hoped her reputation of being someone that was not noticeable had come through this time; she didn't need anyone asking questions. The muse was a good man. A *Good* Man.\n\nThe curtain is pulled back, and Maeve nods a small greeting. \"Dr. Olander,\" She smiles, \"You're looking better rested than when I saw you last.\""
},
{
"author": "Doctor Elias Olander",
"message": "January's full moon had come down on the quaint town of Briar Ridge like a hammer. Swift, brutal, and merciless. Many of the citizens were wounded, some of them far too close to mortally so. \n\nAs it was, the doctor refused to concede to his own injuries, and had healed more slowly for it. He'd spent a week and a half even more irritable than usual, slowed down by a limp in making house calls. By the time he could finally walk normally again, the bruises had begun to recede from the side of his torso as well, though that didn't do much about the pain of the ribs still knitting themselves back together beneath. \n\nHis face was another matter. Unfortunately the right side of it had taken a great deal of the brunt of his fall, and been scraped badly. Though there had been plenty of time to heal, with frequent and careful application of lavender oil and aloe vera, there were still superficial scrapes where gravel had gouged the deepest. His work had kept him busy, and the fetid silence of long stretches of winter nights kept him seeking distraction rather than sleeping more often than not. He had some vanity to him and avoided mirrors most mornings for the circles around his eyes that darkened with the slow crawl of time. It was all he could do to ensure he was neatly dressed and his hair styled.\n\nHe seemed surprised then at her greeting. A puzzled expression passed his features for half a click, before he remembered that the culture of a small town was often pleasant over practical. Technically, she wasn't wrong, he supposed. He was certainly improved from the bloody night right here in the ward where he remembered her last amongst the helping hands. Her face, anyway. It was a pretty one, but the name...\n\n\"Missss–\" He glanced, a subtle action, at her left hand. The salutation of *Mrs.* May have come at the end there for half a second, but instead it trailed off. Taking a glimpse of the clipboard left by the nurse, he continued. \"Lefevre.\" His French pronunciation was excellent. Of course. Most men his age had seen France. \n\nDrying his hands on a white terry towel, it was clear he'd only just washed them. The towel tossed atop the desk, it made way for the clipboard into his hands. There was a quick glance up at her again, and then back at the clipboard. With the way his fair brows knit together, blinking over the nurse's curling cursive, it was clear that she had found something unusual.\n\nThere was no fuss about it though. The man proceeded as if this were common, his composure placid, though his curiosity threatened to stir. \"To my understanding you have some wounds that bear examination.\" Setting the clipboard down, he settled in a wooden chair with wheels on the bottom. It looked like it may have been very fun to sit in and roll right across the smooth-waxed planks of the doctor's ward. The serious man that sat there would never even consider it.\n\nWithin the walks of life he'd climbed into, wives of wealthy men most often had their own female physicians. Of course, that was a world away from Briar Ridge. Nevertheless, there was a cultured gentility to him, in the way he glanced first at her skirted legs and then at her. \"If I may?\" He said, poised to roll over in the chair.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "miss m. lefevre.",
"message": "There is something innate that blooms inside of her when Dr. Olander pronounces her last name correctly. *Lefevre,* He says, with the glotteal noise that the French required. She'd grown so used to people mispronouncing it, unable to repeat the regional pronunciation, that even she and her mother had gotten used to pronouncing it *Le-fev-ruh*, as to accomodate others. Her own French is milquetoast at best, her father unwilling to share the language of his side of the family — she had been closer to the British side of her family, anyways, even going so far as to travel after the war to see her grandmother — but she had learned, desperate to have something of her father's side that might otherwise make him approve of her.\n\n\"You know,\" She laughs softly, \"I think you may be the first person in several years to pronounce my last name correctly, Doctor.\" It's a sad statement, to say the least, but she knows of so many others whose names are Arabic, Chinese, Japanese in origin and consigned never to be pronounced correctly by the multilingual accents of regions of the United States. \n\n*You have some wounds that bear examination,* He says, and she pretends not to grit her teeth behind her lips. Couldn't she just get some bandages and leave? Did he truly have to stop and examine what she had gotten into? She hadn't even been able to determine which lie she wanted to give the good doctor. He *Couldn't* Know that the man who loved her did this to her. She *Could not* Tell him that, else someone would try to separate them. Who was she without the Muse? Who was she, when she was alone?\n\nShe sure as hell didn't know.\n\n_ _\n\n\nAlas, she stands from the examination bed-chair-table-thing, and nods. Sheepish, she reaches down in a little squat, Maeve collects the hem of her otherwise long skirt, lifting it gently to about the knee and pulling it tight so that everything that needed to remain covered did. Sure enough, there were scratches — five on each side in perfect, symmetrical patterns, as if someone's fingernails had grabbed at the backs of her knees and pulled down. They disappear into the ankle of her boots, implying that the wound might stop at the ankle, but she doesn't seem to care or notice one way or another. Despite, it doesn't take a stupid man (and therefore, it would *Definitely* Not take an educated doctor like Elias) to realize that this was more than crawling through a rose bush or 'stumbling around', as she had described previously.\n\n\"I've had them for a couple days,\" She admits — and *That*, however, is truth, backed up by the evidence of a lack of actual blood dripping from them, the redness and tenderness of the skin around the wounds themselves, \"...They aren't infected, are they? I promise they're not from a werewolf. I just need some bandages, that's all.\""
},
{
"author": "Doctor Elias Olander",
"message": "\"Such is the life of immigrants, I suppose. On my parents' trek through Ellis Island, we almost became Oleanders, rather than Olander.\" His pronunciation of his own name was decidedly Swedish, very soft on the first two vowels, with the hint of a roll on the ending *R*. \"Not quite fitting for the likes a comforting physician, hm?\" Of the citizens of Briar Ridge he'd met thus far, she seemed easily one of the most cultured. Something told him he did not need to explain why the word oleander might come with ill portent.\n\nSome idle nicety passed his features on her request of being excused the absence of hose. He supposed the liberated nature of short skirts and bobbed hair would not reach here. Eyes politely curious waited for her to reveal her legs, his mind set off to wondering if women here were even allowed to vote in the mayoral elections. Now that the current mayor was dead of course. \"With the current affairs of the town, it's merely a formalit–\" His words cut short. Any thought of fashions and voting fell right out of his head at the sight of the angry flesh like tiger's stripes, entirely out of place on her fair skin.\n\nSilence. There was too long a stretch of it. Preceded by the polite chitchat beforehand, it was especially too much. The wheels of the chair rattled against the floor, a faint sound, as he drew closer to study the marks. \n\nHis fingers were cold, a ghost of a touch against the deepest of the lacerations. His eyes traced the distance five times on each leg, from the crease of her knee to the top of her boot. How far did these reach? \n\n\"Miss Lefevre,\" And he was very careful to keep his voice politely interested, betraying none of the gravity with which he thought, \"May I ask you please to remove your shoes? And while you do so, perhaps you could tell me where it was that you've been stumbling around recently?\"\n \n||"
},
{
"author": "miss m. lefevre.",
"message": "Gosh, darnit. She places her skirts back down when the doctor asks her to step out of her own shoes, and she does — needing to squat briefly to unlace and step out of each slightly-heeled boot. Luckily, the lacerations did not go down more than just below the ankle-high boot. Her Achilles tendons were nowhere near being touched, and it appeared that they tapered off near the end of her ankle, implying that this is perhaps where the injury ended.\n\n\"Oh, just my home,\" She answers earnestly, because there would be no need for anyone to lie to a doctor, especially someone as frail as Maeve, and quietly, she picks up her skirts again, this time shivering as her feet touch the cold floor. \"I don't really know what happened at all, doctor.\"\n\n_ _\nHere's the thing: Maeve LeFevre can, in most cases, be a very good liar. What she lacks in strength, dexterity, and constitution are made up for in intelligence, wisdom, and charisma. However, there is a piece of her at war with herself here. It isn't that she cares whether or not people know of the Muse — she is so proud of him, and there is someone in this town who already knows who or what he is, but the Muse is a *Very good man,* And he didn't mean to hurt her, really! For the good doctor to draw the conclusion that Maeve's darling man of her dreams is *Cruel* Would be one done in poor taste, and Maeve truly wants to protect the other.\n\n\n\nShe shakes her head. Maeve LeFevre, about 90% of the time, can lie her way in and out of anything. But here, at war, and in the eyes of a trained professional... Her lie comes up very short. *Just through my home,* She says, but everyone would know that the LeFevre cottage has no exterior foliage and isn't near the treeline whatsoever. There are no briars nor brush for her to be caught on, and there have been no reports of wild animals. And, given that she was helping him during the last moon, it definitely wasn't the werewolves.\n\nSo ... What's the diagnosis, Dr. Olander?"
},
{
"author": "Doctor Elias Olander",
"message": "In general, Elias trusted the judgment of the nurses he worked with. For years, he'd toiled alongside them in a wartime hospital and now, a doctor's ward that often became its own sort of the same thing. Nurses in such situations had to be clear-minded, decisive, insightful. So it had been with just a hidden roll of the eyes that he was requested to have a look at something as simple as a few scratches. Maeve should have been sent on her way with some gauze and iodine, so he thought.\n\nWhy did he feel a touch of relief that these gashes didn't reach all the way to her heels? He couldn't say. It was a brief feeling, set on either side by the weighty sensation of unspoken details. She didn't really know what happened at all, so she said, and he'd heard lies like that before.\n\n\"...Miss Lefevre.\" He certainly had instilled in him that doctor's delicate way of speaking. Concerned. Prying even. But politely so. And yet he came up halting.\n\nA few opening and closing drawers, and basic wound dressing was brought forth. The rolling chair allowed him to swivel to just the right angle for ministrations. With the faint clatter of wheels, he worked behind her for a few moments. \n\nIodine painted a dull saffron against her skin, almost pretty in contrast. It would sting though. Maybe that was why he was waiting until he was able to offer the comfort of puffing a little cool air past his lips, helping the iodine dry more quickly. \"In the matter of healthcare, I've always found honesty to be a very important facet of good treatment.\" His voice was gentle enough from behind her that the nurse wouldn't hear a bit of it. \n\nWould it be easier to lie to him if he couldn't see her face? He'd bet money on it. Tending her wounds was paused halfway through cutting gauze. The scissors were set down with a click on the desk. He wheeled around, to face her, and it would have been almost comical if his expression did not look so serious.\n\n\"Omission of details, however unimportant they may seem, can lead to folly. Now tell me, hm?\" His expression softened. \"Do your best to remember. From where did you manage to receive these injuries?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "miss m. lefevre.",
"message": "As the iodine touched her skin, Maeve jumped a little bit — not being able to see the cold causes her heels to lift off of the ground, paired with a little gasp, but she settles herself quickly, burning with embarrassment that she might have messed something up. A little noise of discomfort is expressed at the sting, and a few mists fill her eyes, but she doesn't cry. She may be soft, but she's been attacked by a werewolf before, so in comparison to that, and the ghost pains of trauma on her covered shoulder, this is something she can withstand. But not without mumbling a quiet *I'm sorry,* For the way she jumped. \n\nAh. So she has been caught in the act of lying — and he was right. It was much easier to lie at him when she could not see his face. As he wheels around to look at her, and she turns approximately fifteen degrees to look at him. Her eyes cascaded over his features — handsome, in a sharp way. Tired, he seemed. He needed some sunlight, hard to obtain in the cold winter months, and well-kept. In a way, Elias Olander and Maeve Lefevre are cut of the same cloth: well groomed outsiders desperate in their attempts to fit in with the place that has given them a home.\n\n_ _\nShe, too, needs more sunlight; the circles around her eyes are dark and unyielding, and though they have been touched with makeup, as have her dark eyes and soft lips, the puffiness of such a thing cannot be hidden even with the most satin of textures. Their differences lies in their mouths, of course: whereas the good doctor keeps his mouth in a serious line (a notation of perhaps no-nonsense behavior, or perhaps passion in his work), Maeve's is a relaxed little smile (someone has taught her this, as if she is a doll to be seen rather than heard). \n\nJust as he is analyzing every bit of her, his eyes sharp and easy to find the places of her where she is weak, she is analyzing him. An offense and defense, and in this case, one (the doctor) is much stronger than the other (the writer).\n\nPerhaps it is their similarities that causes Maeve to sigh, to close her eyes and let her shoulders drop. She recalls here her conversation with Wesley, and how that went, and his crisp asking of the question, *Do you think I'm stupid?* If a farmhand could ask such a question, what kind of harsh question could the silver-tongued, educated doctor, offer? \n\n\"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, doctor,\" She says, and despite there *Wanting* To be an edge to her words, there is only... Sorrow. Acceptance, as in the stage of grief. \"No one ever believes me. No one is willing to face the unknown as I am.\""
},
{
"author": "Doctor Elias Olander",
"message": "Distantly, in an adjoining room, the nurse paused in her shuffling of manila folders. The examination room had grown very quiet. Oh, if only she could see through the curtain. That doctor was *Curious* And Miss Lefevre perhaps even more so. Their conversation had been too far away and too soft-spoken between both of their polite natures for more than one or two words to be discerned. But it had sounded nothing more than cordial formality. And now there was... What? Just nothing? She strained to hear, and couldn't even make out the sound of a scissors working. Her eyes swiveled to the curtain and lips pursed, trying to dream up some good reason to need to go in there.\n\nWhat the nurse couldn't see was the way this pair inspected each other. Over similarities and differences. Pale skin and dark circles on them both, divided by full lips and delicate cosmetics softening an already dainty face, whereas he was made up of all those sharp lines and stern Nordic angles. Somewhere under his pallor, there were a few hidden freckles, marks of a boy that had spent a lot of time in the sun. \n\nHer dark eyes were so wide, they were evocative of the full moon, he decided just then. A shimmering thread of eeriness ran through both her gaze and that astral body, but the roundness about her was more soft than foreboding. If she could not look more fragile to him, her shoulders rounding down only enhanced the effect. \n\n\"Miss Lefevre,\" His voice was softer than he would have liked it to be. It was difficult to remain stern towards someone as sweetly melancholy as this young woman. \"It has been very recent history that has made me a man far more believing than I ever thought possible. And you should know about me,\" He said, and there on the edges of his words, was a color of wry, conspiratorial humor, \"That there is *Nothing* That interests me more than the curious and unknown.\"\n\nWas he a well-meaning medical professional, wearing down her vigilance simply because he feared for her wellbeing? How much of the unknown did he actually think was at work here other than, most likely, a cruel husband with a predilection for the bottle? \n\nPerhaps it was the peculiar positioning, with him seated in front of her slight form where she'd been left to stand. Or maybe the way he thought after that faint line on her ring finger and what relationship it might entail. With his own grasp, he took her hand, raising it as if he might put a chivalrous peck on the back of it. Instead it was his other hand that came to enclose her singular one. Like a bird enclosed, the delicate appendage was given a gentle squeeze before released. *You can trust me,* His eyes said, warm despite their icy color.\n \n||"
},
{
"author": "miss m. lefevre.",
"message": "It is not hard to sway her one way or another; she is a woman of weak convictions. Her ankles cross gently, the top of her left foot come to nervously rise against the back of her right ankle. He takes her hand, and she sighs: this is just like how Wesley expressed his concern for her just a few days ago, describing her as someone to be worried about. No one has *Ever* Worried about Maeve, so why does everyone want to try now? She doesn't rudely pull her hand away from him, so she shakes her head, exhaling.\n\n\"With how convincing of a man you are, doctor, one might mistake you for a lawyer,\" She says, squeezing her own shoulders tight. Has it gotten colder in here? Or is it just still a long winter? \"But I have a companion — a *Significant other,* As it were. He does not like that I have been leaving the house so frequently to assist with the Anti-Werewolf Coalition's efforts, and a few nights ago, he made it very apparent that he did not want me to leave. It only stung, at the time, but only now am I realizing how deep the scratches went. This is *Out of character* For him, sir,\" She is certain to defend him, even now; while the Muse is a haint that is taking the shape of the fabric of her own mind, Maeve's psychosis has denoted the Muse as a companion for life. One cannot simply break years of devotion to something only she can see with a simple conversation, \"He's only worried for me, that's all. With the blizzard, and that horrible attack in January, I think I speak for the both of us when I say that *Briar Ridge isn't safe.*\"\n\n_ _\n\n\n\"I am not an angry woman, doctor,\" She tells him, sighing, \"I cannot tell him that what he is doing is wrong. He is of a world that does not belong to us, and already, there are people who are learning of him, and... They do not understand him as I do.\""
},
{
"author": "Doctor Elias Olander",
"message": "The good doctor had read a few chapters of a pulp magazine here and there. He was familiar with mystics, most of them peddling showmen making a coin on city streets. He was a fashionable man attuned to the zeitgeist of the time, now living in a town ridden by curiosities. The things she was describing did raise his eyebrows, but left his mind more curious than spinning. \n\nAn observant nature was the first tenet of any good physician's practice, but he had to admit to himself that there had been a great many things for him to observe as of late. Perhaps too many. Maeve's silent burden, her dutiful sensitivities, had been in the background, as much as her pale face and big eyes went barely noticed in the monthly maelstrom. In both the ruins and the ward, she was there, while sometimes being something *Not there* At the same time. It was easy not to notice with more pressing violence on his hands. \n\nHe noticed now. His attentiveness could be razor-sharp, and he actually had to soften the edges of it in the way it snapped to her. His instinct was to protect her, as it was to ensure the wellbeing of any of his patients. He assumed her perceivable fragility stirred the same sort of feeling in her companion, albeit in the form of possessive, distrustful jealousy. As suspicious and protective a man as the doctor was, he could almost understand it. But not to the point of hurting her. And she *Had* Been hurt. The wounds on her legs were not minor.\n\n\"There are people that know of him? You have friends, Miss Lefevre. You are beloved in this town.\" His voice was already quiet, but dropped to a hush. \"How is it then that he can be permitted to harm you? Have you told no one else of this?\"\n\nNo recipe of tinctures or tonics or medicines could soothe the soul that appeared raw before him, shrinking into herself, wrapped up in her own arms. The only salve for this kind of pain was gentility. Kindness. And most of all, peace. He couldn't do much for the last part, but he could show her some small kindness. \n\n\"I'm afraid it's always quite cold in here in the morning.\" The partitioned room they occupied was flanked by several storage units. He rose to pry open one of them. Just a glimpse inside showed stacks of white fabric in columns of tidy folds, no doubt for both the cleaning and comfort of patients that came here. One was plucked off the very top and shaken loose before the door of the closet closed the rest away. A simple blanket woven of white-bleached cotton smelled of soap powder and cedarwood once it was settled around her shoulders.\n\nHe heaved a sigh before settling back in the chair, as if he wasn't quite sure how to proceed, which was altogether unusual for him. \"If you please,\" He murmured, leaning back down behind her and nudging her skirt back to a respectable height. There were some ministrations that went on in the nature of cold tincture and bandage and tape, but mostly it was his mind mulling things over while his hands worked, until he had found some resolve and her legs were fully tended. \n\nRising, he gestured for Maeve to sit in the chair, finding an easy enough perch against the edge of the table that he must have done so a thousand times. Where usually there might have been the clipboard and pen brought back up as a barrier of formality, there was only the space between them. \"I hope this question doesn't come as intrusive, Miss Lefevre, but I feel it necessary to ask your meaning when you say that your... Companion is not of our world, and I suppose, a great deal of the nature of things can be understood if one goes back to the beginning. May I ask, how did you meet him?\"\n\n||"
}
] | 605 | 6,176 |
265.076923 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "With the uptick in attacks, Lorelai was putting in the work and then some. She was working overtime; dressing wounds, changing sheets, doping up all her patients to make sure they weren't in pain. It was the best she could do when it seemed like there was a never ending flow of people entering the hospital these days. \n\nShe was grateful for the early morning; she'd been there overnight, and now that the grey morning was coming, she could have a rest and sit, ticking down on paper all the things Doctor Olander would need her to order. They were running low on gauze and she was going to have to check again on how much salve she had left in the cabinet... \n\nWhen the door to the doctor's opened, she felt her stomach drop, only to find Akira Hirano on the other side of the table she was sitting at. Her shoulders went down in relief and she plastered on a tired smile. \"Akira,\" She said, standing up to look more professional. \"I was curious when you'd be droppin' on by, I figured your papa's gettin' low on his medicine, ain't he?\""
},
{
"author": "hawker_hurricane0",
"message": "Once again, the Hirano residence endured the full moon. They were unscathed, but mentally drained. Akira had only a couple of hours of slumber before almost drowning in her own tears. \n\nBriar Ridge sounded like almost a warzone the night before, she could feel as if she was there, despite being in the safety of her own home. \n\nBut she couldn't stay at home. Not when her father tried in vain to hide his own pain. The poor old man, he always was small and frail in comparison to his peers. As the years passed, the more he struggled, and the more he'd try to hide it.\n\nBut Aki was no child anymore. She knew her old man, she could tell when his joints ached, she could hear the sound they'd make especially during winter. She wasted no time in her attempt to return to her routine. Her new 'normalcy'. There was a town to rebuild, there were people who needed help from those who survived.\n\nShe couldn't ignore the smell of blood and gore the moment she set foot on the hospital. The scent was so strong that she wondered how the nurses and doctors could even stand it. She couldn't be as strong as them, as familiar flashes from a few months past rushed back into her mind.\n\nBack in fall, it was her who was bedridden, bloody and... Smiling. She was smiling to her weeping father as he tried to hold her like she was a newborn again. It was her way to reassure him that everything was going to be alright in the end. \n\nWhat a scene the Hirano family caused. Akira sure left an impression as the poor nurses tried their mightiest to keep her in bed. The woman was as stubborn as her old man, and thus, would insist that she needed to return to work in the farm. \n\n_\"My pa needs me! Just let me go_\" She'd repeat. Now Akira remembered those words with shame, as she met with Lorelai again. \n\n\"Long time no see.\" The small woman chuckled.\n\n\"You guess was right. He insisted he'd be fine! That he needed no help! Bah, he can be so silly at times.\" \n\nAki then cleared her throat. She wanted to go straight to the point and not distract Lorelai from her duties. \n\n\"I'm hoping they arrived? If not, I can always come another day. I understand ...The circumstances.\""
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "Lorelai cast a glance over her shoulder, back at the rooms where her current patients lay sleeping. That was good— sleep meant healing, and sound sleep was even better. She slowly turned back to Akira and flashed her a smile as best she could muster in these trying times— what good was a nurse with a sour or down look? She was supposed to invigorate *Hope* And *Healing*... She could save the despair for off the clock. \n\n\"Long time no see indeed, I was startin' to think you were avoidin' me!\" She said with a laugh, shaking her head. \"Though these days, I think some people are plenty tired of seeing my face.\" Lorelai's hum was soft like a bee buzzing, and her voice was as warm and rich as apple pie; Briar Ridge born and raised, this place was her home and she loved serving her home. \n\n\"No, no, they arrived, don't you worry about that,\" She assured her quickly and turned to find the brown paper bag with the medicine. She shuffled about a bit, sucking her teeth in annoyance before she made a noise of victory and drew out the correct package. \n\n\"The circumstances aside,\" She said slowly. \"We've been busy but the Doctor is the real hero, here.\" She said modestly. \"I'm just the one who wipes up the blood and feeds everyone their pills!\" Lorelai waved her hand around. \n\n\"Though... I guess we do a little more with some of our patients,\" She said to Akira and winked. \"Especially when they try to up and run out!\""
},
{
"author": "hawker_hurricane0",
"message": "As quiet as she always was, Akira sat down and waited as Lorelai went to check on her patients. The woman couldn't help her curiosity, and peeked after the nurse left, only hoping that the patients were having a speedy recovery. She wondered how people like Lorelai could live with the weight of life on their shoulders.\n\nIn Aki's eyes, doctors and nurses were amongst the strongest people she could ever meet. They built themselves to save lives, to live with death. The fact that this lady was still smiling was a miracle.\n\n\"Things have been busy back at home.\" She lamented. But surely, Lorelai knew well by then, her father's health had only declined over the years, and she could only do so much. The Hirano moved only five years ago, and while their past was never disclosed to the rest of the townsfolk, anyone who heard of them would figure they had one hell of a trip.\n\n They came from afar. Aki was just a child when the Hirano family sailed to America. They used to be a family of three with a numerous extended family in Japan. Now? They were only two, with no way to contact their relatives overseas.\n\nPerhaps that was for the best in the end, however. Briar Ridge was their sanctuary, and now it needed to be defended. \n\nThat was the reason Akira admired people like Lorelai so much. Those behind the front lines, underrated and yet they were vital for their survival. There was nothing glamorous about cleaning viscera off the floor, with changing diapers and moving patients twice their size who probably puked on them beforehand... Or with dealing with people like her, drugged and demanding to be discharged while half naked and still bleeding.\n\n\"You're so modest.\" The younger woman chuckled, only for her expression to shift into pure shame.\n\nAkira couldn't just run away from the hospital or dig a hole to die from her embarrassment, she could only blush and stammer. Of course Lorelai would remember, she witnessed Aki's antics.\n\n\"Th-Those painkillers were very strong, that was all!\" She said. \"Though... I apologize again that you and the rest of the ladies had to see me like this...\"\n\nAkira then lifted her left hand, and used her index finger to scratch the scar on her cheek. A habit she picked up since September."
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "She was well aware of the Hirano's situation; how Mako's health had been declining, how Akira had been attacked a few months ago, and how scary it must be. Lorelai had a big family, and lots of people to surround her with love and care; if Akira lost her father, who would she have? It made her chest tight just thinking about it, and she bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep her emotions at bay. \n\nThings had been tough in the holler, and she didn't want to make things unnecessarily tense or awkward if she could help it. So she was glad the subject had changed to something a little more lighthearted, like Aki's attempted break from the hospital. \"Of course, of course...\" \n\nLorelai waved her hand dismissively and smiled then, tilting her head. \"It's not every day that you get a patient trying to run out, but it's always a little exciting when it happens.\" She laughed. \"Let's just hope you didn't set any bad examples for some of the others, hm?\" \n\nShe looked over her shoulder again at the sleeping patients before she looked back to the paper bag of medicine. She slid it across the counter, towards Aki. \n\n\"Sorry these took so long to come in,\" She apologized. \"It's been harder and harder these days, with all that's going on...\" She trailed off and grimaced. \"You understand, I'm sure...\""
},
{
"author": "hawker_hurricane0",
"message": "Poor Aki, her face resembled a tomato as she remembered that day. The way she flailed on her bed asking for her father, the nurses holding her back as she almost ripped her bandages, and how could she forget the fact that they had to bathe her twice?\n\nAkira was a mess, but at least she made Lorelai and the rest of the medical team laugh. She liked making people happy.\n\n\"Oh no no.\" She cleared her throat as the medicine was given to her. Clearly the bag was smaller in size than the last few months. She saw it coming however. \n\n\"I understand... And trust me, my father understands as well...\" \n\nAkira then glanced over the patients, feeling a lump on her throat as she smelled a mix of iron and medicine.\n\n\"Is... There anything I can do to help, though?\" Was the first thing that came out of her mouth. \n\n\"I mean, I don't know much about medicine but... If there's anything I can assist you with..\""
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "She smiled oddly for a moment, before it vanished and she plastered on a normal smile. \"Hm? Oh, no, no...\" She waved her hand. \"No, it's completely fine! I've got this all under control...\" In reality, she was incredibly burnt out, but Lorelai didn't ask for help with her job. She sucked it up and persevered, despite the ache in her back and the fact that she could hardly keep her eyes open half the time today. But relying on another person, especially someone who wasn't the doctor or another nurse? Was she so obviously weak? Was there a crack in her professional armor? \n\n\"I'm alright, really,\" She assured Aki, trying to pull her shoulders back and look professional and put together as she could. \"Unless you can get the pharmaceutical companies in the city to send us more medicine posthaste. But that would take a miracle and a half. They don't care about little towns like this, even when we tell them that... Some beast is attacking us. Having to lie and say it's a bobcat or a bear, sure, but... The point still stands.\" Her brows furrowed and she turned to grab something from a cabinet, before her foot caught on the edge of the desk and she went sprawling, face first into the floor. Clumsy Lorelai..."
},
{
"author": "hawker_hurricane0",
"message": "Having her offer to help refused didn't affect Akira. She knew nurses could be stubborn, after all she mentioned she didn't have experience. \n\nAnd now that she pondered about it... Wasn't Lorelai a nurse during the Great War? Aki trusted her judgement, as the well seasoned professional that she was. \n\n\"Hehe... Sadly it'd take me days to even reach the next town.\" The smaller woman giggled only for a bit. This was the dad reality for Briar Ridge, they were small, they were nobodies. \n\nFor the Hirano, being nobodies was a blessing, as they finally found a town that would take them in. But now it proved to be detrimental for those that fell victims to the werewolves attacks. \n\nAkira was about to say her goodbyes to not disturb Lorelai's duties any longer. But destiny worked in various ways, as soon as she opened her mouth to speak, Aki saw the por nurse trip over and meet her face with the floor.\n\n\"Oh dear! Miss Roswell!\" \n\nThe woman was quick to reach out for Lorelai's. One of her callused hands grabbed the other woman by the sleeve, and the other by the shoulder on the opposite side. \n\n\"Are you okay?!\""
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "She wasn't usually so clumsy at work, but maybe it was the lack of sleep and the anxiety of the moons, but she was off her game today, clearly. \n\n\"I'm alright,\" She assured Akira, her cheeks flushed in embarrassment and looking closer to maybe crying than anything. She tried to be so professional at work, she really did. She couldn't get so emotional at work, but... It had been a long day. \n\n\"I'm sorry, I'm just so clumsy,\" She said, sniffling a bit and brushing herself off. \"I think I'm just a little tired is all, that's all it is...\" Lorelai's hands were shaking, and she caught herself on Akira's arms to keep herself stable and upright. \n\n\"How embarrassing!\" She laughed through her embarrassment and wiped her eyes. \"I've never fallen like that at work before, I'm usually more... Put together than this,\" She sniffled. \"I'm sorry, I shouldn't be getting emotional in front of a patient,\" She said softly and turned her face away."
},
{
"author": "hawker_hurricane0",
"message": "Akira may appeared like an airhead, but she was observant to people's behavior. She spotted the way Lorelai's eyes had gotten misty, the way she sniffled... How fake her laughter came out her lips.\n\nShe didn't judge, however, she maintained her solemn expression as she helped her stand back on her feet. Her bad shoulder would still experience waves of dull pain, but the woman was able to still do her work. She was used to carrying her father around.\n\n\"Hey... It's okay.\" Aki whispered. \"I can only imagine what you go through after each full moon.\"\n\nThen, the woman paused for a moment to bit inside her cheek a little. She could only imagine what everyone went through, guilt began to built in once again.\n\n\"Well, I'm not a patient right now. And even if I was... You're allowed to be vulnerable.\""
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "She exhaled in a rush and shook her head once more. \"No, no, you're awfully kind, Miss Hirano, but I can't... I shouldn't.\" She wiped at her wet eyes and inhaled, trying to collect herself properly. \n\n\"Is there anything I can get you?\" She asked, already switching gears desperately to avoid talking about herself. She didn't want to appear weak or fragile; she was strong. She had to tell herself that. \"You have your father's medicine, but what about you? How're your wounds healing up? I know you've been out a while, but...\" She went to pick up some papers from a drawer. \n\n\"Have they fully healed? You know, some of our other patients still come in with problems, so if there's anything I can do for the lasting symptoms... Please, Miss Hirano, let me know.\" She looked up into Akira's eyes now, hoping that the woman would give her *Something* To focus on besides her stumble. \n\nLorelai wasn't well when she was thrown off her usual rhythm. She needed order at work— it's what kept her balanced."
},
{
"author": "hawker_hurricane0",
"message": "Akira watched as Lorelai kept her shield up. How could she blame her? She had never set foot on the battlefield, but she could still remember one of her uncle's faces when she returned from the war with Russia over twenty years ago. She was just a child, but she saw the light in his eyes fade the time he returned home. \n\nBut Lorelai still kept that spark, when if for a little. How strong of a woman she had to be to relive such trauma now in Briar Ridge. \n\nAkira opened her mouth to speak up, but she was met with the nurse's question.\n\n*What about you?*\n\n*' what about me?'* She thought in those moments of split silence as she squinted. *'It doesn't matter what happens to me now.*' \n\nBut Lorelai insisted, how could Akira deny her the chance of distraction?\n\n\"Well, now that you mention it ...\" She sighed, moving her shoulder a bit as she grimaced. \n\n\"It's been healing okay, I can still do everything in my daily life but... My scar has been bothering me a lot lately... The big one I mean.\" \n\nAki's small hand gestured the area that was once most affected, the same where that werewolf almost bit her entire arm off."
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "She was relieved that the conversation had pivoted to focus on something else entirely; even if it was the werewolves. She would take work over her own emotions any day, and she was glad to be able to focus on helping Akira properly. \n\n\"Would you mind?\" She gestured for Akira to follow her out of the main area and into a private examination room. She was glad the patients she had were either sleeping or calm for now, because she was the only nurse in today. With the door shut tight, she looked to Akira now that they were alone. \n\n\"Would you mind removing your shirt for me?\" She asked her. \"I'd like to take a look at your wounds.\" She was already grabbing what she needed; a rag and some alcohol, to clean up the scarred wound and see what might be the issue. \n\n\"I'm hoping it isn't infection,\" She said softly as she waited for Akira. \"But we should still have some antibiotics laying around somewhere. Maybe even some balm to put over it.\" Lorelai was talking aloud, mostly to herself, and to put Aki at ease. \"How long has it been bothering you?\" She asked her curiously. \"You haven't been ignoring it, have you?\""
},
{
"author": "hawker_hurricane0",
"message": "\"Oh, uhm... Sure.\" Aki hesitated a little bit. Going into a private room gave away the idea that she'd have to show her skin, that thought terrified her. \n\nBut the more she thought about it, the more at ease it was. Lorelai was one of the nurses that treated her own wounds when they were still fresh, she saw her at her worst. She saw her try to run away from the hospital.\n\nAnd yet, Lorelai still treated Akira normally. Nurses and doctors were used to this environment. Was there a person more fitting for this? \n\n\"Hopefully not! It doesn't look red or anything...\" Akira said, as she slowly took off her coat and shirt. Her scars were shown in their full glory, and as embarrassing as it was to do so... They looked way better than when she first came to the hospital while bleeding out. \n\n\"I like to think I've been taking good care of it..!\" She giggled, as she gestured the big bite mark on her shoulder. The joint didn't look the same as a healthy one for sure, but it wasn't hot nor tender to the touch. \n\n\"It has been this way since the winter started.. It hurts when I move my arm up, especially when it's quick..\""
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "The nurse took a look at the wound, biting down on her lip as she laid her hands gently on the woman's exposed skin. Her fingertips so barely brushed the nape of her neck, her thumb caressing the skin that had been chewed on. \"Not enflamed...\" She mumbled to herself. \"It doesn't look infected... Maybe it's just healing oddly,\" She mumbled again, taking a step back for a moment to look in one of the cabinets. \n\n\"I assume yer cleaning it? Trying to keep it from gettin' infected...\" She pulled a bottle out of the cabinet and rattled it a moment. \"I'll give ya a few pills; just some antibiotics, in case there's somethin' I ain't seein.\" She told her, putting the pills into another bottle for her to take home. \"Let me see that arm again? Can ya lift yer arm up for me?\" She asked her, directing her to move her arm up and down as demonstration. \n\n\"It's been hard,\" She admitted. \"Tryin' to figure out how t' treat people. Not every day do people come in, gettin' attacked by werewolves. Now, we got half a dozen people layin' round with wounds...\" She sighed deeply."
},
{
"author": "hawker_hurricane0",
"message": "\"O-Of course I cleaned it!\" Akira stammered, doubtful of her own self care habits. She knew she cleaned that wound, especially at the start. Now, how frequent she took care of it _afterwards_, was a mystery. The woman wasn't certain, as she came back to the work in the farm as soon as she began to feel better.\n\nGranted, her body was responding well, she was healing quickly. In her mind, that was a greenlight to continuing her routine. \n\nAlas, now she was paying the price it seemed. She mimicked the nurse's motions and lifted her arm. It all went well until she tried to reach above her head. There it was, that dull pain that felt as if her muscles were being pulled.\n\n\"Owie...\" She let out quietly, lowering her arm slowly by demands of her own body. \n\n\"It's hard, but y'all keep on doing it everyday, even after full moons...\" Akira said as she rubbed her affected shoulder. \n\n\"I even heard you girls came for one of the beasts when it tried to attack a patient. It takes a special kind of strength to work here.\" Akira chuckled.\n\nHow did they do it? How did Lorelai do it, especially after witnessing hell once in the Great War?"
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "She shook her head and lowered Aki's arm down again, her fingers on the woman's arm and shoulder. \"You need to be taking it easier,\" She chastised her softly. \"I know you're wanting to work, but ya know yer only gonna make it harder for yourself.\" She went to grab gauze and ointment, starting to smear the thick paste on the wound and rubbing it in gently with her delicate fingers. \n\n\"It's part of the job— protecting patients, making sure that everyone is safe and healing... Even if it is terrifying,\" She whispered that last part. \"But then again, once you've seen men with their legs blown off from grenades, nothing really feels so scary anymore.\""
},
{
"author": "hawker_hurricane0",
"message": "Taking it easier, something Aki heard from her father a million times. But was there ever a time for breaks in Briar Ridge anymore? Everything was quiet now, but soon enough they'd face the beasts again. Once more the hospital would be littered with injured and maybe casualties, they'd have to rebuild the town again.\n\nAkira frowned thinking about it, her hands tightened on her thigh as the gripped the fabric of her pants, only to loosen it when Lorelai applied the ointment on her scarred and sensitive skin. \n\nShe flinched, not because it hurt, but because it felt *Cold*. Her small legs, which couldn't touch the floor from where she sat at, flailed a little.\n\n\"Ahhh- cold...!\" Aki whimpered, but soon she started to feel relaxed as the unpleasant sensation was soothed by the nurse's fingers. They were soft and gentle, they felt warm. \n\n\"....\" Her attention went to Lorelai's comment about the war, Akira's expression softened while slightly turning to meet her eyes with the other woman's. \n\n\"The war...\" She whispered. \" I've heard similar stories. If you're asking me, the more I heard about them, the more I feel like... That's real horror..\"\n\nWerewolves didn't think at least. They were mad creatures seeking to satisfy their primal hunger. Humans were self aware, yet just as willing to tear each other apart in many ways.\n\n\"I'm grateful to see that you came back home alive and well, Miss Roswell..\""
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "She hesitated when the woman flinched under her touch, but continued on her work as the ointment warmed under her fingertips. She spread it evenly and thick, before she was grabbing the gauze and beginning to wind it steadily around the wound. \n\nShe made brief eye contact with Akira for a moment and her cheeks tinted red before she looked back down at her task. She felt embarrassed being praised, being spoken to like that— but she preserved in her task. \n\n\"I'm just glad to be able to be back and help everyone,\" She said softly, winding the gauze tight to make sure it stayed in place. \"Now... Miss Hirano,\" She said, clearing her throat. \"You really do have to rest if you want your shoulder to heal properly. And make sure you're cleaning it thoroughly. If you need assistance, I can always help with that, and changing out your bandages.\""
},
{
"author": "hawker_hurricane0",
"message": "It was an innocent remark that Aki didn't pay attention, at least not as she said it. She mostly felt her body relax as her scar was being covered by the gauze, taken cared of by gentle, soft hands.\n\n The touch was so soothing that she was humming, turning around to check on the work being done by the nurse. The eye contact immediately sent Akira back into the reality as she quickly turned away, with her face red as a tomato. \n\nThis was just a medical examination, but Aki was also being taken care of by another woman. Any kind of contact with them made her feel weak.\n\n\"Ah? I-I understand! I promise I'll take care of it more.\" She said, trying to focus on her shoulder. At least, the scar wasn't bothering her any longer. \n\n\"Oh, but I'd hate to put even more work on you! Are you sure you're okay with that?\" \n\nAkira knew that if she tried, she'd make a terrible work at changing her bandages. But who else would help her? Her father couldn't do much from his position."
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "\"It's my job,\" Lorelai insisted, finishing up the bandages and helping Aki put her shirt back on properly. She'd met her eyes for that brief moment and saw how flushed her patient became, and she tried not to put too much stock in it. \n\nShe wasn't sure Akira was... The same as her. She highly doubted it, in fact— even if she was a strong woman with a nice voice and all. Lorelai didn't put much thought into things like that since the war... She doubted anyone here in the ridge was quite like her in that way. \n\n\"It's my job,\" She repeated herself, having tripped over her words in her own fluster. \"I'd be delighted to have you back. And besides, I'd rather you be well on your way to recovery than to let it get infected or reopen the wound...\" She pointed out. \"So, please, I'd love to have you back to help change out the bandages.\" She folded her hands in front of herself. \n\n\"Besides... I like the company. Most of the people here are passed out and drugged all to hell.\" She laughed a little behind her hand."
},
{
"author": "hawker_hurricane0",
"message": "Much for Akira's relief, the work on her shoulder was finished and she was able to put her shirt back on. Clothes gave her safety, the bigger they were on her, the better. This way, no one would be able to see her scars. \n\nSure, Lorelai must had seen worse things in the war. But Aki was a woman, and with that came the expectation of being pure and looking as such. That was the reason she even came to hate her own reflection, her scars were a remainder of one of her biggest fears, being broken. \n\n\"That's very kind of you.\" A genuine smile curled up on her lips. Because of the fact that Lorelai had seen hell, she wasn't the kind of person to judge. That thought was enough to put Akira at ease.\n\nIt was part of a nurse's job to face the ugly time and time again. \n\n\"You're starting to sound like my pa.\" Aki laughed. \"But you got a point... If I don't take care of this, I won't be able to do anything when spring comes.\" \n\nHer eyes then glanced over the patients, all of them asleep or medicated enough to at least stay still and resting. Lorelai's job at time sure could be lonely, and while Aki didn't see herself as the right friend to be around... She wanted to help. \n\n\"I'm pretty sure I can come by anytime, then!\" She beamed. \" Maybe I can bring you some lunch that we can both share? I'm sure my pa would be delighted to cook something for you and the rest of the nurses.\""
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "The nurse tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, which had somehow escaped from her tight bun. She flushed in embarrassment and cleared her throat as Akira offered to bring some kind of lunch around for them to share— she hadn't done anything like that in so long. The most she did was eat lunch with the other nurses, and they were often too tired to make much conversation. \n\n\"And you promise you'll keep out of those fields until I say so?\" She asked her, a slight pout on her lips. \"I'll be changing out them bandages, so don't think I won't notice.\" She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow, expectant that Akira followed her strict guidelines. \n\n\"If anything, I'll make the doctor nag you— and you don't want to deal with Doctor Olander.\" She shook her head before a teasing smile came to her lips. \n\n\"I look forward to having you come back round, Miss Hirano,\" She said, a bit shy about the whole thing. \"With or without lunch.\""
},
{
"author": "hawker_hurricane0",
"message": "\"I promise you I'll take plenty of breaks! With you and my pa AND the doctor breathin' down my neck, I got no choice!\"\n\nAkira playfully stuck her tongue out, laughing afterwards as she brought a his finger to the scar on her cheek. This new habit not only helped to hide the now dried scarring, but it also hid the fact that she was blushing. \n\nBut Aki couldn't think of that now. She tried not to, all she was doing was offering a fellow Briar Ridge citizen help in these trying times. \n\nIt was all she could offer these days, her kindness paled in comparison to the destruction that was brought to Briar Ridge. She had the hope that maybe, just maybe, it would one day be enough. \n\nBut Lorelai's response got the woman stammering in her words, nervously fidgeting with the scar on her cheek yet again. \n\n\"That's.. Very kind of you. So long as I'm not interrupting, of course!\" Akira said. It was already uncommon to see the woman outside her home, and it wasn't that she didn't want to go out somewhere that wasn't the speakeasy.\n\nBut she couldn't, she shouldn't. \n\n\"So long as you're okay with it.\""
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "\"I'm more than okay with it, Aki. I wouldn't offer if I didn't mean it,\" She promised her, folding her hands and directing her attention to the cabinet, busying herself with arranging bottles and tins and the like, so as to hide how flustered she was about the whole thing. She needed to be professional at work, she couldn't go around getting flustered or embarrassed! \n\n\"Please come back soon, Miss Hirano,\" She insisted, turning to walk to the front door and pull it open for the woman. \"I've got to work on a few things and I'm prescribing you with rest. So, run on home,\" She said, her eyes on the floor so as to not have to meet Akira's at any cost. \n\n\"And please don't hesitate to come by. I'm here almost every day, except Sundays. But if you need help that day, you can just drop on by my place!\" She insisted."
},
{
"author": "hawker_hurricane0",
"message": "With a sigh escaping from her throat, Aki jumped from the hospital bed where she sat at. She stumbled a little and winced, thanking the fact that Lorelai was too focused on the cabinet. \n\nAki didn't even want to conceive the nurse's reaction if she were to notice how badly her injuries actually extended. The woman expected a the very least a good ear pull. \n\n\"I promise to come back again.\" She said walking to the front door as it opened, also keeping her gaze away from Lorelai.\n\n\"Thank you for your kindness.\" Aki added before walking outside, a small smile curled up on her lips. \n\n\"Thank you for your service in this town.\""
}
] | 262.5 | 6,892 |
206.444444 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Jade knew that even though progress had been made this full moon... Someone was left fighting for their life. Her friend, the anger she felt for the werewolves, the terror she felt at the thought of losing Dimitra. They weren't supposed to be friends but admittedly Jade adored Dimitra, the woman's aura was so beautiful. This wasn't supposed to happen dammit! Dimitra is the one who taught her how to fight for herself, how to shoot the damn gun. \n\nShe shouldn't have been in here, she deserved some place better, she deserved a place with fresh lighting, better food. She felt... Both anger and sadness. She didn't want to see the beautiful skin bandaged with bloody spots, and her curls! God were they doing anything to take care of her. She knew Dimitra didn't need such worries, but Jade couldn't help. Finally she pushed the door open. Seeing a flash of her friend. \n\nShe tried to keep her composure, the bouquet of flowers in her hand now being clutched. She sucked in her breath and held it. Trying to keep calm. She went to the side of her bed... Before she finally spoke up. \"Dimitra?\" She questioned, maybe she didn't want visitors. She lightly set the flowers on the window seal. This place didn't suit her... Not at all."
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She'd had a few visitors; of course, Abel Hughes had stopped in to pray for her and offer his services. A few of her friends around town had dropped in to bring her flowers or their best wishes on her recovery. But she was glad for the pauses in between, where she could sink into slumber and try and sleep off the pain. \n\nThe door opened and she stirred, slowly opening her eyes to take in who exactly was entering her room right now. She adjusted and smiled, sitting up a little more. \"Why if it isn't Miss Jade Grant, as I live and breathe,\" She said softly, adjusting in the bed and wincing. \"You didn't have to come all this way out to see me, I'm not much to look at right now...\" Dimitra gestured down at herself. \n\n\"I promise I'm usually better with a gun,\" She said with a shaky sigh. \"How've things been on the outside?\" She asked. \"I heard the werewolf... Was Sheriff Rowe. I knew to never trust a damn cop.\""
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Jade shook her head with a small saddened laugh as she looked to Dimitra \"Well, did you really think I wasn't gonna come see you?\" She also had another trick up her sleeve, Admittedly she had to sneak into Dimitra's house to get it. She slipped the small flask under the woman's cover. \"Just a little something.\" She sat on the edge of the womans bed \n\n\"Oh hush, you couldn't look bad if you tried to.\" She laughed although she was only masking the worry she felt. \"I hate that you're here though. Are they taking care of you?\" She leaned in, gently tidying the womans untamed curls \"Do I need to bring you meals? Is the food edible? Are they managing your pain?\" Suddenly the older sister in Jade came out, it came from a place of fear. Something connected her to Dimitra and she didn't know what yet but she'll be damned if she lost that connection before she figured out what it was. \n\n\"I know you are better with a gun.\" She reassured her. \"Things have been... Hectic.\" She twisted her ring around her finger. \"We are uh... Having a debate down at the ruins about the mayor too... Its all so, hard to navigate. I wish you were there.\""
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She smiled weakly and squeezed at Jade's hand, laughing as the girl rattled on with her laundry list of concerns. \"I promise,\" She said, giving her a look. \"I promise, they're taking care of me here. But I wouldn't mind something home cooked.\" She closed her eyes a minute before her hand wrapped around the flask out of appreciation. \n\n\"You're a lifesaver, I'll say that.\" She unscrewed it and downed a big swig, sighing in relief at the feeling. \"A debate? About the mayor? Am I missing a revolution?\" She groaned. \"You're kidding! This just isn't fair.\" \n\nShe sighed and let her head drop on her pillow. \"If I was there, I'd put my two cents in... About whatever it is. What is it about, anyway?\" She turned to look at her with a curious eye. \"I could tell you what I want to say and you could tell them for me!\" She sat up. \"I mean, don't I get a say in all this werewolf business? I was ravaged by one of them!\" She pointed out."
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Jade couldn't help but feel like perhaps they weren't taking care of Dimitra, at least not meeting her impeccably high standards when it came to people she loved, however she did just sneak someone alcohol so her moral compass was all sorts of weird \n\nShe laughed as Dimitra gave her thanks for the flask. \"You are missing... A lot I will say. Alma revealed that the mayor was one of the werewolves and Alma wants to kill him, some people want to question him, some people want to kill him, some people want to keep him alive. I am not one for conflict, I say that I stand with whatever Alma wants to do\"\n\nHearing that Dimitra wanted to make a statement, she wanted to find a notepad or something to document otherwise she wouldn't remember, she finally just said screw it and grabbed the doctors clipboard to write on the back of whatever paper seemed less important \"Alright Dimitra Florakis, spill your guts\" She laughed"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She righted herself as much as she possibly could and cleared her throat, wetting her tongue with another swig from the flask. \"Here's my two cents,\" She said, grinning. \n\n\"I say, we kill the bastard,\" She said. \"But! I'll say, if we've got a direct line to the werewolves... Why don't we do a little interrogating beforehand? I'm just saying, it won't hurt to do both,\" She pointed. \"He's the mayor, he's probably the leader of the pack, right?\" She raised an eyebrow. \n\n\"If he decides not to talk, just kill him. I feel like it's a win-win, right? What's the point of trying to have him stand a trial? This isn't a normal circumstance!\" She pointed out."
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Dimitra's smile was a very contagious one, she looked up to the woman, the pencil ready in her hand. She scribbled as fast as she could keeping up with Dimitras words even if she was conflicted herself. She couldn't find the right or wrong. She hadn't thought about Mayor Cooper being the leader. She nodded \"Right but... What if by killing him... We become the monsters themselves?\" She knew Dimitra was a smart woman \n\nAs much as she'd love to blindly follow... Something just didn't feel right about this. It felt as if there were something else they were missing. More to the story, now that one was unmasked, time to unmask another? All of it seemed too convenient\n\nShe wished her grandmother were here, she would ask for guidance. Bianca Grant may have submitted to the rules Jade didn't wish to follow but the woman had never steered her wrong before."
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She tilted her head. \"Sometimes...\" She said slowly. \"You have to get your hands dirty to survive.\" God knows she didn't want to hurt people for the fun of it, but survival was important. \"What makes it any different when the werewolf jumps on top of your loved one and tries to rip their throat out? Just because they're wearing a big furry costume and they take it off in the daytime, doesn't change what they've done,\" She pointed out. \n\n\"As long as they're alive and wandering around Briar Ridge, we're all in danger.\" Dimitra shook her head. \"They're stupid if they think they can just keep on killing us, maiming us, what have you.\""
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Jade felt good talking to Dimitra, she felt relieved. Dimitra was a wise woman much like her grandmother. She set the piece of paper with Dimitras words on them. She leaned in giving the woman a gentle hug \"You gotta get better soon... I hate seeing you like this\" She pulled away with a soft frown. Still keeping her hands on Dimitras biceps\n\n\"I know you won't let some mangy mutt keep you down for long, thats not your style\" She gave a playful wink before motioning to the flask \"Make that last, I am not sure if Arty will like it if I smuggle you more\" She felt a little positive about the situation. \n\nInteraction ended ||"
}
] | 198 | 1,858 |
320.2 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "The full moon had passed rather peacefully for Florian, who had spent its duration in the company of his boyfriend, Freddie, and his parents, tucked away in the small cabin the Lovejoys called home. He'd drawn a portrait of Alfred and Elizabeth, sketched in pencil, he hadn't wanted to add more coal dust into the house than Freddie undoubtedly already dragged in. Just like that, the night turned into day, the sound of early songbirds filled the air, a stark contrast to the terrifying howls that rang out during the night. \n\nHis arms were still unhappy with him when he woke up the day after. He'd had them burning from exertion by the time he arrived back at the estate earlier the previous day, rarely had he traveled so fast. He'd almost broken through the front door such was his need to know if his siblings were safe. If a werewolf wouldn't do it, it seemed Florian Barca would. Those he loved remained unharmed, or so he thought. News of Akira's injuries reached him the following day, she'd lost an arm, and Florian felt his heart sink and settle in his abdomen. _She alive?_ He'd asked, skipping words in haste. _Where?_ Now, for the second time in as many days, he was pushing those well-trained muscles as far as he could.\n\nThere were a thousand things he wanted to say and ask Aki when he parked himself at her uninjured side. _Which one of them did this to you? I swear it will pay for this. Was Mako there? Is he okay? What happened? Are you going to make it? Are you in pain? Please tell me how I can help._ All that came out was a gentle: \"Oh Aki...\""
},
{
"author": "Hirano Akira (Ping Ye Qiu Liang )",
"message": "Akira was never left alone. If it wasn't her father by her side, it was Jade or Mitica, or any other person paying her a visit at the doctor's. It was good for her, she needed the company, being on her own was dangerous as she kept battling her own internal struggle .\n\nShe was spiraling and picking herself up, again and again. Aki knew at that point that being left with her thoughts wasn't going to be productive. \n\nDying wasn't an option, but it felt like the world was telling she should. \n\nWhen Florian came, she was finally able to stay more alert, the sedates in her system didn't make her babble things in Japanese that not even her old man could understand. She was still weak, but she was more alert. \n\n\"Flo...\" A soft whisper came out of her lungs, smiling the best way she could although she only had so much energy for it. \n\n\"Don't feel bad for me.\" She said. \"I'll be fine.\" \n\nWell, now she was an amputee, but she didn't have to think about how she'd do farm work after this. She didn't want to think about anything else."
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "How could he not feel bad for Aki? She'd been attacked, again, and this time they had taken her arm. He knew what it was like to lose a body part, or at least to lose control of it. How he'd mourned a self that would never get to exist again, he still did from time to time. Sure, Aki might be able to get a fake arm, she'd pull through, she was strong. But she wouldn't be the same Aki again. She was a farmer, a job that traditionally required usage of both hands. That had to be something she realized too. \n\n\"I'm sure you will be Aki.\" He said, taking on a supportive tone. \"But I've been where you are, in a way. I know what it's like to lose a part of your body, I can't imagine what it's like to lose it to a werewolf though.\" _Which one of them did this to you..._ It had to be horrific. Nobody deserved to suffer such pain. \"I know you're strong, but you don't have to pretend to be okay if you're not. Lord knows I wasn't when I lost control of my legs.\" Aki wasn't one to show vulnerability, but Florian still wanted to stress that she didn't have to put on a mask around him. He was uniquely positioned to relate to her situation, or so he thought.\n\nIf anything, they should feel bad for the wolf that did this to Aki. It was going to pay. They were _all_ going to pay. This was the last straw for Florian. The monsters had continued to take and take and take in their greedy pursuit to swallow Briar Ridge whole. He'd wanted one wolf dead, now he saw that none of them deserved to live. They'd all inevitably become like that dark brown one, they'd all inevitably rip the skin from this town. Just as his rage had started to settle, it came back and stronger than ever. He wouldn't show Aki, he knew she wasn't on the same page as he was. He bottled it up, ready to be used at a later moment."
},
{
"author": "Hirano Akira (Ping Ye Qiu Liang )",
"message": "To lose something that cannot be replaced, something out of her control. To feel powerless over the situation was an understatement for Akira, for Florian's words hurt in way she couldn't describe. She hated being a burden, she felt guilty for being alive. Her lips curled, her eyes frowned into an expression hard to read. Was it grief? Was it frustration? Anger? Or all of them at the same time?\n\nPerhaps Florian would relate, but Aki had many layers, as her wrath was directed at someone else, it was herself.\n\n\"I'm not okay...\" She admitted, her gaze turning away from her friend. \"I haven't been for a while, Flo...\" \n\nLosing a limb, her indulgence in alcohol and women, her own inner fight to find a reason to get up in the morning. \n\nThe young Barca didn't need to know the baggage she had been carrying all this time. But, how long could Aki keep up her walls before they'd crumble? She didn't have much time, Briar Ridge as a whole couldn't afford it. But there Florian was by her side, she could feel that he was out for blood, he was ready to kill on sight. She wanted to avoid more bloodshed.\n\nIf there was one thing kept Akira sane in that moment, her dream with her mother. Her reassuring nod, her voice. \n\n\"Something tells me we'll put an end to this.\" She said. \"I won't stop fighting, please be assured of that. I don't want to give up just yet... I think you understand that, right?.\""
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "He wanted to be someone Aki could trust, like she had been for him. But he feared he had damaged their relationship. Last time he'd come to comfort her he'd let his anger win. He wouldn't allow that this time. He'd been a shitty friend, even if his anger felt so right. Aki had been distant, she had walls up that previously hadn't been there. She hadn't been okay. Had any of them been okay recently? Had any of them been okay in the past months? Aki just recovered from a mysterious illness and now she was the most recent victim of a werewolf attack. She'd been attacked before, but this, this was something else entirely. He wanted to reach out, to place a hand on her shoulder to comfort her, he hesitated for a second before committing. He gently placed his hand on Aki's good shoulder, squeezing softly. \"I'm sorry Aki.\" What exactly was he sorry for? For his rage? For Aki's lost arm? For the way the town was eating itself? \n\n\"We will. We... We have to.\" He didn't know how much longer the town could keep going the way they were. He didn't know how much longer Briar Ridge could survive without truly living. Sure there were days when life seemed normal; people still had jobs to go to, people still had families to take care of and children to raise, people still got together for dinner, visited one another, had birthday celebrations, but there was an edge to life now. There was an urgency, a pressure that had been growing for months and had reached a point where it was hard to ignore it. People, both cursed and un-cursed, were scrambling for what to do, for ways out, for solutions. Florian was only privy to some of those struggles. And oh how those would grow the following month. \"I hope you're right Aki.\" He sounded unsure. \"I'm not givin' up either.\" He'd lost too much of himself to give up now. \"If there's anythin' I can do to help, just say the word.\""
},
{
"author": "Hirano Akira (Ping Ye Qiu Liang )",
"message": "An apology? Akira gave him a confused look, why was he apologizing? The woman couldn't understand why, if anything, it was her who had to apologize. But she felt she already had done it multiple times, and even then, there would be many to come. \n\nShe understood his anger, it was righteous. Aki felt she couldn't afford to feel that way even if her heart raged over her circumstances. Why did things like this kept happening? Why did it have to be her? Why was this whole town suffering? Why weren't her efforts enough? She wished she could be anger like Florian did, but something within her stopped her.\n\nAt least for now, until Akira could afford to be selfish even if it was for a second, to value her life like the human she was. \n\nA heavy sigh escaped from her lips, dry and in need for some water. \n\n\"This town has given me enough.\" She said. \"But I appreciate it, Flo. You've always been a good friend to me... And I hope it stays that way, you know? That's all I ask from you... \""
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "\"You could stay with us next moon, you and Mako both.\" Florian and Freddie had turned into an us. They'd become nearly inseparable. For the most part, where one went so did the other, it was the mines that stood between them. \"Safety in numbers, I'm sure the Lovejoys would welcome you.\" Time had shown that that wasn't always the case, safehouses had seemingly become a thing of the past. It seemed safety was found in spreading out, wolves could only hit so many places in one night. He couldn't stand the thought of Aki and Mako alone in their home, unable to properly defend themselves from the dangers of the full moon. \n\nHe noticed how dry her lips looked and turned to ask a passing nurse if Aki could get some water. Being a friend meant looking out for each other, meant standing side by side, meant having one another's back. Briar Ridge's lifeblood was found in that support, in the way the town would always look after her own, and how people stuck together through thick and thin. If he looked at his hands, he might see that red under his fingernails, ripped from his birthplace. \"Me too Aki... Me too.\" _I can't lose you._ \n\n\"So what's the plan?\" He asked, trying to be lighthearted in a decidedly dark time. \"Do we find you a real nice lookin' branch and paint it pretty? How 'bout a sword arm?\""
},
{
"author": "Hirano Akira (Ping Ye Qiu Liang )",
"message": "Staying with them in the next moon, that seemed ideal, it was logical. But Akira knew deep down she couldn't.\n\n Before she could reject his offer, Florian was asking for water. Her expression softened as the young man was there to help her with something as simple as getting something to drink. Aki could see the man she knew before the werewolf attacks, gentle and caring, doing something as simple as staying by her side.\n\nThe Florian she knew was still there, and she hoped he wouldn't lose himself as the Full Moons came and went. She knew she only had so much time left. \n\n\"The plan?\" Akira raised an eyebrow, the joking question on itself making the woman laugh.\n\n\"Haha! I _wish_ I had a sword with me! I think I could use that far better than a gun!\" \n\nWhat an interesting thing to muse about, Akira with a sword. She pictured herself in a kimono, haori and hakama, just like the warriors in the past. Her grandmother would tell her many stories about the Boshin war, when she was just a newly married woman trying to survive the waves of change. \n\n\"I mean it could be useful yknow... A detachable blade, I could put many things on it so I can still work in the farm.\" Akira kept laughing.\n\n\"It might work!\""
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "Seeing Aki laugh brought a smile to his face. There was light in all of the darkness that they were experiencing. There was hope to be found yet. He feared that Aki's lack of an answer indicated an unspoken denial of his offer. She had always been one to want to do things on her own, Florian could hardly blame her, safehouses were far from safe and Aki had seemed more than a little bit uncomfortable when he brought up the fact that he was armed and ready last full moon. He just hoped that she would stay safe when the next full moon rolled around. She'd been through enough, maybe fate would take it easy on her once. But fate was not a kind force, and nobody could know how it would twist and turn.\n\n\"Swords are a lot more elegant than guns are, I am sure you would look mighty impressive with one swingin' from your arm,\" He laughed. \"You could put a scythe in there for harvest season.\" The visual of Aki with a toolbox full of attachments swam through his mind. \"I am sure the nurses and doctor, maybe even Noah Owens, could find a way to make that work.\""
},
{
"author": "Hirano Akira (Ping Ye Qiu Liang )",
"message": "A scythe, a hook, a blade to defend herself, an entire tool box. All these options had been laid there for Akira to choose and she was more than stocked to get things started as soon as her body allowed it. How possible it was to get the resources in a town like this would be put into question later, for Aki wished for a distraction. \n\nThis way, the woman could feel like herself once again, even if those moments were fleeting. The same could be same for Florian, she was able to see the friend she first met all those years ago.\n\n\"That is so creative, I haven't even thought of that! We should definitely look into it. \"\n\nSacrifices had to be made every full moon, and Akira was willing to go through it as long as his friends and what little family she had were safe. She longed for life to return to how it used to be. In these moments, it felt like it, Florian was smiling at her, they were talking like in the good old days, she could still see some light in his eyes. \n\nPerhaps that day would come, if her heart could take it. Akira only needed to hang in there for a bit longer.\n\n```In the darkness, in the winding road\nThat's on my side\nOh bring it back, oh bring it down\nIn the rain, in a stormy day\nSunshine is a bit of hope? A whisper in the wind\nSo bring it back\nBring it down\nSo bring it back\nOh, bring back the yesterday```"
}
] | 315 | 3,202 |
428.75 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "And now the pain's different,\nIt still exists, just escapes different\nAnd evades vision, makes the rain different\n[makes the news boring, and my rage distant.](<\n\nShe had not set foot here since the end of January. \n\nToo heart-sick to even cast her eyes upon that doorway in which she had looked to silver in sunlight and understood *Everything*.\n\nMonths had passed. Full moons had shone bright. People had been hurt, their bloodied bodies carried here before dawn had even lifted over the town, to be lovingly and laboriously put back together by well-trained, hard-working hands.\nHow much study did it take, Marianne wondered, before your hands ceased to shake? Before you learned to bite your tongue and persevere in the face of scarlet and bone, regardless of whose body lay beneath your touch, clinging to life in spite of it all? \nHer admiration for the doctors and nurses in Briar Ridge knew no bounds. To rise as they did each morning knowing that the continued collective heartbeat of the town rested in their palms. To not allow the pain and fear passing through the ward's doors to bring them down... They were stronger men and women than she could ever be.\n\nThat was why, a year ago now, she had begun to write to the place. Envelopes containing rosewater-scented handwritten letters alongside neatly folded bills. *'For those who cannot afford the costs of their own care,'* She had written, *'consider their debts settled.'*\nThere had been a conversation, eventually, between Doctor Olander and herself, as the attacks upon the townsfolk mounted again and again. \n*\"I have it covered,\"* Marianne had said. \n\nAnd she had indeed, for a long time, had it covers. The letters ceased, but the payments did not. At least, until February, when in her grief, she had forgotten to send the money, and then a new doctor had come to town to replace the old. She had not yet met Nathaniel Ashworth - had hoped she would have no need to come to know him well.\n\nThe bloodshed had continued on, though, and she had known in her heart that the hospital still needed her. \n\nThat was how she found herself, head bowed low, shoulders wrapped in a blush-coloured shawl, knocking at the door to the place and only hoping someone would be free to answer. She would not keep them long, if she could help it, but she had to make up for her absences. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "Doctor Olander had talked of a *Mysterious benefactor* For their work, but it didn't take a scientist or a medical degree to parse out who in town could afford to *Benefact* Just 'bout anything. Besides, Marianne Wilburn had that distinctive handwriting, and the words were so pretty and the pages smelled like rosewater in such a way... Of course, she wasn't sure Marianne had been trying to hide her identity as much as Doctor Olander didn't want to draw attention to anything aside from the practice. Lorelai hadn't asked questions, and she certainly didn't go hunting down money when it had stop coming. \n\nIt wasn't her place; and she had watched Marianne by Francis Estep's side as he'd faded from this world into the next. She thought it had been hard to watch people die in war, but she couldn't help but think that this was much, much worse. When it was war, you could detach yourself to a degree. They were men who died for their country; they knew what they were getting into. They cried for their mamas on their death beds; cried for their wives, girlfriends, children. All they mighta had was Lorelai in that moment as the light faded from their eyes. It had rattled her. But those men got packed up in wooden boxes and shipped back home, and Lorelai never had to look at their *Grief*. \n\nBut it was unavoidable here. She watched Marianne Wilburn hold the hand of her lover as he died. Watched the procession of Esteps come to say their last goodbyes to their son, brother, cousin, friend. She watched April Abrams identify her husband's body in agonized screams, only to end up on the same table not a month later. \n\nThe knock came before the doors were unlocked, and Lorelai tightened her apron before she scurried to the door. She flipped the lock and popped the door open; she was surprised to see Marianne Wilburn on the other side of the door. \"Miss Wilburn,\" She said, voice real soft. \"To what do we owe the pleasure?\" She stepped aside, allowing her entrance."
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "Marianne couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief when it was Lorelai who answered the door, rather than the good doctor himself. To have a familiar face to come to was such a blessing, and *What* A woman Lorelai Roswell was. It was difficult not to feel immediately at peace in her company, despite the aura that hung around the hospital, despite the awful memories that crept into the edges of her thoughts as she stepped over the threshold. \n\n\"Lorelai, it's good to see you again,\" She greeted quietly, mustering up a smile for the nurse. \"I'm sure you're real busy, so I'll be sure not take so much of your time. I only thought I might come by and discuss a matter or two. Something... Perhaps sensitive, so if there's somewhere we could be in private for a moment? Though, don't fret - I'm quite well and in no need of your professional services, so to speak. Only a talk.\" \n\nHer words were a little clumsier than she might have liked them to be, but she got her point across well enough. She looked around as she spoke - the ward seemed blissfully quiet, with only a few beds having curtains drawn around them, and the low buzz of voices too few and too soft to make out at a distance. That had to be good - to have the place bustling and crowded with the wounded and their families was never a positive sign. \n\n\"You see - I'm sure Doctor Olander made you aware of my, *Ah*, arrangement, with him, regarding... Well, regarding a lot of things. And I fear I have been failing to keep up my half of what was agreed, lately, and I should like to resume business as it were before.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "She shut the door behind Marianne as she entered the building; she really hadn't seen the woman come around since... Well, Francis, and she couldn't blame her a bit. She was sure merely stepping foot inside had conjured up some rather unsavory memories. Lorelai was perfectly suited to pushing those kinds of things away at this point in her life, but not everyone was. Not everyone was equipped to handle such tragedy, day in and day out. She'd grown used to it - though, admittedly, there were things lately that seemed to want to glue themselves to the back of her eyelids. \n\nBlack blood. Ripped flesh. \n\n\"You know, it ain't like you was obligated to it,\" She told the woman, folding her hands. \"And don't feel too bad 'bout it, neither. I mean, we been doin' alright.\" Lorelai smiled, her hands squeezing together. \"Though admittedly, if yer wanting to start back up with the business of it all, we would certainly appreciate it. Things have been gettin'...Strained, as of late.\" They couldn't keep up their stock of bandages. They were running out of rubbing alcohol and iodine like it was a pitcher of water on a hot day. Even the ability to get any semblance of clean sheets... Well, things had been hard. \n\n\"Come, sit,\" She gestured off to the private office that Nathaniel used. He wasn't in at the moment, but it was a private place for them to talk, and she knew he wouldn't care much if they commandeered it for the moment. She shut the door behind them and took a seat in one of the chairs. \"How have you been, Miss Wilburn?\" She asked her. \"Holdin' up alright, I hope?\""
}
] | 413.5 | 1,715 |
249 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "Drinking was becoming more normal for Abel, which was not something that he liked. He knew it was gluttounous and sinful, but when he had seen what that Wolf had done to Dimitra, he couldn't help it. After taking her to the doctor with the other's, he had returned home to find himself deep into a bottle that his brother had. \n\nHe understood it more now, drowning the horrors of life. Nothing had quite effected him like these wolves, and nothing more than now. How was he to pretend that everything was okay now? How was he to make himself go on with his day to day life when the people he loved were being attacked. \n\nHe heard one of them was killed, and thank God they were. He heard it had turned into the Sheriff Noah Rowe, and that everyone had been in horror when it had done so. The idea that these wolves were not just brought upon by sin, but were the sinners made his stomach churn. He had never wshed death upon a human being, it was something he thought was wrong to the core, despite the sins of the person but now he wasn't so sure. \n\nWhat if Dimitra died? Struggling for her life now, what if she didn't make it? Would he wish them dead then? He figured he would because even now he found himself wondering if he cared if the beasts were people at all, if they were capable of hurting her like this. \n\nAs soon as he was allowed, he made his way to the doctor's, moving quickly through the space, bible in hand to make his way through the doctor's until he came across her room. He paused for a moment and knocked, though he doubted she was awake, and sat beside her bed. He put the bible to the side, to give his own prayers, head bowed as he waited for some sign that she was going to be okay though he was unsure he would get one. \n\nHe prayed silently, he prayed out loud, he mumbled to himself, he chewed his nails, he watched her, he looked around anywhere but at her, and waited, and waited, and waited, as long as it took to know she was still here, he would wait."
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She laid there in bed for what felt like days. In reality, it must've only been a day or so, but everything hurt. Everything felt... Achey. Sore. She could barely breathe without an ache in her chest and her cheek felt painful every time she spoke. The scar stretched and distorted with each movement when she tried, so for once in her life, she kept quiet. \n\nSleeping was hard but she tried to do it often. So when she slowly woke, she caught sight of Abel's bowed head, clutching that book and looking like he might come out of his skin at any moment. She watched him through her lashes a moment before Dimitra's shaky hand reached out and touched the crown of his head. \n\n\"Don't look so sad,\" She said, chuckling and wincing. \"I'm not dead yet, after all.\" She opened her eyes more and managed a small smile despite the pain. \"You know, despite all that talk about sin, I'd say God was pretty happy to see me knocking on Heaven's gate before he sent me back down here,\" She managed a laugh and played with the end of his hair. \n\n\"Did they get that son of a bitch?\""
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "Abel could hear his own heart beat in his ears as he kept his head bowed, mumbling a prayer pretty constantly. He figured, he had enough communication with God that if he just asked hard enough, if he prayed hard enough he would listen. \n\nWhen he felt a hand on his head, and a voice speak up, he was quick to look up. He visibly relaxed a bit, the bible almost dropping from his hands, before he set it to the side and quickly leaned forward to grab the hand that toyed with the end of his hair. \"Dimitra..\" Was all he got out at first, his mouth feeling dry as he swallowed in an attempt to speak again. \n\n\"Well..\" He said trying to muster up any ability to joke, though he barely had any. \"You're a sight for sore eyes, so may have been that.\" He said with a swallow. He took in a deep breath and shook his head. \n\n\"No.. They got another one though. They're human. It was Sherriff Rowe.\" He said taking in a shakey breath. \"It's.. How are you feeling?\""
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "It took her a moment to process exactly what Abel had said; the werewolf was Sheriff Noah Rowe? \n\n\"I knew to never trust a cop,\" She said softly, shaking her head and squeezing his hand. \"It's really embarrassing, after I told you I could slip away from those beasts like it was nothing,\" She laughed weakly and brushed her thumb across his fingers idly as she thought. Dimitra wasn't one to get emotional in front of others when it came to sadness, but she also couldn't help it that she was easily readable. She was in pain, the sadness flowing freely as she laid there. \n\n\"In pain,\" She admitted. \"I really thought I was dead there. If it wasn't for Mitica, I'd probably be dead,\" She said, looking down at all the bandages that were wrapped tightly around her wounds. \"Abel, I...\" \n\nA couple tears dappled the corners of her eyes. \"I lost of the earrings you got me,\" She gestured to her ear, where only one hung now and the other was gone. It had ripped through her earlobe, which was now sutured up. \"I'm sorry,\" She gave a weak sniff. \"I know it's stupid but those meant a lot to me and now...\" She shrugged her shoulders. \n\n\"One of 'em is gone.\""
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "He shook his head, \"It's not.. It's not embarassing..\" He said taking in a deep breath. \"You were much braver than I would have been. I'm still impressed with you if that matters..\" He said as he looked over at her, and then away. It was hard to see her like this, and he imagined it was much harder for her to be like this. He knew she was wild, she was not the type to take kindly to resting, but he hoped she would take her time to heal. \n\nHe nodded, \"I'm sure.\" He said as he sighed, \"I was worried you were too, I.. I came as soon as I was allowed to be here, I was so worried you would..\" He took in a deep breath. \"I was worried.. I'm glad for him, and I'm glad you're okay..\" He said running a hand through his hair and moving his chair closer to him. \n\nHe arched a brow as she spoke, before he shook his head. \"I will look for it, I'm sure we can find it. If not.. We can turn that one..\" He said giving it a little touch. \"Into a necklace.\" He said with a nod. \"I think that would be nice.. The earring is the last of your worries now.\"\n\nHe cleared his throat, \"Where are you planning on staying when you leave the hospital?\""
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She seemed placated by his words, her eyes fluttering halfway shut as she looked at him. \"At... Home, I guess?\" She shrugged a shoulder and winced. \"I didn't give it much thought,\" Dimitra admitted. As much as she collected friends like pretty stones, she wasn't sure she had any particular *Close* Friends she could rely on. Alma was a good business friend, but her plate was full. Carina wasn't the caretaker type by any means... \n\n\"Are you offering?\" She asked him, halfway joking as she let her head rest back on the pillow. She'd never felt so pathetic, laying there in that bed. He felt sorry for her, and she hated that. \n\n\"Are you going to change my bandages and make me soup like a good friend?\" She teased."
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "He hated the idea of her staying alone, of her tired and in pain, powering through to do what she needed to do, to take care of herself, alone as she usually was. When she asked if he was offering, he shifted a bit in his seat and glanced over at her, and then to the wall. \n\nHe smiled a bit at the teasing and took a deep breath in, and shook his head. \"If you would let me..\" He said running a hand through his hair and glancing back at her again. \"I mean.. I would like to.. I worry about you..\" He said arching a brow. \n\n\"You could stay in my home, I have an extra room, I can bring my bed from the church and..\" He took in a deep breath, \"You could sleep there, my brother won't bother you.. He mostly just sleeps or drinks. I could take care of you, help you.\""
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "\"You don't need to worry about little old me, Abel Hughes,\" She mumbled so softly, head tilting to the side as she watched him. \"I couldn't ask that of you,\" Dimitra managed after a second. \n\n\"You have a church and a congregation, you don't have the time...\" She reminded him. \"To be my nurse, at my side, all the days it'll take me to heal...\" It would take months; she couldn't possibly ask him to do that. \n\n\"Besides,\" She said, managing a laugh before she winced again. \"What would they think, an unmarried woman residing in your home?\" She joked, eyes closing slowly as she tried not to wince in pain again."
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "He shook his head with a small frown, \"That's enough, I have time. I have help, my assistant has been itching to preach. He would be happy to do it. And I'd be happy to take care of you..\" He said crossing his arms over his chest. \"It's my duty, not only as a spiritual leader, but.. As your friend.\" \n\nHe took in a deep breath, and looked her over, noting how much pain she must have felt. \"Honestly? I don't care what they would think. I know that sounds odd coming from me, but I mean it. I don't. I'm not saying you need help constantly, I'm not saying I'll do everything for you, but you shouldn't be on your own.\" \n\nHe arched a brow. \"I insist. It's happening, I'm moving the stuff in tomorrow, and that's that.\" He said shaking his head, \"This isn't something you should have to face alone.\" He ran a hand through his hair, before taking her hand in his. \n\n\"I want to help you. Please.\""
}
] | 230 | 2,241 |
280.375 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Jade had paced the floor back and forth the morning she got home from the cage. It was... A crazy night. She wondered how Akira was holding up. She didn't know that someone had left her bloody on her doorstep. She waited... And waited until her nerves got the best of her and she went to the Hirano residence. Mako had told her with a weary gaze. **Aki has been hurt** \n\nThe rest of it was a blur, Jade didn't stop and she wouldn't. She helped Mako before going to the doctor, she helped him after coming home from the doctor. Once he was settled for the night and the house was clean, she went back to the doctor to sleep. Akira had lost so much blood. It was caked onto her clothing, her face. She was missing an arm. Jade tried not to micromanage the nurses too much, lord knows they were short-handed and it was crazy after the full moons. \n\nYet, Jade couldn't help but feel some sense of grief... Akira was just in her sights before the moon, she was healthy, healing... Now she had so much more to heal. She had to adapt. Jade watched the way her chest rose and fell at a steady pace. She was still alive, just hadn't woke up yet. Jade eventually got so tired of looking at the blood, she asked the nurses for a wet washcloth, Jade sat carefully on the side of the bed, she gently held Akira's face as she wiped the blood gently from her skin. She was starting to see Aki again, the way she had last seen her, smiling. \n\nJade was gentle, leaning in close so she could take her time."
},
{
"author": "Hirano Akira (Ping Ye Qiu Liang )",
"message": "A blur, that was all that it was for Aki ever since she had been dragged by the mysterious individual. She could recall screaming and wailing, surely they came from her father. She recalled the pain, how everything felt so, so cold. \n\nShe saw her mother in her dreams, her face distorted like before, but her voice was clear. Their small conversation ended with the answer she had been looking for god knows how long. Aki couldn't remember, she had no energy for it. In the midst of all the chaos and horror, wall she wanted was silence. \n\nAs bloody and mangled as she was, as little dignity she had given how her clothes were torn to ribbons, Akira fell unconscious, her deep slumber continued even after she was out the wood, it was only a matter of time for her time to wake up, expecting to see her exhausted father's gaze next to her.\n\nShe felt a warm, soaked cloth on her face and shoulders, and opened her eyes. This wasn't her father. \n\n\"...Jade...?\" Akira said in a faint whisper, too weak to speak louder.\n\nRight, they promised they'd see each other after every full moon. Now there she was, deformed and bloody, barely alive.\n\n\"You're... You're okay...\" She managed to say, paying no attention to the pain on her missing limb, as if fit was _still there_. \n\n\"Ah... I'm glad...\""
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Jade smiled at Akira as she looked at her, the soft pools of brown staring into her own. She was just happy that Akira was okay, well... Somewhat. She was happy the woman was alive, though she found herself tearing up when Aki commented on how she was untouched. Jade had failed to protect another loved one. She let out a pitiful laugh as she wiped the blood from her face \"I am fine, love\" She shook her head \"Dammit\" She scolded herself for crying, pulling away briefly to wipe her eyes \n\n\"I should have been with you, I should've made you come to the cage\" She started to wipe the woman's face again, making sure she touched Akiras face gently. \"You shouldn't be in this bed...\" Everyone she ever touched seemed to get hurt. Arthur, Dimitra, Akira... She began to wonder if she was any better than the beasts that did that to them. \n\nAlthough, she tried to put those thoughts out of her mind. She had been here for days waiting for the woman to wake up and she didn't need to waste it balling her eyes out. \"I'll tell Mr. Hirano you woke up when I go back over there in the morning\" She sniffled, the aftermath of her calming down. \"We've both been worried sick.\""
},
{
"author": "Hirano Akira (Ping Ye Qiu Liang )",
"message": "\"Love...?\" Akira mumbled, not knowing how to react to Jade's gentle words. She shook her head a little, only slightly as her body protested in pain even with the movement of her fingers. \n\n\"No no, it's fine... It's fine..\" She said, too weak to keep begging, though she wished she could tell the other woman to not cry for her. She was unworthy of her tears. \n\n\"Please, don't worry about me.\"\n\nA darker side creeped in to agree with Jade's words, as it briefly whispered into herself that yes, Akira wasn't supposed to be on this bed.\n\nShe was supposed to be dead and forgotten. \n\nBut Akira pushed the thought away. _Not yet_, she told herself. _Not yet._\n\nMustering what little strength she had due to the blood loss, Aki made an attempt to lift her arm up, searching for Jade's face as trembling fingers tried to clean her face. \n\n\"I'm sorry for worrying you all. I don't want to cause you any pain. None of it.\""
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Jade suddenly felt shy, as if she shouldn't have addressed Akira by such an affectionate name. She shook her head \"Aki, I am always gonna worry about you.\" She continued to wipe the blood, Akiras face almost completely clean. She could finally see Aki's soft complexion. \"You don't need to apologize. Hush\" She scolded. Akira was being silly, none of this was her fault. \n\nJade moved from Akira's hospital bed and put the bloodied rage on the table. \"Do you want me to fluff your pillow?\" She questioned \"Get you some water? Are you hungry?\" This was Jade's way of trying to take care of her. It was Jade's turn to take care of Aki. She had already dried so many tears, held her. Jade sat back down on the bed at her side, she noticed how Aki's hair was down, she had never seen it that way. \"Do you want me to tie your hair up for you?\" \n\nJade thankfully had her own hair tied up that day, She carefully pulled the ribbon from her hair, letting the untamed waves fall to her shoulders, she held up the now untied ribbon \"It's not much but it'll do the trick right?\" She moved to sit on her knees so she could lean over Aki, carefully tying her hair up. They were in quite an odd position."
},
{
"author": "Hirano Akira (Ping Ye Qiu Liang )",
"message": "\"Well... I...Uh...\" \n\nAll the sudden Jade was offering to be her caretaker, willing to accommodate Akira in any way she could, even to the point of fluffing her pillow! \n\nAki was overwhelmed, both physically and emotionally. But at the very least she wasn't alone with her thoughts. \n\n\"You're too kind.\" She said so quietly. She wasn't hungry, she wasn't thirsty, she only needed rest. \n\n\n\"Okay maybe I can have my hair tied up... Thank you..\" Akira let out a quiet, weakened chuckle. Slowly, and with help, she moved her body upwards slightly without fully sitting up, Gods knew she needed to be held the moment. \n\nIn silence, she let Jade tie up her rebellious brown locks into the ponytail that was so characteristic of her. Though the position the two were in didn't go unnoticed.\n\n If only her body wasn't so exhausted, Aki would be flailing and blushing where she stood.\n\nBut she didn't say anything, instead she shut her eyes to avoid looking at certain areas, that would've been otherwise disrespectful to bear witness. \n\n\"It's... All good.\" She said a bit nervous. \"I appreciate your willingness to help.\""
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Jade felt so sad for Akira, the way she was so beaten up. She couldn't seem to catch a break from the full moons which seemingly always left her with a new scar. She moved Aki's bangs behind her ear. \"There we go, we can see your pretty face now\" Her hand gently rubbed Akira's cheek. \n\nPerhaps what she did next would be odd. She gently moved her hand to Akira's chest. She needed to feel the woman's pulse before she would accept that everything was okay. She felt the soft pulse of her heart against her hand. She closed her eyes fully focusing on it. Before she admitted something. \n\n\"I was so scared that you weren't going to wake up, I didn't want to touch you at first but now...\" She feared if she had touched Aki while she slept she would break her, she broke everything else that she touched. \n\n\"You can't scare me like that ever again\" She scolded - although knowing that it wasn't her fault. She leaned over, wrapping her arms around Aki's shoulders, her head burrowing into the woman's neck. This was the first tear that Jade had allowed herself to shed. \"I don't want to live in a world without you in it\""
},
{
"author": "Hirano Akira (Ping Ye Qiu Liang )",
"message": "` tw for sexist and ableist language`\n\n\"Pretty...?\"\n\nPretty, her? Akira didn't believe those words at first. For a woman like her had no place in the world. She was now not only queer, but deformed in the eyes of many. Someone who was best kept unseen, to be pitied. \n\nIf there was something she knew that the East and the West valued in women, it was purity and beauty, two things Aki lacked by how much her body had been destroyed. Even if she would prefer if men never looked at her, Akira felt she lost her value. \n\nBut Jade was there, calling her pretty, feeling her heartbeat, cleaning the dry blood of her skin, crying on her shoulder as she hugged her, relieved to see her alive.\n\nAkira couldn't hold her own tears, just when she thought she shed enough of them in the last few months. Her heart was still beating alright, now more than ever with the woman's arms around her.\n\n\"Heh... Sorry for worrying you..\" She sniffled, cursing herself for not being able to return the hug due to her weakened state. \n\nJade didn't want to live in a world without her. Akira didn't know what to say to that, for she was so close to leave it so many times. \n\n\"I'm sorry, Jade. I wish i could stop worrying you..\""
}
] | 281 | 2,243 |
1,127.666667 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "`Let the people who love you, love you on my behalf til I can return to love you all on my own,` Freddie had written to him. Olivia had held him, his big sister had seen him for what he was in that moment; a terrified boy in need of his parents. The Cooper parents, both William and Miriam, had always been there for the Barca three. Barca two, now... _I'm so sorry Liv..._ Miriam Cooper was there now, for both of them. Florian crying in her arms, stumbling over his words as he told her everything that had happened. Freddie's plan, Valerian's leaving, the promise him and Valerian had made to take revenge, a promise he regretted now that it had caused such harm to the very people who made it. How it was all his fault, how he wished he could undo it all. He wanted to rewind time to a point where it hadn't been too late yet. \n\nHe had opened a letter not meant for him, one addressed to Alma. He had to know what it said, Florian was clinging onto every tiny thing of Freddie's that he had left. Every word that could tell him where his love had gone, details of the plan he hadn't shared with Florian out of some drive to protect him. _Anything_ that could aid in helping find Freddie. `If you find me and I'm gone, then I hope I went out fighting.` Alive, he was alive, he had to be, he had to be. He had to be...\n\nMiriam Cooper had served both Olivia and him a warm breakfast and tea, Florian had been unable to get himself to eat much, but he wouldn't let her efforts to feed him go in vain. He had to eat, he needed energy if he was going to go through with the horrible plan forming in his head. He was going out into those woods, somehow. Scream at the rocks and trees to give him his love back. Beg the creeks and ferns to release their hold on the other half of his heart. Demand the mountains and earth below let go of Freddie, to bring him back home where he belonged. Bring him back into Florian's waiting arms.\n_ _\n\nMiriam told him there was still hope, that Freddie might still be alive. He nodded. \"He, he's a resourceful man, he knows those woods, he told me he did.\" She reminded him of Francis, who was found, that the sooner he left, the better. His mind spun. Francis, who was found ripped open. _Freddie screaming as claws tore into him._ Francis, who was dead now. _That woman's voice._ Francis, who didn't make it. _Violet!_ `If you find me and I'm gone, then I hope I went out fighting.` \"He cain't be like Francis,\" He said with a shaking voice. \"Francis ain't alive no more Miss Cooper.\" Florian, who used to see light in the dark, the best in everyone, was now struggling to see anything but darkness. \"But you're right, we gotta find him,\" He said, wiping the tears from his cheeks. \"I'm goin'ta find him, I reckon I can ask Alma and the Coalition for help,\" He stated. \"Just won't tell 'em about Valerian, not yet.\" If he didn't say those words aloud again _Valerian is a werewolf_ then maybe they wouldn't feel so true. Maybe he would still be back, maybe he wouldn't be a monster. \"You'll keep it secret, right?\" She had done so for William, she would do so for Valerian. \n\nOlivia had left to fetch something from the kitchen. \"If I don't come back, look after for me, she ain't deservin' of none of this pain,\" He asked. \"She's strong, and I'll try my damnest to make it home again, I promise, but I need ta know she won't be alone if I fail.\" A promise was made there, unbeknownst to his sister. The same promise had been made by Charlie Cooper a few months back, regarding the hypothetical disappearance of the eldest Barca brother. Coopers and Barcas, forever connected, no matter what.\n_ _\n\nHe needed to find Alma, needed to give her the letter, he needed the Coalition's help if he was going to bring Freddie home. She was at the hospital, Rhett had been attacked, and it was _bad._ \"Alma?\" He asked, trying his hardest to keep his voice steady. He'd cried enough, he needed to stay strong for Freddie now. `Tell Florian I love him and not to give up.` His tears wouldn't bring him home, Miriam was right, he had to _do_ instead of think, instead of spiral. \"I have a letter, it's from Freddie,\" His voice wavered when he spoke his lover's name. \"I need your help. We both do.\" He didn't trust himself not to start crying again, better to let that letter do the talking for him. He held it out to her, his face and the weakness of his voice should tell her enough. Something was horribly wrong, and he'd been crying."
},
{
"author": "Alma Cooper",
"message": "Alma never wanted to be back here. \n\nShe never, ever, ever wanted to be back here. \n\nIf she never heard the voices of Dr. Ashworth or Nurse Roswell again, she'd die a happy woman. \n\nBut here she was on the tiled floor again, her heart broken in so many ways that she didn't even know how to begin to piece them back together. \n\nThey had to cut his hair. \n\nThere had been so many times in the past few months where Alma had made a show of strength so resolute that she might as well have killed herself in the act. She'd learned how to set her jaw just right after bein' punched in the fact. She'd learned how to twist her words with enough venom to strike fear. She'd learned how to keep her gun hand steady as it pointed at the head of someone she cared about. She'd learned to be something and someone so awful that those moments weren't hers anymore. They were done by a woman who shared her name and shared her face, but not her heart. \n\nThat belonged to Rhett. She placed it in his hands every time she walked out that door to commit her most awful of sins. His hands kept it warm and his laughter kept it beating. She could be brave in this world because she could be gentle in front of him. \n_ _\n\nShe shouldn't have ever left his side. The first moon they ever allowed themselves to be separated since the fall. It was her fault for choosing to guard Shady instead. Her fault for letting him place that extra silver bullet in her hands with a kiss to her temple instead of staying there and using it on that wolf when it attacked. Her fault for ever letting him get involved with Akira Hirano's stupid ritual. It was all her fault. \n\nShady'd done what he could to sweep up the broken pieces of her. He was the only thing keeping her sanity in place. Ironic, wasn't it? \n\nFlorian Barca found her sitting on the cold, tiled floor still wearing the same dress she'd worn the day before. She still hadn't dried off completely, but someone'd shown her a bit of kindness and put a towel around her shoulders. Her long, black hair was undone and hung around her like an early funeral shawl, falling to the floor around her. Her arms were wrapped around her knees and her face was buried in them, but her shoulders weren't shaking. She'd already cried plenty. \n\nHis aunts were in there. She wasn't sure where Shady was. Probably findin' somethin' to eat or catchin' a wink of sleep in the backseat of his jalopy. There were so many people in and out of the ward that morning that needed chairs. Alma didn't want one. That meant taking one step further away from Rhett than she needed to. Although she knew Linda and Bonnie saw her as their own flesh and blood by now, she let them have their time with their kin. Respected and acknowledged. So, Alma was alone when Florian's voice cut through the soft murmurs drifting through echoing rooms around them. \n_ _\n\nThe face he saw was not the Coalition Leader's. It was a broken woman at the end of her rope. She didn't have a thing left to give him. Still, she turned. Found it in herself to lift her head from her quicksand of mourning to look at the man she would've quickly called friend before this Hell broke loose. \n\n*\"I have a letter, it's from Freddie. I need your help. We both do.\"*\n\nAlma caught the way Florian's voice trembled on Freddie's name and a spark of understanding entered her eyes. A lover in need. Florian had been crying, too. She could see it in the way her pain was reflected in his own eyes. Her hand uncoiled from around her knees and slipped the outstretched letter from his grasp wordlessly. She brought the letter down to her knees and delicately pulled it open. \n\n*This letter making its way to your hand means I ain't come back after the full moon. *\n\nOh, no. No, no, no, no, no. \n\n\"Freddie,\" She ended her silence with a broken whisper of his name. One hand came to her lips in shock while the other clung to the paper, her big brown eyes scanning faster and faster and fas—\n\n***Kill 'em all if it comes to it.***\n_ _\n\nAlma Cooper thought she was going to throw up. She dropped the letter like it'd burnt her as bad as a silver bullet and looked away. She couldn't bear the sight of Florian. Anything but Florian. She wasn't strong enough for this. She couldn't do this. She couldn't! She-! \n\nA nurse slipped out from one of the rooms, prompting Alma to look back at her lap before they could see the horror on her face. *Freddie Lovejoy was dead.* How could she possibly be entrusted with this? Why her? Why did she ever have to let responsibility fall upon her shoulders? She was such a nervous creature. She should have faded into the background of the Coalition after it was formed. She wasn't built to be a leader. She wasn't built to be a weapon. \n\nSlowly, as if moving too quickly might make her fall apart at the seams, Alma picked the letter back up before it could be stepped on. She brushed it off with shaky fingertips and folded it back nice and neat, following the same lines Freddie's had once crossed. Then she slipped it back into its envelope.\n\n\"He said... He-He said he loves you,\" She whispered, her voice just barely audible over the din and panic around them. \"He said... Said not to give up. A-And that you ain't allowed to g-go after revenge.\"\n\nThose words tasted like bile. She knew that she would kill every single wolf if the doctor hadn't been able to save Rhett. Justice would be the only word that mattered. There would be no cure, no peace, no patience. Only blood. \n\nThen Alma Cooper proved herself to be Miriam Cooper's daughter. She got up on her knees and wound her arms around a Barca. \"I-I am so sorry, Florian,\" She pressed her face against his shoulder, trembling slightly as she tried to offer what little strength she had left to him. Her last inch could go to him."
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "Alma had that same broken look on her face. A woman he once saw as a sister, theirs was now a friendship weakened by jagged claws and the coal-stained actions of brothers. Valerian had called her a witch (he'd meant to say bitch, but Olivia had been there to hear it). Florian hadn't defended her in his undying loyalty to his brother. He had seen her as too forgiving of the werewolves, of being blinded by the deceitful whispers of Shady and that blasted cure. And now? Now he wished he could take those words back. \n\n_He said he loves you._ Look where that love had gotten him. Attacked by a werewolf and lost in a cave with that voice, that horrible voice. And yet, both of them drew strength from that love. It was a force so strong in both men that it had created an invisible, unbreakable string between them. A string that would remain even when they were separated by miles of woods and mountains, ~~or death.~~\n\n\"I was so blind, we both were. I don't want _revenge,_\" He said, his voice breaking on that now bitter-tasting word. \"I just wan'em back,\" He said softly, stumbling over his words and unable to hold his tears back any longer as Alma embraced him. _I want them back..._ Her words sounded almost like condolences. Freddie wasn't dead. He couldn't be. No! No. No... \"He ain't dead, he's still out there in those caves,\" He insisted, as if even entertaining the thought would lead to the death of his lover. \"I know where he went. I-I could lead people there, if there's folks who's willin' to take me with them.\" He wasn't staying behind this time. They could try stopping him, and they would fail.\n_ _\n\nHe wanted Freddie back. He wanted his brother back. He wanted to rip that vile hatred from his veins and hurl it into a fire. Revenge could have killed Valerian. Revenge might still kill Freddie. ~~Revenge may have killed him already.~~ Revenge had killed the kindness in Florian, and Florian in turn killed it in Freddie. Vengeance was an empty promise he wanted nothing to do with anymore. `Kill 'em all if it comes to it.` He had more than enough blood on his hands already, even if he never did pull that trigger. He had been part of the reason for Valerian and Freddie's fingers squeezing those vengeful triggers and sending silver into their neighbors. Multiple times. That blood was on Florian's hands too. It hadn't been revenge they wanted, it was safety, and they foolishly thought that that could be obtained through payback and an endless loop of bullets and death. How wrong they were.\n\n\"Alma, I made a mistake. I was wrong about all of it,\" He admitted. \"I can't do it no more, I can't hurt them. These people, they're our friends, they're family.\" He couldn't tell her about Valerian, even if he really, _really_ wanted to. She would tell the Coalition and he still needed their help. Freddie still needed their help. He knew how people felt about his brother, even if he had turned his back on S&C. Even if he had been trying to make amends. He feared that if people found out his brother had been infected, it would push them even further from him and that they wouldn't want to help him anymore. William Cooper had been shot without a trial and April had been shot during the full moon. Florian couldn't bear thinking about Valerian joining those bullet-riddled few who were open about being cursed. _Aki, was Aki okay?_ \n\n\"What are we doin'?\"\n\n_What have we done?_\n_ _\n\nHe'd seen Alma change, turned from a shy withdrawn person who would never wish harm on anyone into the leader of the Coalition; someone who took control, who called for wolves to be shot on sight should they be outside of a cage. He'd changed too, he used to see good in everyone, he used to be a balance, a means with which to reign in Valerian's ruthlessness and he didn't even know it. And now Florian wasn't sure what he was anymore. _What have we done?_ The Coalition had killed, he had made poison, he had wished for death. _What have I done?_ Did Alma still wish for death, would she have shot his brother? Would she see Florian as a traitor if he didn't tell her? Wasn't Florian already a traitor?"
}
] | 1,095 | 3,383 |
407.416667 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Riley Sutton",
"message": "The previous night was an utter disaster, one that brought with it carnage and plenty of injuries. He knew he should feel lucky or overjoyed given there were no deaths but in the end the chaos and physical trauma it left behind blocked any light from entering. First it was the hunting party, Riley having tried his best to wrangle the creature but ending up injured and with few leads. Almost like there was a grudge that formed that very night it seemed the next full moon brought with it vengeance, the beast having broken into his home and tackled him. The moment he first saw them break in through the window and his feet led him over to Beaux in an attempt to protect him Riley was struck with fear, a sense of terror that paralyzed him and prevented him from actually doing what he set out to do. He felt ashamed for such behavior even when Granny B insisted such a reaction was out of his control and completely natural. \n\nAfter the mutts had turned tail and ran and the shock started to fade away Riley found himself a crying, bloody mess on the floor, feeling like a helpless child begging for their mother. Now that another night was falling upon them and dying light filtered in through the window Riley felt an odd sense of dread in the doctor's office with many of the other injured people that night.\n\nMaybe it was the memories and wounds still being fresh, having left a stain that made the moon feel like a cruel god looking down on its suffering denizens with amusement. Whatever it was Riley was itching to leave despite still being quite sore and in no state to go hunting.\n\nA large bandage was plastered over his face to hide a large scratch one of the intruders left, leaving him with only one eye available. His left arm was hung in a sling and bandaged tightly in the hopes that it'd reduce movement and swelling along with setting his broken clavicle and torn shoulder. His right hand and forearm was bandaged up too, a second bite having left a gaping wound but luckily left his hand with its five fingers. Such bandaging made writing and drawing difficult but that didn't mean he wouldn't try, a journal resting on his lap with messy doodles and chicken scratch notes filling the most recent pages. As he lay in bed Riley wondered how everyone else was doing and hoped that his chickens were doing okay without him."
},
{
"author": "Jade R. Grant",
"message": "Jade had barely missed the wolf attack but man the aftermath of it sure was hard to see. She heard about some who ended up in the doctors care and figured she'd better make her rounds. Who wouldn't need a friend in a time like this? Even if they were a stranger. She figured she'd sweeten the deal and get a flower or two from outside. Who could reject a stranger with flowers? Well- perhaps that wasn't the best thinking. \n\nShe heard from the grapevine that a younger fella had been particularly roughed up and decided to make her way there. Surely she could do something to make their lives a bit easier and be a friend to those who needed it. She lightly knocked on the doorway of the hospital room \n\nThe honeyed southern drawl ringing through the air once more \"Hey darlin'\" She knew she was a stranger but she didn't exactly wait to be prompted to sit down. She didn't want to be rejected. She took a seat next to the bedside \"Wow... You poor thing, they really roughed you up huh?\" She looked over Riley with concern \n\n\"Well... Oh shoot, pardon me. I forgot to introduce myself.\" She waved her hand dismissively \"I'm Jade... Jade Grant. I'm new to town but I heard about the wolf attacks and well... Figured I ought to check up on the living. I brought you some flowers\" She offered up sweetly, setting them on his journal. \n\n\"Is there anything I can do for you darlin?\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Riley Sutton",
"message": "Sitting there just staring into his open journal Riley was understandably shocked as the door opened to a fresh face. A young woman stood at the other end of the room, Riley just staring at her with eyes wide like a deer frozen with fear. However, after the initial shock of someone coming into the room Riley shyly waved and forced his eyes away, not quite knowing how to react or how to feel. Why was she here? What did she have in her hands?\n\nThe woman's words hit his ears with the gentleness of his own grandmother when he was a child, memories of her softer side flitting in and out of what was really happening before him. As she approached and continued to speak and offer words of comfort Riley looked back up, his freckled face slightly red from embarrassment. She just sort of let herself in, taking a seat nearby. He really didn't want to openly admit that he was hurt, that was almost worse than the physical pain.\n\nRiley awkwardly readjusted himself in bed before a flower was plopped down into his lap, catching his attention immediately. As the lass - later identified as Jade Grant - started to properly introduce herself and her desires Riley felt too drawn towards her gift to truly focus on it, only picking up tiny pieces of information like her first name and a mention of the wolf attacks from the other night. \n\nPicking up the wild flower and pressing it close to his chest Riley could feel familiar tears start to rise up, filling the space behind his eyes and causing his jaw to tighten. However, he held back, not wanting to cry in front of a total stranger.\n\nAfter everything that had happened Riley felt far more emotional, ever since Beaux first got hurt he felt like each tiny gesture was as sweet as ambrosia and every small inconvenience or noise was like a threat on his very life. The most Riley could do was look back up at Jade and try to return the favor.\n\n\"Um... I'm Riley. It's... Uh... It's nice to meet you, too.\" He began hesitantly, struggling at first to find words. \"When... When did you first get into town? Did you see anything?\" He continued, easily falling back into the odd comfort of wallowing in tragedy. He wanted to make sure he knew everything, that was how he could protect people. It was hard not to think of anything else."
},
{
"author": "Jade R. Grant",
"message": "Jade shook her head slowly at his question; he seemed very strained with emotion and fighting to keep them in. \"I didn't see anything Darlin. I just got in to see the aftermath and hear that people were hurt and I figured if this place was gonna be my town I ought to check on others. I hope you aren't allergic to flowers by the way, I just wanted to bring a nice gesture. But it's nice to meet you to Riley...\" \n\nAfter a moment she adjusted her seating to get a better look at him. \"Oh darlin, you're really roughed up\" She frowned \"Can I do anything for you? Get you something to eat? Call your family?\" She didn't really know much about Riley quite yet. She didn't know what backstory they may have had. She didn't want to ask quite yet in case that may have been inappropriate. She stuck to formalities and trying to be helpful. \n\n\"Are these doctors taking care of you?\" She furrowed her brows. He looked properly bandaged but there was no... Life in the room. \"Oh goodness... These rooms are absolutely dreadful.\" She sat up from her chair to open up the curtains \"Everyone needs sunlight ya know? I think it helps our bodies heal. At least that's what my momma always said. We're like plants ya know?\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Riley Sutton",
"message": "As Jade began to explain that she hadn't seen anything Riley felt a tad disappointed but also relieved, being happy to know that she wasn't caught in the crossfire but also upset that no new leads were made. Her kindness regardless was greatly appreciated, especially from a newcomer. He wanted to explain just what was going on but held back, instead opting to listen to her continue to gawk over both his own health and the state of his room. Part of it felt silly, having never imagined a fancily decorated infirmary would be something to expect or enjoy. Was she from some big city that had those big hospitals, the ones with much more funding than their whole little burg? \n\nJade's talking nevertheless brought a smile to Riley's face, quite enjoying the company, compassion and jolly attitude in such a dark time. \"Nah, you don't have to do anything, I've got everything I need to live and that's enough for me.\" He commented, being more than happy simply being alive after all these full moons. The threat of tears was slightly diminished the more she talked and fretted about the room, the opening of the curtains eliciting a tiny chuckle as he playfully shielded his eye for a moment with his one free arm. \n\n\"At least we ain't green.\" Riley was swift to remark in response to her comment about people being like plants, not entirely understanding her logic but still enjoying such a fresh opinion. Eventually Riley's curiosity got the better of him, his eyes trailing off for a moment while he thought before piping up, his gaze returning to try and meet hers. \"So, how'd you end up here? Where ya from?\" He asked with a slight tilt of his head, his smile muting the vaguely tired look in his one good eye."
},
{
"author": "Jade R. Grant",
"message": "Jade perked up, laughing at his witty comment \"You know what, I think you're right, Riley. I don't know what I would do if I was green.\" She sat back down, hoping to bring a little bit of company and joy in this time. She knew that being stuck in bed was just plain awful, she hated getting sick or hurt. \"Oh! Me, well, I decided to leave home for the first time. I am from Beckley, West Virginia, the coal mining town. Far too cold for me\" She faked a shiver. \"How about you? Did you grow up here?\" \n\nShe looked around the room, seeing what else she could fix to make him more comfortable. She couldn't help it, she was the fixer, the nurturer. She left behind her little siblings so someone had to get taken care of! That just happened to be Riley at the moment, she couldn't help it. The eldest sister ran deep in her veins. \n\n\"Oh you must be exhausted. Do you want me to let you sleep? I can get you some more pillows before I go. These things are practically paper thin.\" There she was fretting again; a bad yet redeemable habit. \"I swear... That's why I always refuse to come to these places. No matter how sick! I just throw on a pot of soup and make some elderberry syrup.\" She waved her hand dismissively \"But I am glad you are here, these wounds need proper treatin'\" How could she say she hated this place but was glad he was here in the same breath? Who knew, she was just chatty. Trying to make Riley more comfortable and happier, trying to make new friends"
},
{
"author": "Riley Sutton",
"message": "Imagining Jade being green in a way made sense given her namesake but otherwise would come off as quite strange. Riley imagined it'd be far worse if he had green skin in all honesty, having a hard time imagining how his bright red hair would clash with leafy skin. It was fun to think about but also easy to dismiss, Riley swiftly returning to his question and her answer. Internally he made notes, nodding along and seeing common themes. Maybe some big mining corporation came for her town too, they always seemed to take advantage of the desperate. It was a bit hard to conceptualize how far away West Virginia was since he'd never left the valley. \n\nWith a smile Riley thought it was only fair he returned the favor, using her questions as a jumping off point. \"Yeah, I've been here my whole life, hardly left the valley and its mountains.\" Riley began, bittersweetly reminiscing on both the good and the bad of his past. \"I can't imagine going anywhere else. Besides, big cities sound way too busy. I like some mischief, just as my granny, but all those loud cars and smoke... Eugh, it sounds like too much.\" Getting his mind off of the beast attack was very welcome and beneficial in the short term, Riley already feeling a tad lighter talking about and seeing something other than wrecked windows and scarred faces. \n\nWatching Jade wander about the room and attempt to fix something or help him in some way was quite interesting. He could tell how compassionate she was but also quite a worry wart. When she commented on the quality of the sheets on his bed and explaining why she rarely went to hospitals or infirmaries Riley tried to hold back a tiny snicker.\n\n\"I'm fine, you can stay a while longer if you want. I'm not too picky and these sheets are the least of my worries.\" He commented before turning his gaze back down to the flower he still had clutched in his free but still bandaged hand. Once more melancholy fell over the room or at least himself, Riley starting to gather the courage to give a proper thanks.\n\nTaking a deep breath in and looking back up at Jade, Riley gave it his best shot. \"And, uh... Thank you.\" He finally said sheepishly, eventually looking back down at the flower and his lap. It felt like if he looked into her eyes for too long that his tears would get sucked right out of his sockets and he'd end up a blabbering mess again."
},
{
"author": "Jade R. Grant",
"message": "Jade liked the town so far, she somewhat wished she lived here her entire life but if she did... Then she would've been running away from this place and so far, she liked it. It allowed her to come into her own without her parents. The one regret she had, leaving her siblings. She would find them again, maybe when they were older. She could only imagine the lies her parents were filling their poor little heads with about her. How she didn't love them, how they're the reason she left. It broke her heart to think about. \n\nAnd maybe that's why she took to Riley, hearing a fella younger than her was hurt. She knew he would need a little extra support and boy could she tell. She had been dancing around the grief with fretting over the minuscule details and trying to make him laugh but she knew he needed some good ole tender love and care. He was grieving, he was hurt. \"Oh darlin...\" She finally addressed the elephant in the room, however, many would call her methods unorthodox. She sat down on the hospital bed with him, offering her shoulder for comfort \"C'mere... You don't gotta keep up appearances for me... You can feel what you need to feel but you're welcome for the flower.\" She was conscious of the man's arm when wrapping her arm around his shoulders. \n\nShe didn't mean nothing romantic by it; she was just doing the older sister duties, comforting a younger sibling. She had comforted, kissed scraped knees, braided hair until her fingers hurt only for them to come home from school with it all ratty from recess. \n\nFor her this was natural instinct; she wanted Riley to feel comfortable \"If it helps.. I'll try to cry with you and I promise you and everyone in this hospital, I am the ugliest crier for miles.\" She joked."
},
{
"author": "Riley Sutton",
"message": "Riley was hoping his face was stone cold, his eyes with no secrets to be found, but he'd clearly failed at that. Jade hopping up and sitting on the side of his bed with a sympathetic gaze at first made Riley panic for a moment, his eyes widening and looking her up and down, wondering what she was doing. It wasn't until she reached out and slowly wrapped him in a carefully placed hug did he know exactly her goals were. With her gentle words echoing in his ears and warm arms folded around him Riley couldn't hold it back anymore. For a moment he just stared forward, not entirely knowing what to do as tears finally escaped and welled in his eyes. With a blink the first drop fell as did his guard, Riley giving in entirely and letting his heart lead completely.\n\nThis reminded him too much of what once was, of his grandmother and grandfather, of his brother whom would comfort him after nightmares and vice versa. He was hurting, there was no escaping how he felt no matter how much he ran or tried to hide behind anger and planning for disaster.\n\nEventually Riley wrapped his one free arm around Jade to the best of his ability, digging his face into her shoulder and letting it all out at last. He didn't even cry around Beaux or his granny, he couldn't let them see him like that, but a stranger was different. He didn't feel as bad about crying with her.\n\nWhen Jade quipped about crying with him Riley was swift to react with laughter, the climax of his crying having passed shortly before this little comment. Leaning back and retracting his arm he tried to wipe his face dry, sniffling all the way. He definitely felt a little bad for any snot or tears Jade had pooled on her clothes but it still felt nice to release it all. Once his laughter died down Riley went quiet again, taking her word that he didn't need to keep up appearances to heart by opening up to her about everything.\n\n\"It's just... It's been going on for months now.\" He began with another long sniffle, eyes distant. \"These... I don't know what to call them, beasts? Wolf men? Every full moon they come out and just wreak havoc! These past few times it's been worse and their numbers keep growing... I don't know if we can stop them.\""
},
{
"author": "Jade R. Grant",
"message": "Jade didn't know how long he had been holding all this negative stuff in but she could tell it had been a good while. She smoothed the younger man's hair down, letting him cry it out. It was hard, holding on to all the pain and sadness. Crying was a good way to let it out, she'd never blame anyone for crying. Jade lightly laid her head against his, trying to soothe the ache \n\n\"There you go... You're okay... You can let it out\" She gave a gentle squeeze, again before mindful of his injuries. She hated to see so much pain in someone who shouldn't have any at all, living life and being invincible. Although personal fable never got anyone, anywhere. As Riley pulled himself away, she reached over to get the box of tissues \"Here darlin' don't use your shirt\" She took a few tissues out of the box for him, she took one of the tissues and gently dabbed the tear stained cheeks of his. She didn't mean to cross any boundaries if she did. Riley just reminded her so much of her little brother, even as a little boy he always tried to keep his emotions in only to come running to her to cry it out and lay in her lap for hours. She never minded, it was her fathers words about how boys shouldn't cry that pissed her off. \n\nAs Riley started to calm, the small praises didn't stop \"There you go... See, I bet a weight feels lifted huh?\" She offered setting the box of tissues between him. She listened closely to what he had to say. She nodded, she could empathize.. Even if she just got here \"Well... I know it's scary not knowing what to do and how to stop it..\" She offered \"But you can only do so much, you can't control the unknown, believe me. I wish we could too, sometimes we just gotta endure and adapt before we figure out the real antidote...\" She pondered for a moment \"Beasts...\" She repeated after him absentmindedly \"Maybe we ought to visit the library sometimes, I know a lot of people think myths and legends are a bunch of nonsense but maybe they have some answers\" She leaned back in the hospit\n\nAl bed. \"I reckon you've done that already though, huh?\""
},
{
"author": "Riley Sutton",
"message": "To cry in front of anyone felt both shameful and a massive relief. The gentle pressure she provided only made the tears flow more than he'd typically allow himself, her embrace feeling like a weighted blanket of sorts. Once it started flowing it didn't stop until the weight of the tears he shed matched the weight of his shoulders burdened by unfortunate events. Once his heart was squeezed dry of sadness Riley laughed and raised his head, sniffling and beginning to wipe his nose with a sleeve. However, Jade was one step ahead of him, offering some tissues that Riley had honestly forgot were there for him to use. His face reddened a tad as she dabbed his cheek, not being used to such actions but not being against them either. Once he found it appropriate Riley grabbed ahold of the tissue she'd used, instead using it to blow his nose.\n\nHe hadn't cried this hard in a long time but it seemed to be well overdue. Attempting to wrap the used tissue in a clean one Riley gave a small nod as he did so, silently agreeing that a weight had indeed been lifted. As Jade began to speak of the creatures he spoke of and offer consolation Riley looked back up, his eyes slightly bloodshot but otherwise free of tears at last.\n\nHe knew she was right as she spoke of how he could only do so much in life and that blaming yourself for being unable to control or fortell the unknown was fruitless. Such a lesson was just hard for him to fully digest but he was willing to try.\n\nUpon Jade suggesting that they visit the library to do more research on folktales that matched these beasts Riley couldn't believe he hadn't thought of such a thing earlier. He smiled nervously as she assumed he'd already done such a thing, a small chuckle escaping his throat. \"Sadly I haven't.\" He remarked with a tiny pinch of embarrassment in his tone. \"That's a really good idea though. Once I get out of here that might be my next stop. Would you, um, want to join me? You were the one who came up with the idea, after all.\""
},
{
"author": "Jade R. Grant",
"message": "Jade looked up as he asked about the library \"Why sure! I'd be happy to go with ya. But I am too talkative for libraries most of the time. I would like to get to the bottom of this though. Folks deserve to feel safe and you probably want the same. It's just odd that it hasn't happened before ya know? At least it didn't happen in my town but who knows..\" She would ponder her own question for a moment, had this happened back home and she just never noticed? Surely not, often how she spent her free time was listening to the women gossip about what was going on. If it happened, they sure as hell would know about it. \n\n\"Well Riley, looks like you have yourself a deal, I'll help you research these things and we'll get to the bottom of it, alright. Surely it can't be that hard? History is one of those things that is doomed to repeat itself, so I am willing to bet there is some old legends of this town that we have yet to dig up. Now, I would say figure out where these things live and inspect the home but well.. That might be a bit dangerous and you are in no condition to be walking into danger\" Speaking of that, she may as well throw in more sisterly scolding \n\n\"And I don't want you worrying about that right now either, you gotta focus on getting better. You hear?\" She really didn't mean to be overbearing if she was. Riley just reminded her of her little brother, always into something and constantly getting hurt. That boy had more scrapes than skin."
}
] | 408 | 4,889 |
531.333333 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "ceolsige",
"message": "Shady visits April at the jailhouse."
},
{
"author": "Shady Rooster",
"message": "A visit was long overdue.\n\nThis feeling was the same as when he thought about what he'd done to Alma Cooper, back in the beginning: he felt guilty. *Guilty* Felt like a sucking stab wound. This was a different brand of the same ache: not, *I did this,* But, *It should have been me,* Or even, *Couldn't I have stopped this?*\n\nDespite how much time he whiled away thinking on it, he hadn't come to any conclusion other than the realization it didn't matter: she was locked up, and she was in danger, and her husband was dead, and their collective time was all ticking away faster than he could strategize. \n\nFor the time being, he'd finagled it so he could walk free. Wasn't that some shit? Shady Rooster strutting into the Briar Ridge jail, accosted at the door because he'd brought the warmest blanket he could come up with and they were telling him he couldn't *Give a prisoner a blanket,* Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.\n\n*Why'n the hell not?*\n\nAnd there were a dozen or so reasons, some dark enough to make his head spin. After that he just wanted *In,* Empty-handed or not, and didn't notice when he was followed. No way two wolves would be able to speak without being observed. He might set her loose, and his freedom to enter at all was despicable to much of Briar Ridge.\n\nHe shouldered into the jailhouse, searched, and damn near broke down all in the same chaotic moment.\n** **\n\n\"Jesus,\" He said to herald his own entrance, finding her cell at once. It was the largest on the first floor – but far from comfortable. Far from humane, but then, they were humans anymore, were they? \"Jesus, April.\"\n\nHe came right up to the bars so he could hang onto 'em, laid his forehead against the metal.\n\n\"What'd y'all do it for?\" The strangled question didn't demand an answer; it didn't matter. It was an expression of pain and regret – rhetorical. Now effectively disowned, he didn't have to worry so much what Roosters might think of him and his Big Feelings. They were far from the forefront of his mind, anyway, now that he'd laid eyes on poor April with her rounded belly locked away in that cold, colorless room."
},
{
"author": "April C. Abrams",
"message": "April could smell him before he even entered the jailhouse. *Family.* About the only family she had left around here, even if he wasn't blood. Shady was like a brother to her; it lodged something that felt like a ball of cotton in her throat. Immediately, tears sprang to her eyes, sudden and without warning. \n\nFor the first time in days, she moved from her position against the wall, shuffling closer to the bars and sitting there on the floor until he'd come into view. Her tears were thick, vision swimming so he came through to her as more of a blur than anything. \n\n\"..'m so sorry, Shady,\" She said, her head lowered and shoulders trembling. She reached out enough to grip his shirt with her hand, fabric bunched up tight in her grasp. \"I couldn't— I can't,\" Words failed her. She couldn't begin to explain to Shady how she was feeling; how she deserved to be on this side of the bars. \n\n\"Eli,\" She gasped the name of her husband, her *Love*, and found pain there still. It ached, raw and fresh still. \"He died because of— because of me. Because God was angry, he was angry and took my husband away because I have done God wrong,\" April finally lifted her eyes, wide and brimming with tears. It was hard to find a day where April Abrams wasn't crying her eyes out. \n\n\"My first husband isn't dead. I lied. I lied because he left me for someone else and I didn't want anybody to know, and I lied because Eli came along and I never wanted anything in my life so badly, Shady,\" She gasped her words out, her grip on his clothes ever tighter. \"And I'm a liar, and God punished me by taking... Taking the only man I ever really loved from me,\" A sob ripped from her throat. \"I deserve to be in this prison, I'm the reason my husband... Oh, Eli...\" She put her head down completely."
},
{
"author": "Shady Rooster",
"message": "He glanced down at the front of his shirt gnarled into her fist, then dared to look into her wet eyes after a short hesitation.\n\nIt was too awful to stomach. Life had always been hard, but it'd never been a horror. He'd seen plenty of awful things but everything paled beside April's heartbreak. Her pain was at the same time unimaginable and palpable. That might as well have been his heart crushed in her grip.\n\n\"Don't be sorry,\" He tried to mollify quietly. \"April, don't be sorry.\" Sorry for what?\n\n*Eli,* She said, and he braced himself. He could have guessed what might come next. He understood why she might have felt it was her fault, or why she felt guilty for surviving when her husband hadn't. From the outside it was clear that she wasn't to blame for what had happened to her. She hadn't asked for it. She'd been living her life – living it proper! – and this had all happened *To* Her. And sure, he'd been awful; sure, he'd demanded to know how she could pretend not to endure a living hell every waking minute. The truth was, if he'd had it in him, he would've done the same. Anybody would've done the same.\n** **\n\n\"No,\" He was trying to tell her without raising his voice, \"No, He ain't –\"\n\nHow could God be angry with April Abrams?\n\nShe did everything you were supposed to do. She –\n\nWell, she lied.\n\nConfusion struck across his expression briefly, but then he crouched down in front of her without bothering to wrest her grip away from his shirt. Let her have it – why couldn't they let him bring in a damn blanket, for pity's sake? – but he did grab hold of her elbows as if by bracing her he might stop her from teetering into a confession she didn't need to make. To Shady Rooster least of all! Not that he minded, but confessing long-withheld lies like this smacked of prophesizing her own death. And he couldn't abide that. She was no small part of the reason he was determined to keep going and to try and fix this thing. Her, and her kids. What was left of this family, he wanted to save.\n\nAnd wouldn't you know, he'd run into Aki? For a (drunken) moment there, he'd thought they were so damn close. Then this.\n\n\"April,\" He said – scolded, more like – then let go of her arms so he could clasp a hand on either side of her head as soon as she bowed it down. He didn't give her long to look at the jailhouse floor before he was trying to aim her eyes on his.\n** **\n\n\"You reckon *This* Is what y'all deserve for tellin' a li'l *Lie*? That ain't how it works. This cain't be a punishment. It's somethin' else. Shit luck, a curse, maybe, but it ain't no punishment. I suwannee, I've knowed folks who done a helluva lot worse'n wanna marry somebody other'n they was. If'n God's dolin' out reckonin's, He woulda started someplace other'n you.\"\n\nThat said, he allowed her to look where she wanted, and let his hands drop more kindly and gently onto her shoulders instead.\n\n\"This ain't no good.\" No shit. \"...Blamin' yerself. Y'all kin cry for missin' 'im, but I reckon y'all better think what he woulda wanted. If he was settin' in here with y'all, you reckon he'd say anything's happened was yer fault? Remember, y'all got somethin' 'a his.\" A nod to her belly. Meanwhile, everything he said belied what he felt: *We cain't let you rot in this place.*\n\nHe was angry about it. Angry with himself, angry with Briar Ridge. It was senseless, *Pitiless,* To keep this woman here."
},
{
"author": "April C. Abrams",
"message": "Shady was a force to be reckoned with. Before their turning, before everything, April hadn't thought much of Shady Rooster on the streets of Briar Ridge. He was rough, he was a criminal, but most of those shine folks were. She turned a blind eye, prayed to God for those sinners' good health, and tried not to make eye contact. He had an air about him that had intimidated her, even frightened her. \n\nNow, however, she wasn't sure why she'd ever been intimidated or scared of this man. He was kind, at least to her, and gentle too. It reminded her of being a little girl; with a father who was firm but kind. Maybe it helped that Shady smelled like family, because she stopped her wailing for a moment as he forced her to meet his eyes. A few hiccups and whimpers slipped past her lips, but she had managed to collect herself enough to listen. \n\nHe was right; if this sort of thing had happened to Eli, she knew how she'd feel about it. He wouldn't want her sitting in here, rotting away, while their children wondered where mommy and daddy had gone. She took in a shaky breath and tried not to cry; she needed to be strong. But Lord above, it was getting so hard to be strong these days. \n\n\"You're a good man, Shady,\" She hiccuped her words as he shifted his hands from the sides of her head to her shoulders. She tipped her head to one side, allowing her cheek to lay on the top of his hand and her eyes fell closed. \"I'm so tired, Shady. It's almost impossible to sleep in here,\" She confided in him. \"It's cold at night, too,\" April sniffled a little, but tried to keep herself together with a deep breath. Her eyes fluttered open, those dark lashes stuck together from her tears. \n\n\"I miss him so much, Shady,\" Her words came out as a bare whisper. \"Not even a year. I didn't even get a year with him,\" She shuffled as close to the bars as she could possibly get.\n\nShe slid her arms carefully through the bars, being conscious of her belly, and managed to wrap her arms around his neck and shoulders to get him into what resembled a hug. \n\n\"Promise me,\" She said with a shudder and a hiccup. She could hide her tears like this. \"Promise me you'll be careful. And take care of yourself,\" She whispered. One of her hands came up, to take his, and put it on her stomach a moment. \"They've gotta meet their— their Uncle Shady, don't they?\" She laughed but it came out wet and devoid of humor. \"Be careful,\" April begged again. \"Please.\" \n\nThere were words she wanted to say, but she didn't. Words she knew he wouldn't want to hear; like *If something should happen to me*, and so she kept herself quiet about it."
},
{
"author": "Shady Rooster",
"message": "*You're a good man, Shady.*\n\nSelfishly, he let himself believe that for all of one heartbeat. Then, he amended her claim with, \"I will be.\"\n\nSomehow, when it was all said and done and if he made it through, he was gonna have to live with himself. He was gonna have to sleep at night. Being, in some capacity, good, was the only means to that end. If it let it be unattainable, he wasn't sure if he could keep dragging his carcass out of the truck or off his blanket in the mornings, or late evenings, or whatever time he saw fit to rise & crow.\n\n\"I know,\" He placated, and fantasized all the bloody ends the man who took away the blanket he'd brought her could come to. That wasn't the wolf talking; that was good ol' Rooster bloodthirst. It's cold, too. He said, again, \"I know,\" Low and mollifying, sorrier than he let himself sound.\n\nMaybe he could appeal to Alma and to whoever was in charge. Maybe he and April could trade places? But no – she was here not solely for being a wolf, but because she'd confessed to only knew what else.\n\n*Not even a year,* She was saying, and he rubbed her shoulder and the top of her back with the hand she hadn't rested her cheek on. He had to lift his eyes, glance toward the ceiling, and resist the wet sting in his eyes. He had no idea what to say; all there was *To* Say was that it wasn't fucking fair; she didn't deserve this; Eli hadn't deserved it. But he'd said that before, and what had it helped? He couldn't bring Eli back from the dead and he could not paint a new world that suited the heart April Abrams had in her.\n** **\n\nAll he could do was be here to absorb a few of the tears 'til they made him go. And her hurt was so profound he was soaked through and now *His* Eyes were leaking, and he realized too late he couldn't be strong enough for her or for any of it. Her arms wrapped around him and he embraced April in turn, but they were hugging metal more than they were each other. He couldn't lay his chin on her head or let her weep into sleep; he could just bear his cheekbone against iron and close his eyes to imagine the bars away.\n\n\"'Course,\" He was saying. She could've gotten him to agree readily to any promise just then, if just to take one worry off her plate. This one he could keep: he always took care of himself. But then she had one of his hands and his palm was laid across her belly, and there was movement and life inside it and he felt like somebody was crushing his heart onto a lemon reamer. He was pretty sure he could feel the pith running down his ribcage.\n\n\"'Course I will,\" He repeated, hanging on with all he had so he wouldn't shed a tear in front of April. He managed to keep his voice even and everything, even if his eyes were full of hurt. \"I'ma teach 'em ever-thing I know, don'tchall worry none.\" He forced a smile. \"An' April, we're gonna get y'all outta here. Y'all jest hang on. It's all gonna be jest fine. It don't seem like it right now, but they ain't no other way. Ever-thing what hurts is jest temporary.\"\n\nHe hesitated, then opened his mouth to say more – \n\nA jangle of keys heralded the return of the guard. \n\n\"Alright, Rooster. Time's up.\""
}
] | 564.5 | 3,188 |
508.666667 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Caroline Gardner",
"message": "It was just after breakfast when the newcomer from the old Beauclair place came into the jailhouse. Several days had passed since she first settled into the little house, which had sat empty after the former occupants had cleared out amidst all the troubles in Briar Ridge. Troubles no one had shared with the new tenant, apparently, given how happy she seemed to be here. A widow, or so the grapevine said between reports of a wedding ring and no man or any other soul living with her, and someone in the neighborhood did tell that the husband had been referred to in the past tense. So, there it was.\n\nAnd here *She* Was, hovering just beyond the jailhouse threshold with a curious gaze cast toward the bullpen and an oddly shaped canvas rucksack slung over one shoulder, the bulky contents long and narrow and a little taller than the woman herself. She was dressed for outdoor work in brown trousers and a white collared shirt mostly obscured by a gray sweater, the sleeves of both rolled to the elbows. The skin was pale; despite her gear, she had clearly not been out of doors for any length of time recently. Sure enough, a wedding ring adorned the hand clutching the canvas strap.\n\nNot lingering in her contemplation of the iron bars or whoever - if anyone - might be behind them, the woman took off a brimmed hat with her free hand and sought out the first (non-incarcerated) person she could spot.\n\n\"Pardon me. Is the sheriff available?\" The voice was hopeful, unhurried. \"I'd be happy to wait.\""
},
{
"author": "SHRF. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "The Jailhouse was really a figure of speech these days. Everyone in town knew that Sheriff Aguilar Guerrero cared very little for the moonshining businesses that came through here, and let them run their own muck. Drinking alcohol wasn't a crime, and anyone who knew the sheriff knew that he cared only about genuine justice. Sure, there were a few public disturbances here and there, and paperwork that needed to be filed with the state which he knew how to do, but for all intents and purposes, the Sheriff was namely a glorified werewolf hunter, as evident by the large, ever-growing board that took up the bottom floor's leftmost wall.\n\nThe good Sheriff is standing at the desk when Caroline walks in, hearing her voice prompts him to turn around, and to offer a smile. The sheriff is a handsome man, albeit a tired one, and when he greets the newcomer, the first thing he does is offer her a tilt of the head, a little nod, and places his paperwork down, pocketing his hands to give her the undivided attention she might need.\n\n\"Ah, lo siento,\" He smiles kindly, wrinkles of wisdom forming around his eyes, \"If you called before, I must not have heard you. I'm the sheriff —\" His hand is outstretched, and now that his body language was open, bright, inviting, the sheriff's star, a bit tarnished but otherwise in tact, sits on his left breast pocket of the vest he's wearing, a gun hanging from his hip. The queer thing was — there was no one else around, save for ol' man Johnson, who was in the middle of sleeping off a two-day hangover after punching someone at the Davis Barn. No deputies — no clerks — nothing. It was a metaphor for something; an unburdened society thanks to a selfless soldier. Briar Ridge was good to him, kept him somewhat bored, so that he could continue his search and hunt for the werewolves. The second floor, blocked off, was probably some evidence of that.\n\n_ _\nHe reaches out to shake her hand. \"Sheriff Rafael Aguilar Guerrero. If 'Sheriff' is too formal for you, ma'am, then please, *Rafael* Is fine. What can I do for you today? Here to file a report about damaged property from the full moon? Ah, if you're here to reserve a firearm for next month, you have to fill out those forms and mail them. Keeps the messenger boys hungry for pocket change, *Si*? \""
},
{
"author": "Caroline Gardner",
"message": "Caroline's first impression of the jailhouse was that it was quiet, yes, and almost assuredly an indication of the little town's peaceful nature. The sight of a drunk sleeping things off was quaint - a scene straight out of the funny papers - and only reinforced this notion held by a woman wholly unaware of a much darker reality. Her first impression of the town's sheriff was favorable, too; where she might have expected a solemn steward of the law, his friendly demeanor made Caroline feel like he was welcoming her into his home rather than his office. Whether this was more due to small town hospitality or to the man's own nature, she couldn't yet guess, but there was some hope that her pending request would go over smoothly.\n\nBuoyed by this idea, Caroline ventured closer to meet the sheriff's smile with an equally sunny expression, the contents of her narrow pack emitting a faint metallic rattle as she did. The brimmed hat was passed from one hand to the other so she could return the handshake with a capable grip, listening to his introduction with eager curiosity. He had a kind face, she decided, and the accent was an intriguing feature she had not anticipated.\n\nIt was towards the middle of his greeting that confusion muddied her friendly smile. It was not the words themselves, for each one made perfect sense, but Caroline felt the absence of context and was reluctant to reveal her ignorance. Talk of full moons and damage made her think of mischief wrought by teenagers, perhaps, and the comment about firearms seemed like a reference to some town ordinance that didn't apply to her, having no weapons herself - though that did seem like an idea worth exploring. Later.\n\nThese considerations took no more than an instant, and by the time he was finished, Caroline managed to school the puzzled look from her features in favor a smile once again. \n\n\"Actually, I'm here about something else. Caroline Gardner - pleased to meet you, Sheriff.\" \n_ _\n\nShe paused to stoop a few inches, almost as if she were curtsying, and set the bottom end of the canvas duffel to rest on the floor. Her shoulder gave a brief roll to relieve the ache as she held the tall, narrow bundle with one hand to keep it from toppling over. \"I've just moved in across town, at the old Beauclair residence. I'll be conducting some research on behalf of the United States Geological Survey, and I'd like to start with a survey of the town.\"\n\nThe explanation was delivered with all the confidence and charm of a society lady, which was meant to gloss over the veracity of her statement. While the USGS had not sent her, it was true that the research would be forwarded to an old friend still supervising certain projects, who would then pass it along to the fellow in charge of mapping this region, who would certainly review and publish her findings in the next survey report. Probably. Hopefully. \n\nIf Caroline had any poker tells, it was that she often tucked her hair behind an ear, which she did now - but that could be blamed on the stray curls escaping the pins at the nape of her neck. Her smile remained in place.\n\n\"I wanted to check in with the local authority to coordinate, if necessary, and see if there were any maps of the area available.\"\n_ _"
}
] | 527 | 1,526 |
705.333333 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "Dawn cracked the sky, and as the sun rose, so did Algernon Granville. \n\nThe memories of the day before were still fresh in his mind, raw as debrided wounds, and there was one thing on his mind above all else. \n\nWell, not above coffee. Heaven knew he needed a cup if he was going to muster up the guts to ever leave the safety of his campfire again. As too-hot bitter liquid burned the back of his throat, he wondered how the hell he was going to put the things he saw into words that didn't make him sound as though he oughta be committed to the asylum for merely speakin' em. If he hadn't seen the thing with his own two eyes, he'd think anyone talkin' about it crazy too. But that was the issue - he saw it. Heard it clickin' its ugly teeth and all, loud enough to even permeate the haze in his left ear that made most things sound like he was hearin' 'em underwater. Deer the size of coal trucks stood on two legs, click-click-clickin', with eyes like bloody headlights. It was crazy talk, but it was *Real*, and someone in this town owed him an explanation before he ran for the hills.\n\nCoffee finished and a meagre breakfast eaten, he donned his cloak and boots, poured water into the palms of his hands and scrubbed his face and through his beard. The last thing he needed was to be *Lookin'* Crazy while talkin' all crazy, and if truth be told he couldn't remember the last time he'd taken a real bath. That was a problem for later, though - the water would still be there when the talkin' was done. \n\nAs ready as he thought he'd ever be, Algernon made haste. There was just one place to go, or rather, one person he thought might have a clue what was goin' on around here, and that person was none other than the sheriff himself. He'd seen the man from a distance, that first day he'd arrived in Briar Ridge, shiny badge and boots and all, and if there was a soul around that might be trustworthy in a time like this, surely it stood to reason that that would be a policeman. He'd listen. Or he'd think Algernon a drunk (though he'd not had so much as a sip since he arrived in this devil's-town) and have him tossed in a cell for talkin' insanity. That possibility wasn't enough to deter the hunter from the task at hand, though, and he found himself at the jailhouse as the light was just creepin' over the tops of the buildings, rappin' at the door with all his might in a desperate plea to be heard and allowed inside, if only for a moment.\n\nIt didn't feel safe out here any more. This place wasn't a haven. This place could well've been hell incarnate after the things Algernon had seen."
},
{
"author": "SHRF. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "New to his position, Rafael found himself more often than not working many hours over what he should. Until he finds a deputy, and a clerk, and maybe someone to come around every so often to clean up the place, the burden fell solely on him. He didn't mind it - but he found very quickly that it would be nice to have some help. Maybe there would be other souls interested in some *Real work,* But until then, Rafael was content.\n\nWhen Algernon enters the building, Rafael is standing, leaning against his cane and looking at the Red String Board, thinking with a soft hum. There were too many pictures and strings for there to be any sensemaking at the present, but he would be damned if he even so much as failed to put together some kind of lead. There were the Coopers, who'd just declared that their father was a werewolf, and after intense debate, the Anti-Werewolf Coalition had agreed that, instead of outright murdering the man, they would imprison him and run a test with Valerian Barca's silver bullet.\n\nHe wasn't going to lie and say he wasn't nervous, after all. If William Cooper *Was* A werewolf, Rafael would be in here with a beast of the night for hours at a time, wondering and waiting if Mayor Cooper was going to do anything beyond his station. If he was not, then he would be jailing an innocent person - his oath to the star broken, and failing the people of Briar Ridge, especially their mayor. Alas - Rafael prioritizes the will of the people over the penal code, so he's certain to take a moment and remind himself of that. To be put in this town, where all of the things go bump in the night... It's exhausting.\n\n_ _ \nThe sounds of the lycans reminded him, briefly, of his time as a sniper. With leaves and branches and everything in-between piled overtop of him as camoflauge, hiding from the enemy in plain sight — sometimes he would be set up in foreign territory, other times domestic. Regardless of where he was, though, his tinnitus-laden ears always heard the sounds of the beasts of the night. Wolves and bears, sometimes squirrels, stoats, and birds. The animals in the forest used to be comforting, but all he can hear now is the sound of too many guttural groans and howls while his flesh was being torn open by that damnable beast.\n\nThe bell above the door rings, alerting Rafael to his newcomer, and he smiles instinctively, beginning to walk over and lean against the desk, crinkling his nose. \"Good morning to ya,\" He greets the other, almost unfamiliar with his face. Rafael made it a point to know everyone in Briar Ridge, at least so he could be able to connect a name to a face, but he would be lying if he said he was aware of this citizen already. \"Is there something I can do for you?"
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "The door, it turns out, is open, and swings open beneath Algernon's heavy fist after three firm knocks, revealing the interior of the jailhouse along with the very man he's come looking for, giving him a close look at the sheriff for the first time. For a moment, it's jarring, because it's like looking upon the face of an army buddy, from the crease in his brow to the crows feet lining his eyes. For the first time in a long time, Algernon meets the gaze of another man and sees something of himself looking back, the weight of the world having made its mark on his visage, and it's enough to slightly slow his racing heartbeat, if only for a moment.\n\nThe sheriff walks with a cane and a purpose, and despite Algernon's no doubt dishevelled appearance, he smiles at him in greeting and doesn't hesitate to speak. His voice is low, sprinkled with an accent that's unfamiliar but easy to understand, and thank the lord, he doesn't seem too concerned by the fact that a stranger's just come burstin' through his door like the very hounds of hell are at his heels. All he says is good morning. He's possibly the first person in Briar Ridge to greet Algernon without hostility.\n\n\"Mornin', Sheriff.\" He manages to make himself sound surprisingly composed. Something about this man's demeanour has put him at a strange, undeniable ease, and that's a whole other weird feeling on its own. \"Sorry to barge in on ya so early in the mornin'. Got a minute to talk?\" He feels like he's stormed his way into a private moment, seized with the fear of the previous day's events, one-track mind on a mission to get to the bottom of whatever the hell's goin' on here before the light steals away the haunting feeling left behind. He's ready to be shot down before he can even start, so he gives the other man only the briefest of moments to acknowledge him before he launches into his version of events. \n\nIt's a rough tale, because Algernon is many things, but he's never been a storyteller, and sure, his memory's been a little tattered 'round the edges ever since his days on the Front, same as his hearin' and the state of his nerves. But wouldn't any other man be havin' a nervous breakdown after the things he'd seen? He wonders momentarily how Emery's holdin' up. He wouldn't know where to find them to ask. \n\nStill, he talks. And talks. And talks. \n\nIt still sounds crazy to his own ears, once he's passed the parts about headin' into the deerpath and huntin' for hoofprints for hours on end, through bracken and briar. He tells of the tracks he found and how he noticed they were bigger than any he's ever seen before, sunken deep into the mud and melted snow. When it comes to the clickin', he has to stop, and swallow a couple times, and hell if he doesn't wish he had a drink to loosen his tongue. Blood's rushin' in his ears as he describes the deer liftin' its big head as the sound of footsteps reached it, and its eyes... Eyes like he ain't never known a deer to have, red and all aglow with anger and determination. No deer before ever felt shit like that.\n\nHe breaks off to apologise for cursin'. The sheriff's gaze doesn't waver, and when he receives an expectant nod, he keeps on. \n\nHis sentences get shorter. \n\nThe shot that rang out from his gun, and the way the deer didn't so much as flinch as the bullet buried itself in its chest. How it looked like settin' up to charge, and his low call out to Emery to back up, only for things to get worse as they did.\n\nThose glowin' eyes. The creature risin' up on two legs. Deer don't belong on no two-legged bullshit.\n\nHe doesn't apologise for his language a second time. \n\nAnother gunshot, and another and another, each bullet plungin' into the now upright body of the monster before them, lookin' as though they made about as much as an impact as fallin' snow. \n\nGuilt and shame paint Algernon's face as he tells of how, in the end, they had no choice but to make a run for their lives, and how the huffin' breaths of the *Thing* Followin' behind them only seemed to get closer and closer until Emery knew a spot they could break out of the undergrowth and right into a cornfield, barren for the winter.\n\nHe doesn't include the part about how it hadn't been long after dawn when he headed into the trees, but the sun was slopin' low in the sky when they emerged, yet it felt for all the world like hardly any time had passed at all. \n\nWhen the words run out, Algernon's throat is dry. He's not sure what response he expects from the sheriff. He doesn't know exactly what he wants, either. After a glance at the door, considering just makin' a quick exit, packin' up his things and leavin' the holler altogether, he finds it in himself to once again meet the sheriff's steady gaze. \n\n\"With all due respect 'n more, Sheriff, the hell kinda town are you runnin' here?\""
},
{
"author": "SHRF. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "*Got a minute to talk?* He asks, and Rafael smiles in response. Yes, this is normalcy - this is routine. Of course he has time to talk; he's wasting the day away reading through files and dealing with that DAMNABLE EAR in the icebox that no one is using which will eventually either be buried or put into evidence, he's not quite sure. \"Of course, *Hermano,*\" Rafael nods, gesturing one-handedly for Algernon to tell his story.\n\nAnd when he begins, Rafael listens. And he listens. And he listens. Now, when it comes to creepy things in the woods, Rafael has had his fair share of encounters that turned up to be nothing. That was in other towns, though — other cities, other states, sometimes other countries. Given the fact that he is now in a town where instead of robbers and murderers, *Werewolves* Are on the docket of the #1 public enemies, he's not about to deny the fact that Algernon has encountered this thing out in the woods - just like he would never tell Blanca that her water issue is nothing but public pollution. He's not sure when he stops just listening and begins writing, but he feels like the memo pad and the pencil manifest into his hand as he leans against the desk, nodding and writing down what he considers to be the important details.\n\n_ _ \nAs for Algernon's appearance, Rafael finds no purchase in treating him any differently than he would treat the well-dressed citizens, or even the mayor himself. (Though, given the recent discussions from the mayor's children, maybe that's not so good a comparison anymore.) \"I'm sorry, *Lo siento,* Who did you say what also involved in this? Emery... Ah...?\" He's asking for the last name, but he thinks he may have already met this person before — promoted now to sheriff, he's working double-time to see whether or not he was going to be able to keep up with the quickly rising and falling populace of Briar Ridge. \n\n\n\n*'The hell kinda town are you runnin' here,* Algernon asks, and there it is - a contemplative look that is a molotov cocktail of shame and grief and betrayal. \"Ah, forgive me,\" Rafael nods with his head. It's the same kind of nod one would give at the doorstep of the family of a deceased corpsman. Alas, this is not that — instead he is bearing the sin of Sheriff Rowe, and all that he has done. \"I am only recently established in this position, *Senor,* And in case you have not been made privy to local news— the sheriff before me was one of the *Nahual,* The werewolves. Given my... Condition,\" He gestures to all of him. He really should be resting. \"I am not able to do all of the things I would like to do. But\n\nIf you know of anyone who would be interested in a deputy position — or perhaps even a clerk, I would be happy to take some of these tasks off of my shoulders.\" \n\nHe meets Algernon's eyes like one would meet a drill sergeant's. He knows it's not the answer Algernon was looking for, but it's something that he can manage to do in this situation of mutual grief. \"But rest assured, I will be sure that this... Er... How did you say... *Not-deer?* Doesn't come poking it's head around your home anymore. I will just need some time, and some patience.\""
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "Havin' just spoken more words in a few minutes than he has in perhaps the last year as a whole, Algernon gratefully accepts the water. His hand shakes as he brings it to his mouth and all he can do is hope that the sheriff doesn't notice when the first gulp doesn't quite make it past his lips, and he spills, and quickly scrubs at his mouth with the back of his hand. The second attempt goes better, and while it lacks the burn of a good whiskey, the coolness almost serves as an equal balm to his fractured nerves. It's his turn to listen, and listen he does, and observes with the eye of a hunter scanning the plain. \n\nThe sheriff, with his notebook and pencil, with his cane and his undeniable charm, don't look a well man. Though he speaks steadily, he sure doesn't stand that way, leanin' heavily on the desk but constantly shifting weight, like every spot's a sore spot, a feeling Algernon understands all too well from his days down the coal mines. The feeling that comes from pushin' what little strength you have left to and beyond its absolute limits, leaves you shakin' in your boots even when your boots are as shiny as this man's are. Every fellow has his breakin' point and if it weren't too impolite to say so, Algernon would be pointin' out that it appears the sheriff's reachin' his. He's painfully aware that he's in what might be called polite company, though, and he's said his piece for the time bein', so he's patient, as the other man makes his way through words Algernon knows and those odd, accented ones that he doesn't. All in all, it's a brief conversation, but by god is it a complicated one, and when the sheriff falls silent, there's suddenly a whole lot more to the story than there was before he spoke.\n\nThe water glass is drained. Algernon steps forward to set the glass back on the desk. He doesn't think to step back again.\n\n\"Just... Hold up. Take it back a couple steps for an old fool.\" He licks his lips uncertainly. \"The old sheriff was a *What* Now?\"\n\nWerewolves ain't real. They're fairytales. The kind of thing the men in the trenches would joke about when they heard howls and screeches in the distance. They'd hunker down and the others would trade folk tales from their hometowns and Algernon, who'd never been able to read the storybooks, would just listen. Much like he's listenin' to the sheriff of Briar Ridge, except this time, it don't feel so much like spinnin' a yarn. Because, sure, werewolves aren't real, but neither are deer with eyes a-glowin' standin' ten feet tall on their hind legs, and Algernon saw one of those with his own damn eyes only the day before.\n\nHe's beginnin' to wonder if the lines between real and not-real are thinner here in Briar Ridge. Deer and not-deer. Wolves and werewolves. Real and not-real. \n\n\"Sounds like you got even more of a story to tell than I had, Sheriff.\" He shakes his head slowly. \"Sorry to say I can't be much help with your staffin' issues. Hardly know a soul in this town myself. Emery - I didn't even get a last name - was the first real talk I had since I dragged that boar in a few days back. And I don't got the education to be much use to you, 'specially indoors. Can barely write my own name, if I'm tellin' you the truth, but I blame that one on my old Ma for puttin' too many letters in the damn thing. But I'll tell you somethin' I can do.\" He shifts from foot to foot, draws back his cloak to reveal the Winchester strapped to his chest, holstered in a pouch made of deer leather and hung with a dried rabbit's foot. \"And trust me, I know just how to use her. Next time I come across one of those deer... You rest assured I'll handle it. Even bring you the head to prove it. Look mighty nice hung over this desk of yours, don't you think?\"\n\nA smile plays at his lips at the thought. Those glowin' eyes dulled and great antlers pinned high, nailed to the wall as a warnin' to anyone or anything that might think to try their luck. His gaze drifts over the desk as he speaks of it.\n\nThere's a nameplate there, wooden, brass-plated, printed bold. *D-E-P* Has been scratched out. And hell if Algernon can make sense of the letters that come after it. Goddammit. If only he were smarter, he'd have figured out the man's name by now. Curse it all. There's an R. A G, and then he's lost. 'Sheriff' will have to do until he reveals it of his own accord. \n\n\"You leave the deer problem to me, Sheriff. S'what I came here for in the first place. Sure, they're a little bigger'n I imagined. You know anyone that might trade some meat for a case'a bullets, and you'll make me a happy man. Not to mention gettin' yourself off your feet here and there.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "SHRF. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "It was uncommon that a member of Briar Ridge seemed to be out of the loop - word travels fast in these towns, after all. He remembers one night he happened to have siome women's clothing hanging off of his clothesline, something he had been sent from his sister to give to a woman in order to lighten her own closet. While in reality he had just washed them so that way the girls of Briar Ridge didn't receive dirty clothes, there was gossip for two weeks about if the deputy had a woman at his house - and if so, which citizen was it? Needless to say, it took an explicit explanation when he laid out the box of (now dry) clothing for the girls to come pick up at the jailhouse whenever they wanted to in order to quell those rumors. The word of Sheriff Rowe travelled fast, too - he hadn't been at the scene of the shooting, too busy locked up in Marianne's house, hoping that no one was injured in his moment of inadequacy.\n\nSheriff Aguilar Guerrero was a man of high perception - he could see through most lies, like the one his commander gave him that night in Poland when Rafael had asked if everyone was going to make it out alive tonight, and he responded with *Definitely.* He searches Algernon's face for some semblance of falsehoods or persuasions, and yet - Rafael found none. His own expression twists into a look of confusion; Algernon genuinely did not know there were werewolves in the town.\n\n_ _\n\"Ah...\" Rafael begins, because he's... Frankly not sure where to start here. He shakes his head, raising his free hand, as if to say he was pausing the conversation moments after the declaration that he was going to shoot the deer down with just his lucky pouch and the gun strapped across his chest like he was a new mother and the weapon was his baby. He's got to say - the gun was cleaned perfectly. In a way, it makes him miss his rifle- but a sniper has no place in Briar Ridge. Hunting rifles and buckshot seemed to be more effective. \"Hang on, hang on.\"\n\n\"I'm Sheriff Rafael Aguilar Guerrero - it's nice to meet you, but I didn't catch your name. And... *Si,* There are the werewolves. You... Must be new here.\" Unable to take the weight of his own body anymore, Rafael shambles around to the other side of the desk, finally sitting down and propping the walking stick up against the wooden side of the desk as he scribbles some more things down on a piece of paper, then beginning to look through a census. There were plenty of hunters here, but he didn't receive notice of a new citizen. Must be fresh meat. \"From the state of myself, I figured that would be obvious. But, once we're done filing this report, I'll give you all of the information you'll need to survive the month.\"\n\nThere's a pause, and Rafael grumbles quietly as his pencil breaks - he takes a knife to the tip of it, working the lead down into a neat little tip, returning to the paperwork. He's probably the only man in the world that can file a police report with the world's most fucked-up looking deer. He'd yet to see it for now, but he will be soon, this he knows. \"And I'm sorry, but I can't let you go after this thing yourself. If you were injured - or worse, killed - during the hunt, it would be my responsibility. I will handle it; you just stay safe.\""
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "Algernon realises he's goin' too far, too fast, and the sheriff slows him down - he's more than happy to oblige. There's a story to tell here in Briar Ridge and it's gonna take more than a hurried conversation for it to be put out into the open, but if there's one thing he has, it's patience. Hours staked out on hunts waitin' for the perfect moment to pull the trigger taught him that long ago. Time ain't a finite resource like coal - just 'cause you use up some don't mean you have any less left over. It's about findin' a balance, walkin' the line, and somethin' tells Algernon that if there were ever a time to take the long way round, it's now. \n\n\"Algernon. Granville. Pleased to meet ya, Rafael.\" He makes sure to give the man time to write the name. \"Got here just this past week. Met a party on the road, heard about some trouble with the deer. Either they were hidin' the whole truth or they just didn't know for 'emselves, but they told me it'd be worth huntin' up here. Packed up camp and came soon as I could, really.\" He's pacin' his words now he can see Rafael write, makin' sure all the necessary details can get put down on the paper so there's no need to repeat it from the start. \"I was just happy to be of use, know how it is? Been a quiet winter so far.\"\n\nWerewolves, though. He'll be damned. Of all the explanations in the world, werewolves wouldn't be one he'd have ever landed on of his own accord. Though it explains the cuts he can see on the sheriff's face, and the shadows beneath his eyes that look half sleepless nights and half bruises, purple like blackberries not quite ripe. \n\nHe leans his hip against the desk and acts as though he's readin' Rafael's notes. He's not readin' shit. Instead he watches the way the man's roughened hands move with the pencil and leaf through the pages, then how he deftly sharpens the tip with the knife and practiced movements as though it's a trick he's done a thousand times before.\n\n\"You just tell me what you need, and consider it done. All I wanted this morning was for you to listen, you're already goin' above and beyond for me by now. Got all the details nice and fresh in the mind.\" Truthfully, Algernon isn't sure that he'll ever be able to forget a moment of the previous day. Once-in-a-lifetime events have that tendency to burn their way into a brain and never leave no matter how hard you try to push 'em out or shove 'em down to a place they don't bother you no more. If it were easier to forget, there's a whole lotta memories he'd rather never have to face again, but that ain't how the past works. What wants to stick sticks with a man forever.\n\nHe can't help but wonder if Rafael has stickin' memories he fancies bein' rid of. If he drowns himself in vices the same way, or if he's a stronger man than Algernon Granville will ever be.\n\n\"Sounds to me, Sheriff, like you got enough to handle,\" He says, when there's been quiet for a moment save for the scratch of the lead on the page. \"You don't gotta take so much as an ounce of responsibility for me. I don't plan on dyin' out on your ridge, now or ever.\" Authority be damned, he's going back out for that deer. And if a werewolf comes to find itself starin' down the barrel of the Winchester... Well, he'll do his damn best with that too. He's taken down bears, hogs, snakes twice as long as he's tall. There's no stoppin' a man on a hunt when the other option's starvin' or freezin' to death. \n\n\"Whatever happens, happens. You need a hand with the wild shit, I'll stick around a while.\"\n\nA sigh finds its way past his lips, and suddenly he's sayin' words he has a sense that Rafael hasn't heard in a while. \n\n\"You and your town... You'll be alright.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "SHRF. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "He's unsure what to say when Algernon begins talking again. He looks up after writing his name down, sounding out each bit phonetically and hoping, *Hoping* He's getting it right. The Granville part, sure; the *Algernon...* Maybe not so much. Either way, if he checked his notes a second time, he'd be able to read the correct name off of the paper, and that's what mattered. When Algernon says that he'll be sticking around... That he'll be *Alright...* Rafael looks up at him in stunned silence not unlike the deer that Algernon has probably seen through his scope a dozen times over.\n\nIf the roles were reversed, Rafael would not see a beast but a man; in some way, man is a beast. But an American Sniper knows better than to try to say they were hunting beasts. Rafael was damn-near sure he was a murderer, even if it was state-sanctioned. He breathes an inhale, and then an exhale, as if he was holding his breath against his own will. He looks down at the notes, staring at them a while, trying to break the stare he and Algernon seemed to maintain. It made him feel... Small, in a way; as if he was staring down his drill commander and needed to be the first to break. He puts the pencil down.\n\n_ _\n\"I know we will,\" He nods, finally looking back up at him more man than machine, \"But it is nice to hear you say it, *Mi hermano.* Come — if you are adamant that you are to be the one to tackle that beast rather than give it to me... I can at least provide you something that is to make the job easier.\" He gets up with his cane again, this time taking a key ring off of the desk and holding it loosely in his other hand. His steps are heavy and haggard, but even with the injuries, Rafael seems to be getting around fine. If he was in displeasure (and trust me, he was definitely in more than displeasure), it wasn't written across his face at all, instead hidden between the way his gait was labored, in the way his chest rose, held, and then fell, as if not breathing per step would make the effort easier...\n\nThat keyring is brought to attention again, and Rafael begins opening the door. \"Your rifle... What caliber is it? A .300, *Si?*\""
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "Algernon's not sure what a *Hermano* Is, but the way Rafael says it makes him feel like it's something good, so he settles in his assumption and doesn't question a bit of it. They're closer to the same page than they were before, and his stubbornness may well have paid off for once, because it seems that the sheriff isn't going to stick too hard to his guns when it comes to stoppin' Algernon going back for that damn deer. It's reassurin' that when he does return to the path, he won't have the law on his ass for doin' so. When Rafael rises from the desk, Algernon goes with him, and listens to the rhythmic thud of the cane tip on the floor, and to the way the keys jingle together in the sheriff's not quite steady hand. They make slow progress, but all progress is somethin', and Algernon has a feelin' that if he had to deal with half the discomfort Rafael's in, he wouldn't be so much as gettin' out of his tent. \n\nIt's bravery, and it's strength both physical and mental. Some might call it damn foolishness, but Algernon knows better than to think the man before him a fool. \n\n\"She takes a 16-gauge just fine,\" He replies, when the sheriff asks him about his preferred caliber of bullet. \"Done me well so far for what I paid for her. Should've aimed for the head, but somethin' about those damned eyes... It threw me. Lost my nerve and almost got Emery killed alongside me. It won't happen again, that much I can promise you.\"\n\nHe watches as Rafael twists the key in the lock, and then he's faced with just about the largest collection of guns and ammunition he's ever seen in his life. All stacked up neat on the shelves, labels and all. If he could read, he'd see that the bullets were organised by gauge and shot type. Most of it he doesn't recognise - he's grown accustomed to firin' whatever he can get so long as it fits in the magazine. It seems Rafael and the citizens of Briar Ridge get a little more choice, and if he didn't know about twisted deer and *Werewolves* And whatever the hell was hidin' out in the forest hidden from the human eye, he'd be wonderin' what a small town needed with this many bullets, and who was holdin' the guns that fired them.\n\nHe whistles softly through his teeth. \"God *Damn*. You preparin' for another war the rest of us don't yet know about, Rafael?\"\n\nMaybe this town is a war in itself."
},
{
"author": "SHRF. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "\"Ah, they are not mine,\" Rafael shakes his head, stepping into the room to look through the supplies. Realistically, there weren't *That* Many things in here; a couple extra guns, some ammunition. Regularly, they were distributed to citizens just before the full moon, so that there might be extra chance of survival, and they were always returned the morning after so that Rafael could take good care of them - get them cleaned and polished before the next one. His brow furrows as he looks around for the sixteen-gauge ammunition, and his lips purse. How had he not noticed how hands-off Sheriff Rowe was with such distribution? At the time, he had just thought it was a delegation of duties, but now...\n\nHe shakes his head. He can't let the memory of this man taint his own mind for so long. The betrayal stung like a knife, but two or three glasses of shine would waste it away with time. \"They are the town's.\"\n\nHe listen to the story that Algernon weaves for him, and Rafael chuckles; it isn't often he hears about the beasts in the woods, but when he does, every story sounds the same. *I lost my nerve.* He collects about six-to-ten bullets, looking at them in comparison to what was left in the section of the ammunition closet (could one call it a *Vault?* Rafael wasn't one for semantics) and decides that yes, this would be a fine amount to give. If Algernon took that thing down with a bullet from his jailhouse, Rafael could consider it a win for him, too. They're bagged up in a little cloth bag, handed over to him and placed in the palm of his hand.\n\n_ _ \n\n\"Ah, Emery. That's *Charlito's* Erm...\" He gestures with his hand, as if trying to find a word in either language that might describe the relationship between Emery and Charlie. It wasn't *Quite* Romantic yet, at least to Rafael's perceptive eye, but it was more than friendship. He makes a face, as if to ask Algernon to hang on while he rattled his brain for a descriptor. When he finds none, he shakes his head, holding up a hand. \"Well, they're close, that's all that I can say on the matter, if you know what I mean.\"\n\nHe rolls his shoulders back, walking out of the ammunition closet and looking to Algernon. \"You shouldn't take it personally,\" He nods sharply, \"There are many things in these woods that people lose their nerves over. Men the size of trees and covered in hair, tip-to-tail; the *Not-deer*, like you have seen; ghosts from the coal mine, wanting everyone around them to suffer vengeful fury. Briar Ridge is not a *Calm place, mi amigo,* But it is a good one. You'll find a lot of companionship and care here, if you deign to stay.\" He's reminded fondly of how quickly everyone came to his aid after his mauling; it's behavior like that that makes Rafael serve dutifully. In a way, it reminds him of his regiment- if one ignored all of the agony they had to endure in the interim. How it was comparable to the suffering they experienced here.\n\n\"Regardless, I hope you slay the damn thing next time you see it,\" Rafael says earnestly, \"One less horror in the woods means I can focus on the horrors in town.\""
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "The shared guns are a concept as foreign to Algernon as the sheriff's soft accent, somethin' he's never come into contact with before, but he likes all the same. He's gettin' the sense there's a real *Community* Here, and it reminds him in some ways of the life he knew growin' up, every family comin' together to raise the young'uns side by side, never to want for nothin'. Sure, it didn't quite work out that way for some of the boys, Algernon himself being one of them, but the older and wiser had tried, and there's some of that tryin' here in Briar Ridge too. Or maybe it's just Rafael, in his wisdom, in his determination to do good by a town he feels indebted to, feels he's got to be the best he can be for. Whichever it is, it's an odd change from the life Algernon knows, because out in the wilderness was always every man for himself unless he had somethin' to offer, or you had somethin' he wanted. \n\nHe takes the pouch of bullets, pulls one out to inspect it, and deems it a fine one - the casing shines good and it's not scratched or dented. He rolls it between his fingers before returnin' it to the others, and the whole bag is tied by its string to his belt, alongside the rabbits'-foot he carries, and his knife in its sheath. They'll do him well next time he runs into one of those goddamn deer.\n\nHe's not sure who *Charlito* Is, but that's a question to be asked another time, an answer he can wait for. \n\nAnd though he'd be a liar if he said he wasn't unnerved by the other things Rafael described, leanin' as he did against the cabinet door and his cane, he believes when he hears that Briar Ridge is good. Despite what he's seen out in the woods, he's run into enough of the good in the past few days that he *Wants* To believe that there's more of it out there than evil. That the good lord didn't send him to Briar Ridge as a punishment, but rather as a sort of bitter salvation. If not for him, then for Rafael, who seems to bear a cross too heavy to carry on one man's shoulders, no matter how tall they stand, how proud of a place of his own creation. \nAlgernon's strength is his blessin', and his curse. And if there are burdens, he'll stay to carry his share.\n\n\"Don't think there's any question of my stayin', sheriff. Your town's not been so bad, all things considered. Happy to stick around, wait it out, see what else you and your people got... And don't you worry. Next time I run into that creature, you'll be the first to know.\"\n\nHe sighs softly, lookin' out the window at the grey sky above. The boar he killed still lies in wax-papered packages in Noah Owens' icebox. Supposes he oughta be pickin' some of that up and seein' if he can get it sold, else it'll need saltin' before it turns bad. \n\n\"Should be goin', Rafael. I'll leave you to your work, but you need anythin' at all, I won't be too far away.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "crow0951",
"message": "*This thread is now complete!*"
}
] | 725.5 | 8,464 |
515.2 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "DEP. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "He didn't know much about the last Deputy, other than that this fucking office was a nightmare. Maybe it was the military man in him; maybe it was the middle son energy he had. But all of these things up and around in this way drove him fucking nuts. Which is why, of course, like any other sane man, he was up half past what *Should* Have been a well-placed bedtime, rummaging around in this little desk-office-combination thing trying to make a space for himself. Just like he was doing with that cottage in the woods. Just like he had done with anyone and anything that had come his way after his discharge.\n\nJust like he was doing with... Well... *Them.*\n\n\"Them,\" Were, of course, a pair of dogs that obediently slept curled up next to each other in the floor, either ignoring or deafened to their father's rummaging. Huffing quietly, Rafael began to move papers around, looking through some of the things that had been left behind. Notes, reports, ledgers... The Jailhouse had plenty of space, and, if you were to ask him, looked nothing like the jailhouses in Columbia. His father always had a saying: *Empty jail cells either meant the sheriff was a great sheriff, or a horrible one.* And given the warm reception he was offered upon his arrival by not only his employer but also his fellow townsfolk, he figured it, frankly, was more of the former.\n\nBut there was, unfortunately, no way Rafael was going to organize all of the things he wanted to do by the end of the night. While tonight may be a perfect night to stay up half into midnight (which, frankly, he may expect anyways), he worried it would make him look like a brown-noser. He wasn't trying to kiss ass, all things considered; he was just a bit... Twitchy, when it came to things that were supposed to be under his responsibility and yet not organized in a way he liked. He hoped that the clerk, or the sheriff, or anyone in between, didn't mind his detailed levels of organization. \n\n\"*Ay, dios mio,*\" He mumbled under his breath, looking at the paper in his hand that had not one, not two, but three dried coffee rings on it. Taking a break, Rafael sat in the chair behind the desk, knowing that keeping this desk was to be one of his responsibilities in the near future. The papers get set down, hands over his eyes. The star that hung on his breast pocket felt like a weight pushing against his fourth and fifth rib— and the sound of the jailhouse door opening was a sound he wasn't expecting so soon. Both dogs - a black Laborador and a German Shepherd - poked their heads up from their snuggle on the floor, and Rafael stood up.\n\n\"Hello?\" He called around the corner. \"Can I help you find something?"
},
{
"author": " blanca ochoa cervantes ",
"message": "It seemed like a good idea to investigate the town's shambling equivalent of law enforcement, which as it turned out, was really not a whole lot beyond a lone sheriff's deputy. It'd certainly been bemusing information to discover. Why a deputy without a sheriff wouldn't have just taken the title for himself was beyond Blanca, both out of vanity and utilitarianism. Didn't it make sense to assume the role, with no one else to fill it? It was what she would have done – but then, not everyone could be as enterprising as her. \n\n\n_ _\n\nBoc: Blanca had a politician's mind. She was not inclined to reveal much about herself unless it suited her to do so, and because of this, not one of her new acquaintances knew a thing about the encroaching decay on the Ochoa hacienda. The little stream to the south had gone black with some inextricable *Gunk.* Blanca and her cousins had resorted to building new stone walls, cutting off their back pastures from the stream and forcing them into what had become a rather heated debate about water troughs versus the labor it would take to dig a natural stream from the river. It was a lot of work to mitigate such a mystery, and had changed the structure of workflow on the ranch. More importantly, it posed a threat to her animals. \n\nTo solve the problem of the black water was a task worth undertaking in that it would accomplish two things: first, it would keep her family and their livelihood safe; second, to be the one to fix this problem would certainly earn her a brilliant gold star on her campaign for head of the family business. As such, she was prepared to recruit whomever she needed. The doctor was one avenue. The deputy was another. Plus, if someone was trespassing and poisoning her water supply, she wanted to know where they lived. And when they were home.\n\nAs she pushed her way into the sheriff's office she found herself displeased by the smell of dogs. Blanca, who had been raised around horses and donkeys, had never really spent much time around dogs, given the donkeys' proclivity toward kicking said dogs in the head. It just so happened that the dogs' presence here was, ultimately, serendipitous; quick as she was sometimes to dive headfirst into an idea, the dogs tempered the pace of her gait into something even, smooth, respectable.\n\nBy the time she heard the deputy's voice, Blanca was delivering her best performance of cool and collected behavior. She followed the sound of the inquiry, taking a few steps forward and scanning the dim corridor.\n_ _\n\n\"Hello!\" She called back. Then, because she couldn't help herself:\n\n\"Are you the sheriff?\""
},
{
"author": "DEP. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "Rafael was very cognizant of who he was, what he was, and what he could have been. Alas, the war had taken far too much out of him - he used to be a man who did not expect danger at every doorstep. He used to be a man who did not visibly relax when he found there was no criminal, no thief, just a girl. A gentle smile passes over his lips, and he laughs a bit as he barks two commands quietly down at the dogs - *¡ven aquí, acá!* - who then trot off behind their owner, pleased with the attention and the presence of a new face. \"Ay, no. Not the sheriff, just the deputy. He's away at the moment, but if there's something you need, I will be happy to help you. You'll have to forgive my boys - I think it's part of their soul to be as in the way as they can be.\"\n\nHe looks her over, always a judge of character. The woman who's joined him, at face value, appears to be a no-nonsense, but kind, woman who appeared to have something on her mind. She reminded him a bit of his nieces - girls who took action first and asked questions later. In a way, that was comforting; the people of Briar Ridge were warm, kind, hospitable, but there was a *Kindness* That layered over everything that Rafael feared his too-hard touch would break. He approaches, pleasant, still keeping his distance. His hand is offered to her - his fingers callused and scarred from years of holding a sniper rifle, and currently laden with a couple papercuts from the foreign skill of administrative tasks.\n\n_ _\n\"Rafael Aguilar Guerrero,\" He introduces himself, both last names heavy at the end - his mother's name and his father's name both were important to him, and his use of them in this moment made him feel like in a position of authority, he represented them both. (He wonders if, in some way, they know he's doing well. He wonders if they're proud of him.) \"Feel free to call me 'Raf' or 'Deputy Guerrero', whichever fits your preferences more. Are you just looking around tonight, miss, or did you have business with the sheriff?\"\n\nRafael, too, was a man of layered character, and if Blanca were to look him over as he had looked her over, she might find a man of high moral caliber, a man laden with some sort of problem that kept him up, and a man who believed that discipline and hard work got someone to where they wanted to be. All the same, there is no malice or anything other than genuine curiosity in his face, eyes, voice. If she has a problem, and he is able to help, he'd like to - especially if it took him away from the hell that was, as he had dubbed it, *Paperwork mountain.*"
},
{
"author": " blanca ochoa cervantes ",
"message": "The man behind the desk gives her the impression that he is at once older and younger than he seems. It's perplexing. Blanca sidles up with a cautious smile. The same hesitance is absent from her eyes; she openly analyzes him. There is something disarming about the weariness of his face, its passivity, something she can recognize in the older members of her own family. And, perhaps most interesting of all, his features belie an ancestry which she reckons can't be too far from her own. A smile blooms on Blanca's face. There's a familiarity in his accent that surprises her. Blanca's used to hearing it exclusively from her family. She lights up.\n\n\"Blanca Ochoa Cervantes,\" She responds proudly, beaming at him. *\"Que haces* In a place like this? You lived here a long time?\" *Mami will be thrilled.*\n\nHe looks tired and very comfortable here, in his element. She wonders how long he's held the position, and more importantly, how much influence he has over the sheriff. She takes his hand and shakes it vigorously – two shakes, strong and sure, a businessman's handshake. Like many things about her, the gesture seems like an oversized hand-me-down. \n\nShe rummages around in the worn leather of her satchel. From somewhere within, she pulls another one of her vials. She's been collecting stream water from the infected spot near the creek. Like the vial she showed to Mitica and Dr. Olander, the water inside is inky black. \n\n\"Don't want to waste your time so *Puedes llegar al papeleo,\"* She continued. \"I'll be quick. You have any new reports in that pile? Is this the work of a vandal?\" She asks, dangling the vial out at arm's length.\n\nShe knows it's not, of course, but having another nose on the case can't hurt."
},
{
"author": "DEP. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "Rafael is the kind of man who thinks that the culture of his home isn't something he needs to survive. He likes to think he didn't need his mother's comforting hug or the sounds of his siblings running around, or their children - yes, Rafael Aguilar Guerrero is getting old, he thinks; perhaps maybe not too old to take a partner and have children if that's something he wanted, but if he didn't, there were many Aguilar Guerreros to continue on the name. He chuckles softly, nodding. \"Ay, no. Not really- only a few months, really. I've been told I've come at a bad time, but it was the only place that would take a *Pavo* Like me, so here we are.\" \n\nHe takes a seat at the desk, pointedly ignoring *Paperwork mountain* As he looks up at her, and the vial she's handing him. He takes it gently in his hands - perhaps if he were older, he'd slide on a pair of glasses and examine it, but a marksman has to have perfect vision, so the frames are unneeded. He turns it this way and that, his lip curling as the inky black bubbles and swirls inside the glass of the vial. \n\n\"No reports of a vandal that I've seen here. Where'd you get this water? Surely not on your property?\" He uncorks it, sniffing it - recoiling at whatever he expected but failed to receive, mumbling something under his breath and shaking his head as he corks it again, passing it back to her. \"I can take a look through the files, but I think I'd be more help if I were able to look around wherever you've found this. Vandals leave traces behind everywhere, even if they do not know it. You have *Enemigos, senorita?* \""
}
] | 568 | 2,576 |
562.2 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Jade hadn't been in the library since Arthur's disappearance, the pain of a heartbreak, her brother coming home and getting him settled, helping take care of the Hiranos, and lastly, being attacked herself. The doctor said not to move too much and not to lift, but the library needed some TLC. The library needed her attention, and frankly, she needed the distraction. \n\nJackson was there to help her most of the time when he wasn't busy himself, but she still needed help. She had learned that the hard way. She tried to lift a stack of books and ended up making more of a mess, dropping the already fragile books everywhere. \n\nShe let out a soft grunt of pain as she worked to crouch down to pick them up. She was mentally cursing herself. She had put out a help wanted ad, but she couldn't blame anyone for not wanting to take on the work for very little; lunch, baked goods, and books were about all she could offer. \n\nShe could hear Akira and Jackson nagging her now, but she hadn't ever been down and out like this. She was used to moving freely; she was used to not needing help. She eventually gave up and sat on the floor, neatly stacking the books. \n\nThey would just have to live there for now, and she probably wouldn't get up either. She let out a defeated huff. She had never been so frustrated in her life. She was supposed to take care of others; she wasn't supposed to need others to take care of her. \"Son of a bitch,\" She growled. \n\nNever in all of her years had she sustained such injuries that she couldn't do what she needed to do. \n\nShe could hear her daddy cussing her for everything she was worth now for being lazy."
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "Since James had told her to pick up some books at the library, Ruth has not been there once.\n\nShe pondered the thought and rolled it around in her head thoroughly, like a laundress with a washboard. She was nearby and had passed it a couple of times, her gaze traveling behind the squeaky-clean windows to the rows of neatly stacked books, their softly colorful covers making the place so cozy, almost a little magical, that Ruth thought: *What if*. But she always passed. The library was a place where people came wanting something and left carrying that exact thing. A couple of weeks before Ruth spotted a little girl exiting that very door: her eyes shiny, her smile, which was missing a couple of teeth, wide and sparkling between her cheeks reddened from the cold. Even if the book she held onto so tight was simple, that little girl possessed something that Ruth did not: she knew what she needed.\n\nSometimes, in her head, she imagined coming in; but even in her fantasy, she always got stuck, dumbfounded. Would she just look through the books until she found the cover she liked? Ruth didn't know what a good cover should look like. She also heard that the classics had monotone covers and the bright images usually hid the cheap unfiltered corniness inside. What complicated the situation was that Ruth could not decide if for her personally, corniness would be bad and classics would be good. Not to mention how she absolutely drowned in genres. Would she enjoy romance? Maybe fantasy? Would contemporary bore or comfort her? What did \"Epos\" Even mean? The only book Ruth was always able to find solace in was the Bible, but she doubted there could be something quite like it.\n\nSo, when she saw a notice for the library help on the Briar Ridge board, - which she routinely checked to dip her toes into the lives of the townspeople without the laborious need to get into the conversation, - Ruth saw it as help from God himself. She couldn't imagine the task at hand to be complicated, and the sketch of cookies at the bottom of the page looked very appetizing too. At night, Ruth tossed and turned under her blanket, and finally came up with a rough plan: she would ask the person she will be helping, what their favorite book is. She would say that it sounds interesting and, after the work is done, ask if they had it at the library. If yes, she would take it home. If no, she would leave and take a relaxing three-hour forest walk to soothe her nerves. \n\nAnd so, in the morning, after her routine trap check, Ruth headed to the library. When the door opened with a slight creek (\"It would be good to oil the hinges\", Ruth noted to herself), for a second, she felt so surreal she thought any second she would wake up.\n\n\"Good morning,\" She called out after cleaning up her throat, hesitant to move further than a couple steps from the doorway, \"My name is Ruth, I'm here because of the ad.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Jade was not used to sitting still and resting - it was quite funny really. Jade got onto Jackson and Akira all the time about resting when they are sick and hurt but she could not bring herself to do those exact things. Yet if she sat for too long, if she didn't distract herself, the weight of the attack suffocated her. An elephant on her chest, hindering her breathing. She only remembered it in flashes, the yellow eyes of something inhuman, the searing pain of the beast's claws ripping into her skin. She was fighting hard to forgive April, she didn't deserve the ending she got but Jade didn't deserve to be mauled either... Right? Or was that why April sought her out, to rid her of Briar Ridge to have one less screw up, one less run away. She wanted so badly to forgive and forget, she wanted to see April for who she was... A lovely woman with even lovelier children and a nice husband who she had the pleasure of speaking to at the speakeasy a time or two. She was trying to remember that April was human but it didn't stop the nightmares, it didn't stop the screaming, it left its permanent mark on her, a wide gagged scar across her chest where the flesh had been torn.\n\nJade sat there on the old wooden floors filled with grief and frustration. Grief of those she has lost because of the attacks, even without knowing them. She felt them deeply, their spirits, their joy, their heartbreak. She felt it all and it was getting too overwhelming. She was thankful when she heard the library door open, she struggled to her feet using the stack of books as support even as they wobbled slightly. Jade Grant had seen better days but she would also see worse. She saw a woman, which wasn't shocking. Briar Ridge gave women the freedom normal society didn't. Boy was she sure glad to see Ruth, almost like the universe was giving her a break and sending her another kind face. Jade smiled \"Well good morning to ya too\" She pushed her past anxieties down, not wanting to scare Ruth off \"Oh! The ad!\" Jade exclaimed \"I wasn't even sure if anyone looked at those anymore. I am so glad you are here...\" She looked to Ruth analyzing her from afar but Jade knew a friend when she saw one... Well truly she saw a friend in everyone. It took something real nasty to make her hate anyone. She couldn't even hate the woman who had done this to her, April. She talked to her subconsciously all the time now, maybe it was her way of coping with near death and hoping April was out there somewhere enjoying her life with her husband, Jade wanted to keep her updated. She deserved to live and she would as long as Jade kept her alive.\n\n\"Why don't you help yourself to some cookies first and we can chat, my names Jade, I don't think we've had the pleasure of meeting before\" She spoke politely, normally she would've already been over to Ruth, shaking her hand, ushering her forward with a soft hand on her back, having her sit down and get cozy \"I apologize I'm not the greatest host at the moment but I'll get ya back, scouts honor.\" Jade would make it up to Ruth, she could hear her granny scolding her now. Jade sauntered over to the plate of cookies she had baked the night before, she was thankful for the sunshine and warmth, it kept the cookies warm and gooey. \"I don't know about you but I am not the biggest fan of crunchy cookies. I always leave them a little soft in the middle, my granny said I was gonna get sick one day because of it but... I'm still kicking\" She laughed. \n\nApril, did you know Ruth? I didn't but I want to. Should I try to be a host and go as flamboyant as I normally would? No... I should probably take it easy."
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "Ruth saw the woman struggling to stand up, her legs shaking, and immediately took a step back. What was with Briar Ridge and its most wounded soldiers always being the first ones to get back into work?\n\n\"Please, sit down,\" Ruth asked patiently. She came closer, and suddenly, the recognition struck her. It was the same woman who Ruth saw being teared up by the werewolf, who mere hours ago wore the skin of April Abrams. She stopped the monster with a silver bullet herself, before Algernon Granville, his hands steady as ever, finished it off for good. And the woman...\n\nRuth was sure the woman was dead. And yet, not only did she survive, but she didn't seem like the one wounded so gravely. That horrific night, her whole chest looked like minced meat after the teeth and claws of an unsatiable werewolf stopped their massacre at her. And now she was... Talking, she was standing up, she was laughing, not like a person whose every breath would be of grave pain to them. Ruth had heard tales of Doctor Ashworth and his magical hands before, but now she was inclined to believe that maybe, his hands were truly magical.\n\nRuth found a chair for herself and took a sit near Jade. She took a bite of the cookie: gooey, chocolatey heaviness melted in her mouth. She closed her eyes for a second to properly appreciate the taste.\n\n\"I enjoy the soft cookies too,\" Ruth shared, \"I think all food is better soft. The food can hug you the way a person cannot; a rough hug isn't much comfort.\"\n\nRuth took a bite again, gladly listening to Jade's sunny rambling speech.\n\n\"You are doing amazing,\" She added, but her tone was too misty to be reassuring, her thoughts too far away, \"For a person who I last thought was dead. It seems that God still needs you here, with us. And thank Him for it, those cookies are something.\" Ruth added with a smile. She didn't want to make the conversation heavy. She had an inkling that neither she nor Jade wanted to talk about her wounds.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Jade forced herself to laugh and act as naturally as she could, even though her body screamed for a break. Granny always said there was no rest for the wicked. Which meant no rest for Jade either. She smiled at Ruth at the mention of soft cookies—a woman of taste! Jade listened to Ruth and immediately enjoyed her thoughts. \"You know what? You are right. I suppose that's why they call them comfort foods, huh? Do you have a favorite comfort food?\" Jade questioned, though she wouldn't tell Ruth she intended to make it. She wanted the woman to have a pleasant surprise as a thank-you for her help. She felt the flu on her cheeks as Ruth mentioned that she was needed here. Ruth could not have known how bad things had truly gotten, and for that, the woman in front of her. Jade would protect her. \n\nApril, did you have any comfort foods?\n\nWith the quiet voice in her mind, she knew April would not answer, but she'd like to think she was listening. Jade was already enamored with Ruth. Which was not uncommon for Jade. Just for Ruth taking the time out of her day to come to the library and help, talking with her, and avoiding the very large elephant in the room. Jade was filled with gratitude. She would get better and properly host Ruth and help with the library; now she was hellbent on it. The cure was being worked on, and that was all Jade could hope for. Ruth did not smell like the wolves did, and Jade enjoyed the woman's refreshing scent and the lack of the wet dog aroma she was growing used to. Jade was still trying to adjust to being what she was—a werewolf. She joined the coalition to combat, but ever since meeting Akira and learning more about them on a personal level, They were just people. Was she still a person? Could she still be nice and friendly? Or was this her trying to lure Ruth into something more sinister?\n\nShe was leaning more toward the fact that she was still friendly and nice. She did not want to harm Ruth. She thought quite the opposite, and yet she could not help but question herself. Jade was in no hurry to be alone with her thoughts, and the sooner she put Ruth to work, the sooner Ruth would leave. So, she decided to get to know the woman. \"Ruth, did you grow up in Briar Ridge? Tell me about yourself, whatever you feel comfortable sharing, and obviously, I'll tell you anything you want about me! I am an open book.\" \n\nUnless she asks if she is a werewolf, then she will be forced to lie. \n\nApril, did you still manage friendships?"
}
] | 553 | 2,811 |
291.076923 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "The town was quiet for once; the morning was calm, and Dimitra was up to no good— as usual. It wasn't that she entirely meant to get up to trouble, but it was just in her nature to do so. \n\nShe couldn't say she spent an awful long time at the library, but she liked it well enough. Sometimes when she missed home, she'd go and find old books about her people— of course, those old books were often caricatures of her people, but they conjured into her mind vivid memories from her childhood. Dancing and laughing and music... The things she missed so dearly about her family. \n\nDimitra opened the doors to the library and scanned the area, immediately scuttling over in her flowing skirts and wild hair. Big, chunky gold earrings hung from her ears, glittering in the light that filtered in through the frosty windows. Her eyes landed on the woman at the desk, sliding up to her and laying her hands down flat on the surface to look down at her. \n\n\"Quiet this morning, isn't it?\" She said, eyebrow raised. \"Always this quiet, Miss...?\" She wasn't so sure she'd ever got her name, honestly. But what she did know, was that she'd seen this woman lurking around Arty Maldorano, which made this all the more fun."
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Arthur didn't need her at the shop until later, so here she was surrounded by old books, her favorite. It was her favorite form of escape, finding the old stories provided a little bit of comfort. However, Briar Ridge was no fairytale. She heard the door open and close, she had her back to the door at first, putting some of the older books behind the desk since they were worn, they would need to be put aside to be fixed or kept for request only. \n\nThe brunette heard the sultry tones of another woman's voice, Dimitra, she smiled, obviously having no problem with the woman even if she was Arthurs's rival. She found Dimitra to be... Pretty and charismatic, she was friends with everyone, how could Arthur scold her for adding one more to the list?\n\nIt was a quiet morning, surprising for Briar Ridge, she nodded her head slowly \"It is, I think I like it though...\" She heard Dimitra trail off before realizing the woman was asking her name \"Oh! I'm Jade... And you are Dimitra, right?\" She didn't want to pretend to know but... Well when someone is your partner's rival, you are bound to hear their name cursed. Before getting swept up in all the charm and the wild curls, she reminded herself she was still working \"Can I help you find a book?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She snapped her fingers. \"Of course, of course... Jade.\" She repeated the name, letting it roll off the tongue with ease. \"Pretty stone, jade. Very rare, too...\" She tilted her head. \"A book? Oh, right... Books.\" Her eyes found the room again and looked around a moment, taking it all in. \n\n\"I guess I should get a book, shouldn't I?\" She trailed her fingertips across the table as she wandered slowly. \"Do you have a lot of mysteries? Or adventurous tales?\" Dimitra asked. \n\n\"You work for Maldorano, no?\" She flipped the subject quickly, turning to face her again. \"How *Is* Business going, by the way?\" She flashed a cheeky grin. \"Or are you not allowed to say?\" \n\nClearly, she amused herself. Jade was a mystery to her; and she couldn't help but wonder what she knew, or particularly, what she *Did* For Maldorano himself. \"Just curious, of course...\" Dimitra cracked a wide smile and leaned on the table again. \"Nothing nefarious.\""
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Jade felt the heat flow into her cheeks when she mentioned the stone, pretty and considered rare. Why would that fluster her, it was true but... Books! Yes, books. Mystery and Adventurous, that seemed to be right up Dimitra's alley if she were to guess, she left from behind the desk for a moment \"Mysterious...\" She repeated back to herself with a hum, she did have a book in mind, whether it was there or not was an entirely different ballpark. Maldorano, oh right. She worked there too \n\n\"I do, I clean mostly, you know tend to the flower beds and bring in the baked goods, a pretty face for the customers usually\" She looked back to Dimitra, oh she meant that sort of business \"Oh well, I don't really know. I wish I had answers for you but like I said, I just handle the cleaning and being the pretty face\" She turned back to the bookshelf. Finally, she selected one. \n\nThe Red Harvest by Dashiell Hammett, she playfully tapped her fingers against the spine of the book before getting it down \"Here we go, I think this one would keep your interest. The author is talking about his experience as a Pinkerton Operative and most of the interactions in this book were with real people\" She didn't mean to ramble on, books were her thing. They were really her only means of escape at one point. \n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She listened well, eyebrow raised as Jade wandered the shelves in pursuit of a book. She followed at a distance, watching her closely. \"Maldorano doesn't share that kind of information with his...*Friends*?\" She said, looking Jade over again and smiling slyly as she was offered the book. \n\nShe flipped it open, finger gliding along the edge of the page. \"This'll do nicely, I think. Thank you.\" She closed it, setting it on the counter and boosting herself up to sit on the edge of it. \n\n\"You must read an awful lot of books,\" She mused and tilted her head. \"Have you ever wanted to do something crazy?\" She asked. \"Like... Gun slinging, or robbing a bank? Or even jumping on rooftops to escape someone?\" Her legs swung as she sat, grin spreading wider. \n\n\"Then again... We've had enough excitement here in Briar Ridge to last about a lifetime.\" She laughed and shook her head. \"Don't you agree?\""
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Friends... She didn't correct her. She truthfully didn't know if Arthur wished for their affection for each other to be private. Although she had an inkling that Dimitra knew, she was just trying to get under her skin. Jade admittedly did feel a little intimidated and a little intrigued. Dimitra would be a good friend, she had no doubt. She watched as the woman examined the book, hoping it would be to her standards. She felt a little triumph when she accepted it. So far her suggestions were undefeated. She slowly nodded \"Yeah, I do read a lot\" She offered before laughing \n\n\"Well, that's why I read. I have lived many lives through books\" She offered, leaning against the shelves \"But I do think it would feel exciting. I don't know, the only thing I can think of that would be similar is running from home, running from marriage and a life I didn't want\" She rambled until the mention of Briar Ridge \"Yes... Plenty of excitement for a lifetime I should say\" She lost a little bit of her steam, the full moon, some of it still plagued her mind. She had never felt so helpless in her life. \n\n\"Dimitra, I'm sorry if this is too forward but have you ever shot a gun?\" She questioned, maybe Dimitra would be open to teaching her. She would ask Arthur but she didn't see it going over well. Dimitra seemed like a good option, she hoped. This could go really well and the next full moon she wouldn't be helpless. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She hadn't been corrected, but she knew better. People talked; and some talked more than others, especially when business was involved. Of course she knew about Jade Grant and Arthur Maldorano's little *Love affair*. It wasn't like they were particularly subtle about it, anyhow. Either way, she wasn't about to call her out on it, either. \n\n\"Have I ever shot a gun?\" She repeated the question and then couldn't help but laugh. In her line of work, it was a detriment to not know how to fire off a round or two. She came up to her, leaning on the counter with one hip, and gripped the edge of her own skirt. She slowly lifted, revealing ankle, then calf, and eventually, a scandalous peek of thigh. A holster was fashioned there, a pistol settled in snugly against her skin. \"I sure do. Why? You need some lessons?\" She wagered a guess. \n\nWhile it wouldn't be in her best interest to help competition, she also had zero qualms about poaching employees... Or lovers. All was fair in love and war and alcohol, after all."
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "As the woman's skirt lifted and the gun strapped to her thigh became evident, Dimitra was truly a fearless woman. One she aspired to be. She had no experience with a gun, except for when she shot and missed. She damn sure didn't want to miss again. She wouldn't miss again. She had her head in the sand at first not wanting to hurt the regular old wolves she thought them to be. Not anymore, she wanted to defend herself and her loved ones. She met Dimitra's eyes once more looking away from the gun. \"I do...\" \n\n\"I need a way to protect myself and others. Especially given the circumstances of Briar Ridge. Jade didn't see much of a problem learning from Dimitra. After all, Dimitra hadn't done anything to her. However, she certainly wouldn't tell Arthur exactly where she learned or who she learned from. She knew that it wouldn't go over very well. \"Well, that is of course if you are okay with that\" She backpedaled. \"I know that we aren't technically supposed to get along but I don't see the harm in it, if you don't\" She tried to match the level of Dimitra's charisma but that would certainly take time. \n\n\nIt was refreshing to see women with their own varying personalities in Briar Ridge. Vastly different from what she grew up watching if she had to describe it. It was like her mother was just a ghost and her grandmother as much as she loved her grandmother, was passive as all get out. Jade herself combating her own passiveness, learning to shoot a gun seemed like a step in the right direction. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "Her smile widened and she dropped her skirt, letting the pistol disappear from sight. Dimitra was quite pleased with how this was all panning out. Jade was pretty, though she wasn't sure how much she knew about the dangers of this world. She seemed a little naive; but then again, she hardly knew the girl. She supposed she would reveal more about herself with time. \n\n\"I'd be more than happy to teach you how to shoot a gun. What kind? A pistol? Shot gun?\" She asked, tilting her head and then deciding to boost herself up to sit on the desk with ease. Her feet swung as she sat there, observing the woman. She seemed... Quiet. Not exactly *Quiet* Maybe, but... She wasn't nearly as loud as her. And maybe that wasn't a bad thing. \n\n\"If Arthur has an issue with our newfound friendship, then he's clearly afraid of me... For some reason.\" She smirked, tossing her wild curls over her shoulder with a sense of pride. \"Anyway, I'd be more than happy to teach you a thing or two. It's important, these days... You know, with everything going on.\" She grimaced a little bit. \n\n\"You could come by my place sometime. In exchange...\" She whistled. \"You stay for dinner?\" She suggested."
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Dimitra was unlike anyone Jade had ever met, aside from Arthur. Both of them seemed to be real wild cards. She was beginning to think that she had a type. Oblivion must've attracted those who have seen the world for what it was. Jade still had the sheltered excitement of finally being on her own. The only violence she had seen prior to Briar Ridge was her father and she was usually on the other end of it. However, now she felt what her father must have to be so violent. Rage, begging to scratch its way out. The beasts put everyone in danger, good people, people she loved and cared for. Dimitra obliging her only further enticed the anger inside of her. She thought of the guns, rifle, shotgun. None of which she owned, she did have her father's pistol however, she could stand to learn more about it. She looked at Dimitra as she sat on the desk. \"Uh Pistol, I have one. I took it when I left home\" \n\nThe woman lounging reminded her of a sphinx. Waiting to be worshipped by their loyal servants. The confident ease of the woman, honestly even intimidated her. She let out a small laugh as she mentioned Arthur being intimidated, she never even imagined intimidated and Arthur going together. She shook her head \"Arthur being intimidated... I don't know if that even exists\" Jade looked behind her briefly to make sure the table was in fact there to lean on. She didn't put her entire weight into leaning but she didn't want to seem so uptight. Jade listened to Dimitra's offer. A smile formed on her face. \n\n\"Dinner...\" She let out a slight hum \"Okay but how about you at least let me help cook since you are already taking on the role of teacher\" She didn't want to put too much onto Dimitra and cooking was something that Jade knew she was good at. She wanted something to prove that she wasn't entirely useless. She wasn't that much of a screwup. As if that was what she was doomed to always be. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She tilted her head and smiled. \"Oh, please. Arthur is a little threatened by me, whether he'd like to admit it or not. He knows I can do his job— better, faster, and make more money doing it. He should be glad I don't try to.\" Dimitra smirked. She was quite confident in her skills, and the part that was different about her? She didn't need a bunch of people to work for her. She liked to get her hands dirty. \n\n\"I know how to handle a pistol well. I can teach you real easy, no worries.\" She smiled wide and leaned forward, fingers gripping the wood as she did to keep herself from falling forward. \"I guess you can help me cook. You don't have to, though. Then again, I would never say no to a pretty lady cooking me dinner.\" She leaned back and laughed, holding her stomach as she did and shaking her head. \n\n\"If Arthur heard me talking like that to you, he'd kill me.\" But she didn't care one bit. \"Anywho... It all sounds like a fair deal to me.\" She said, cocking her hip out. \"When'll you swing by?\" She asked."
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Dimitra would certainly know more about the intimidation game than she would. Could she even be intimidating? She felt guilty at the thought of being intimidating to people. She didn't want to be like her father and that may have been why she acted the way she did. Overly nice and overly caring. Ready to bleed for people who wouldn't do the same for her. She shook her head, lightly laughing with Dimitra. She was easy to get along with even if they weren't really supposed to get along. \"Well, I suppose I should thank you for holding back\" She held no malice in her tone. It was quite lighthearted and carefree. She was grateful for Dimitra, even if she did vex Jade in some sort of way. Like a game of cat and mouse. \n\n\"I suppose I shouldn't complain much about you cooking either but you are already doing something for me, so it feels only right that I do something in return.\" She flustered easily. At least that's what she told herself. Dimitra must've had a knack for getting under people's skin. She loved Arthur, more than words could even describe. So why was she flustering about being called beautiful? \"Well, thankfully walls can't talk, now can they?\" She teased, it was her turn to let out a small hum in thought \"How about sometime before the full moon? That is when I would need your lessons the most\" \n\nShe didn't want to completely fumble and feel helpless again. Although she didn't admit that to Dimitra, she didn't want to appear weak. Even if the woman could sense that she was. Jade unfortunately was a very readable person, almost easier than reading a book. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "The corner of her mouth upturned as Jade flustered. Even if she had no real intention of stealing anyone's lover, it still gave her a sense of satisfaction to see some color rise to Jade Grant's cheeks in response to her harmless flirting. It felt like a leg up on the competition, which was always something she preferred. Then again, she felt she was doing well for herself in the bootlegging game, and like she'd said— she didn't need a bunch of lackeys to do her work for her. \n\n\"Before the full moon? I suppose I can pencil you in...\" She drawled, taking an imaginary notepad out of her pocket and pantomiming flipping through it, as if needing to write it down. \n\n\"Just come by the house whenever you'd like. I'm almost always there in the evenings, and if not, I'm at the barn.\" She cracked a grin and leaned her elbows back on the counter. \"You'll be a sharpshooter in no time, sweetheart, don't you worry your pretty little head.\" She shot her a wink before standing up straight. \n\n\"Well, thank you for the book, Miss Grant,\" She said, picking it up and holding it to her chest. \"I should be going soon... But don't be a stranger, alright?\""
}
] | 280 | 3,784 |
713.2 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "wesley gray.",
"message": "Having older brothers meant that there was always someone around to pick up the slack when Wesley was a child. When Henry and Ezra were there to help out on the farm, Abe and Wesley got to reap the privileges of the birth order and stay in school for *Just* A little longer. It meant that Wesley could read, a skill for which he was immeasurably grateful. More importantly, it meant that he could write. \n\nWith as much time on his own as Wesley had, he had taken to carrying around a journal and pencils. Anything could make it onto the pages — his thoughts, strange dreams he felt worth poring over again, gift ideas — but this time of year he had a section marked out especially for names. Listed in as careful a penmanship as he could muster, Wesley had been keeping a collection of names for the lambs who would come in the spring. He'd just read *Little Women,* And having already had a Beth and a Jo, was happy to add Amy and Meg to the list. \n\nThe springtime would bring new life, and new opportunities, and new joys. Maybe. If they could get this under control. If he could keep everyone safe. If he could have assumed Atlas' position, Wesley's shoulders might have held the frozen sky. There had to be something to look forward to — some kind of peace to be found after all of this suffering. He was hardly one to complain about where he found that joy. If it came from scribbling literary names in a journal, then so be it.\n_ _\n\nLined with books and therefore very well-insulated, the library provided a dual reprieve in that it was as warm and cozy as its tiny space could yield. Wesley was thumbing his way through shelves of titles, some of which he'd read and some of which frightened him. A trip around the corner spooked him out of his reverie, and he jolted a little to find someone already sitting in the corner he'd come to peruse. Was that Marianne Wilburn? Wesley didn't quite remember her face, but there were only so many redheads in town. Sometimes he wished he could be normal about this sort of thing, but he had a mother with a finger in everyone else's pie.\n\n\"My apologies,\" He chuckled, stooping to pick up his pencil where he'd dropped it. \"You lookin' for somethin' to read? Just returned some books, myself.\" *(Who are you again? How do I find out without asking?)*"
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "The Briar Ridge library had long since been one of few places that Marianne could find peace. Surrounded by floor to ceiling shelves of books on just about every topic imaginable, the familiar smell of dust and ink permeating her nostrils, there was no place quite like it when she found herself needing to be out of the house, but not out in the open under the watchful eyes of her neighbours. It was warm, and the light was good, and for the most part she was left to her own devices. \n\nShe'd set herself a limit long ago of taking out just one book at a time, for fear that should she take more, the books would find themselves swallowed into the depths of her personal shelves, and while the fines bore little weight on her finances, it seemed unfair to deprive the rest of the town of her favourite literature, accidental as it would have been through. Though she did her best to keep good track of her things, books were as much part of the furniture in her home as armchairs and oil lamps, and one or two extra would easily turn into ten. \n\nThus, she found herself one afternoon perusing the paperback novels she always fell to when spoilt for choice, lost in her own world. That was at least until there were footsteps, and a voice far closer than she'd expected one, and she dropped the copy of Great Expectations she'd been deliberating over - thankfully, only into her lap and not to the floor, so she was saved the embarrassment of breaking the spine and causing pages to flutter across the room. She'd done that before, and felt so guilty about it that she'd paid the librarian twice what any sensible person would think the value of Anna Karenina, original edition in Russian or not, and fled the building in shame, not to return for three weeks thereafter.\n\nIt was the man who dropped something. A pencil, which rolled almost right to her feet before he was able to pick it up. She reached for it as he did, but he got there first, leaving her with an outstretched arm and an awkward smile on her face as she looked up to say hello. \n\nAnd to her pleasant surprise, he was no stranger at all. \n\n\"Why, if it isn't Mr Gray.\"\n\nShe walked by his farm when the weather was nice enough, which hadn't been all that often since the winter hit, but she had fond memories of passing the fields in the springtime and watching the lambs frolic around their mothers, finding their feet for the first time. They were dear little things, and had brightened her days considerably the first time she'd come across them. Sometimes she took a detour simply to listen to their little bleats and slip them undersized carrots from her garden when they were old enough to nibble from her hands. Wesley raised them well. Though she didn't know him too personally, she'd heard his name enough around the holler to know he was a good man. \n\n\"My apologies, I don't believe we've met formally. Marianne - I'm a good friend of your flock.\" She beamed at him, sitting up and tucking her hair back behind her ear. \"Merely browsing for the time being. Sometimes I find myself rereading the same stories, over and over again.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "wesley gray.",
"message": "Marianne recognized Wesley before Wesley recognized Marianne, which sent a little jolt of irritation through him at the lack of control he seemed to have over his own identity in the context of Briar Ridge. He melted as soon as she continued on. *\"I'm a good friend of your flock,\"* She said, and in doing so earned Wesley's respect and affection in one fell swoop.\n\nIn an agrarian community it was easy for folk to overlook something as simple and common as a sheep. Wesley was all too familiar with this routine minimization of the creatures' feelings: life in Briar Ridge was about survival, and few could afford to acknowledge a sheep as more than livestock. So frequently was he alone in his careful love for them that he'd long abandoned the idea that his family viewed him as being of sound mind. Marianne smiled, and Wesley felt bashful, as though she had willingly shone a light on a part of himself he did not often put on display. The smile which bloomed on his own face in kind was a slow and syrupy one paired with kind, patient eyes. He was a busy man, but he could make time for someone who could make time for his sheep.\n\n\"A friend of the flock's a friend of mine,\" He replied, low and warm. Wesley found himself seated before he realized it, and offered Marianne a hand to shake. \"Wesley, then, officially. I wasn't too sure,\" He chuckled, a little shy. \n_ _\n\nThere was a comfort in rereading stories, something Wesley understood all too well. His was a life punctuated by great losses and defined by meticulous schedules. He had grown into a man who depended very dearly upon knowing what would happen next. (The decision to read Agatha Christie for the *Very first* Book club selection was an exercise in expanding his comfort zone.) It was hardly uncommon for him to reread books two, three, four times – there was no anxiety waiting to grip him in the moments before he turned each page. If Wesley wasn't reading outside with the flock and the sheepdogs, he was sitting up in bed with a book, burning up his oil. His bedroom was the only private space he had in the house; he preferred to keep it a space of solace, which was difficult when he was trying to psychically prevent an author from killing off a character as though he might rearrange the print on the next page.\n\nMarianne. It was a nice name. He didn't feel right about adding it to his list, though.\n\n\"You feeding my girls behind my back?\" He teased, wearing a soft and easy smile. \"By all means, feed 'em any time. They're nice ladies, I know.\"\n\nHe coughed politely as he stretched to place his book back on the shelf. Wesley had checked out *Wuthering Heights* Again, mostly because he was harboring some guilt about his beloved Cathy, lost to the wolves. \n\n\"I'm actually here makin' a list,\" He continued, pulling his notepad from his pocket. \"Got six weeks or so before the lambs start comin', and I like to give 'em names from books.\" Wesley wasn't plagued by concerns that he was an irritation. A youngest child at heart, he bloomed at the attention he got from someone who validated his interests.\n\n\"You got any recommendations, Miss Marianne? Books, names?\" He asked, smile like a grassy field."
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "\"Wesley,\" She repeated softly, syllables rolling from her tongue like a charm. \"It's good to put a face to the name at last.\" Considering that this man was nigh on a stranger, he'd done well to put her at immediate ease. Though she supposed it was as he said - the sheep could be considered mutual friends, and that was a step towards a friendship of their own. \"And it's quite alright - that you didn't know. I've been a homebody for the best part of the last few years, I doubt half this town knows my face, let alone my name.\"\n\nWhat she'd heard of Wesley Gray was little, beyond that he tended to the sheep and the fields, and that he had musical tendencies. Some summer nights, long ago (too long), she had been in the habit of opening her bedroom window, listening to faint snatches of the fiddle carried over the hillside by the breeze. It had been too cold for that for months now, of course, but still on occasion she caught herself humming one of those little melodies, though she didn't know them well enough to ever find their source material.\n\nStill, the face before her was kind, and shone with innocent curiosity, and for the sake of a few moments' conversation she was more than happy to indulge him. \n\n\"Oh, only sometimes.\" She waved off his question with a light laugh, shaking her head. \"The little ones like the carrots that don't grow so big, and I've no use for those, so why wouldn't they be best as bargaining chips? Besides, I like animals. They don't ask no questions and they make good listening ears.\" Her smile only grew wider as she saw the book he was reaching to return to its place, and she noted that Wesley Gray cared as she did for the neat sorting system put in place by the town's librarian. Everything had its place, and Wesley returned Wuthering Heights to exactly the right spot, at the end of the shelf pressed in by the bookend. \"A wonderful choice, if I might say. One of the Misses Brontë's best.\"\n\nIn turn, she turned Great Expectations so he could see the cover. \"I've read this one before, but it's one I return to over and over. I recommend it, if you haven't already made it to the end. Pip would make a darling name for a lamb... But my all-time favourite? Give me a moment.\" She set her small pile of books aside and rose from her seat to search the shelves, running her fingers over cracked and dusty spines until she found the copies she was looking for. \"Les Miserables. The original, but of course, if you don't read French, the translation lives right beside it. A wonderful story, albeit a heartbreaking one. And a rather thrilling selection of names to choose from within the pages. Should I tell you, or let you find them for yourself?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "wesley gray.",
"message": "Wesley nodded along as Marianne explained her absence from town. It was true that he couldn't place her face in his memories – but he could, if he wanted to. There had been so many nights alone on the hillside with only the stars and his flock. He had never liked the woods, and for as long as Wesley had been tending the sheep on his own, the night had brought with it the occasional odd figure, shrouded in darkness and lingering for ages near the fence. Wesley had only ever viewed it as some dread-creature, come up from the depths of the river to claim him. He might rest easier on the hill if he could supplant those memories with a gentle face, earnest eyes, someone who had come as a hopeful guest rather than an interloper. Looking at her, though, perhaps she, too, had come from somewhere in the belly of the earth, made up of autumn leaves and creamy heliotrope. \n\nMarianne was a fan of the Brontë sisters, too. Gosh. Wesley felt a little bashful, as though he had been caught in an embarrassing position. Few saw him in his honesty. It was true that he had always had an easier time maintaining friendships with women than with men, maybe because women tended to see a nuance in him that most men were either unable or unwilling to see. Even so, he felt that there was something serendipitous about this meeting. He had long since been wanting a friend who could understand him, and Wesley, with endless love to pour out, was more than happy to hold up his end of the bargain in exchange for a friendship with someone who could see him.\n\n\"As for the sheep, it's true. Reckon they know more o' my secrets than any other living soul.\" He spoke with warmth and lightness, but there was an undercurrent of melancholy in his eyes which even Wesley couldn't hide. Few might have suspected such a family man to be so lonely. The man he needed to be for his family, though, was not the same man who existed out on the hillside, gazing out at the treeline or up into the stars.\n_ _\n\nHe chuckled aloud as she used the word *If,* Like it was a necessary qualifier for someone who had grown up in Briar Ridge. *Ah – so that's why she's a stranger.* No way had this woman been educated here in town if she could speak French.\n\n\" 'Fraid I'll need the English translation, Miss Marianne,\" He chuckled, pulling out his journal as he did so and scrawling *Pip* At the bottom of what was a long and multi-columned list. Tucking it back away, he returned a warm, bright gaze to Marianne's face, refreshed by the idea that there wasn't a lifetime worth of gossip trailing behind her for his mother to feed him against his will. Besides, if he could ask her questions, he could use her name. *Marianne.* Like wind in the grass. He so loved a story on a grassy moor – perhaps that was why the English were so frequently his favorite authors.\n\n\"I'll take the heartbreak in exchange for the wonderful story,\" He replied, studying the reverence with which she held the book. It was an old copy – most books at the Briar Ridge Library were old copies – and in spite of Miss Grant's best efforts to preserve their conditions, the books couldn't always hold up to time, wear, and the like. His gaze, curious and shy, flickered again to her eyes as though he hoped to find some counterbalance there. *What do you do, hidden away in your house?* Did she live alone, or was she caring for an ailing family member? Her touch against the book's aging spine reminded him of his own touch when he was tending to his father, helping him bathe or cutting his hair. \n\n\"As for those names,\" He continued, \"I'll find 'em myself. Gotta have somethin' to talk to you about the next time I see you.\" After a moment, he paused and, with a minute tilt of his head, adopted a conspiratorial smile.\n\n\"Say, how come I didn't see you at the first Book Club meeting? Seems like just your cup of tea. You wanna come check it out with me, Miss Marianne?\""
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "\"*C'est bien, mon ami*.\" There was only a whisper of teasing in Marianne's voice, unable to help herself as she handed him the English copy and clutched the French close to her chest. \"I thought it might be so. If I hadn't been taught as a girl, I'd be lost as to where to begin too. *C'est bien* Is 'it's alright', and *Mon ami*, 'my friend'. So now, if you were to wish to learn, you'd have a starting point.\" She knew it was somewhat pointless - there was no need to speak French here, or at least none that she knew of. Spanish, perhaps, of which she could speak very little and read even less. But for a man like Wesley, whose livelihood lay in the fields and his flock, things he relied upon to survive even the harshest of winters while Marianne burned her candles and read stories to her heart's content? There was no need for a romance language at all. She felt a little shy all of a sudden, worried she'd overstepped, lost her place - the last thing she desired was to cause an awkward sort of rift between someone she'd really only just met. \n\n\"Les Miserables is more than worth the heartbreak. Do let me know how you get on with it - and with the names.\" She found her smile once more, and forced herself past it, hoping he'd forgive her misstep in exchange for further conversation. Something about him, the kind look in his brown eyes, made him seem the forgiving type, and if he weren't, he was free to walk away and never speak to her again. But something else he said had captured her attention once again.\n\n\"A book club? Why, I must admit I didn't know we had one,\" She told him truthfully, head tilting to the side in thought. *Would* That be the sort of social event she'd like to attend? Large groups weren't something she had much experience in as of late. But a group of people like her, like Wesley... She could picture them, a rough circle in one of the aisles, trading books and thoughts, perhaps reading aloud here and there. She'd bring cookies, if they could keep them hidden from the librarian and of course, be careful not to get chocolate on the delicate pages. \"I haven't spent much time with others as of late. You'll have to forgive my ignorance - rest assured it is entirely unintentional. Perhaps I'm not as observant as I'd like to be.\" She laughed. \"Tell me more. You have my attention, Mr Gray.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "wesley gray.",
"message": "\"It's a new club,\" He explained, one hand rubbing out some tension on the back of his neck.A smile tugged at Wesley's lips as Marianne handed him the English copy. Her teasing lilt warmed him, and he couldn't deny the flicker of curiosity the French ignited. Though the fields and flock might be his bread and butter, words were his hidden treasure, weaving worlds more vibrant than any pasture. \n\n\"C'est bien? I reckon that means I did alright then, Miss Marianne,\" He drawled, the words feeling smooth on his tongue despite the unfamiliar sounds. He tucked the English copy under his arm, his gaze drawn to the French one held close to her chest. \n\n\"Spanish, you say? Now that's a one I haven't heard much around here. Though, come spring, there might be a few migrant families passing through, folks like you and me, just seeking greener pastures, as it were.\" His smile widened, catching a glimpse of her shyness. It was a mirror of sorts in that he, too, often felt bashful and exposed when he knew people could see the truth of him. It wasn't that his family didn't love him – but he knew that he had always been an odd bird among them, to say nothing of the shroud of grief he wore like a coat made for his eldest brother.\n\n\"No need to fret, Miss Marianne. Books bring folks together, whether they share a language or not. And a story like Victor Hugo's, well, that's worth crossing bridges for. As for book club, it ain't much different from Briar Ridge itself, I think. Rough hands with gentle hearts, and books are like armor.\" *Books like armor.* He could've continued the metaphor but, feeling a little silly, left it unwritten in the air for Marianne's interpretation. He met her gaze, camaraderie sparking in his brown eyes. \n_ _\n\n\"Tell you what, Miss Marianne. I'll tackle as much of your Victor Hugo as I can, and you meet me outside the library next week for book club. Seems to me we both got something to learn, and wouldn't that make for a fine story on its own?\"\n\nHe felt his ears growing hot with the realization that he was decidedly outside of his comfort zone. Wesley didn't mind, being oriented towards growth where he could find it, but it was an uncomfortable sensation nonetheless. It wasn't often he felt himself speak in such turns of phrase and it was even less often that he felt it come so easily. Like-minded souls were a haven of sorts for Wesley but there was a sort of somber quality to Marianne's hospitality which had drawn him in, intrigued by the parallels he swore he could see. He didn't know her, and had scarcely heard the Wilburn name, but if Wesley didn't know any better, he might have sworn it was a grief all her own. Her eyes held deep water, stilled on the surface and betraying a current he knew must have run fast and deep.\n\nIn spite of himself, he elected to break a personal rule: he was going to ask his mother about someone in town. *Lord, help me.* Good thing he'd come here in search of something to read; the mental break would likely be much needed after Pearlene filled him with a comprehensive guide to any time anyone so much as overheard a Wilburn sneeze.\n\n\"And since I have your attention, Miss Marianne,\" He added, adopting a sincere expression, \"I'm glad you came into town. I didn't know you lived anywhere near the farm. You oughta come by through the *Front* Door this time,\" He teased, tossing her a gentle wink. Marianne couldn't have been more than thirty, but there was an age in her eyes which suggested she knew better than to read anything lecherous into his playful gesture. \n_ _\n\n\"If you bring your own carrots then I don't have to use my merchandise,\" He joked. \"But I can't promise my momma won't try to send you home with some of my apple bread.\" He'd adopted that Southern tone of familiarity which suggested that Marianne was a beloved cousin who'd been over plenty of times and of course should know this information already. \n\nFor so many years now, Wesley had been wanting to bring light and warmth back into his home. Maybe some more regular visitors could be a healing salve on a farm marred so heavily by loss. Someone full of kindness and warmth, who was unafraid to dole out both in spades, was a more than welcome addition to his circle of friends. There was some selfish motivation behind it, of course, as though he might find himself uplifted by her, but mostly Wesley saw something honest and just a little bit lost. He could hold onto something like that, if it could hold onto him in turn. Patient and kind, and convinced of his purpose as a giver, Wesley was more than happy to open his home and heart to someone he could see was deserving. \n\nBut gosh, was he curious as to why."
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "There was a soft, sweet-natured charm to Wesley Gray, and Marianne couldn't help but feel drawn ever closer to him, despite knowing they'd been little more than strangers only moments earlier. Whether it were a foolish move to give him her trust, or simply a sign of the growth she'd achieved in the past couple years, she didn't fear him as she'd feared so many before. Standing close to him felt natural, listening to his words even more so, smiling back as though smiling upon an old friend and laughing softly at his quips. \n\n\"Next week,\" She echoed, thinking over her plans, though admittedly they were few and far-between and almost all of them dependent on whether she woke to sunshine or more snowstorms. \"Name a time, Mr Gray, and I assure you I'll be right outside awaiting your arrival. I already can't wait to hear how the story treats you. I think you might be the first I've ever known to actually take a recommendation from me - and once I know how you like it, I can promise there's more where it came from. Of course, I'll read any you ask of me too. You can find a whole lot about someone from the tales that ring the truest to their hearts.\"\n\nAnd then came an invitation. *Come by through the front door*, said Mr Gray, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and perhaps for most people it was, but Marianne Wilburn was not most people, and it was practically unheard of for someone to invite her to their home, much less someone she'd only just met. Of course, there were exceptions - the few people she'd truly managed to sink into the company of as the years went by, people like Dimitra and Alma that would always welcome her with open arms, but no doors, physical nor metaphorical, had been flung open quite so easily as this, as though it had been left unlatched and simply swung in a well-timed breeze. She'd seen the farmhouse from a fair distance more times than she could count, and noticed often that after dark the windows flickered with firelight and, on still nights, the sound of laughter and conversation and music carried easily to her ears as she leaned on the fence, wondering if her home would sound like that had things turned out differently.\nAnd if they had, where she would be now. Married, no doubt. A mother, perhaps twice or thrice over, tending to a stove in a kitchen filled with life and love and light, instead of an emptiness she couldn't put into words in any language at all. \nThough thinking of what could have been - should have been? - made something in her chest feel heavy, she did all she could not to have it show on her face.\n\n\"I'd love to come by one evening,\" She finally replied, turning her gaze up to look him in the face, in those kind eyes that shone with what looked like genuine hope. She wasn't the type to go digging into what ulterior motives he might hold. If he'd have her in his home, she'd grasp the opportunity in both hands. \"Though I can't promise I won't visit the flock first, it'd be wonderful to finally meet more neighbours. Particularly if there's apple bread involved - I bake a little myself. And I'd like to meet your mama, if she's anything at all like you.\""
},
{
"author": "wesley gray.",
"message": "*\"I think you might be the first I've ever known to actually take a recommendation from me,\"* She said, and Wesley could hardly believe it. How anyone could stand in the face of someone whose earnestness was so genuine and deny them was beyond him. It was true that Wesley had a tendency to want to please those around him, and it was true that there was a unique delight he found in making others happy, in indulging their interests and acknowledging their requests. None of that applied here, though. If Wesley was a river, deceptively smooth on the surface with a passionate current below, then Marianne must have been sunlight, glinting off the surface so beautifully that one scarcely noticed the warmth of the sunbeams stretching into the deep, cold water. He had the heart of a poet, but even Wesley found it serendipitous to have met someone who felt to him as though they were gardens in adjacent plots, growing in tandem towards the same sun and only just now having seen each other for the first time as each of their yearning vines crossed that threshold. \n\nHe wondered idly then if the days of his childhood were not so much a forgotten dream as a bastion of hope. It had been upwards of ten years since music and light had filled his home, and he'd done his best to do it on his own, but no one man could harmonize with himself, or dance a jig when the fiddler would rather sulk in his room. When Marianne looked up, her eyes were shining, and it was far too easy to picture her there, singing a warm, gentle folk tune while Wesley played a lilting melody on his brother's violin.\n_ _\n\nWhen he smiled back at her it was almost as though he were that child again, six years old with all of his family alive and happy to see him. He could feel that love – he was extending it when he invited Marianne into his home. He wished it were more than a ghost, lingering at the back of his memory. Perhaps it wasn't so far away as he so often felt. Perhaps there was room, now, for a future of his own making. \n\n\"We can visit 'em together,\" He answered in a voice like cool honey, studying the way the corners of her mouth quirked up. \"And my mama is going to *Love* You. Just don't tell her anything you don't want the whole town knowin' about,\" He added with a chuckle. It was true – his mother had loved her sons dearly, but as Pearlene got on in years Wesley could tell that not having a daughter was a sore spot for her. \n\n\"But, um,\" He continued, frowning for a fraction of a moment as he sought out the perfect words. \"I don't get into town too often myself, either. So I'm inclined to think it must be some kind of serendipity that we met today, Miss Marianne.\" In the natural light filtering in through the library's window, she almost looked as though she were the subject of a portrait hanging on the wall. Wesley marveled at the brushstrokes, wondering how many layers it had taken to get the shading right, how painstakingly the painter must have dabbled that light into her eyes. He was a music man, but he could appreciate artwork when he saw it. \n_ _\n\n\"The girls and I'll be expecting you,\" He added, his gentle smile cracking open into a grin as he remembered that, yes, his fondness for his sheep was not only validated but matched. \"And mind you, I'll have *Finished* This –\" He gave a gentle pat on the cover of the book for emphasis. \"— and we'll make our list of names. And don't worry about when you come by,\" He added as an afterthought. \"Way it's set up, I tend to work evenings. Means I have the day to myself, then I'm out with the girls. But, then, you already know their schedule,\" He teased."
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "Marianne wasn't used to being watched quite like this. She'd been the type to turn from attention for as long as she could remember - when you grew up under the gaze of half of Tennessee's finest, you grew to hate the way it felt to have all eyes upon you, taking in your dress and your hair and the way you talked and whispering about them when they weren't quite out of earshot. Since she'd come to Briar Ridge for good, she'd done her best to give the townsfolk nothing to look at - they had enough gossip for years of ill-willed talk, and she would add no more fuel to the flame.\n\nBut with Wesley, it was different. Though she could tell he was taking in all that lay before him in her, she felt as though he weren't the type to take more than she was willing to offer him. She'd told him of the books she loved and he had taken them without question, and though he was looking at her undeniably, she didn't feel like a doll behind glass, all ringlets and porcelain and lace.\n\nHere, in the sanctuary between the shelves, she could be nothing more than a girl, and Wesley Gray was no more than a man, and despite what the world seemed hell-bent upon showing her, she still believed deep down in her heart that *There were good men*. And she had found one. \nShe hoped she had found one.\n\nTo visit the flock with him would be a joy. She liked the way he called the sheep *His girls* - as though they were his friends, or his children, not just livestock in the grand circle of life. There were farmers for whomst their animals meant nothing more than a means to be paid, but Wesley didn't seem to think that way, which worked itself out well, because nor did Marianne. She wouldn't tell him of the times she'd found his sheep in need of human hands - a lamb who'd squeezed its way through a fence and couldn't find its way back through, thus needing a kindhearted woman to unlatch the gate and usher the baby home. Or an old ewe caught in briars, bleating like the hounds of hell were after her 'til she realised Marianne's gentle fingers were the ones that would disentangle her from the thorns. She would think of it, though, and she would smile despite herself. \n\"Don't you go making any promises you can't keep now, Mr Gray. Mr Hugo's work isn't for everyone and I wouldn't begrudge you a thing were you to decide you couldn't quite see him through,\" She told him softly. \"But I do look forward to knowing what you think. You'll find me in the kitchen with your dear mother one day soon, I guarantee it.\"\n\n||"
}
] | 689 | 7,132 |
420.25 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Ike Horowitz",
"message": "||\n\nWatching others come into the library for the same reason he was here made Ike nervous. That letter in the middle of town had riddled his heart with nerves, and now was the moment when he started to notice movement in the one place he had been watching for god-only-knows-how-long.\n\nIke watched as two folk entered the library, not intentionally together, and went straight to the encyclopaedia section. Ike took this as his chance, his one and only chance to be a part of something that he was not yet sure he had the courage to be a part of.\n\nBut... There was no time quite like the present, right?\n\nIf Ike thought about the consequences of doing nothing for too long, he'd get sick. That latter had made him sick with worry. It had made him realise just how dire the situation in Briar Ridge was turning out to be. Oh boy, why did he have to move to this town of all towns? There had been plenty of other shortlisted possible towns to set up the business in.\n\nIf only he could have predicted the future. The horrible, gruesome, terrifying future. Ike pushed his glasses further up on his nose, then rose from his chair. It was now or never. He had to join the others. He just had to.\n\nNot only was this his civic duty as a member of society, but Ike felt as if he had tried to logic his way into a far easier solution but... There was no logic that involved staying hidden. There was no logic that dictated that Ike ought to stay in the shadowy basement of the mortuary after hours, and restrain himself up as much as humanly possible the **Beast** Got out.\n\nThe **Beast**.\n\nThat was what drove Ike to stand up. The thing that was in his blood, in his brain, in his very essence! Ike walked to the section that he had been watching like a hawk. He cleared his throat so both of the letter-answering folk noticed him.\n\nNo time like the present.\n\n\"Hello.\" Ike said. He looked from one person to the other, and swallowed hard. Ike's bottom lip trembled, so he sucked it into his mouth and held it betwixt his teeth. Eyes blinking hard to combat the rush of emotions (*Fear fear fear fear fear fear fear*).\n\nIke had a whole speech planned, of course. He always had speeches planned for big events... But in that precious moment all poor Ike could manage was a shaky breath out. A glance at the books.\n\nA few choice words.\n\n\"There's nothing in the books, I'm afraid.\""
},
{
"author": "hawker_hurricane0",
"message": "It wasn't her that read the letter, it was her father. Akira was barely seen in plain sight, she was seen in the speakeasy, at the family farm, but this was one of the occasions she set foot on the town proper. It was probably the first time some people had seen her in week.\n\n She looked pale, her lips were chipped from the cold, her cheeks were sunken, as if she hadn't had proper rest ages, a victim of a hangover as she could still feel the moonshine burn her throat. To hide said features, she wore an old, navy blue scarf that was said to have belonged to her mother, like a warm hug from a distant past to give her strength. \n\nAs her heart raised the closer she got to the library, Aki felt the need to run away. Yet, she was compelled to keep going by sheer stubbornness trying to shut down her anxious side. She knew a cure was within the reach.\n\nBefore she could realize it, she was already inside, her legs kept moving mechanically as she approached a certain... Familiar face. Her eyes managed to meet with Ike's, perhaps expecting to feel that sense of familiarity, to let him know he wasn't alone. \n\n\"Good morning.\" Akira simply said, hiding her hands in the pockets of her jacket, hiding her scarred face within the warmth of the scarf even though she didn't need it. \n\n\"No books in _the_ library?\" She laughed. Yes, she managed to muster a smile despite her pathetic looks. \"That 's fine. I'm just here to meet with someone.\" \n \n||"
},
{
"author": "SHRF. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "In the early, early days of Rafael's sheriffdom, there was some hesitance around his position - about what he might do in the wake of his predecessor's death, about what he might fail to become. And now, with the Mayor dead, political unrest, and the ghosts of his eyes so tired - all of the things he knew now, all of the things he had been forced to learn... He understands now why there is never any hero who was happy. This feels like coming home from the war, at leaving a boy and returning a man. Had his mother even recognized him when they met at the train station, after the war had been won? Had his siblings? Did the younger ones even realize that the man who had come home (broad, tattered, scarred, broken) was the same man who had left (determined, subservient, devoted, obedient)? All the same - it doesn't change that fact that not only had Rafael begun the investigation on his own end, but he ripped down the note following so that no one else would get lost in this nonsense.\n\nRafael knew how to read and write - his corpsmen taught him how, if only so he could read the Bible before and after missions with the rest of them, but he was not a skilled one. Rarely was it that he stepped into this damnable library, and even moreso did he dislike coming to see it when it meant that there was something to be uncovered here. Turning the corner, he makes his way into the area with the encyclopedias, hunkered down into his coat with a sigh slipping through his lips. The injuries he'd sustained months ago have all but healed, despite their aggravation, leaving Rafael with only a series of facial scars and more to be hidden underneath his shirt and coat. He chews his lip, looking at the two others who had joined him.\n\n_ _\n\n\n\n\n\"There a private room in this joint we can get together in? *Without eavesdroppers?*\""
},
{
"author": "Ike Horowitz",
"message": "Ike wasn't all that good with things like socialising, or understanding others real emotions when they spoke *Between the lines.* He wasn't good at that stuff, but even he could tell Akira was trying to make light of the situation.\n\nWhat he also noticed was that she had the same horrid smell than Francis did. The smell that made his body desperate to call her family, even though he had never talked to her before this very moment. She hadn't proven herself family and yet here she was demanding it without uttering a single word.\n\nIke watched her until the Sheriff spoke up. Then his gaze flicked upward to Rafael, and Ike nodded. Privacy was the smart thing to ask for. Ike could sense no un deserved familiarity from within Rafael, so bias sunk into his bones and made him prefer to look at the other man. To look at *Kin* Would make him feel sick.\n\n\"There are reading rooms. Come with me.\" Ike said. He pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose as he walked. Once they were inside a private room Ike closed the door but did not lock it for fear of scaring either of them. He turned to them.\n\nWith eyes closed, Ike set about saying the most unexpected and horrifying words he ever said.\n\n\"If you're not sure of my name, it's Isaac Horowitz. Ike.\" Ike looked down in shame. \"I am one of the beasts. I wanted to get in touch with some people who wanted to *Finish this*, and though I meant medical professionals...\" Ike looked at Rafael, \"I suppose you also fit the bill.\"\n\nIke glanced at Akira, and steeled himself. \"Though, forgive me for saying this; I've no idea why *You're* Here.\" Ike said. He wanted to oust her true identity to Rafael, but he refrained. Instead, Ike looked downward.\n\n\"The January full moon is in just over twenty-four hours, and so I wanted to at least establish connections... But if you had any questions, Sheriff, I will answer them honestly.\""
},
{
"author": "hawker_hurricane0",
"message": "_tw for || suicide idealization|| _ \n\nAkira's scar on the bridge of her nose wrinkled as she sniffed. It sounded exactly the same way as if she had a cold, or dry sinuses, but the woman was fighting against the same signals, that same sickening feeling. She knew that Ike knew, that was the reason she remained so quiet. \n\nAkira was tired of it all. It showed on the bags under her eyes, the way her skin looked ghostlike, the way she moved like if she were in autopilot. \n\n And yet, if she could only help to put a stop to everything, she needed to endure it. She was behind the two men as she followed them both. Even though she was looking at the floor, she felt a sense of relief. For the first time in months, she didn't feel afraid, she wasn't just fighting for her survival. \n\n\"I'm here because like you, I also want to stop this madness.\" \n\nAkira had tried and failed, and again to cope with everything on her own. She tried to isolate herself, to find her own ways for a solution. Lately, however, it seemed like death was the only option left.\n\nPerhaps in another life, Aki would have a new chance, even in that meant she had to prove herself and come out of the depths of hell. But alas, the were were two things that stopped her from taking a silver bullet to the heart. Or rather, two people.\n\nHer father needed her. \n\nMitica would go up and beyond to save her.\n\n\"If connections is what you seek, Ike. I may can help with that..\""
},
{
"author": "SHRF. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "*I am one of the beasts.*\n\nThere is something violent, something carnal, something primal that turns in Rafael's stomach beyond the normalcy of the content of the sentence. A werewolf - an admitted one - standing in front of him. His jaw sets, and he trembles all but briefly - easily passed off as a cold chill - as he looks Ike up and down. Lesser men have been killed for evidence of such a thing. But Rafael has already made one mistake in not following due process, so his shoulders drop. Instead, he leans against the door of the reading room, pinching his brow and rubbing his hand down his jaw. \n\n\"I'm not doctor, *Senor* Horowitz,\" He says earnestly, \"But I do consider myself the lead investigator when it comes to—\" He stops himself, here, taking a breath. The last thing any of them needed was a fucking angry mob in the library. \"—*Otherwise notable* Activity in the town. After all, a beast is what earned me this Sheriff badge, and I intend to keep it upright.\"\n\nHe crosses his arms, looking from Akira to Ike back to Akira back to Ike. If he could separate his eyes and have one focus on each of them at a time, he would have by now. He looks for any slight mannerisms - *Did they know each other? Surely they did; Briar Ridge isn't very big* - that would give away anything relevant to the case - *Look at Akira's eyes, how dark they are; that kind of fatigue doesn't come from a bad night's sleep.*\n\n_ _\n\"Hang on a fuckin' minute, I have questions,\" He says when Akira begins to take a step in the right direction. *No.* Rafael needed answers, if only for the scars on his chest and stomach; if only for the betrayal he has now known twice over at the hands of William Cooper and Noah Rowe. He takes his notepad out, setting it on the table. \"Your name, Mr. Horowitz, and any names of any other *Beasts* You may know of. If the answer is none, so be it, but my evidence needs updating. And you're the only chance I have to do that.\"\n\n\"And *Then,*\" He adds with a point of his finger, \"I want to know *Exactly* What you want out of this. Do you think there's a damn cure? Do you think there's something that can be done about this? And *Connections?*\" He turns now to Akira - ironically, a wolfish snarl on his face for someone who was not like the others. \"—*Th'fuck you mean, connections?* What do *You* Know?\""
},
{
"author": "Ike Horowitz",
"message": "\"Do you want *Me* To write your name?\" Ike remembered that perhaps not everyone knew how to properly read and write. Ike glanced over to the Sheriff, and pointed to his first dot-point. \"Sheriff, this was the single most intense feeling I have had in my life. When the person who informed me of my condition came into the room, I... It was as if I was looking at my own father. It was as if I had always known him, though in the back of my mind I knew they he and I were *Not* Friends in the traditional sense.\"\n\nIke scoffed to himself. Muttered a *'far from it'* That tasted sweet. Was the Beast making him more vindictive and unkind, or was the man using an excuse offered? Ike swallowed. He closed his eyes for a moment.\n\n\"Another thing, Sheriff... I suspect my eyes might be something you'd want o look at when the next full moon comes.\" Ike tapped the rim of his glasses. \"Horrible eyesight, I'm afraid. I need these just to walk a straight line. If the beast is the same, well... That might narrow your containment efforts. I do think containment is the best way to go, if my opinion matters. The beasts are vicious, but the people are still... In there.\"\n\nIke swallowed. He looked to Akira, and tilted his head to one side.\n\n\"Name? First and last.\"\n\nHe hoped she would not offer up others names. As much as Ike wanted to trust the Sheriff, he couldn't bring himself to count on a man *Not* To seek revenge. Such was the way of man, after all.\n\n||\n ||I'M SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT Y'ALL WAHHH||"
},
{
"author": "SHRF. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "Finally. *Finally.* All of his work has come to a head in this moment. All of his work, finally, has *Born fruit.* There is something to be said about all of this - he is a religious man, but he will not drop to his knees and thank God for this moment. Instead, he watches as the two of them write, as the two of them go back and forth. *Names.* And *Information.* He could take this to the town, he could do *Good* With this.\n\nThere is a cure, they say, and Rafael is met with the sound of his commander in his ear, reminding him that no man gets left behind. Not a single one. \n\nHalf of him wants to put a bullet between their eyes right now, to save the rest of Briar Ridge. But everyone is deserving of a fair trial. No — he will be the one to lock up Ike Horowitz during the next full moon, and he will be the one to ensure that these people can be detained. (He thinks of the Cage that has been built, and shakes his head; there's no way in hell those things are going to be anywhere near strong enough.) \n\n*Witches.* Werewolves. Someone who is immune? This *Beaux* Person needed to be protected... But wasn't this the same person who was egging on the wolves? He'd heard the report from the Barca Estate, heard of the details from the doctor... Rafael takes in a deep breath, lets it push out through his nose.\n\n\"I have... One question,\" He says, \"To start, anyways. I'm sure there will be more. If you can sense these other werewolves, why don't you turn them in? Why don't you write down their names, too?\" He taps the paper. \"You could stop all of this right now. Why don't you?\""
}
] | 402 | 3,362 |
595 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "The first thing that Lewis noticed was that the library was old. Well, nothing in Briar Ridge was fully new, but it was usually scruffiness rather than age; things were constantly destroyed, patched up, moved around, and destroyed again. The library seemed to be mostly untouched and a little dusty; the sheer amount of velvet in the room made Lewis involuntarily scratch his nose. Maybe, its vintage property was part of its charm, just like the dim lighting and the general brown palette of the perimeter. To be completely honest, the palette part he didn't mind: with the tweed coat he wore open and his checked trousers he would fit in there nicely. And that same muted light of speakeasy always helped him relax. He just wasn't much of a library guy. Not much of a reader either.\n\nSo, why was he here?\n\nWell, after his brother washed all of the blood and other fluids off his hands, and got over it enough to be able to talk, he introduced Lewis to a book he just read. As far as Lewis was able to put together, it was a detective story about a masked killer and the leader of a criminal organization, both in London, neither of whom anyone had seen. One of them was named \"Frog\". Literature at its finest – not that he knew much about the fine literature. Maybe it was just as stupid.\n\nNathaniel was ecstatic. He talked about reading it on breaks, putting it away only by implementing his mental power and dedication to the wellbeing of their patients. He described the language as \"Interesting\" And the crimes as \"Poetic\". He was so lost in his monologue, periodically catching his breath with a short \"Oh no, that's a spoiler\", and Lewis found himself actually enjoying his brother in this silly interested state, struggling to find normal people words to describe his experience. Of course, his train of thought was a little hard to follow, but certainly not harder than him describing the properties of a healthy liver with the same fervor and involvement, but in a language that, Lewis could swear, was barely English. So, jumping from the detective almost dying, to the mask being torn off of someone whose name Nat could not remember, to the beginning because Doctor Ashworth needed to comment on how well the introduction was written, was a walk in the part for Lewis's brain. He enjoyed it so much, in fact, that he created himself a goal to read through the book as well and cleverly reference it in passing to make Nathaniel's eyes pop out of his head, and also make him ask how Lewis liked the ending, and if he was able to guess it at all. \n\nThe problem with locating the book laid in very limited information on its whereabouts. Lewis knew that Nathaniel had taken it from the town library, but whether he had returned it had remained a mystery, and asking Nat directly meant spoiling the surprise. But outside of Nathaniel, there would probably be one person who could help him with his task, and that was the librarian.\n\nAnd so, the second thing Lewis Ashworth had noticed upon setting his foot in the library, was her.\n\nHe stopped moving, hoping to take a good look at her profile before the woman would have noticed him, curiously taking in her looks. She had this mouth like she was trying to say something, but changed her mind at the last second, and a form of eyes that would look expectant, if not for the softness and the upliftness of the rest of her features. The woman's dark hair laid around her face in tidy waves, brushing over her sweater. Her face seemed to be built for someone much more relaxed than her: the librarian's shoulders were so tense it looked like she was preparing to be jumped. Lewis closed the door deliberately slowly, to let the creaking alert her of his presence without startling her with loud noise.\n\n\"Good afternoon,\" He said with a half-smile, eyeing her shamelessly, but without the unnecessary tension, \"I'm searching for a book, and I think you can help me. There must have been a man here no longer than a couple of days ago. Red hair about...\" He gestured his hand in a cutting potion to the side of his neck, \"Shoulder length, freckles everywhere. Short, scrawny, looks like he's about to pass out at any moment. Brings back any memories?\"\n\nAnd he very much hoped it did. That was his best option. He wasn't going to describe to the gorgeous troubled girl that he needed a book about a masked idiot named Frog, - even for the sake of his brother.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Jade was getting over Arthur. It didn't feel so bad after she had distracted herself with her best friends Dimitra and Akira. Jackson had come home, there was a lot of good to outweigh the bad. The bad just really hurt. She was silently thankful that she and Arthur had never... Explored more than just kissing and being close. Perhaps that was why he left, maybe his past crimes caught up to him or his current ones. Either way, she was on the fast track to not caring. She quite liked her days that weren't filled with cigarette smoke, yelling and the cheap cologne. Most importantly, his goons weren't there to make their perverse remarks about her body or call her demeaning pet names. Jade spent a lot of her time in the libraries these days, just until the late evening when she would go home and check on the Hiranos. They had become her family, they helped her feel a sense of belonging. Jade was roaming between the shelves, old and worn. The library ran completely off of donations, Jade had added a few from her personal collection. She had a few books in her arm, trying to properly put them in some sort of order.\n\nAlphabetical seemed to be the easiest. These were books who belonged in the A section but were far off in the J section. Upon emerging from the suffocating shelves in an already stuffy library she saw a patron, which... Wasn't shocking but was also kinda shocking. She had seen Mr. Barca here before, as well as Ms. Hazel, but this was a particularly new face she hadn't seen before though admittedly, he was nice to look at. A lot of people were in Briar Ridge, Akira, Dimitra, Alma, Dr. Ashworth, Valerian, Hazel, Maeve. The list went on and on for her. Of course some stuck out to her the most... Those being Akira and... The library's newest patron, was it sheer curiosity? A rebound to forget the hurt she felt. Jade wasn't quite as matching to the library as the patron was. A white linen dress as always, she had her sweater draped over her shoulders as she stood by the check out desk... Which really just consisted of a notebook to write down the name of the book and the due date... She wasn't very strict on the due dates though considering the towns... Vices. Jade was friendly, tense but friendly. She gave a polite smile before she set down the books on the counter and went to greet the patron. Jade hummed in thought, trying to envision the man he was describing \"Oh! You must be talking about Dr. Ashworth right? He's very kind. He checked out a book about a frog\" She knew that didn't sound right the moment she said it \n\n\"Or something like that\" She laughed at herself \"Follow me, you get to be the guinea pig for my new organization system. Which sounds a lot fancier than it is. I am just putting everything in alphabetical order. So, the A section starts here\" She let her fingers trail across the spines of the old worn books who were begging to be opened and consumed.\n\nSilently declaring to its competitors that they were the best book literature had to offer. Finally she stopped at the F section, she was honestly checking to see if she had shelved it yet or not. She did, she leaned up plucking the book from the shelf. \"Here we are, Frog\" She hadn't read it, it must've been here before her. She held it out to the man in front of her. \"Is this the right one?\" Jade was observing the patron a bit more than she would ever admit. He had intriguing features, a rather stoic face. Yet there was something pleasant about the patron, right?"
},
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "With his appearance, the lady seemed to liven up: her eyes glimmered, and just the most adorable smile pierced her cheeks. Maybe she wasn't tense, - Lewis thought, - maybe she was just bored. And he always enjoyed keeping others company.\n\n\"Doctor Ashworth, you say?\" He asked with curiosity, lazy enough to be interpreted as *Just* Curiosity, \"And... What do you think about him? Just the impression. But I'm glad he was kind to you.\" Lewis' voice softened for a second. Of course, he was kind. That's Nathaniel for you, always caring for others inside and outside of his office. The man was basically a walking ball of cotton candy.\n\n\"Alphabetical order sounds good to me,\" Lewis said approvingly, not feeling necessary to bring his own experience with paperwork into the conversation, \"When it comes to sorting, simple is the best option. Not many people enjoy going through formulas and riddles to get to their book.\" Drops of laughter sparkled in his eyes. Just a simple joke to warm up the room. He meant it though. In a professional setting, there was nothing better than simplicity. As a hobby though, Lewis enjoyed a couple of riddles of his own. Especially when they were as pretty as the librarian before him.\n\n\"I haven't even told you the title!\" He exclaimed, impressed, when the woman handed him the book, \"Exceptional memory, miss... If I could get your name?\" He added without unnecessary sheepishness. Of course, he would like to learn her name, and he hoped at least that much was obvious, \"Unfortunately,\" Lewis turned the book over in his hands, examining it with his eyes, \"That's not quite what I need. That's an encyclopedia about frogs: not my cup of tea – or Nathaniel's, for that matter. Is it yours? Do *You* Enjoy books about nature?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Jade nodded. She quite liked Dr. Ashworth; he was very easy to talk to and didn't mind Jade's millions of questions about medications and various illnesses. She craved knowledge, and perhaps that is why she took comfort in reading, though these days it was mostly fiction, something she had come to like. She looked at Lewis; they were brothers, yet both seemed so different—then again, she and Jackson had their differences too. Although they still somehow managed to get into trouble together, The very thought made her smile. Finally, she answered him. \"I like Dr. Ashworth; he is very kind and patient. He seemingly has the answer to all of my questions, and if he doesn't, he busts out his medical books and looks them up. I talked to him a lot when I visited the hospital.\" What a bittersweet friendship she had started with the doctor!\n\nJade felt a sense of pride that the patron had found her method to be worthy. \"I think so too; it makes things so much easier.\" She looked at the book before laughing. \"You know, I completely just went on autopilot there!\" She laughed a little bit before flipping the book over in her hands. \"I just remember frog being in the title.\" She shook her head before returning the book to its dusty shelf. \"My name? Oh! I am so sorry; I didn't even introduce myself to you. I'm Jade, Jade Grant. I moved here in September.\" She thought about her taste in books during the pause of their conversation. \"I enjoy reading books about flowers and plants. I have a garden that I like to upkeep and figure out what flowers are more likely to live in the Briar Ridge environment. I also grow a lot of vegetables during the summer. As for frogs, I think they are cute, but I am not sure I'd like to read about them.\"\n\n\"So, you are friends with Dr. Ashworth; you know my name. So, may I ask yours in return?\" She has so far liked Dr. Ashworth and his friend. Although they looked similar, perhaps not. Jade was sure that the man would eventually tell her names and then titles. Isn't that how it worked? It almost felt odd. To be interacting with another male, Arthur would not be very happy about it, and he would most likely say something—only she did not have to worry about such things anymore. He left, and she was free to do as she pleased. It was quite odd. Jade ran away from Coalwood to escape marriage and a man's control, whether it be her fathers or her husbands. Yet she found herself in the arms of a man who wanted nothing but to control her."
},
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "The things were going great: the pretty librarian liked Nathaniel (and didn't mind his rants, which was a fit of mental strength in Lewis's book), accepted his compliments, and laughed at his jokes. *Jade* - such a great name, soft like a piece of marmalade. Lewis couldn't stop smiling when looking at her.\n\n\"I'm a big fan of gardens,\" He shared, \"Not as much in taking care of them, but they are a delight to look at. I think most of the things that are cared for look beautiful. Your library, for example,\" Lewis smiled shortly, as if it was just an example he thought of on the spot. If Jade wanted him to elaborate, he would've; but for now, he felt no need to be pushy.\n\n\"You said you moved here in September.\" He switched the topic, \"Have you had a garden before?\"\n\n\"Friend\" Is a loose term,\" He added vaguely, the glimmers of a joke visible only him his eyes. They weren't friends in a traditional sense, that much was true, \"But of course, it's hard to say \"No\" To a lady this pretty. I'm Lewis.\" He paused, considering if he should share his last name; but Jade was so adorable and so thoroughly non-threatening he couldn't resist, \"Lewis Ashworth\".\n\n||"
}
] | 561 | 2,975 |
301.588235 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "`'Meet me at the library', Francis had said, 'tomorrow. Let's talk this over.' And Marianne had agreed, because whatever Francis asked her to do, she'd always done it in a heartbeat, and that wasn't about to change. He'd come to her the very afternoon the news broke of Mayor Cooper's murder, while her mind had been still reeling over it, and his mere presence had somehow been enough to calm her. He was there, and when Francis was there, Marianne was safe. So of course, when he began to talk of the future, she'd settled, and listened.\n\nFrancis, as always, believed in her. Said she could do anything she put her mind to, and said she'd be good for Briar Ridge. He'd said it with such earnest she'd started to believe it herself. \n\nShe breezed into the library only a few minutes later than promised, almost catching the hem of her dress in the door as the wind blew it shut behind her. Her hair was pinned up at the back of her head, and Dimitra's red bandana was tied neatly over the top, matching the shade she'd painted her nails the night before. Spotting Francis immediately, she made her way over to the corner table he was sitting at, and chose to sit right beside him, breathless as she leaned her head on his shoulder in fond greeting. \"Hello again.\" `\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "francis estep",
"message": "`Francis gave his company an appraising look over as she walked to their table. There was a smile on his face.`\n\n\"Hello again,\" `he hummed, giving a kind of shrug into her affectionate lean. His cheek met the top of her head for a moment. Brought in so close, she would smell the cologne he'd worn a touch of, just for her, the scent somewhere on the wide spectrum between citrus and hickory smoke.` \"I love the red scarf. I don't think there's a color in this world that wouldn't suit you, Miss Marianne.\""
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "`Her cheeks flushed at the simple compliment, though if questioned she'd have done her best to pass it off as simply the change in temperature, coming in from the cold to the warm room and his touch.` \"I'll admit, it isn't mine,\" `she replied, tilting her head back to look up at him.` \"Merely borrowed from a friend. But thank you. It almost matches yours.\" \n\n`Though she was reluctant to move from his side, she knew there were pressing matters to attend to, and so she sat upright, though she turned her chair a little to angle herself toward him.` \"Tell me more about this... Idea of yours, then. You really think we can do it? Together?\""
},
{
"author": "francis estep",
"message": "\"Well then, you've got good taste in friends,\" `his smile was easy. Being with Mari was easy. He lamented their separation as she receded.`\n\n\"Yes. The big idea.\" `he straightened up a little as well,` \"I do. I think *You* Kin do it. I'll help if you'll have me.\" `he told her. The statement was adjacent to the truth. He thought THEY could win the mayor's office, but he wanted Marianne to retain as much a feeling of agency as possible. She was an excellent figurehead, and he himself knew how to pull strings— both to get her the seat, and which to tug at once she was in it.`\n\n\"You know this place, Mari. You know what folks here need. They see a face like yours in the town square, they'll feel like all is right. I'll be there when you need me, sure, but you're a natural. You got a green thumb... But for people, too, not just plants.\" `he laughed,` \"Whatever you wanna call it.\" `He studied her face, looking to find any traces of hesitation or doubt.`\n\n\"Long as this is what you *Want,* We kin do it. We *Will* Do it.\""
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "`He spoke with such passion, the kind of determination she wasn't familiar with from anyone else. The way he fixed her with a gaze that was neither pitying nor disapproving... How could she not feel at least a little fired up too?`\n\n\"Of course I'll have you, don't be ridiculous. Heaven knows I couldn't think of doing it *Without* You.\" `She rolled her eyes fondly. This was all his idea in the first place. She didn't do things like this - putting herself out there, standing up, speaking. Though Briar Ridge was closer to her heart than anywhere, she hadn't the first idea how to begin fixing what lay before them.` \"I still don't understand why *You* Don't do all the talking. You're much better than me with that... But if you really think this is the way forward, then I just need you beside me to get us where we need to go. Where do we start?\""
},
{
"author": "francis estep",
"message": "\"Ah,\" `Francis shrugged and looked away, adopting a bashful expression,` \"I don't know about all that. I do git to talkin' too much sometimes, about the wrong stuff. My mama always used to say how much I musta liked the sound of my own voice, 'cause I never could seem to stop talkin'.\" `He left out his real reasoning for not running, of course, which was that plenty of folks in this town had seen the worst parts of him. The angry, manipulative parts. Plenty of folks also knew him for his money, and all the good he did for them with that money, but he was afraid the former group outnumbered the latter. The point was, not enough people in Briar Ridge knew Francis for his good nature. They didn't see him and think` *Trust* `like they would Marianne.`\n\n\"We start with a campaign!\" `he told her, his eyes shining. Francis could really get a look about him when he was excited, and he wore it now. Boyish and vibrant, you could almost see the schemes play out in his mind, projected there on his features.`\n\"We gotta figure out what you stand for. 'N how you tell folks what kinda mayor you'll be. How you address your people.\" `The last bit was teasing, but only slightly.` \"What do you think about when you think of a mayor?\"\n\n\"Sure, your people! They're already yours. When you win, even more so. This is your home. Your community.\" `he caught notice of her tongue, how it thoughtfully traced her mouth. He didn't know her well enough in their adulthoods to know what it meant, but he logged it away.` \n\n\"Right, right.\" `He nodded.` \"You've got morality in spades.\" `He laughed, a crisp sound. Francis' laugh was counter to his voice, which was low and honeyed with just a touch of grit (he'd curated it just so over the years). His laugh was something he hadn't been able to wrangle: it was a thing that often surprised him with its honesty.`\n\n\"But truly. That's a damn good foundation. This town needs a decision maker. It needs a protector. It needs someone who has seen it grow.\" `he looked fondly at her, getting caught up in his visions of the future as he had in her cottage. A view of the ocean. Sun and sand. There was still sun in this vision, but it was shining through her auburn hair as she stood smiling before the town.` \n\n\"There'll be a speech, ya know. Before the votin'. I brought this notebook if you want I should take down what you'd wanna say. I think somethin' like that would be a winnin' start, Marianne. Somethin' about how you've seen the seasons here. Let folks know you care. That the choices you make will be the right ones for 'em.\" \n\n`He wanted to test an approach, but he was wary. He didn't take Marianne for someone to speak ill of the dead, but his hatred for the late Mayor was burning somewhat of a hole in his tongue. Perhaps they could bond over it to some degree.`\n\n\"There's another way about it, too. You could think of... Well. Of leaders you've known in the past. You kin think of what they done right, 'n what they done wrong. Pick out your platform from there.\" `While it wasn't too vitriolic, it certainly pointed a finger in Cooper's direction. He was curious if she'd take the bait.` \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "He was right, as he so often was. She'd grown, over the years, to think of Briar Ridge as home, thoughts of leaving it behind now no more than a distant memory. How could she go, when there was so much to lose, and when the world outside the holler promised her so little beyond immature fantasies? She belonged here, among her friends, the people she loved the most. *Her people*. The idea still sounded strange, but she could feel herself growing accustomed to it. It wasn't as though stranger things hadn't happened. \n\n\"I don't know that I'd be the one they trusted to make the decisions, Fran. But you... You're good at them. You'll help me.\" Her smile had returned - there was no question as to whether Francis would help. He clearly wanted this even more than she did and was going to get it no matter what it took. \n\n\"I always find the talking easier than the writing. So you write down all you like and make me sound like a real mayor,\" She giggled, crossing her legs at the knee and leaning forward to watch his neat script spread across his page. \n\nBut when he brought up leaders past, she pressed her lips together in a thin line. \"Mayor Cooper was a good man to me... When I was young. Before I knew how to keep a good head on my shoulders, when I first got back after... You know. Everything. I wouldn't know where to start critiquin' him.\""
},
{
"author": "francis estep",
"message": "\"It's settled. I'll be the... Official secretary.\" Francis smiled. The smile quickly faded, hard as he tried to maintain it. He'd known Marianne was too good to criticize William. \n\n\"Of course,\" He soothed, jaw slightly clenched. Oh, how it pained him to sympathize with that coward. Francis gathered himself. The next words out of his mouth nearly hurt him physically, as he was sure Marianne's answer would as well. \n\n\"You don't gotta critique him. Let's go with... With how he was good to ya. What you'd...\" He didn't know the word *Emulate*, ironically enough, \"What you'd borrow from him.\""
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "It didn't seem that Francis liked her answer. Perhaps someone who didn't know him like she did wouldn't have noticed it, but she'd had years of childish curiosity to learn his little quirks, the way the corners of his lips twitched in displeasure, the slight crinkle at the very bridge of his nose. She wanted to reach out, to smooth the anger from his brow. \n\n\"I didn't know a soul when I got back in '22. All I had was the house and my name. He came to see me. Told me if I needed anything to go to him. He was kind when I needed someone to be kind to me.\"\n\nMarianne sighed softly. \n\n\"I always thought he was the type to be around forever. Taking care of the town 'til he was all old and grey. Everyone deserves to grow old, you know? It's not his fault... What happened to him.\""
},
{
"author": "francis estep",
"message": "Francis' pulse accelerated. God*Damnit* Why bring up the man at all? He cursed himself. Things had been going so well. He just needed to steer the conversation back around. His jaw relaxed slightly. The wrinkle ironed out of his brow. \n\n\"Well, if it's kindness we're talking about, you'll win on that ticket alone.\" He told her, the subject of Cooper growing smaller in the distance as he ran from it. Still, her comments felt unaddressed. The thing was, Francis wasn't so sure that what came to Cooper in the end hadn't been of his making, but that was hardly a thing to suggest here and now. \n\n\"It certainly wasn't his fault,\" He lied, and though the practice of lying was familiar, this particular employment was strained. He turned his attention to the pad of paper. \n\n`Kindness.` he wrote at the top, he penmanship heavily slanting to the right. The letters were tall and slender. The i was dotted with a short upwards dash. \n\n`A mayor for the people.` he wrote on the next line. \n`Seen this town through the seasons.` was another note. \n\n\"I'm guessin' we should talk about the elephant in the room,\" He ventured onto his second least favorite topic of conversation besides the late mayor: the attacks. \n\n\"Folks wanna know that they'll be safe for the full moons.\" *Something Mayor Cooper never promised. Never tried to make happen. Now we know why.* There were so many words unsaid. \"What would you do to make that happen? Know anyone from the city who could help? Any ways to make houses stronger? Reinforce the jailhouse as a shelter?\" He spitballed ideas, volunteering the solutions he'd been envisioning since the summer."
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "Kindness, as written in Francis' sloped script, was something Marianne could do. Something that came as naturally to her as breathing - why not be kind, in a time filled with such atrocities as those they faced? There wasn't a soul in Briar Ridge that didn't deserve a little more tenderness than they'd be dealt by nature's hand. \n\nShe liked the way he talked and wrote about her, filling her with the kind of confidence she often couldn't find on her own. And if even half the town viewed her with such high regard as her friend did, then perhaps she truly had a chance here. Perhaps, for the first time in her life, she could do some real good. She watched the pen slide across his page, and when the next questions came, she took her time before answering him.\n\n\"I- I fear this is where my knowledge runs out. I haven't seen the creatures yet.\" Her voice had dropped to a whisper. She'd been lucky. Safe in her bed as the werewolves tore the town apart, destroyed homes and families, struck fear into the hearts of the citizens. \"I'm not sure what I could do that isn't already being done. We could... Oh, Fran, I don't *Know*. And it scares me that I don't know what's coming.\" Her hand had found its way to the table, outstretched fingers resting on his forearm, looking for something solid to hold onto. \"If you think we could do those things, write them down. All of them. You know.\"\n\nFrancis had seen them. And he bore the scars to prove it. It was his expertise that could carry them through, as he lent her his mind and his words. \n\n\"I think we should reinforce the existing safehouses. Keep them the same each moon. Board the windows... Make sure each has silver bullets and someone who can be trusted to shoot them. And *Make* People stay together. It's not safe to be alone, no matter who you are.\""
},
{
"author": "francis estep",
"message": "He pulled the notebook back from himself, and studied his notes for a moment before ad-libbing the intro to a speech of sorts. \n\n\"I, Marianne Wilburn, am the candidate whose... Heart reaches for yours. We are a family in this town, and your safety is my top priority. Showing kindness, above all else, to my neighbors, my kin, is my top priority. Together, we leave no one alone to the moons. We leave no one without the... Without the silver to defend themselves.\"\n\n\"I have seen this town change through its seasons, and I know that one thing stays the same, through the... Bounty of autumn, through the... Scorch of summer: we are a community. Our love for each other will keep us alive. Our pooled resources and... And skills will keep our walls strong against the beasts.\"\n\nThrough it all, he scrawled feverish notes, half the words barely legible to anyone other than himself. He looked over at Marianne. The smile was back in his eyes. \n\n\"What'dya think so far?\"\n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "Marianne's thumb stroked lightly over Francis' wrist. She watched his face, and again saw that telltale crease work its way into his expression. How she hated to see him like this, and how she hoped that somehow, she could provide some sort of soothing balm for his anger, for his frustration with the past and present, a hope for the future.\n\nWell, perhaps, if she listened well, she could. They were in this for the long haul, it seemed. She'd do her best for him, for all he'd done for her before. \n\nShe thought back to the house, when he asked of silver. Of course she had silver - what kind of a lady didn't? Her mama's jewellery box was no doubt overflowing with the stuff, and she had more than enough pieces of her own. They'd need an expert pair of hands to take out the precious stones, and of course there were some, like the locket around her neck, that she'd never say goodbye to. But most of it simply lay in storage, gathering dust... It would do better in the hands of someone who could turn its beauty into a weapon. Then there were her candlesticks - she could replace them with something, and not miss the silver at all. \"I can gather some silver for certain. Give me some time to look through it, and tell me who to take it to. The town has more use for it than I ever will.\" It was the right thing to do. Mama would have given up her earrings in a heartbeat if it meant protecting Briar Ridge. \n\n\"We live in serious times, Fran. It's alright. These things must be talked about rather than swept beneath the rugs,\" She assured him. \"We won't ever reach those brighter days if we don't get the problems under control. But we can do it. I know we can.\" She found a smile, and leaned in to see what he was writing, only for him to begin speaking. And heavens, he spoke better than any preacher she'd ever heard, drew her in with his words. Again she wondered why he wasn't to be the one to stand up on the dais. \n\n\"That's beautiful. I'd vote for me.\""
},
{
"author": "francis estep",
"message": "\"Exactly what the speech is for,\" He encouraged, \"And besides, I think you've got more supporters in this town than you know.\" It was true, especially if her competition included the likes of Valerian Barca. In this town, that may as well be a race between Satan and the Holy Spirit. \n\n\"Of course, I'd love to hear.\" He smiled patiently, slightly nervous about the pressure to respond to a work of art. He wasn't the most well read man in town, but he certainly pretended to be. It occurred to him then that he might simply enjoy what poem she chose— that Marianne would be just as happy to introduce him to something new as she would be to have an intellectual discussion about writing. \n\nHe watched her go to the shelves, admiring again that bright headscarf of hers. \n*German?* Needless to say, he was impressed and more than a little intimidated by her knowledge. He tried not to let it show as he listened, desperately squinting at the page she held open. \n\nIt was beautiful. \n\n\"That's beautiful Marianne. Like a prayer.\" He nodded, sober in his reception, \"You should read it to the town.\" He paused, thinking, \"Don't— don't tell 'em it's German, though. You know. Folks get jumpy 'bout the Germans.\" Francis gave a huff of nervous laughter. \n\n\"Where'd you learn to speak German from, anyway?\" He couldn't help but ask, suddenly fascinated by the layers of mystery surrounding the woman beside him, completely and unabashedly distracted from the task at hand."
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "She had half been expecting him to reject her idea of poetry outright, perhaps thinking it too fanciful for something so important, or simply not the sort of words they were looking for when it came to winning over the town. So her relief was almost tangible when he called it *Beautiful*, and she reached to take his pen from him, wanting to write down her translation so she could simply memorise it rather than think to remember it again. Her script didn't match his, much smaller and with the tails of her letters curling into and over one another, but she was sure he could read it just fine. \n\n\"Papa met a German man in 1918,\" She explained softly, as she wrote. \"He visited the house a handful of times - he was a writer, he escaped to New York a stowaway on a hospital ship amidst the war. When he found that I loved to read, he would send me all the books he could find, and in the letters, he'd write poems. Like this one. German and English, side by side. And when he came to see Papa, we talked for hours about the stories, and he would teach me. Little by little. Dottie knows all about him.\" She laughed a little. \"She used to tease so, saying he would ask for my hand any day. Perhaps he would have, if Julius had never arrived... I stopped replying to his letters, after the accident, and by the time I was... *Me* Again, it seemed too late to reach out.\""
},
{
"author": "francis estep",
"message": "Francis fell into the steady song of Marianne's words, the tempo kept by the scratch of her writing. A flare of jealousy surprised him at the mention of man after her hand. Of course he knew about Julius, and of course he recognized how misplaced he was in envy of the dead. But still, the foolish part of him (most of him) couldn't help but pretend that he'd make her a better partner than either of the men she mentioned. \n\nToo busy digesting the part of her story that related back to himself, he failed to absorb her subtle mention of a time away from her own mind. Even if he had caught it, chances were low he'd have had the courage to follow up the thread. A serious conversation like that would demand more strength in a performance than he could muster at the moment. \n\n\"Well, I'll have to compare notes with Dotty, then.\" He smiled, missing the plot a bit in his self-absorption. \n\"I cain't teach you German or anything like that. But I kin help you run a campaign. Graft an apple tree. Shoot whiskey.\" He conceded. The last offer was a bit of venture. He hadn't seen Mari at the Speakeasy, but he was fairly confident she was above this Prohibition nonsense."
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "\"I'm sure she'd love to tell you all about my adventures before I get a chance to myself,\" Marianne laughed. *Adventures* Was a grand exaggeration - there wasn't much that had happened that she hadn't thought to tell Francis, save for the darker details of the first few years after the deaths of her parents. There wasn't a soul in town that knew the ins and outs of those and she intended to keep it that way until her own dying day. \"But I'll trade knowledge with you any time, Fran. You're already teaching me so much.\"\n\nShe returned his pencil to his hand, and briefly, her head to his shoulder. He was warm through the fabric of his shirt, and she chased that warmth like moth to flame, dangerous as it may be yet far too enticing to tear herself away from. He smelled like woodsmoke and something sharp and sweet - she'd never noticed it before, but now she had, the fancy of breathing in just that every day... She closed her eyes, allowing herself one small moment to picture another world, another life, where she and Francis could find peace like this more often than not. \n\n\"Thank you. For all of this... I feel as though with you by my side I could run for President, let alone mayor. When the last frost passes, I'd love to see what you do with the orchard. And-\" She paused, turning her face up to look at him. \"-I'll take you up on that whiskey sometime, to hell with it.\""
}
] | 295 | 5,127 |
441 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "She should be excited about the idea of a new project on her plate – and she is. It's been a while since Hazel has had the opportunity to make a bigger chunk of money at one time, rather than watching her income trickle in via the steady purchases of socks and blouses. She's always been a champion at the compartmentalization of everything unrelated to her work, but in the last few days, Hazel's noticed a wave of *Bad feelings* Creeping toward her on the horizon. \n\nIt's typical around this time of year. As the world turns and the leaves change and eventually drop altogether, Hazel's capacity for happiness seems to plummet. It was less of a problem earlier in her life, when she had no choice but to power through. Now that she's had the time to come unwound, though, the effort she must make to soldier through the winter borders on Herculean.\n\n Hazel has been in Briar Ridge for just about five years now. It's not the lack of electricity that bothers her, it's the lack of ways to spend her *Own* Time now that she has so much of it. As such... She should be excited about having a large project to do. \n\nShe can't seem to focus on it, though. Her mind is plagued by a million other things – old memories, replaying on loop in the back of her head; strange and conflicting thoughts about some of her newer acquaintances; profound guilt for Oswald; dread for the months ahead. She is nothing if not self-industrious, and as long as she's able, she'll kick and scream to claw her way out of the muddy hole into which she feels she's begun to fall.\n\nReading seems like a good place to start.\n\nThe only book Hazel has ever really read (let alone finished) is the Bible. She's wanted to change this for longer than she can remember, but pride and shame have kept her from the library or even asking for recommendations. Today feels like a day to try and overcome that, mostly because if she doesn't, she has to go home and try to sew a suit while thinking about how horrible she is at her job and how much everyone hates her. Having some reading to do will, at the very least, occupy her mind. \n\nIt is with marked hesitation that Hazel opens the door to the little library, and in spite of her urge to steal away to the back, she makes an effort to seek out the face of the librarian.\n\n\"Good morning,\" She calls in a hushed tone, nervously glancing in the direction of the counter for any sign of Jade."
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Jade found comfort in the library during the changing of the seasons. Something about it felt like home. Somewhere she was in control, something that was hers. She had her own personality – she was no longer just the coal miner's daughter. She had her own friends, real friends. Miss Maeve, Dimitra, Charlie, Riley, and Addie Sinclair and she had so many more people in Briar Ridge that she had yet to meet. She had found a home in those in Briar Ridge. She missed West Virginia sometimes, don't get her wrong. She missed Jackson and Walter, and even though it wasn't always the happiest, she and her brothers still had fond memories. She would read them stories, sometimes she made them up. She spent the crisp morning putting away some of the books that had been left out from the day before, her schedule worked well. Library during the day and the Courier at night to clean. \n\nShe hadn't read much lately but she still had some recommendations for those who wanted them, she didn't want to disappoint after all. She was the librarian! She enjoyed her job, interacting with people, helping them find a story to consume them and take their minds away from the horrors that Briar Ridge had on every full moon. Folks in the midst of preparing for what could be another night of lives lost. She heard the door open and close, the wood creaking under someone's feet. She listened for a moment, analyzing the steps, they were hesitant, afraid. Jade would be careful when coming up to greet them, she wouldn't want to spook and scare them away. She rounded the bookshelf to go to the counter but she stopped before she got there with a smile\n\n\"Well, I'll be\" She spoke in a honeyed tone, Hazel Calhoun. She was drop-dead gorgeous. She wiped her hands on the back of her dress to make sure her hands were free of any dust. \"I have been waiting to meet you. I've heard you run the tailor shop right?\" She didn't go behind the counter instead she went to the side, nothing really separating her and Miss Calhoun except the air. \"I'm Jade Grant\" She extended her hand in a friendly manner. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "Hazel knew who Jade was by way of the speakeasy and peeping her around the courier's office, but they'd yet to have a real conversation. Jade Grant was a delicate beauty with dark, shiny waves of hair and wonderfully hooded eyes. In spite of her attempts to hide her body with her clothes, Hazel had a tailor's eye and could see the fullness of Jade's figure underneath. She'd be beautiful in something draped correctly for her form – but, then, Hazel understood why a person might want to hide that part of themselves. Hazel herself didn't know how to handle the weight of anyone's gaze when it lingered for too long, especially not a man's. Despite a fundamental lack of experience in that department, she at least was familiar with the feeling of unwanted eyes on her body. \n\nThe sound of Jade's voice was unexpectedly gentle, and Hazel wondered if each of them might have seen a truth in the other. She couldn't help but smile as she approached and shook Jade's hand, though her own gesture was a little weaker, a little less sure. Even so, she still held herself upright with impeccable posture, that terrible pride manifesting even here.\n\n\"Yes, I do,\" She replied, sounding markedly more confident. The tailor's shop was her domain, and to have it addressed was a helpful reminder that she was an entrepreneur in her own right. \n\n\"I'm Hazel Calhoun. It's nice to meet you.\" However bashful she might have felt, Hazel's voice did not betray her. She could talk to women much more easily than to men. Her eyes were analytical as she studied Jade, and when she found no airs of superiority or hostility her gaze softened to match the smile she wore. \n\n\"I was hopin' you could help me find a book,\" She began, forcing out the words in spite of her discomfort. \"I'm... I don't read as much as I'd like to. And I could really use another hobby.\" There was certainly more she could have said, but pride tied her tongue.\n\nHazel stole a few glances around the bookshelves. The library was appropriately small for such a tiny town, but there were still a rainbow of books to choose from in a variety of conditions. It impressed her that someone could know every title, have recommendations ready to go."
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Miss Calhoun was certainly a summer breeze in the prettiest of gardens. She knew briefly of the woman. Through the talk of the town, and the speakeasy, no one ever had anything bad to say either. Jade mentally scolded herself for not striking up a conversation sooner and being so impolite as to make Hazel start one first. She took in all of Hazel's frame, the observant demeanor. Jade liked that, someone just as observant of her as she was of them. She held the woman's hand in her own. Soft, delicate, and perhaps needle-pricked if someone looked carefully. Such was the life of a tailor. She smiled knowing her assumption was correct. She had heard Miss Calhoun's name as the best and only in the town. She had even passed the shop a few times and wondered about going in. \"Oh please, the pleasure is mine. I love a fresh face in the library, it makes the decor seem more.., inviting and less ancient\" She winked playfully before dropping her hand from the woman's, the absence of the others warm noticeable.\n\n\"Find you a book\" She repeated back to Hazel, as if she were some trained parrot. She had tons of recommendations as always. However, it depended on what genre they were looking for. Were they looking to be swept off their feet by a knight in shining armor? Were they looking to fight battles with the Greeks and Trojans? Were they looking for adventure relevant to today's time? Endless lives they could live through the printed words on the yellowed pages. The only question was what life did Hazel want to live? What experience did she want both in books and life? The woman seemed... Rather sheltered but Jade could've been wrong. \"Can I be honest with ya?\" She called out as she trailed the shelves for something that struck her eye, something that screamed Hazel Calhoun. \"I haven't been reading much either\" She gave the woman a mischievous grin \"And I am surrounded by books all day\" She wanted to offer some sort of comfort to Hazel, not that she needed it. She just wanted everyone to feel welcome no matter their literacy or illiteracy. \n\nShe certainly wanted Hazel as a frequent patron and a friend. Jade finally selected a book, about a model who is abducted by the insane, scarred, and blind sculptor known as \"The Blind Beast,\" Who then imprisons her in a surreal maze made of enormous sculpted eyes and other bizarre body parts before mutilating her in a terrifying blood-orgy. \"This may be a little bizarre... If you want to give it a try\" Jade held the book out to her. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "Hazel's smile was genuine, if a little shy. Jade and Hazel were both from outside of Briar Ridge, but Jade seemed to be much better at integrating herself into the community. The art of socialization was one that Hazel did her best to practice, despite it being a little daunting. \n\nShe listened carefully while Jade prattled on, appreciative of the librarian's attempt to make her feel a little less ashamed. (She did her best not to be irritated that her shame was evident.) Hazel studied her carefully as Jade looked through her book collection, and when she held out her selection, Hazel reached out to gingerly pluck it from her.\n\nAs she perused the summary on the back of the book, Hazel felt her eyes widen a little. Her lips parted almost imperceptibly as she opened her mouth to say something, then shut it again. \n\nOkay. Maybe this was a test. She wasn't quite sure God was watching, but it was a test from *Someone.* Even if that someone was Hazel herself, she knew better than to sink deeper into her comfort zone when what she really needed to do was reach out. Inwardly, she groaned; outwardly, she smiled, a sheepish expression.\n\n\"I appreciate it...\" She began, shifting nervously, \"But I think it might be a little too... *Bloody* For me.\" Hazel paused, considering the sheer amount of books around her. There was no reason to be nervous; it wasn't as though Jade would run out of suggestions.\n\nHazel held the book back out at arm's length, cringing inwardly and hoping for some more sympathy from Jade. The shadows beneath her eyes betrayed her sleepless nights and the hours spent replaying the slicing of flesh in her mind's eye. Truthfully, she wanted to imagine herself somewhere else. It was the closest she could get to the escape she craved.\n\n\"It's just... With everything goin' on, I think I need a break from all the... The violent stuff. Ya know? Do ya have anything... Anythin' softer?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Jade was born into a pretty social community, Coalwood didn't have that many people in it anyway so it was hard to bump into someone you didn't know. However, she and her family were more of the outcasts. Even though they tried to hide it with the perfect nuclear family, everyone knew what went on behind closed doors. So she made sure to fit into this community's standards and be as flawless as possible. Although she had already failed them too she felt. \n\nShe rambled on as if she was a lawyer trying to present her case. However, she had read Miss Calhoun all wrong. She was not someone who craved the bloodied adventure. The town gave her enough of that. No, she needed delicate, soft, comforting. The woman's sheepish smile gave away her distaste before she spoke it. Hazel seemed nervous to bring it to her attention, she wanted to reassure the woman but also didn't want to embarrass her by bringing it up. She just smiled \"Ah, well, I reckon you have defeated my streak of being able to tell what people like\" She let out a small giggle, trying to make the environment more welcoming. She would make a run for her money joke but she didn't want Miss Calhoun to take it seriously. \"Alright, delicate.\" She sauntered through the maze of shelves \"Delicate she repeated to herself, waiting for a book to catch her eye. Finally one did. Call Your Daughter Home by Deb Spera.\n\nOnce more she carefully plucked the book from its home on the shelf and dusted the cover off, promptly wiping her hand on her pants. \"Alright, Miss Calhoun. I reckon I found one that is just your style. Tell me what ya think\" She beelined her way to Hazel as she flipped through the pages of the book, excited to share her recommendation with the woman. \"It's based in 1924 and Three Ladies and Branchville, South Carolina are at a crossroads. Four-time mother Gertrude is forced to make a morally dubious choice to save her daughters. Despite the talk in her society, Retta, a first-generation freed slave, helps Gertrude by watching her children. While dealing with her issues at home, Annie, the matriarch of the powerful Coles family, gives Gertrude a job at her sewing circle.\" She had completely forgotten about the sewing circle. It brought her another giggle \"Well shoot, I suppose you don't wanna hear about no sewing circle do ya?\" \n\nShe leaned against the desk, awaiting Hazel's reaction. Truthfully Jade marveled at the woman, she was insanely beautiful as most of the women she had crossed paths with in Briar Ridge were, men too. Everyone has a beautiful aura even if they try to hide it with aggression and trickster tones. She wanted to know how they all ended up here and, more importantly, wanted to know what Hazel had left behind if anything at all. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "Wow. Behind an otherwise unreadable expression Hazel felt a wave of intrigue pass over her at the idea that someone somewhere had written a book just for her to read. The idea of a sewing circle had always intrigued her. It wasn't the sewing – it was enough having to soak her hands every night after spending hours on a pair of trousers, or the like. Rather, the idea of a group of friends with a shared interest who regularly met to gossip sounded delightfully feminine, and inaccessible in that sickly-sweet way that one tended to view the wealthy and aristocratic. To read about it seemed like an easy compromise.\n\nThe title caught her eye. Jade hadn't mentioned it aloud, but Hazel could see it, having stolen a glance at the cover as Jade read the summary. In the context of the way Briar Ridge had turned on its head, perhaps that little knife twist was appropriate for her attempts at escapism.\n\nShe took the book and plucked it from Jade's waiting hands, feeling a little awkward. A moment passed in silence before she sucked in a breath, dismayed at the second or so it took for her to find her voice. Even so, Hazel didn't waver. \n\n\"Well, sure, I'd like to... Borrow it,\" She said carefully, unsure about her choice of words. Jade was visibly younger than Hazel, but had the air of someone who had been living in womanhood for considerably longer than Hazel had. As much as it intimidated her, it was also halfway inspiring to find that someone further along than she could be so free of judgment. It wasn't in her nature to be trusting, but maybe trying it out with Jade wouldn't be such a terrible gamble.\n_ _\n\n\"When do I have to bring it back?\" She asked, suddenly worried about her own schedule. She'd planned to have some books to read at night, mostly, and in the slower parts of her days, but this time of year meant plenty of busywork for a tailor, tasked with repairing clothing when folks' workload inevitably snagged a sleeve or tore off a button. Paired with an embarrassingly shaky reading level (the real reason for this endeavor, ultimately), Hazel wasn't certain she'd make a quick deadline."
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "As the book left Jade's hands, she looked to the marvelous Miss Calhoun. Jade was very intrigued by Hazel, she could sense that the woman was unsure and a little bit guarded. She understood that. Jade was forced to grow up too fast, she had endured too much for a little girl. Maybe the fact that Hazel seemed to have her delicate girlish innocence still. It almost made Jade envious but not before she swore to herself that she wouldn't let anything happen to her. Hazel may have been capable of taking care of herself but the wrong people would see this girlish charm and feed on it like a pack of hungry wolves. Miss Hazel would never face those wolves alone so long as she was around to show her own wolfish teeth. Jade was pulled from her thoughts, she almost didn't comprehend what Miss Calhoun had said. \"Oh, don't worry about having it back at a certain time. We are all busy in this town, especially with our monthly... Beast hunts\" She couldn't find her words for a moment. Not wanting to say anything to Cras around her. \n\nFrom the way Hazel carried herself, she could see that Hazel had been sheltered, locked away as if she were sleeping beauty herself. Finally, lightbulbs went off in her brain \"Say, Hazel... I reckon if you are feeling up to it, how about you come over sometime. I have a pretty garden, it a good reading spot too\" She offered sweetly \"Just if you want to step away from the sewing and measurements for a little bit and catch some fresh air\" Fresh air, that was what Hazel was for Jade, perhaps they could reach mutualism, Jade could see the charm of Hazel's demeanor and Jade could show her the womanhood she craved. The sense of belonging, the women of Briar Ridge were all treasures, untouched by the trope of the submissive housewife. Alma Cooper, Dimitra Florakis, and Maeve Lefevre, all had something different to teach for those who wished to be taught."
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "An invitation...?\n\nHazel's cheeks grew hot with imagined embarrassments. Even so, she had seen Jade at the speakeasy and the ease with which she seemed to get along with everyone. Without a wealth of life experience to use as talking points, Hazel often erred on the side of shyness. It wasn't that she had nothing to draw from but rather that her life had not been a gentle one until it had belonged exclusively to her. She had skipped childhood altogether and been thrust into the working class, and as a result, much of the discoveries associated with adolescence were only just coming now — self-exploration, learning about the world, about unspoken social rules and the like. She felt at once very old and frighteningly young.\n\nJade had a relatively disarming presence. There was really no reason to think she would give Hazel room to fail. And so, in spite of her anxiety and the chorus of doubts in her head, she willed a smile onto her face and nodded her agreement. \n\n\"That'd be lovely,\" She answered, nodding. It was a genuine answer. It was true that the women in town seemed to prioritize being true to themselves where they could help it. Hazel had been relieved to learn this quality upon first arriving in town; it was, after all, the only way she could achieve true autonomy. That autonomy had become a little lonely, though. Maybe it was time to face her fears of rejection and try to find herself some real friends.\n\n\"We ought to do it before the next moon, in case you don't have a pot o'coffee on hand next time. I heard about that by the way. That was amazing,\" She chirped, eyes alight with respect for a woman who could pack a punch."
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Miss Hazel Calhoun. The name fluttered in Jades mind as she accepted the invitation — Jade was undeniably a social butterfly but she wasn't always. She used to be a homebody just keep in her head down, she could see that maybe Hazel had the history of that too. Oh how she wanted to reach out to the woman and just squeeze her but she didn't. She wouldn't alarm the woman by the sudden touch of a stranger \n\nShe giggled at the mention of her swift move of boiling hot coffee in the wolf's face \"Oh you saw that?\" She had never been seen as strong but the fact that Hazel thought she was... It meant the world to her. Now she really had to look out for this woman. Full moons and everywhere. Thankfully no one in Briar Ridge really wished anyone any harm. She looked around for a moment. She had cut some fresh flowers from her garden to liven up the library. Delphinium, the purple looked beautiful the the brunette hair of Hazels. \n\nCarefully she stepped forward and lightly tucked it behind Hazels ear. \"There we go.. Beautiful.\" She stepped back as if she were admiring her work, truthfully Hazel Calhoun was already a masterpiece, she just wanted to give her a token of friendship. Something to remember to come by for a while and read her book if she wanted. \"Well, I reckon you're pretty busy... Should I find you another book or let ya scurry on out?\""
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "Hazel smiled. She had trouble identifying exactly what it was about Jade that made her feel so welcome so easily, but there was certainly a part of her now inclined to keep an eye out for Jade's friendly face. Hazel was someone who avoided social hubs when they were on the busier side of things; it would be nice to have a buoy toward which to drift.\n\n\"Didn't see it, but I heard about it,\" Hazel replied. \"Your Arty, he must be real proud, 'cause I haven't set foot in the speakeasy since it happened.\" A light giggle punctuated the end of her sentence, a soft and girlish sound. It was nice to commiserate like this, simply and honestly, with someone whose intentions were pure.\n\n\"I better start with just the one,\" She admitted, blushing a little as though it made her uncomfortable to admit aloud that she wasn't some kind of hyperlexic scholar. \"Can't tell ya how helpful you've been, though. I'm — I'm really excited. I'll let ya know how it goes,\" She chuckled. \n\n\"And I'm sorry, Jade,\" She added. \"For takin' so long to come out here. It ain't always easy for me to... Put myself out there.\" It was a half-baked explanation, but she had only just met Jade Grant, and that was about as much information as her new acquaintance was going to get for now. \n\n\"You ought to come by the shop sometime. Next week, maybe. Could have even finished this thing by then.\""
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Jade thought the world of Hazel by just their small interaction, she flushed hearing 'your Arty' finally, something... No someone that only belonged to her and she could only hope that it stayed like that for the rest of her days. Conversation with Hazel came easy like a summer breeze. A true light in this world she was. She nodded with a small laugh \"Good choice, that way you don't feel rushed to get to the next one and you can absorb every word on the page\" She looked to Hazel with a gleeful gaze \"Oh you ain't gotta thank me, I'm happy to put a face to the lovely seamstress I've heard so much about\" She gave the girl a playful wink although Hazel made her laugh once more, she shook her head \"Oh my summer gal, you ain't got no need to apologize to me. I know people around here may say I am a bit overbearing socially. I reckon I can be\" She crinkled her nose \n\n\"Well shoot, the only thing that matters is that you're here now, right?\" She tried to easily comfort Hazel, no need for formalities and apologies. She gave a quick nod \"You know now that I think about it... Almost everyone has gotten a bouquet from me, I reckon I owe you one... I may just find myself in your shop to make sure you ain't working too hard.\" She leaned against the front desk, finally easing the conversation to a halt. She had already kept Hazel longer than she kept most customers, unless then again Dimitra made herself pretty comfy. \n\n\"Alright Miss Hazel, I'll let ya get. I'll drop by, don't you worry\" She said sweetly. \n\n|| Interaction Closed ||"
}
] | 440.5 | 5,292 |
438 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Creedie Clark",
"message": "The library was a welcome respite from the biting cold. The temperatures had dipped down recently, and the rather long walk from Creedie's house to the library had been nothing short of torturous. But her tumbledown cottage hardly protected her from the cold, and she had to save up her firewood for the evenings, so lately she'd been finding refuge elsewhere during daylight hours.\n\nCreedie pulled down the scarf that'd been protecting her face and neck as she greeted the librarian with a smile; it wasn't returned. She settled on a sneer as she stalked over to one of the oak tables nestled between the shelves and settled in. Although Briar Ridge seemed to be more accepting, Creedie had found that not everyone was quite as willing to integrate. She tried to shake it off as she pulled a rather worn, leatherbound notebook out of her rucksack and flipped to the last entry. \n\nInstead of words, the notebook was full of plant pressings: samples that Creedie had collected over the past few months. These journals (as this one was only the latest in a collection she'd amassed over the years) were a culmination of her passion for learning about the natural world and the basis for her budding business. For a small price, Creedie prepared tinctures and elixirs that healed common ailments like colds and toothaches. For a higher price, she could prepare potions that solved... Other things. And lately with all that'd been going on, folks were hungry for what Creedie offered.\n\nIt wasn't uncommon for Creedie to run into unfamiliar plants and add them to her pressings journal and identify them later. But this plant... She'd yet to identify it. Creedie let out a sigh as she stood and began perusing the shelves, searching for a book that had an answer for her. It was slow work so far, as Creedie wasn't much for reading. She'd had to leave school early, but it was starting to come back to her the more time she spent in the library.\n\nStill, though. Creedie found herself having to sound words out loud to understand half of what she was reading. It was embarrassing, and she was grateful for her solitude in the library so she could continue her investigation in privacy."
},
{
"author": "Doctor Elias Olander",
"message": "As luck would have it, Creedith wasn't the only person that had low stores of firewood this winter. That was sort of the way of things with showing up in Briar Ridge partway through the year, busier looking over one's shoulder than preparing for the cold to come. With his cottage's open drafty rooms and hole in the second floor ceiling yet to be mended by Liam Whitaker, Elias spent plenty of days keeping himself busy elsewhere. \n\nOf course, he wouldn't leave his girl to fend for herself in the cold either. Poppy, his German Shepherd, had been settled down just inside the lobby, if it could really be called that, little entry room that it was, with coats and canes and whatever else studious folks brought on their way in. Elias had convinced the librarian that she would be good and remain in the lobby. Poppy, the Shepherd, had used her big brown eyes to agree with him that she couldn't be left out in the cold. So it was that the big dog curled up on the tiled floors just inside gave the girl a glance as she entered, but little more.\n\nThe doctor, on the other hand, had given her a glance, and a second one, and a third. All behind the secrecy of a shelf of books of course, peering just over their edges. He'd noticed first, the leatherbound journal that she produced from her belongings. He studied for a moment the way she handled it with care, and squinted a little as if he could discern the nature of the pressed plants therein.\n\nThe second glance had come because he found her very pretty but also very young-looking. From his best estimation, she could be no older than eighteen or nineteen, but then, he never really was very good at estimating the age of women. No sooner had she looked liable to glance upward than he looked back at the book in his own hands. Why he'd thought a compilation of Farm Press, circa 1906-1912 would contain some answer to the mystery he sought to solve was anyone's best guess, but it was snapped shut and set down with a sigh.\n\nBriar Ridge's literary offerings were really very, very slim. He'd asked, demanded, and implored the librarian to be on high alert for medical journals or even newspaper findings that might pass through this little holler, and made it worth her while too. Just three weeks past, she'd nabbed a newspaper folded and refolded so many times it'd gone blurry on the creases. There were rings of stains from a coffee mug too. Battered though it was, somewhere deep in Page 18, there were findings out of Austria of a pioneering physician studying the typing of blood, and how the findings could bring people back from death's brink. \n\nSurely there could be wisdom unearthed, even in these lines of old tomes, beyond crops and weather and catastrophes. His eyes traced the faded binding of The Lancet vol. 174. It was over twenty years old and still he'd read it half a dozen times in this very library, as well as the ones that flanked it. They were of scattered ages with no rhyme nor reason to when they'd been acquired.\n\nNo sooner had he lifted his hand to pull out the old book once again, than her voice met his ears through the shelves. With most of Briar Ridge's inhabitants hard at work and the rest keeping warm by their firesides, there was almost no one else there. Of course, her privacy was infringed upon by his eavesdropping. It occurred to Elias that she may have been younger than he thought, judging by her struggle in sounding out words. But then, it was a bit surprising that she could read at all, as a woman (girl?) of color.\n\n\"It's homeopathic,\" He said, pushing a few books to tilt so that he could meet her eyes through the shelves. \"You musn't forget the second o. It's full of nonsense anyway. One should never trust a German.\" As if this were a perfectly polite way to approach someone, he seemed to have no empathy towards hesitation or embarrassment. \"What are you looking for anyway?\" A glance went towards the journal at the old oak tables behind her, and something he thought of just then caused him to shut up the notion of saying anything else entirely presumptuous just yet."
},
{
"author": "Creedie Clark",
"message": "*\"It's homeopathic.\" *\n\nCreedie just about jumped out of her skin when she heard the disembodied voice correct her. So concentrated she'd been in deciphering the book in her hands, she hadn't noticed anyone else in the library, let alone in the alcove just a shelf over from her. Instinctively, she snapped the book shut. She could feel heat creeping up along her cheeks. \n\n\"Didn't anyone teach you that sneakin' up on people is rude,\" Creedie asked pointedly, her Southern lilt softening some of the harshness she'd meant to impress.\n\nShe raised an eyebrow and stared into the small hole in the books from where the voice came from. All she could really tell about who the voice belonged to was that he was a man. Typical. Creedie looked down at the book she was holding, a thick tome bound in black leather. *Species Graminum*, it read in peeling gold-leaf letters. The young woman pushed the book back on the shelf, blocking the space the man had been using to watch her. \n\nHe was right, of course, in a roundabout way. Gramineae was the wrong family, and anyways only a fraction of the book had been translated from Latin to English. She'd waste her whole life trying to find what she needed from that book. Creedie crossed her arms and huffed, but she couldn't help herself. Curiosity drove most of her actions, even if at times it led to reckless abandon – why stop now? She pulled the book back out of the shelf so she could meet his eyes once more: they were a striking shade of blue. \n\n\"I'm lookin' for some information on a plant I collected a few months ago, near some swamps real deep in the woods,\" She offered. \"That anything you'd be knowledgeable about?\"\n\nForaging was something Creedie had done all her life, but using literature to aid in the identification process was new to her. Back home, she knew the trees and shrubs and vines better than she knew herself. She knew that greenbrier was thorny and painful, but that its roots were good for eating and its stem was good for treating rheumatism. She knew that mayapple could kill you just as quick as it could be used to make the jelly on her toast in the mornings. \n\nHere in Briar Ridge, the local flora were still strangers to her. Creedie figured she could use whatever help she could get."
},
{
"author": "Doctor Elias Olander",
"message": "Growing up with a mother rooted in Nordic frigidity, two competitive brothers, and then educated in the lecture rooms of John Hopkins full of young men just as arrogant as he, *Rude* Was not something he'd considered often. Of course, he needed to be at least passing polite as he'd become a professional man in the social circles of New York. But so many of his young age had eschewed the era of Edwardian formality for swinging circles full of something raucous, something bright.\n\nAnd here he was, in some sad excuse for a library, in a middle of nowhere holler, being scolded for his poor manners by a young girl. The idea was enough to make him laugh. He didn't laugh though. He was shut up at once by the sharp gleam of her dark eye through the shelves. Fixed on him. \n\nJust as he came to focus on it, it blinked away, a book shoved into place to obscure the view. Probably better that way, he assumed, these two still as perfect strangers on either side of the shelf. His eyes had just swung around to look down the length of dusty spines making irregular lines along old oak when the whisper of the book sliding free brought his eyes up again. Catching her gaze, his eyebrows perked. \n\nThe silence seemed to hang a while on the end of her question, and it was evident he was thinking. Probably how to say something that *Wasn't* Rude. The worlds of well-to-do doctors and spirited girls sounding out words were usually kept well apart. So he couldn't help but ask, \"Why would *You* Be deep in the woods?\" His voice was low, the accent a muddled mix of high society affectation with the lilting ghost of Scandinavian immigrant.\n\nPresumptuous intonation gave her just enough time to roll her eyes before his own blue gaze disappeared. Bootheels whispered a soft staccato against mopped hardwoods. The lanky, fair-haired doctor rounded to her side of the shelf, looking every bit as obnoxious as he sounded in tasteful navy cable knit and brown tweed. He approached her journal rather than her, ginger in flipping a few pages as if he'd been given every invitation. Rude was still probably the right word for him.\n\n\"There are a terrible lot of herbs one might identify,\" He said, glancing up from a page of flattened digitalis. Even crushed and dry, the petals of vibrant magenta shone bright against beige parchment, hearkening to summer fields far away in time from this chilly library. His eyes raised towards her. \"Why does this aforementioned... Swamp plant have your attention?\""
},
{
"author": "Creedie Clark",
"message": "When one poses a question, they open themselves up to a world of possibilities. Creedie knew this, and yet she still found herself mighty surprised when her new companion rounded the corner and invited himself to flip through the pages of her pressings journal. \n\nThe first thing she noticed about him was his height. He was tall; even taller than Creedie. The soft light in the library bounced off his light hair, which was kept in a sophisticated and modern style. His clothing was maintained in a similar fashion – it was clear to Creedie he came from wealth. New or old, hoarded or squandered – this she couldn't determine yet. She indulged in staring a beat too long while he thumbed through her journal, his attention turned away from her. She was certain she'd seen him in town before, but she couldn't put a name to the face.\n\nCreedie cleared her throat. \n\n\"I-I like to make notes about plants I ain't ever seen before. You never know when one might be useful.\" Creedie stammered before her voice found its strength. She cursed silently to herself for feeling so suddenly unsure of herself. She was hyper aware of her own dress, which was decidedly shabbier than his. Her trousers and coat matched: they were a drab, gray color, adorned with patches and frays. Her navy scarf was still around her neck, and though her old boots still had plenty of life in them, they certainly weren't the most contemporary design.\n\nCreedie took a step closer to him, and reached out to gently drag the journal back towards herself. Years on the tracks had made her wary of strangers handling her things, although Creedie was certain nothing of hers would be worth stealing for a man like him. \n\n\"You seem like the type to know lots about things,\" She started with a grin playing on her lips, \"So I'm guessin' you probably don't know what this is. Since you're answering my question with a question, that is.\""
},
{
"author": "Doctor Elias Olander",
"message": "While Creedie seemed to struggle with confidence for a tick, he seemed oblivious. Thoughtful with the pages, Elias could recognize the care that had gone into this journal. He had stacks of his own at home. It was decidedly different, however, from those lining his shelves. The handwriting, the spacing, the order of it, all spoke to a different sort of mind. Inquisitive and perhaps even a little impulsive in ways that higher education had not broken her of. \n\nHis eyebrows quirked up as the journal was pulled away from him. He looked up at her, half annoyed, half bemused at her asserting claim over her own damn property. Bemusement won the battle, fanned on by her flattering words of his potential knowledge. Though the man played a good and dry poker face, there was something of caprice in him, that much could be sure. \n\n\"You do a lot of guessing,\" He said, glancing down to her journal, and gesturing for her to slide it back, with a small come hither of the hand, \"But you are not always correct.\" Even a stranger could recognize the subtle dare in his expression. \"An answer for an answer, hm?\"\n \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Creedie Clark",
"message": "Like a doe that's picked up on the slightest rustling of leaves, Creedie's ears pricked up at Elias' question. Her attitude shifted almost instinctively, but rather than prey, her demeanor was instead reminiscent of a cat playing with a mouse. Sure, maybe she did qualify her own statements with an 'I guess' here and there, but if there was one thing she knew, it was how to recognize a dare. A taunt? No, he didn't seem to be that antagonistic. For now. \n\nCreedie's eyes, averted towards the pages before her, snapped up at him, gleaming with newfound life. His expression confirmed what she already knew. An eyebrow raised, and she couldn't help keep herself from smirking. She found his uninvited presence and subsequent evasiveness annoying, but his interest in her pressings was refreshing. He wasn't trying to buy something from her, and she didn't have to put on airs. Acting the part was just as important as the service when it came to fortune telling and calling on the dead.\n\n\"Now then,\" Creedie started, handing the journal back over to Elias, \"I'm acceptin' your terms, but you've gone and asked more than one question. So which one do you really want answered?\" She leaned a hip against the table, continuing on in a playful tone, \"Seems an unfair trade, otherwise.\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Doctor Elias Olander",
"message": "Growing up, Elias had spent summer days fishing with his brothers. Most of this involved scrambling up to low-hanging boughs, whooping, and shouting, and diving down in the \"Search\" Of fish. But once in a while their bait left to float aimlessly, suspended from propped rods, would submerge with a splash. A thrashing around would follow, if one of the boys was quick enough. \n\nHe knew that enough that he had her on the hook. Though she was just bobbing for now. Of course, he would never presume it was he who was the fish. Across the span of that old oak table, these two stifled grins at each other like they knew something the rest of the world didn't.\n\nHe almost dared to stop hiding his grin as the journal came back his way. \"Well...\" He said, thumbing through the pages. It was types of men like him that sometimes liked to draw out their thoughts with long spaces, as if each self-important word demanded a lot of breathing room around it. \n\n\"I think the question I shall go with is...\" A few of the pages caught his attention as he did a quick peruse through the journal, little ticking sounds of his mouth indicating the process of thought. Rotating it at one point to read some of her sideways scrawling, his brows lofted in surprise, before turning the journal right back around. \"What are you doing wandering around in swamps?\" Raising his eyes back to her, he set the book back down on the table, open to the page with the pressing of the unidentified plant in question.\n\n\"Alone,\" He added, seemingly as an afterthought after studying the angles of her face with no regard for what some would consider an extended amount of time. \n\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Creedie Clark",
"message": "What *Was* She doing wandering around in the woods alone? Creedie didn't answer him immediately. Instead, she rolled her eyes and grinned widely, hoping her dazzling smile and incongruous expression would buy her a moment. She could easily admit to the truth: she was collecting specimens for her collection. *Collection of what*, she could already hear him following up. A collection of herbs and plants that she relied upon to concoct stores of potions, some being remedies of the body and others being remedies of the spirit. This fella didn't seem like the type to be too interested in matters of the spirit, though. \n\nHis stare lingered on Creedie as he awaited her answer, and she found it unnerving. But perhaps he'd taken notice of her watching as he thumbed through her journal and was simply returning the feeling. She liked the way his hands looked when they flipped through the pages: thoughtful, considerate, relaxed. He was in his environment around books, that much Creedie could ascertain. But she was alarmed at the discovery that she'd found some perverse enjoyment of his hands. Creedie buried that insight deep down to be analyzed at a later time (or perhaps never again). \n\n\"I collect plants that I think could be useful. Good eatin', medicinal. That sort of thing,\" She shrugged. \n\nA half-truth. It dawned upon Creedie that recent events in town had changed the dynamic of social interactions. With the revelation that the town Sheriff had been a werewolf, terrorizing Briar Ridge residents, everyone was looking at each other with suspicion. Were there other werewolves living amongst them? Any actions outside of the norm could accidentally paint a stinking, hairy, scarlet letter on Creedie's chest. \n\nShe leaned forward, tapping on the page of her journal, her eyes intensely fixed on Elias. \n\n\"Now then, Mister, it's my turn. Do you recognize this flower?\""
},
{
"author": "Doctor Elias Olander",
"message": "Her smile would have lit up that chilly library room if it'd met her eyes. For a moment, he even had the inkling to smile back. It was ignored. While someone with better social graces may have nodded acceptingly at her explanation, he furrowed his brows instead. Head ticked to the side, something here struck him as slightly off. \n\nWhere was her mother? Her father, or a sibling perhaps? Sure, plenty of girls and women wandered woodlands for the sake of herbalism, but not these woodlands. Not here. And never alone. Bright, clever, and curious as she was, there was something vulnerable on her that piqued his curiosity. Perhaps it was that deep south slant to her words that only feigned sweetness. The intrigue of this town played out, unspoken, between them, and for a long moment it seemed he would not make good on his end of the bargain. \n\n\"I do not recognize it,\" He finally said, never looking back down at the petite pink flower, \"So I presume it is not of much use, medicinally, as you say.\" \n\nHe shrugged, and that seemed to be the end of that. But before she could take her journal back away and be done with him, a \"However,\" Cleared space for itself. \n\nOnce again thumbing through the pages he'd only just familiarized himself with, he counted out the number in his mind before landing back on the flattened yellow petals. A subtle ring of red oil sat around the shape of each yellow petal, soaked into the page.\n\n\"*Perforatum*,\" He said, \"A quite useful plant for many ailments. I'm sure it is one of the first you learned. Or were taught?\" There was a question in the way he looked at her, but he continued. \"And I see you've written most of those uses down. A very good list of them, to be honest. I have not heard of the use of it for insomnia. However, there is one quite important ailment, missing. An ailment of the mind.\" He paused. Though she was not a formally educated colleague, psychological ailments were still a very new subject for the world of medicine stepping away from spirituality. \"Have you heard the word *Melancholia*?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Creedie Clark",
"message": "Skilled actress though she was, Creedie couldn't hide the disappointment in her face when the man across from her could not identify the flower she'd been working on. \n\n*What in the Lord's name could it be?* \n\nHe'd dismissed it as unusable, a fact that didn't surprise her. Men always had a way of dismissing knowledge passed down woman to woman; even if they didn't know that's how the knowledge was transmitted. It was only when a man fancied himself the discoverer that he accepted an idea. They were conquistadors of land, culture, and knowledge. Creedie had learned from a young age that the only way to make a man listen was to convince him her ideas were his first. \n\nThe young woman also accepted that this man had invited himself into her space, and he wouldn't be leaving until his curiosity had been sated. Creedie didn't mind, exactly. She still couldn't surmise whether this interaction was adversarial or not, but she found it intriguing nonetheless. Why had he taken such an interest in her? \n\nCreedie sat down in the chair next to her, unconsciously (or perhaps slyly) signaling that her guard was down. For now. She reached over and slid her journal back toward herself, peering at what Elias had noted. This motion caused a wayward curl to find its way in front of her face, which she tucked behind her ear. She kept\nHer hair cropped relatively short, for convenience, but the consequence of this was a rather unruly mane that had a way of constantly\nEscaping from hair ties.\n\n\"*Melancholia*,\" She started slowly, \"That's not somethin' I've heard of before. St. John's Wort treats... Sadness?\" \n\nCreedie's brow furrowed as she looked down at her own handwriting. She didn't know sadness needed treating. She was also unsurprised to find that this was something she would be unfamiliar with. Folks like Creedie didn't have the luxury of languishing in their own misery.\n\n\"'N how would you know this, anyways,\" Creedie asked pointedly, glancing back up at Elias as she did so. \n\nIt was the question that both had silently asked of the other, but she had finally said it aloud. Creedie flipped back to the mystery flower, a light pink bulbous shape that taunted her with its mystery. \n\n\"You said there's no known use for this. Maybe we outta find out for ourselves,\" She added with a sly grin."
},
{
"author": "Doctor Elias Olander",
"message": "With her guard down, it seemed she had diffused his own. Her slyness was too discreet for him to analyze but he fell victim to it entirely, and took the seat across the table from her. \n\nHer wild curl, like everything else about her, had to be inspected by that exacting blue gaze before it was tamed behind her ear. His instinct was to touch it, to inspect the texture. But of course, his eyes would have to gather the only information he could. Something about her hair reminded him of chervil, the sweet-smelling wild herb that grew rampant in the French countryside of May. Perhaps it was the endless clusters of delicate green fronded leaves. Or maybe still, the sprays of dainty white flowers that came around June, refusing to be tamed to their stalks. \n\n\"Ah... *Melancholia*, yes,\" He said, snapping back to attention. \"It is not exactly sadness, no, for sadness has reason. More an illogical grief, the dark depth of mourning, though the sufferer has usually not lost anything. You would think think...\" His words trailed off. Though he could truly rattle on when he found himself interesting, he suddenly puzzled over the idea that *She* May not find his rambling interesting. That was a novel concept for him.\n\nHe gave a ghost of a grin at her questioning of his knowledge but no answer. Framed by that expression, there were circles a faint shade of purple under his eyes, easy to lose in the winter pallor of his skin, until someone really looked at him. \n\n\"What makes you so interested in this flower?\" There lay that mixed accent, usually subtle but heavy on the last word. Flower. The inflection on both syllables soft, the r nearly fading away all together, the whole sound light enough that it was liable to blow away on wind. It confirmed what she already knew. Like her, he did not belong here.\n\nHe was still at it of course, that same game, a question for a question. Evidenced by the way he perched his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together for his chin to rest atop the back of his hands. The mischievous expression he gave her needled her not to be sly. To tell him the truth, and perhaps he would do the same."
},
{
"author": "Creedie Clark",
"message": "Creedie was frustrated by her companion, not for the first time. She had been hoping for a fellow partner-in-crime; someone who was willing to either lead or be led into the unknown, with her. But Elias didn't give her much to go on. A grin, a long(ing) stare, a sigh. And yet, the lack of compelling answers compelled Creedie to keep digging, keep chasing, like a hunting dog sniffing out its prey.\n\nShe observed the way he readjusted himself on table. He was lost in his own thoughts for a moment as he explained what melancholia meant. It was easy for Creedie to get lost with him, and for a moment forgot she was supposed to be having a conversation with him. When was the last time she'd had an easygoing, back-and-forth with anyone? That didn't involve some sort of sleight-of-hand or transaction? Conversation for its own sake? To get to know one another, dare she think. His question drew Creedie back into the present. \n\n\"My mamma showed me it once. Told me it had some uses, but I can't remember now for the life of me. I figure it might heal, or maybe hurt. But these days, a little hurtin' might be helpful. What with these monsters all 'round.\" \n\nMonsters. What the hell was going on Briar Ridge, anyways? Creedie was no stranger to hauntings, darkness, or the supernatural. But to see its effects with her own eyes, so abruptly and violently, was something else entirely. Though she tried to push it out of her mind, these things were impossible not to think about when she wandered out alone. \n\n\"If we're still tit for tat, what's your name, anyways?\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Doctor Elias Olander",
"message": "The girl's slanting drawl and dropped letters were an abuse of the English language. He'd had a professor when he was just an adolescent that turned red in the face every time young Elias had pronounced 'lose' and 'loose' in the very same way, with a soft s. That accent perpetuated occasionally in his adult speech as well. He imagined that professor would have a stroke listening to the girl before him. Elias, however, found something melodic in it.\n\nHis eyes narrowed at the mention of *Monsters*. Even trying to get a gauge on her, it was impossible to ascertain if honing in on this plant was just a stab in the dark at harming the beasts that cursed these lands or more of an intuition. \n\nIn this age of charlatans and false divining, there was a great deal of study that went into something like intuition. It wasn't something to be dismissed entirely, even he had to admit that. And if he were to be entirely frank, which he rarely was, he'd put his money on something like intuition being carried straight on down in bloodlines. Mentions of her *Mamma* Seemed to whisper a confirmation somewhere in the back of his brain.\n\n\"My name is Elias.\" It was eh-*Lee*-ess, as he said it, unlike the way many Americans might venture towards that name. He considered for half a second shaking her hand, but thought better of it, lowering his own hands beneath the table. It was the wet snout against his palm, unseen under that oaken surface, that brought surprise to his expression. He even tried to hide it, as well as the presence of the large shepherd dog that had found him, but the librarian's annoyed voice ratted him out.\n\n\"*Doctor Olander* If you insist on bringing that dog in here, you cannot leave her unattended!\" The librarian hissed from her desk, an intimidating hybrid between a shout and a whisper. \n\nHe opened his mouth to argue that the dog wasn't unattended if she was right beside him, was she? But he closed it instead and offered the librarian a placating smile.\n\nPoppy offered Creedie's knees a curious sniff beneath the table before she trotted out, large tail swinging as if she had a secret. Her human, the fair-haired man now rising, looked only a little sheepish. Clicking his tongue, the dog heeled at his side. \n\n\"I suppose I should get her back outside,\" He sighed, ignoring the librarian staring daggers at his back. \"If you do find out more about your flower...\" He seemed weighed with indecision for a few blinks. \"Well, you can find me at the old Avery cottage,\" He said at last, \"The blue house by the bridge. I have something that might interest you.\""
},
{
"author": ".umamicat",
"message": "*This thread has ended!!!*"
}
] | 462 | 6,570 |
442.2 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "The sound of books hitting the wooden floor followed by a soft _\"Shit\"_ disturbed the otherwise silent atmosphere of the library. Florian, stubborn as ever, had been reaching for a book on one of the, from his sitting perspective, higher shelves. He'd managed to get the book, and about six others with it. _Bonus books, let's see what we've caught..._ He thought to himself. Unfortunately for him, only one of the stowaway books was of use to him. He'd come to the library to look for folklore, stories of things that went bump in the night, since werewolves were real now, maybe some of the stories written about them held grains of truth as well. He'd been taking notes on all the stories he could get his hands on, as he leaned forward to pick up the fallen books, his notebook tumbled out of his pocket. \"Oh _come on..._\" He sighed, reaching for the notebook which had fallen open, revealing a list in neat handwriting:"
},
{
"author": "Jasper Hewitt",
"message": "Jasper had never been one for books. At least the man who he was once had found them... While not quite beneath him, but something reserved for others. Of course they could be of use, stolen sweet words penned by great poets were an easy trick, the mask of a sensitive soul he could play to his heart's content. \n\nBut otherwise, books for those who refused to live. Scholars barricaded by shelves from the reality that probably terrified them, historians grasping desperately at the past to distract themselves from a future that marched forth without them. Silly girls with fluttering hearts, giggling as trembling fingers traced words they deep down knew no one would whisper in their ear. Jasper preferred to make the words not read them, carve his own path into the world. Or at least he had done.\n\nKind, helpful, quiet, hardworking. Polite. A little simple maybe, but nothing a little guidance wouldn't fix. He'd built his personality from his deck of cards, a hand he'd swept the table with more often than not. A new town, a new man, a new way to chip words to an accent one would neither remember nor place. A whole new con. But this time Jasper was playing the long game.\n\nIt was easy to see the trees stretching from earth to sky as bars of a jail cell when one worked their hands bloody to warp the word fear into the shape of captivity. It was easier to believe he was trapped and face each break of dawn with resignation than to face the possibility of running again. Or maybe in the deepest of his soul he knew fear was not of the unknown, but of admitting he was simply too broken to try again.\n\nSo here he was, walking the fabled mile in the boots of a man who apparently _read_. On what exactly, well that was a future problem. Worst case, Jasper figured he could leaf through a book on some herbal remedies and see if anything could be brewed into a good time. That at least would be an entertaining way to pass an afternoon.\n\nHowever, his search had been the opposite of fruitful. Settled with his legs stretched in front of him, the heft of the book in his lap had shifted from potential to disappointment. Jasper had found nothing of interest. The clear cut opposite in fact, multitudes of boredom. He was close to scratching off the ability to read from his list of skills when a muttered curse word and several dull thuds broke his little moment of self pity. It appeared someone was having an even worse time than he was. Clambering to his feet with a small hiss of discomfort, he chose to investigate, hopeful it would at least offer more amusement than whatever mushroom he was currently studying.\n\nThe noises lead to a pile of books, obvious escapees of the shelf, and a slightly flustered young man in their midst. It was practiced ease to slip on the character, Jasper tailoring his smile from that of amusement to something closer to genuine warmth and a breath of concern. Helpful was his winning card after all. \n\n\"Are you all right?\" Jasper asked. Damn, his 'you' sounded wrong, the lilt off kilter to how he usually spun. Far too posh, too hollow. \"I heard the noise and thought someone got a book to the head. They always falling. You need help?\""
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "He looked up from the floor to see a man with kind brown eyes and a handsome face approaching. His hair was longer than most respectable men would have allowed it to get, but it suited this stranger. *It suited him very well indeed.* He smiled, thankful for the helping hand. \"I managed to dodge my would-be attackers, thankfully my head is still very much intact.\" His pride less so, but it would heal. \"If you wouldn't mind, I'm afraid the shelf is just slightly too high up for me.\" He laughed somewhat awkwardly, he didn't particularly enjoy causing a scene the way he had done.\n\nCausing scenes came with the territory, unfortunately for the youngest Barca. He had managed to get himself stuck over tree roots, the cute steps into stores, knocked over items that had been delicately balanced atop tables, accidentally run over unsuspecting toes, the list went on. People were generally very willing to help, and it would not be such a problem if Florian had not been cursed with the near unstoppable need to prove how independent and capable he was. More often than not it was his inability to admit he needed help that got him caught in situations like the one he found himself in currently.\n\nHe grabbed his notebook and the books that he suspected might hold some information that he could use. Two on folklore and one on plants of North America and their uses. He wasn't particularly hopeful it contained a chapter detailing an 'easy 3-step plan for killing werewolves utilising this plant that grows in everyone's garden' but one truly never knew with books such as these. He placed them on his lap and pulled on his wheels, moving backwards and allowing space for Jasper to help him put the dropped books back where they belonged. \"You're most kind, thank you.\"\n\nHe gestured at the books, making conversation helped him deal with the lingering embarrassment he felt about the situation he just made. \"I'm hoping to find something in there that might prove useful during the full moon. Who knows, perhaps those folklorists may have been onto something and we were all much too quick to dismiss their writings as pure myth.\" Even myths held lessons to be learned, he just hoped they proved to be actionable lessons this time around. \"Before I so rudely forget, my name is Florian, I don't believe we have had the pleasure of meeting yet.\" He stretched out his hand, an invitation to move from strangers to vague acquaintances attached to it."
},
{
"author": "Jasper Hewitt",
"message": "As Jasper took a moment to study the man before him, he braced as the world cracked before his eyes, the stupid little game his mind forced him to play any time a new face crossed his path. He was cursed to see his past in every face, to imagine how Jasper before and Jasper after, all those other Jaspers he wasn't anymore would regard the one before him. Someone to drink with? Someone to con. Someone he wouldn't deign worthy of words? Someone who he'd trust with secrets that never left his lips? A hundred different answers to a hundred different questions from a hundred different Jaspers.\n\nIt was a hair's breadth of a second before he collapsed the worlds and what if's back to one, drawn back souls to body by the creak of board beneath his feet. Grounded. He was in search of neither friend nor foe, nor toy or victim. He simply was here to be.\n\n\"And here I thought the only danger books offered was death by boredom. I never thought they hungered for blood.\" He reached up, plucking the requested title off the shelf and handing it to the other. \"I hope it has the answers you're in search of. That would make at least one of us a competent researcher.\" He'd discarded his own books, all hopes lost of finding the answers he was looking for. \"You hold more hope than I do. Most are just tales to scare the children. Truth is spoken, not written.\"\n\nThe smile that graced his lips was genuine for all the wrong reasons. _Kind_. A role well played, indeed. Jasper had never in his life been kind, not without the steel bones of calculation hidden beneath it, like a wolf in sheep's clothing. Though, if he thought about it, being kind for the sake of being perceived as kind? No, Jasper quickly decided to be kind to himself and not attempt to find the answer to that dilemma. Certainly not sober. He instead accepted the handshake. \"I do not think we've crossed paths yet. I'm Jasper.\""
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "\"You must never have gotten a papercut, books crave blood.\" He laughed. \"A pleasure to meet you Jasper\" He placed the book the other man handed him on his lap, watching him put the fallen ones back on the shelf. \"Oh? Your search hasn't gone well then? I do not consider myself an academic in any sense of the word, I am an artist, and not one of the writing variety, but an avid reader that I am. I might be able to help, if you want aid in your search?\" He was mighty curious what Jasper had been reading about, especially after him all but stating that books were boring.\n\n\"You may be right there, but sometimes hope is one of the best and only approaches we've got. I used to believe that the stories I was told growin' up here were just to scare me.\" He shook his head, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. \"But alas, we all know better now.\" Thinking back on it, he now felt bad about his younger self calling those stories a bunch of rubbish. Maybe if he'd paid closer attention he would be able to remember details now. But then again, in his mind word of mouth tended to muddle the truth. Maybe Jasper came from a city or town where people had better and more stable memories for storytelling than they did in Briar Ridge. At least Florian assumed he wasn't a Briar Ridge native, if he was, he'd hidden himself well. Descent or place of birth didn't matter to Florian, as small as the town was, something drew people to it, and those outsiders became insiders. All were welcome. Except for werewolves and whatever other unnatural creatures were out there of course, screw those bastards.\n\nTupper took my frog away have it here"
},
{
"author": "Jasper Hewitt",
"message": "\"They must have tried to stay on my good side. Or it may be I did not handle them often enough for them to have the opportunity.\" Jasper admitted. \"Reading was more of a means than a pastime.\" \nA young Jasper, the bright eyed child had recoiled at the thought of spending his days bent over books when adventures waited outside the doors. As he'd grown older, he'd learned to grudgingly appreciate their use. However, an avid reader he was not.\n\nThe question made him pause a moment, fingers hovering over the leather of a ridged spine as his mind assessed the possibilities. The years had twisted the world in Jasper's eyes, not unlike a card game, each admission a card he had to decide when to play. \"I was researching the native plants and their properties in the area. I'm curious to see if any have unusual properties.\"\n\nHe painted around the subject with the broadest of strokes, the careful balance between truth and lies, easily flipped to the side of most convenient. It was not atypical for a young man of his age to entertain himself after all? He was letting paranoia take hold of him. His eyes returned to Florian.\n\n\"Hope was never kind to me, at least not when I needed it most.\" Jasper shrugged. \"But you are right, it is better than nothing. Is there anything worthwhile you came across?\" He might not be one to believe, neither in blind hope nor fairy stories, but Florian was right. Answers, even false ones, were better than grasping at air."
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "\"You and many others, as a child I used to dislike reading as well, it was only later that I started to really enjoy it.\" Only when the adventures he now read about became physical impossibilities did he turn to living them through paper. _Unusual_ properties. Florian supposed he was there for the same purpose. Or a similar one at the least. \"Oh? Plants have many unusual properties, care to specify? I promise I cast no judgement.\" He spoke the truth, if the properties Jasper was after were of a more illicit nature that didn't matter to Florian. He didn't necessarily have much knowledge on that topic, but he was aware that some plants had the ability to alter one's state of mind. Hell, the town's view on the prohibition was an incredibly unwell kept secret, he saw those plants not much different from how he saw alcohol. He had just never had the urge to indulge in the plant's effects, alcohol did the job well enough for him.\n\n\"I may have.\" He held up the book he had found on plants of the region and their uses. \"I remembered this plant called wolfsbane, it's got these pretty purple flowers. I am afraid that the name is just a name and that it won't be of much use though. But I thought, with a name like that, maybe, just maybe, there might be a way to use it to our benefit? From what I've gathered it is toxic to wolves, and people too, it doesn't seem to discriminate between the two. But I have no clue if werewolf bodies react anything like people _or_ wolves. They seem much stronger than either.\" Images of the beast treating bullet wounds like wasp stings flashed through his mind, he banished them. \"I don't know if it is anything, nor do I know who could help me with seeing if the theory works in practice.\""
},
{
"author": "Jasper Hewitt",
"message": "\"I may still be that child, but I can say I'm learning to grow.\" Jasper replied with a smile. An honest admission, maybe more so than he realized. \n\nHe was learning after all, day by day and word by word, piecing together the tapestry of himself. He may as well find comfort in captivity. Jasper doubted Briar Ridge would ever ring true home, but it was as close to one as he'd had for longer that he could string memories together. \n\nFor the first time in a while, Jasper had the opportunity to add to his deck of cards, but not to craft a winning hand of deceit. His time on the road had been spent learning skills by the day, each chane a new frame to support a new lie. But here? Maybe he had a chance to learn something for the sake of knowledge itself, not as another lockpick up his sleeve. So yes, maybe he was learning to grow? His disguise may as well be woven with threads of truth. \n\nBut not too much truth. That's how you fuck up and get chased out of a window, and Jasper was not eager to repeart that particular experience again. \"I have trouble with sleep these nights, though I probably am not the only one. It's hard to close your eyes when the nightmares walk the streets.\" Subtlety. Backtracking really, but close enough, right? \"I'm looking for something that can help with sleep, or if not, at least dull the fear of it. I would rather search my own methods before burdening the doctor.\" And I would rather find a method that doesn't hunger for the last coins left rattling in my pocket; he added mentally.\n\n\"Wolfbane? Nothing if not a fitting name.\" Jasper bent forward to take a closer look at the page, a finger tracing the lettering as he attempted to pinpoint anything of use. \"If it's toxic to us, no reason to think the beasts would be immune to it. Maybe someone in town could distill a poison of sort?\" He pondered. \"Though I do not know how one would get the creatures to drink it. Getting that close... You may as well take death's hand and ask for a waltz.\""
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "\"I find that it helps to read something you genuinely want to be readin'. I used to try and force myself to get through books on topics I just did not care for 'cause I was told that that was just how studyin' and learnin' how to read was supposed to be done.\" He grinned. \"I could give you some recommendations if you wanted?\" Florian firmly believed that there was a book out there for everyone, you just had to find the right genre and style. Not everyone enjoyed dense academic writing, he certainly did not, he preferred stories of adventure, of places far away and landscapes he could only dream of seeing. He enjoyed mysteries, following clues and threads of the books, trying to figure out the culprits of the crimes as fast as possible. He enjoyed the plot-twists and being wrong. He liked books with happy endings, where the story was not focused on loss and negatives, there was enough of that in his life already, he did not need that in his books.\n\n\"I know exactly what you mean. They don't need to be outside your door to haunt you, the mind does a mighty fine job at completing that task for them.\" Florian was no stranger to nightmares, he suspected a large part of Briar Ridge was intimately familiar with them. As for plants that could aid with sleep, he knew of one; valerian, the same name his brother bore. But it didn't grow near Briar Ridge. Chamomile did though, his sister had made tea from it a few times, made him feel quite relaxed it had. Florian thought that the little white flowers with their yellow cores were cute, one of the simplest plants to draw as well, they were far from intricate. \"Chamomile maybe? Helps you feel relaxed. Miss Creedie Clark may be able to help you if you're lookin' for some stronger stuff but don't want to ask the good doctor. I hear she sells potions. I reckon she uses plants for those.\"\n_ _\n\nHe nodded, wolfsbane was a fitting name for the poisonous plant. \"I thought so too.\" He could think of a man who would be foolish enough to do that waltz, Beaux, Florian wouldn't put it past him to try such a thing. \"A poison, exactly! But the administration that's what I was gettin' stuck on as well. Maybe shoot it into them in some way? Like a dart? Or dip a bullet into the extract? I am not much of an inventor myself, nor am I keen on tryin' my hand at this particular experiment. I suppose we could ask the Coalition if they think it might be worth looking into?\" Funny, they'd become a we in Florian's head, a newly formed team with shared task, should Jasper accept of course. Florian had had no dealings with the anti-werewolf coalition yet, he knew they existed, but to him they felt much too hands on. He wasn't in physical shape to do the work they were doing, and truth be told, he felt intimidated by them."
},
{
"author": "Jasper Hewitt",
"message": "\"If I had a dime for every book I had to claw through just to say I did so I would be a rich man.\" Jasper laughed. \"Or at least rich enough to have someone read those for me that would otherwise bore me to tears. There's only so much one can learn from a page when the reality is too far to grasp.\"\n\nHe pondered the offer a moment, before deciding to decline. \"Another day perhaps. I worry too many books would keep me from being of use to the good folks of this town. And my own stubbornness still has a bone to pick with the herbs.\"\n\nThe wolves always seemed to lurk in the shadows of Briar Ridge, masquerading as the wind, catching at the hems of coats and dresses, howling into the night. They were in the creak of the old walls shifting, the crack of a branch. Jasper wondered if the residents never saw another beast, how long would they still grasp their weapons in hand every full moon. \"Chamomile may just do the trick, though the taste is not one for me. But if getting a good night's rest finally takes downing a cup of _plant water_, then so be it. If not then I will continue the search for something more potent.\"\n\n\"I will cast my vote on anything that calls for a safe distance.\" Jasper agreed. \"I am not a man who likes a gun in hand, I leave the shooting up to the folks who hit the target. But even so I would rather not have to ask the beast to sit with me for a drink and a chat. At least not under the moon.\" Had he shared a drink with one? An idle thought fli across his mind chased by a shudder. Not that there was a true tell, or the town would not be battling this nightmare in the first place. \"It is at least something to think of. If I have any more workable ideas, I'll be sure to find you with them.\" \n\nFor now though, he would rather not concern himself with the issue. The book, for all its worth, had given some leads to follow up on, and Jasper did have a free afternoon to pursue them. \"Until then I will bid farewell.\"\n\n~Fin~"
}
] | 437.5 | 4,422 |
354 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "CARInA VAnORA TEMPLETOn",
"message": "After an emotional conversation with Lorelai Roswell, Carina Templeton had been made painfully aware of her *Lack* Of awareness surrounding politics. It was a subject she had always purposefully distanced herself from, being that her father and uncles had been engaged in foreign relations enough for all members of the Templeton line. After the fall of her good name, she began to resent the events of the world outside of the southeastern United States, as though history was writing itself to spite her specifically. \n\nAfter hearing about Lorelai's experience in the Great War, she had quickly reckoned with what a shallow stance she'd claimed, and hoped to just as quickly become educated. In Carina's mind, making up for years of ignorance was as simple as walking in the front doors of Briar Ridge's library. \n\nImmediately, she spotted Jade Grant, the librarian, there amid the shelves, but she half ducked, half speed-walked into the back sections, unwilling to draw attention to herself. She was somewhat familiar with the town's library. Surely it wouldn't take her long to find the references she sought. She didn't need *Help,* And she certainly didn't need to speak with Miss Grant.\n\nShe was mistaken. It had been around a half hour and Carina still had not found the *History* Section, despite the relatively small number of books in the building. So wrapped up in her search was she, that if a helpful young librarian were to approach her offering guidance, she would not have time to escape an interaction. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "Jade had known very little about Carina. She had heard some things, of course! Dimitra told her some. It was enough to make Jade never cross her. Yet now, the woman was in the library. Looking a little confused and lost. Carina had swiftly avoided her before she got the chance to speak up. Although it had been 30 minutes, Miss Templeton hadn't found what she was looking for. Jade sheepishly approached Carina; she didn't want to spook the woman, as if she were a deer in the field. She tried to make her presence known. Jade did not blame her for being lost. Jade and Ruth had been working on a whole reorganization floor plan, and it was still underway. Leaving a mess for patrons. A mess that Carina found herself in and unfortunately trapped in interaction.\n\n\"Miss Carina, may I help you find something?\" Normally, she would've outstretched her hand to the woman's arm to alert her of her presence, and she wouldn't speak so formally, but, truth be told, she was a little scared. She did not want to disturb the woman in any way, yet she had already done so. \"The library is a bit of a mess right now. Ruth and I are rearranging and trying to divide out sections and put them in alphabetical order, so if there is a certain section or book I can help you find, I can help if you would like me to.\"\n\nMan, this is how Jade spoke when it came to Arthur and her father. She hated that; Miss Templeton had done nothing to her! Except avoid her. She had never heard anything about Carina being mean or physically violent with someone for no apparent reason. C'mon Jade! Quit being so shy. Yet she couldn't; she didn't want to be loud and boisterous like she was with her friends and everyone else. What if that made Carina more irritated? Jade tried to force herself to relax; maybe this wasn't because of Carina but simply because of how beaten down she had been. April and May were hard months.\n\nApril, did you know Miss Templeton? Were you friends?"
},
{
"author": "CARInA VAnORA TEMPLETOn",
"message": "Despite Jade's best effort not to startle her guest, it happened anyway. Carina's attention was so singularly focused on making head or tails of the organization in the library that she had lost her good sense. She jumped at the woman's voice, and quickly cleared her throat as though the small noise would do anything to disguise the disadvantage she'd been caught in. \n\n\"Miss Grant,\" She greeted, disdain already thick over her words, \"I can see that.\" She commented, her eyes roaming the discordant stacks. She *Hadn't* Picked up on that fact before, but it was of the utmost importance to pretend she had, lest Jade understand her to be anything less than razor sharp. It did comfort her slightly to know that her inability to locate a simple subject was not entirely her own fault. \n\n\"I'm looking for books on the subject of foreign wars. Namely, the Great War.\" Carina answered, reluctant to share something so personal as her research query, but she had quickly lost the patience for trying to find it herself. She opened her mouth to offer an explanation for her grim interest, but snapped it shut almost immediately. Lorelai's generosity must be wearing off on her. How mortifying. She quickly settled back into the comfort that she owed Miss Grant nothing, besides maybe a quick thank you and a few cents' tip for her assistance. Polite conversation was a stretch too far for this encounter. \n_ _"
}
] | 320 | 1,062 |
425 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Lily Ann Brooks",
"message": "_\"Shit shit shit\"_\n\nCurses fell from Lily's lips as she spun on her heels and promptly started walking back the way they just came from. Dimitra, who would have recognized her as Rose, was in Briar Ridge. What were the odds? Lily came to the town to escape the NYC criminal networks, not to have them follow her here. They had planned to exploit her connections, obviously, but not like this. Not now. \n\nHer first attempt at a partnership with the more unlawful aspects of Briar Ridge had turned out to be a dead end. Arthur had skipped town, God knows why. And now Dimitra was _here_? Did she know what had happened? Had she heard of the raids, of the backstabbing? Had she been involved? Was she here to cash in the money for Lily's arrest? Whatever it was, Lily was not looking forward to finding out. All they could hope for was that the direct eye contact she'd made with Dimitra had somehow been one-sided and that Dimitra had not recognized them. A very unlikely scenario, but Lily was a fan of beating bad odds."
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "Unfortunately for Lily, or *Rose* In Dimitra's case, this was an unlikely thing indeed. Dimitra was too friendly for her own good at times; once they'd locked eyes, it was over and done for. \n\n\"Rose!\" She said, clear as day in the town square, taking ten quick steps and throwing her arm around her shoulder from behind. \"Well, I didn't expect to see you here!\" She stopped them from walking and turned her around to face properly. \n\n\"Small world, isn't it?\" In honesty, Dimitra kept her nose out of things where she knew it didn't belong. Sure, she'd definitely canoodled with a few gangsters in her life, but she never ever messed around in a dangerous situation unless she absolutely had to. She had no idea about any of Lily's problems— she'd only met the woman a handful of times, anyhow. \n\n\"How long have you been in town? I mean, couldn't have been too long, since I've been here for a long while now,\" She cracked a grin. \"Beautiful place, innit? Better than the city, in my opinion— though I miss it sometimes. But the folks here are great,\" She rattled on, like it was just any regular afternoon. To her, it was."
},
{
"author": "Lily Ann Brooks",
"message": "Their face contorted with annoyance and frustration. _Fuck..._ Dimitra had seen them, judging from their old name, the alias belonging to an actively wanted criminal, ringing across the town square. Right where everyone could hear. _God damn it._ Their reunion truly could not have taken place at a more inopportune location. She flinched when Dimitra's arm was flung over their shoulder, instinctively ducking out of the way. \"Dimitra! Oh my, hello, didn't see you there!\"\n\nDimitra and her goddamned upbeat and friendly nature. Lily slid on a mask of good-naturedness, pretending like she was as happy to see Dimitra as she seemed to be to see them. Pretending like she wasn't freaking out on the inside. She was planning on steering them firmly away from the square and into a less crowded street to fill Dimitra in on all that had changed, but the woman had other plans. She'd stopped right in front of Lily, blocking her path. \"Yes, yes it has been a long time since I've last seen you doing business up in the city. Almost got afraid you'd been, _you know._\" She gestured, placing her wrists together in a movement mimicking handcuffs, before quickly dropping them to a normal position again. _Caught._ She wouldn't have been the first bootlegger to be tossed into a cell, a risk that came with the territory. \"But what a coincidence, running into you here of all places!\"\n_ _\n\nWas it naivety or simply the fact that Lily couldn't have someone who knew her old (or true maybe) self, running around spewing secrets she'd tried to bury? Who knows, but Lily decided there and then that Dimitra was someone who could be trusted with the truth, after all, Lily knew that Dimitra's time as a bootlegger had been quite prolific as well. The woman was very good at her job. _I swear to God if you get me caught somehow I am taking you down with me._ \"Speaking of-\" They made the same handcuff motion again. \"-I may or may not have a few folks back in the city who would _love_ to see me again.\" Their tone matched the words, to passersby it would sound like the two were engaged in pleasant conversation. They gave Dimitra a look that said most that remained unspoken. _Keep it down, I'm on the run, don't fuck me over here._ \"In-_laws_, you know the type.\" She laughed and swung an arm over Dimitra's shoulder, attempting to get both of them walking again. \"How about we catch up somewhere more private, shall we?\" Urgency was much more audible in her voice now, it wasn't so much a request as it was a gentle form of an order. An order Dimitra could of course refuse. \"Plenty of cute little empty streets around here, no?\""
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "As much as Dimitra was friendly and goofy, she was not stupid. In fact, she could see the panic flare up on Lily's face for a moment and she found it curious; then again, she supposed, if Lily was running from something... Briar Ridge was the perfect place to hide. No one thought to look for anybody up here, did they? This place was tucked back, hidden from the eyes of the city folk who didn't want to waste their time heading so far out just to catch a simple bootlegger. \n\n\"You know me, I'm slippery,\" She said. \"They haven't caught me yet. Besides...\" She tilted her head. \"You know, I've managed to weasel my way out of being caught quite a few times.\" She had a mischievous look in her eye; using her feminine wiles to convince someone to not snitch on her? She'd done it a dozen times, maybe more. \"Now I've got a lover of my own, I won't be able to use that excuse anymore, sad to say...\" She sighed and tucked hair behind her ear. \n\n\"But don't worry about it too much,\" She said, following Lily with ease, like two friends catching up on gossip. \"In-laws don't take kindly to the path to Briar Ridge. Too many bumps, too long to travel just to have a *Reunion.*\" She snickered. \n\nDimitra nodded down the road, towards one of the emptier streets Lily spoke of. As soon as they'd walked far enough away from the rest of the people in the square, she lifted an eyebrow. \"Don't act so skittish with me, I'm not a snitch. You should know that much— then again, trust no one, am I right?\" She winked."
},
{
"author": "Lily Ann Brooks",
"message": "\"Having a lover never stopped me from that particular ruse.\" Lily winked at Dimitra. They understood what Dimitra had spoken of, had done the same a good number of times, even while they'd been with Ada. It had been an understanding between the two, none of that was real so it didn't affect their relationship. Now that she'd been betrayed, Lily found herself wondering how much of their relationship had been real to begin with. \n\nThey felt a heavy load lifted from their shoulders, Dimitra wouldn't sell them out, they were safe here. As safe as anyone could be in a place where people apparently turned into monsters each moon. They'd rather face monsters than angry and doublecrossed mobsters, at least monsters had a level of predictability. Only during the full moon, outside of that period, Lily didn't feel too worried about the wolves. They'd passed right by her room last moon, they might just do the same again next time. And if they didn't, Lily would show them just how skilled she was with her revolver.\n\n\"I hope to God that you are right Dimitra.\" Nobody here knew she'd done, not all of it, not the most gruesome of it. They were hoping to keep it that way. \"Tell me about it, getting here was a damned nightmare.\" \n\nThe moment they were out of earshot of the others something in Lily snapped. They could trust Dimitra, they knew that. It had been at least a month where Lily did nothing other than lying and trusting nobody. They were used to lying, to conning, to spreading half-truths and twisted stories, but it had taken a toll on them to have nobody they were fully honest with. She'd never expected it to affect them. Having to quietly mourn the betrayal of the woman she'd once called the love of her life had been devastating. Dimitra could be an exception. Maybe. _Trust no one, right?_\n_ _\n\nTheir voice was low. \"First order of business, I go by Lily now.\" Second order of business, I killed three men and am on the run from the law in a way I've never been before. \"I'm in _deep_ shit this time.\" They didn't know how deep, would there be an extensive investigation in the murder of three known criminals? Maybe not. Would Ada try to stab her in the back again? It was a possibility that would forever haunt Lily. \"I-\" I got played for a fool, for months at least, if not longer. Ada knew everything there was to know about Lily. _Everything._ Grief, anger and fear, all flashed across her face in rapid succession. \n\nThey looked at the street again, afraid someone would hear. \"I don't know if I can ever go back there, that's how much trouble I'm in.\" They wanted to tell Dimitra, desperately wanted to tell her, but the fear of being used, of being betrayed, of not having full control over her own information, it was stopping her. At least in the moment. There was a hole in their walls, a small bootlegger shaped hole. But the wall stood firm. Was it truly a wall? Or was it a cage? She looked at Dimitra again, _can I truly trust you?_ her eyes seemed to say."
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She had come here for similar reasons; she'd gotten too comfortable in New York. The prospect of being caught was higher than she'd prefer it, and she was much too pretty to go to jail. In fact, she *Had* Been caught— slipped right out of those cuffs and headed out of town as fast as she possibly could. She knew a thing or two about running from the law, but *Lily's* Problem seemed a little more... Dire. \n\n\"Rose and then Lily— I like the theme,\" She commented to them, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her skirt. \"Don't you ever go back there,\" Dimitra said, shaking her head. \"I only duck in and out. Don't overstay my welcome too long anymore. The pigs might still know my face, after all... It's a hard one to forget.\" She fluttered her lashes a little. \"And like I said, my fella wouldn't take too kindly to me using my old tactics to evade the law.\" The downfalls of loving a by-the-book pastor. \n\nThey locked eyes and she could see the shifting looks, the way she was trying to size up if Dimitra was trustworthy or not. \"I don't have anything to gain by ratting you out,\" She told her. \"I love my life here. Briar Ridge is my home. I'm not going to tell a soul,\" She mimed locking her mouth with a key and throwing it away, before gesturing wordlessly for Lily to continue."
},
{
"author": "Lily Ann Brooks",
"message": "The name Lily came from one of two things her mom left her when they were dropped on the steps of the orphanage they grew up in; a note in broken English asking to take care of the child and a lily flower pin. There had been no name on the paper and thus she was simply named Lily. She'd found it fitting to give that child a second chance here in Briar Ridge. \"Thanks, I've got to stay at least somewhat on theme, right? I've got a gentle image to uphold and all.\" They winked. The image was just that, a façade. Lily pretended to be gentle, looked the part too, in reality she was anything but.\n\n_Don't you ever go back there._ But then what could she do? All she'd ever been good at was stealing, running and smuggling. She'd already been caught doing the former once and quickly figured out that this place wasn't big enough to generate crowds into which she could disappear. All they had were her connections in the city, however tainted those may have become. Had this been a more lighthearted conversation Lily would have noted that Dimitra's face was indeed a memorable one, quite the pleasant memory indeed. And if Dimitra hadn't been with a man who seemed, in line with Lily's quite free opinion on what was and wasn't okay, possessive. \"You'll have to tell me about that _fella_ of yours some time. Never thought I'd see the day where you'd willingly lose those ways.\" \n_ _\n\nDimitra wouldn't tell a soul, and Lily believed her. Then why was it still so hard to open up? \"It's not just the pigs.\" They admitted. _Screw it._ \"Did you hear about the raids during the end of January? The main speakeasy of the people I worked with got hit, and it got hit hard. Ada, my lover-\" ~~The woman I once called the love of my life.~~ \"Well, _ex_ lover I suppose, we somehow escaped. I don't know about the others, I fear they're behind bars.\" They looked towards the street again, clearly very nervous about the next bit. \"Someone must've talked. We packed up everything and fled. She was all sweet, talking about starting a new life together somewhere else. We'd been planning it for ages.\" Lies, it had all been lies. They looked down, swallowing down the tears that threatened to form. She would not cry. Not for Ada. Certainly not for anyone to see. Lily Brooks didn't cry. \"She sold me out Dimitra. Struck some kind of deal with a rival, one whose pockets I had previously lightened significantly. That _devil_, she just-\" She looked up again. \"She just walked out, pocket full of cash, left me there. As if she'd just delivered a crate of moonshine instead of **Me**.\" There was anger in her eyes, mixed in with despair. The face of a betrayed lover.\n\n\"I killed them.\" It was said matter-of-factly. It was the first time she'd said it aloud. It had been well over a month and a half ago. It was as if by saying it out loud the deed finally turned real. Now that someone else had bore witness to their admission of the crime, to the blood on their hands, now it was true, now it was real. Lily was a murderer. She'd wounded before, but never killed. \"The men who took me. They're dead, I had no other choice. And now all my aliases, _everything_ I worked for, it's all out there.\"\n\n_I have nowhere else to go._ She'd spoken those words to Victorine a few weeks back. They echoed through her mind, they'd been a lie then. They were the harsh truth now. Their words hung in the air, the heaviness of their meaning weighing heavily on Lily. If you play with fire, you get burned, and New York City had been set ablaze."
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She stayed quiet as she walked along the path, hands tucked into the pockets of her long skirt. She kicked a rock, eyes downcast on the dirt road they meandered down. To anyone else, perhaps, they'd look just like any normal friends out for a stroll. Their hushed voices would be mistaken for two gossiping church ladies; talking about who was kissing who and if they'd heard about so-and-so getting a divorce. God knows, half this town would lose their minds if they heard what these two spoke of. \n\n\"Ada,\" She repeated the name on her tongue. \"Never trusted her anyhow. She always seemed like a snake in the grass.\" Then again, when it came down to it, Dimitra wasn't sure she trusted many people fully. She trusted Abel, because what did he have to gain or lose? He lost more being with her than he could ever begin to gain— and besides, maybe she could be a little blind for love. \n\nBut she truly had sympathy for Lily and their plight. It was a cruel world to live in; she knew that well. \"You're safe here,\" She said to Lily. \"From the cops, that is.\" She turned her face, flashing Lily the one big difference on her face; a big white scar that spanned from the corner of her eye and down, carving a ravine in her beautiful tanned skin. \n\n\"Can you believe I got this here and not from one of those pigs?\" She sighed and shook her head. \"Werewolves, Lily Brooks. Put those skills you have to good use; disappear on the full moon or bring out the guns and use them for something useful.\" She whistled. \n\n\"Here... People are worried a lot more about all that than a little moonshine and bloodshed. I promise you,\" She reached out and squeezed Lily's arm. \"You're safe here from the past. This place... Is a fresh start. Hell, look at me!\" She released her to do a little twirl. \"I'm on the track to be a pastor's wife. Can you picture that? Me? A pastor's wife?\" She laughed aloud."
},
{
"author": "Lily Brooks",
"message": "\"Well you were right, that bitch was a snake.\" It still felt wrong to call Ada a bitch, to call her anything other than loving terms. Somehow Lily still found it in herself to feel love for Ada, it clung to her heart like a sticky residue, resistant to even the fiercest scrubbing. But it was wearing down, eroding away slowly and one day it would be fully gone. \n\nThere it was again, _werewolves_. Lily remained skeptical, but they couldn't argue with the large scar that ran across Dimitra's face. She'd believe the stories when she saw these supposed werewolves in person. \"People keep mentioning these werewolves, it seems everyone but me has seen them. What are they like?\" If they're even real to begin with. She'd slept peacefully through the full moon in February, no wolves, no nothing. \"I hope you got that werewolf back for doing that to you.\"\n\n_Safe._ A weight had been lifted from her, they were safe here, nobody would know about her past, nobody would come for her, they could start over. She looked at Dimitra _thank you_ her eyes said. They smiled watching Dimitra twirl, her happiness was contagious. A laugh erupted from Lily. \"A _pastor's wife_? What are they feeding you here?\" Dimitra Florakis, bootlegger extraordinaire, married to a pastor? They couldn't believe her ears. \"Are you telling me you've left your bootlegging ways behind you, Briar Ridge got you walking the righteous path?\" She grinned, taking on a joking tone. \"You know me, I'm more than capable of changing my ways to blend in, but I applaud you Dimitra, you've outshined my cons in ways I could only ever dream of.\" They fully believed Dimitra was in love, that it wasn't a con at all."
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "Her eyebrows lifted and she laughed aloud. \"You'll see them soon enough,\" She promised her, stopping short in their walk and grabbing her arm, turning her. She lowered her sleeve a little, flashing her two giant scars on her arm and shoulder. \"Can't use this arm as well as I used to,\" She said. The scars were mangled, twisted, lightning bolts on her skin. \"This and this are what I've got to show for that attack. You should've seen me in December. I was laid up for weeks. I almost died, that thing jumped on me before I could even shoot.\" \n\nWhat a horrifying night that had been. \"Someone else got a few shots in. I was too busy havin' my face and arm ripped off.\" Dimitra did manage to smile anyway, despite it all. \n\n\"But y'see, there's a silver lining. I was laid up at the pastor's house for all them weeks, having him take care of me and all...\" She sighed wistfully. \"But if you think I'm leaving my bootlegging in the past— hah! You're dead wrong.\" She shook her head. \n\n\"Abel is a good man. He loves me even though everything I am goes against everything he is.\" Dimitra chewed her lip a moment and sighed. \"And in exchange, I don't change who he is. We don't get up to any hanky-panky before marriage and I try and keep my swearing to a minimum when I'm in church.\" She fluttered her lashes. \"The sacrifices we make for love.\" \n\nDimitra pulled her sleeve up fully and adjusted her shirt. \"This place... Is beyond what you can imagine. Start believing in everything and anything.\" She paused. \"You're staying with Carina Templeton... Aren't you?\""
},
{
"author": "Lily Brooks",
"message": "\"I'm not sure if I should say I look forward to seeing them or not, talk in town has given them quite the reputation.\" Dimitra's impressive battle scars further added to that reputation. Maybe Lily should start taking the wolfmen more seriously. \"I'm glad it didn't kill you, and I hope those shots taught it a lesson.\" \n\nIt was straight out of a romance novel, injured in bed with a no doubt handsome man taking care of her, Dimi. Lily chuckled. \"Oh so while you were all laid up you worked your charms on him? Very smooth, Dimitra, I'm impressed.\" She winked. _Silver lining_, fitting.\n\n\"Waiting until marriage? Rather you than me, you must really love him. I wish nothing but the best for you two, and I mean that.\" Love was something precious, especially in their line of work. If a priest of all people had fallen for her, and she for him, then it had to real. Lily wasn't fully sure where she stood on love. She couldn't imagine having to wait until marriage for sex. Then again, Lily wasn't the marrying type, nor was her type legally allowed to get married to her, on account of them being women. Any time she'd been with a man it had been because she stood to gain something from it; power, money, information. They'd vouched to leave those days behind her, Briar Ridge was much too small for those particular schemes. Any thieving from the bedroom would no doubt be noticed quite fast, and few people seemed rich enough to thief from anyways. No, Lily had decided that if she was to enter anyone's bed it would be because of mutual attraction, not for ulterior motives. One could almost say she was becoming a better person by being in the holler. _Almost._\n_ _\n\n\"Well I sure am glad to hear that, you think your contacts could use another smuggler or is their roster all filled up?\" She was itching to get back into what she was good at, even if her main skills were of the thieving variety. \"I tried to get myself involved in that courier business, but the guy running it just up and left. I'm trying to not take that personally.\" They laughed. \"You're welcome for taking out the competition, I think.\" Assuming Dimitra didn't also work for Arthur. \n\n\"Anything and everything? I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around the concept of wolfmen, are you saying there's more?\" There couldn't be, werewolves were already a stretch, it had to stop at that, surely. \"I am, she's a real piece of work that one.\" It was an understatement, Lily couldn't stand Carina. Her dislike had lessened somewhat, but nowhere near enough to consider her anything but an ass. \"Thinks she is hilarious, I say she's just immature. But hey, I managed to knock a full dollar off of the rent so I'm not complaining.\"\n\n|| remember when I said Lily only gets short replies, yeah so that was a lie"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She let out a laugh. \"Be glad you didn't get yourself caught up in Maldorano's bullshit. He's shit at his job, and he does sloppy work. I usually work independently but the Coopers have me running their shine for them.\" She winked at her. \"But... I've got a few plans up my sleeve that I'll keep you in on the loop for. Been debating on starting my own courier business now that Arthur's hit the road.\" She shrugged her shoulders and smiled wider. \n\n\"I'll bet the Coopers could use another hand, with the Mayor gone and went all wolf man on us.\" She whistled. \"There's a lot of wolf men among us, Lily, gotta keep yourself on guard. Can't trust nearly anybody on account of it.\" \n\nShe stopped in the road and gave her a look over. \"Carina's a good friend of mine,\" She said. \"She's temperamental but she's... Lovely.\" There was a fondness in her voice and she cleared her throat. \"She lets me take candy from the general store sometimes. She might look cold and sour but she's as warm as hot cider under it all, I promise you that!\" \n\nShe cracked a grin. \"Immature? That's hilarious. She's about the most mature woman I've ever had the pleasure of knowing.\""
},
{
"author": "Lily Brooks",
"message": "\"Well, in that case, good riddance to him.\" They raised two fingers to her temple and flicked them outwards as she clicked her tongue, a salute to a gladly lost business partner. They prided themselves in the work they did. It was a craft she had honed over the course of many years. Sloppy work didn't cut it for Lily and she wouldn't associate herself with those for whom it did.\n\n\"Oh? Starting your own business? Do count me in if that does happen, I trust you a lot more than most people in this town.\" As it stood, they trusted Dimitra the most out of everyone in Briar Ridge. \"You'd do a fine job.\" \n\nThe Coopers, the name didn't ring a bell but the mayor certainly did, the mayor had been a Cooper then. Lorelai had said something about him being a wolfman. \"The _mayor's_ family deals in shine? This town just keeps getting better and better.\" Maybe they had picked the right place to vanish into. If figures of authority not only turned a blind eye to moonshine but were actively involved, that made running the stuff a lot simpler and less risky. \"How does the local law feel about moonshine? Is the sheriff as stuck up about it as the cops back in New York?\" \n\nAs for keeping herself on guard, that had become her natural state of being. \"I am always on guard, anyone specific I should be looking out for?\" If there were many of these wolfmen, it stood to reason that some of them should be known right? \"What **Does** This town do with wolfmen?\" Kill them? That seemed a logical choice, but then it did sound like it was some type of transformation, that there were people inside the wolves. People who couldn't help themselves, who were forced to do things they didn't want to do. Maybe they just weren't strong enough to fight it. Lily wondered if there were those who were able to control their wolf. ~~Leave it to her to think she could.~~\n_ _\n\n\"The most mature?\" They laughed in disbelief. \"We must not have met the same Carina Templeton then. Temperamental, that she is. She pretended she wasn't the one renting out the room, set up a meeting at a later time in her stead and everything. Imagine my surprise when I show up and see her sitting there with a self-satisfied grin on her face.\" Truth be told, Lily and Carina were very similar and that is exactly what made Lily dislike her. They couldn't read Carina properly, they couldn't manipulate her and if they were honest, they would've pulled a very similar scheme had she been in Carina's shoes. The fact that she'd fallen for it lay at the root of her dislike for Carina. Lily had been bested, and she was an exceptionally sore loser."
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "\"Know that if I do get this all up and running, you'll be the first person to know about it. Believe me, I think you're the exact person who would know what to do for me; you're slippery, you're tricky, and you know how to get things done!\" She clapped her hands together. \"And besides the running business, imagine us actually getting into all the things of making the damn stuff ourselves!\" She whistled. \"Could you imagine? Having our own little set up, making shine ourselves? I bet we could do it, too. Can't be too hard, right?\" She winked at Lily as she fiddled with the ruffles of her skirt. \n\nThe Coopers. They were good people. Mayor Cooper had been good people, too. Shame what went and happened to him. \"That's right. Welcome to shine country, darling!\" She laughed and tossed her head back. \"Where the moonshine runs through the veins of the people of this town! And the sheriff... Don't you worry too much about him or any of the *Law* Around here. They're more interested in keeping people from coming at each other than they are of the shine. A blind eye...\" She whistled. \"They're some of our best customers, after all.\" \n\nWolfmen. Ah... Always a question. \"Speaking of sheriffs and mayors...\" She trailed off. \"Most of them that we know, the wolfmen that is, get blasted all to hell. Can't imagine anyone in this town would spare one if they met one.\" She shook her head and shrugged. \"But let's focus on the lighter things, yeah? Like...\" She flashed her a grin. \"My dearest Carina Templeton... That does sound like her.\" She said wistfully. \"I think she's lovely. You just don't know how to appreciate a fine woman quite like I do.\" She fluttered her lashes a bit and snickered. \"She's an acquired taste.\""
},
{
"author": "Lily Brooks",
"message": "Transporting the shine wouldn't be the problem, the two of them had that covered. Making the stuff was something else. Lily had seen it done, they knew how to do it, in theory. How hard could it really be? \"Florakis moonshine, it does have a nice ring to it.\" She smiled, an ambitious glint forming in her eyes. \"You sure the Coopers wouldn't mind you ditching them in favor of your own operation? I've seen people get hurt over less.\"\n\nBriar Ridge killed its own for something they couldn't control? That didn't seem entirely right, but then again, few things in life were. Maybe staying out of this wolfmen business was in her best interest after all. They didn't want to get killed because some beast had decided that she looked like a tasty snack, Lily was not someone who willingly took the blame for the actions of others.\n\n\"Oh I know perfectly well how to appreciate a fine woman.\" That and more. \"I fear you've been charmed by her in a way I have not.\" Maybe one day the two would move past their grievances and become acquaintances, _friends_ even. Lily didn't think it was likely. \"But you may be right, she may grow on me yet.\""
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She chewed her lip and kicked a rock as she thought it over. \"I'm sure they'd get over it. Besides... I think they're a little more preoccupied right now with wolf men things and elections to worry about little old me. They had to find different runners when I was laid up from my attack, they'll do it again.\" \n\nDimitra was already making plans. Who was she supposed to contact to buy the building? She had quite a chunk of change saved up, she could probably do it easy. And then she could fix up the place and make it look real nice, Lily could work there, and Abel would be so damned prop of her too. It was almost something like an honest business! \n\nShe cut herself from her daydream and glanced over at her companion with a laugh. \"Oh, do you know how to appreciate a fine woman?\" She questioned. \"Clearly not. Carina is like a fine wine. Expensive and dry but the best of the best,\" She snickered. Though there was an odd pang of jealousy at the idea of them growing closer. \"Maybe so. Or maybe she'll put spiders in your bed,\" She joked. \"You'll be pleased to know that there's quite a few... People in this town of our particular *Persuasion*,\" Dimitra winked. Briar Ridge seemed to be teeming with people of all sorts of walks of life with their own particular brand of romantic interest. It was fascinating, really."
},
{
"author": "Lily Brooks",
"message": "\"_Spiders?_\" She shivered at the thought, Lily was not a fan of creepy crawling creatures. \"I'd like to see her try, she'd live to regret that.\" They would _not_, in fact, like to see her try. Spiders in her bed would be more than enough reason for Lily to promptly find alternative housing.\n\n\"You know, I could almost believe you may have _sampled_ some of that dry and expensive wine.\" Or least wanted to. Her tone was teasing, but friendly. Lily wasn't going to judge Dimitra for having bad taste in women, it couldn't be helped. After all, this was the woman who'd somehow fallen for a priest of all people. She was allowed some bad opinions. On second thought maybe she _was_ going to judge Dimitra for those views. \"Better you than me,\" They grinned.\n\nAn eyebrow rose at the mention of people of their _particular persuasion._ \"Oh?\" It was a most welcome fact, even if Lily wasn't actively looking for love. They felt relieved at the prospect that she might not be judged as harshly as they feared if she did find themselves allowing another woman that close to her. \"And the rest of town,\" She asked. \"They're fine with that _persuasion_?\"\n\n|| this reply took so long for no reason but it's here now, uhhh bonne appetite I suppose"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "Dimitra had never been more glad to not be drinking something; because if she had been, she would've promptly inhaled it into her lungs at Lily's sudden accusation. Dimitra wasn't one to fluster, but her cheeks had turned quite red, and she coughed and kicked her foot in the dust. \"Ha! Ah...\" She looked away. \"I may have sampled the wine. Once.\" She murmured, eyes casting over towards Lily and back. \"But I've got communion wine to sip now.\" \n\nShe was glad for the turn of subject to something a little broader, and she looked to the sky. \"I don't think people rightly notice too much. Sure, there's people here who might kick up a fuss, but...\" She shrugged her shoulders. \n\n\"It's different here. People seem to really mind their own. I won't say people are walking the streets holding hands and kissing, but everyone just seems to... *Know* And not care all that much,\" She admitted. \n\nSure, people still had reservations. There would always be fear. But Dimitra had little of that fear in her; she would dare anyone to look at her and shame her for her admiration of the feminine body."
},
{
"author": "Lily Brooks",
"message": "_I knew it._ They thought. _Blinded by past infatuation, poor woman._ Lily smiled knowingly at the sudden reddening of Dimitra's cheeks. It was cute. \"Nothing wrong with a little sampling, you can hardly expect to find your favorite drink in one go.\"\n\nA quiet acceptance, Lily could work with that. More and more signs pointed towards Briar Ridge being a fine place for Lily to stay, maybe even settle. _Settle?_ They were getting wistfully ahead of themself, but for a split second they had allowed herself to picture it: falling in love, sharing secrets, no fear of being judged or used or attacked for who they were, spending evenings together with her lover talking about whatever they wished with no fear of the law barging down their doors. Building a life together with someone, a _real_ life, a life that did not need to be mobile, did not need to be capable of uprooting at a moment's notice. She might build a life that wasn't filled with lies and back-stabbing, a life that didn't require constant hypervigilance, a life where instead of having one hand on a weapon and the other occupied with wrapping unsuspecting victims around its fingers, both hands could be free, _she_ could be free. Lily could have a life that didn't involve using her body in ways she had long since stopped enjoying. It all seemed like an unattainable dream, but in that moment it felt closer than it had ever been. Moving out of the Templeton house was a pleasant bonus that came with that dream, of course.\n\n\"Well, I am a huge fan of people not caring. One of my favorite characteristics in a place, in fact.\"\n_ _\n\n\"How about you let me buy you a round at the speakeasy one of these days? You know, scope out the competition, see how we can do better than them?\" Of course, it wasn't just about business, Lily was using that as a thinly veiled cover for her real intentions: friendship. They'd come to find out that it was actually quite pleasant to have people one trusted for more than personal gain. She was rather new to it, before it had just been Ada and her. That woman had convinced Lily that she was all they needed, that friends would inevitably betray her. Now they knew better. Letting people in still scared Lily, but Dimitra could hardly be described as terrifying."
}
] | 380 | 8,075 |
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{
"author": "V.E. BARCA.",
"message": "Say what you want about Briar Ridge - it has changed since his departure from the Barca Estate. The new ~~meat~~ life that filled its sullen streets now is pleasing, if a bit off-putting. Hazel, the tailor girl, was lovely to speak to even if Valerian is unsure of where they stand - he'd like her company again in the future, if he was able to have it, perhaps while she's pinning his suits together or stitching up one of the inevitable rips he'll get in some trousers trying to put his furniture back together in his house.\n\nThe full moon is tonight, or so just about everyone in the town has made it aware. Between this *Madness* And the growing pressures of the coal mines, Valerian wonders if any of this is actually worth it. (Florian's face flashes in his mind. *Of course it is worth it.*) His shoulders roll back as he walks down the thoroughfare, looking around for a particular building he heard a decent amount about from a pair of townsfolk who were helping him move Florian's things into a sizeable room downstairs, which would then put Olivia in the old nurse's room, and Valerian upstairs in the master bedroom. Despite whining about not getting the larger closet, Olivia was happier to be close to Florian, and Valerian was happy for the privacy of a bedroom *And* An office.\n\nFlorian is adamant that Valerian get his gun, and sit at the door. *We've never had an attack when it was just me an' Nurse Lettie,* He told Valerian over breakfast this morning, desperate to get through to his older brother's bored demanor, *But since there are more of us in the house now, I ain't sure they won't swing by. Them things... I think they's curses of the coal, Val. They're gon' try to get you.*\n\nAnd so, here he was. Purchasing ammunition for his hunting rifle, putting a notice on town square- *To those willing and interested, the Barca Estate is open to those seeking shelter from the routine beast attacks-* But Valerian Barca is nothing if not a cynic, and so when he prepares to leave town square, his shopping done, he finally - *Finally!* - finds that little bookstore he was looking for. Pushing the door open, he says nothing, not yet come into contact with the bookkeeper, beginning to peruse the shelves. *Surely* There were a text or three he could claim for the night, idly reading by the door that he was *Sure* Was not going to be thrown open by some beast. He's not read for leisure in a while - hell, maybe the full moon should come around more often if it means he'll get a break from his work.\n\nHe turns the corner, though, and is so startled that he jumps about two feet in the air. A hand on his chest, he feels his heart rate drop as he comes down from the adrenaline - face to face with a woman shorter than him, with dark hair. \"By the holy Trinity, ma'am, you just about scared the hellfires out of me. You're too quiet for my likin'. I thought I was the only soul in here.\""
},
{
"author": "Jade R. Grant",
"message": "Now, don't you get it twisted. Jade loved working down at the courier and especially the tall drink of water she found in her company. Technically her boss but if she was honest, she bossed Arthur around more times than not. She didn't mean to be bossy; honest! She's used to having siblings to conduct, wipe their faces, get them out the door before school. She had learned to be keen of hearing too, make sure they ain't gotten into no mischievous. \n\nNow she watched the man in front of her, she thought the creak of the floors would've given her away but she figured out pretty quick her assumption was incorrect. She let out a gracious laugh \"Oh my apologies sir. I reckon I thought this old floor would tell ya where I was\" She stepped on a particularly squeaky board, making it let out a loud croak.\n\n\"Well. Now that your soul has made it back from all them hellfires and what not. Can I help you find a book? Anything in particular, keep in mind though, I'm still a little new so, I may not even know what books we have\" She tried to keep their interaction light hearted"
},
{
"author": "V.E. BARCA.",
"message": "\"Why, I'm not bothered one bit,\" He chuckles, now that the embarrassing failure of his own startling was over. He inhales slowly, exhales slowly, and then looks again at the book clerk, crinkling his nose. \"I'm looking for series of books, preferably ones in which I can buy the entire set today. I will be hosting quite a few people at my estate tonight for the full moon, and frankly, I fear that while I'm sitting by the door with my rifle, I'll be bored shitless.\"\n\nHow eloquent a man, reduced down to flavorful text to express just *How* Cynical he was of this entire thing. His shoulders roll back, his collarbones aching - God on High, could the weather hurry up and change? \"I'm a fan of romances, some fantasy, though whatever you have available that I could chew through in my spare time is equally as welcomed. Money isn't an issue, so perhaps you could show me new arrivals... Popular picks. Things o'that nature. \"\n\nHe continues to browse the spines of a series of books nearby to him as he listens with a keen ear for Jade's recommendation. While Valerian himself was no scholar, per se, what he was was intelligent— he was able to read between the lines (one must do so when they're signing a contract) and enjoy the nuances of characters that were complex and well designed (perhaps, in a sense, he's waiting for someone to read him with such nuance).\n\n\"I'm willin' to try just about anythin',\" He says, chuckling, \"If I don't like it, I'll find a library or a school to give it to.\""
},
{
"author": "Jade Grant ",
"message": "Jade watched as Valerian searched for something that would pique his interest. Jade liked to read when she had the time, this wasn't her main hobby though. She did still have some good books to recommend to him. Cursing didn't startle her, she had a tendency to do it herself sometimes now that she didn't have little ears listening. \"Ah... Yeah, I think I have a few books stashed away but I have a feeling my nerves won't allow me to focus too much\" She admitted. Although waving off her own comment, she did have a few suggestions. She held up her finger motioning for him to wait right there, \n\n\"Let me see, there is The Great Gatsby, The Sun Also Rises, The Trial, The Side of Paradise\" She went on and on. He said money wasn't a problem and she had quite a few suggestions, she weaved in and out of the shelves as the titles kept coming to mind. Even if some of them took her a while, she wasn't the most educated. She stopped her schooling to take care of things at home. \n\nJade put the stack of books that she had managed to collect on the counter for Valerian to sift through and pick the best standing. \"Well, that's nice of you to donate them if you don't end up liking them.\" She picked up one of the books from the stack, holding it out to him. \"I think this one should be the first read. Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, by Anita Loos. It's about showgirls, Lorelei Lee and her friend Dorothy\" She awaited his reaction, hoping that her own interest in the book would perhaps entice his own. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "V.E. BARCA.",
"message": "\" Showgirls, you say, \" He says, with a tone of voice that's intrigued, but not in the way one would expect a man to be intrigued at the mention of showgirls. There is no intentional malice or misconduct in his expression at all, instead genuine intrigue in his features as he takes the book from her, turning it over, leafing through the pages. A lot of content— it would make for a good first read. There is a bit of a wistful smile across his lips as he daydreams again about the idea of reading for pleasure.\n\nOf the three Barca children, each of them had their own neat little box they crammed themself into. Sweet Olivia, middle child and only daughter, seemed to be the romantic — ever the dreamer, ever the adventurer. She took after their mother in that regard, running off with some young chap not even six months after knowing him. (Valerian had to say *I told you so* When she begged him to come home, and sobbed in his arms when she crossed the threshold back into her childhood safeties.) Florian was the artist — he was a painter, a musician; the things his physical disability could not allow him to was replaced with the dreamscapes of creativity in his mind. Once he settled on painting as a preferred medium, Valerian always had him supplied with what he needed (and was certain to tell all of the wives of his coworkers just how talented his brother was).\n\n\n\n\"Mm, yes,\" He says, handing it back. \"I'll take this one. And *Gatsby,* Too. It's been a while, since I've read. Book of the *Decade,* I tell you.\""
},
{
"author": "Jade Rose Grant",
"message": "\"Showgirls\" Jade repeated in an excited tone, she expected most men to jump at the chance when they heard the book was about showgirls but she thought the book was much deeper than that. It was a nice surprise when Valerian seemed to think so too. She watched as he carefully inspected the book. Hopefully, it wouldn't seem like too much of a boring read. She found it to be quite intriguing. Well, obviously she was the one who recommended it. Valerian was one of the many types of people she had met in Briar Ridge, that was one thing Briar Ridge had. Variety and people from all walks of life. Almost like everyone ran away from home and found a haven in Briar Ridge, only... Briar Ridge was no haven at times. Especially on full moons in which the town had fallen into a craze to prepare for. \n\n\"Gatsby, another good choice\" She took it from the pile she had stacked up, holding it out to him with a smile \"I have to agree, I remember borrowing it from Coalwood's very small library and using my dad's mine flashlight to read it under the covers while my brothers slept\" She had a smile on her face, one of the very few fond memories she had of home, others were really just the once in a blue moon times where she and her siblings could cut up and act like the children they were before they were molded back into the miserable adults they were always destined to be. \n\nNot Jade Grant, not ever. She would enjoy her life. Even if Briar Ridge had its flaws, this was the first place she had freedom and that was far more important than these wolf attacks. Eventually, someone had to catch them, right?"
}
] | 354 | 2,342 |
1,382.5 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Lorcan MacFaolan",
"message": "The trails were beaten into shape but almost left untouched. They almost looked half-forgotten- the way it appeared. Left to time and for the thicket to reclaim in its baleful, crooked ways. Crooked, that was a way to describe this heart of Appalachia. Ancient, that was another way. Something older than every living spirit that walked this part of the earth. He had seen many timberlands- but nothing compared to this neck. Its spirit was deeper than its roots, and it had a heartbeat. It sang, in its mysterious ways, spreading slowly with her voice through the melody of the thrush and warblers- the ones that sang their praises to the earth above. It called through the sound of the wind filtering through the leaves, swaying wisened creaking branches aplenty, the will of her voice, her call. It shook through the sound of fearful rabbits that scuttled in the scrub, begging for some fearsome predator to make chase. \n\nThat he did already, and he held the proof of it in his fingers, its skull. It was a complex skill to learn: how to make bloody bone shine as white as the pearls on a rich woman's satchel, especially of an animal so freshly dead. It was not wrought by cruelty or malice, but rather the unwavering opposite- Reverence, adulation, and a certain kind of hunger. The kind that sought familiarity. Understanding is the key, and it is the key to many crucial things in life; it's how all things learn to thrive. It was how a body learned to get rid of disease, how doctors learned how to make medicine, and how poets learned to write such the sad ways of a broken spirit. Though he was no doctor, and he was certainly no poet, much more of a disease if any of the three at all, most especially in his sorry state. A criminal, almost the worst kind. He didn't mean to be, not entirely, but that is now what he was. \n\nThere was something about these forests he didn't understand here as a child that he knew well now. Something he knew intimately. The forest is poisoned. Evidence wa\n\nS all around, but only if you look for the source. It was like the fumes of coal, which sank deep in the lungs like a sapling's roots, feeding off the flesh and blackening the pustules. It all came from the same source- those quarries. It wasn't the only wildwood made into this way; he knew it from the Cross Timbers, where his second residence resided. It cried just the same, like a sniveling babe, the thought of it being able to protect itself from a pick-wielding reaper, just some strange distant dream of a bereaved mother. Being where this sickness was, here in this dark, bleeding heart of the new world, it wasn't the same. It couldn't be. He didn't know why yet, but being a man of understanding, he would search for that answer, and soon he would know it. Intimately.\n\nUntil then, he listened to the wind, the thrush, the warblers, and critters as he walked hard on an uphill battle- the hills themselves. It was where he looked down that path again, nearly overgrown, the start of his drifting imagination. Then, he returned to the world through the sound of a snort. His broad, bright eyes became startled into silence- his eyelids relaxing just as much as they tensed as he turned his head.\n\n*That Donkey. *\n\nLorcan didn't know why it was following him, but it was. It was old—its face whitened from years of being alive in that coal town. It wasn't worth anything, so the old woman who had given him those directions had also offered it up as some reward, not that it was any. It was an old donkey, an old donkey in a scarf. \n\n\"Gertrude.\"\n\nLorcan started, tossing the skull into the bushes. It was where it belonged there. \n\n\"You're bein'... *Disruptive...*\"\n\nGertrude didn't respond, as most donkeys did not respond. She only walked, always just a few feet behind him. The clopping of its tiny hooves began digging in his ear as his perfectly procured envisionment crumbled. She snorted again. Lorcan twitched, a movement shooting up from the base of his spine to his fingertips. He took in a deep breath, a sharp one. It had no reason to keep following him around, no reason at all. It was a spiteful creature, this one. A spiteful creature that wore a bandana like a neckerchief. \n\n\"Stop it, Gertrude...\"\n\nHe said, one more time, one final warning. There was a brief moment of silence, during which he could hear the world again, and then there it was again.\n\n\"GURL- I'm makin' you a pelt-\"\n\n He twisted his spine, grasping at the butt of Katie that stuck out from his saggy bag. After a brief struggle, he grasped the fresh cherry varnish and ripped it free. He held the rifle in his hands, beautiful and new as new could be, untouched by the trials of war. A gun he couldn't have possibly afforded on his own, but still a rifle he had, metal so fine it was dark- almost black, but still sheened in the light that filtered in the trees that covered the two individuals. He lifted the rifle to his shoulder, looking through only his dominant eye as he began positioning the sights with his hands. He stopped before he could even focus as if having some moment of clarity. He looked at her with brows that raised only enough to expose the silvery whites of his pupil just clearly enough be\n\nFore he turned to look at the trees, the sticks. He lowered the rifle slowly, letting it droop to his hip. \n\nHe exhaled sharply through his nose. Gertrude did nothing the entire time. She only looked at him, her tail swaying and flicking away anything unsavory that buzzed. He looked back at her, his lopsided expression warping his facial structure before he sighed again, though this time, it was more in the way of relief, the sound someone makes when a heavy weight is lifted off their shoulders.\n\n\"Y'know...! You sure picked some awful company to stick around, Gert- I'm sorry for ya.\"\n\nHe reached out to the catatonic donkey, patting her shoulder and feeling her coarse, unseemly fur. It wouldn't make too much of a good pelt either way. He patted her once, twice, and then three times. Then it was over. \n\n\"Sorry 'bout that fuss old gal, don't mean it too personal. More used to shootin' things with all of the fur- y'know-? It comes with the position n' all of that.\"\n\nShe blinked at him, stepping a little closer in her stilty hooves. Her eyes looked up into his, and for a moment, he thought maybe she understood him... And she snorted. His face wrinkled. He took it back, and that was clear enough to the donkey if a donkey was capable of seeing or caring.\n\n\"..You act tough, but you ain't for the streets, Gertrude-\"\n\nSo their journey continued, and kindly enough, it was the last time the donkey had snorted. She gave him his chance to listen in to the sounds on that downslope of the ridge. Listening to the song while filtering in the air through blackened pustules. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, his flat lips curled up at the corners, waiting for it, searching for it. But it wasn't there. His expression fell, looking out in the foliage of this long forgotten visage. One, thing was certain, and the fact of it breathed life into that chest even in its absence, and even during the most turmoiled times.\n\n*He was home.*\n\n.\n.\n.\n\nThe timber grew sparse, and it sickened him somewhere deep inside. His brows seemed to lower with each step further he took in those fields and farmland, but only just enough the shade covered his sensitive eyes more than the brim of his floppy leather hat could. He looked at the village in the distance and then at that big house just on the bend. It sat atop the hill like a throne, like it ruled the land- the ranch lands. He then looked over the bridge at the thick gorge below, but it was more of a river than a gorge, geographically. A big river. Gertrude was being real skittish now. The whites of her eyes glinted as they neared it. She hated this, and it was the first thing she hated so far, much more than that rabbit hootin' and hollerin'. It could be that short railing, or it could be the odd spider web-like structure. It was built up oddly- like some trap where something hiding would spring out and stick its fangs in your soft spots. Traps were something he liked- but not the idea of this one so much. \n\nHe halted momentarily, looking to the side and then back at her. He grasped the dangling lead dragging in the dirt the entire time and pulled her softly. She didn't budge. He pulled her harder. Still nothing. He scratched his head, thinking of how to solve this problem before he inched closer to her. He had places to be and things to do, and he didn't have time for this. She began shifting away from him, her critical thinking skills excellent enough to be capable. He knelt, ducking his head under her pot belly as his calloused fingers grasped her scrawnier limbs. She started braying, struggling against him, but there wasn't a use for it. He used his legs to lift her, all her hundreds of pounds. He wheezed as he did, not expecting such a great weight from a donkey whose shoulders were below his hips, but he persevered. He began walking- no- speeding across the bridge. Each clack of his thick, stubby boot heel caused Gertrude to fidget and Lorcan to whisper\n\nVarious cutthroat expletives up at her. She stared out at the river, and she screamed. He grimaced at the sound as the weight of her body made him feel weaker and weaker by the moment. It was a long bridge that felt like it dragged out and stretched itself the closer he came to the finish line—no bridge needed to be this long- no bridge, no river. \n\nThe donkey had given up braying, hyperventilating instead at the end as they neared the end of their fast-paced, half-dangerous trek over that architectural mess of a bridge. Lorcan half collapsed on the ground, bowing forward and releasing a now much happier donkey. She clambered over him, her knee hitting his head softly as he sat dazed, unmoved. He held his forehead, at least before the coughing started, and it was surely an ugly sound. He covered his mouth, his shoulders and head shrinking into his oversized coat. He slipped around on the dirt, catching his breath and controlling himself before he stood up again. Panting, wiping the mix of sweat and donkey hairs off the nape of his neck. His eyes peered around, seeing that not much people were around at such an early hour (much to early for him on a regular day), he wore a face much looser until he peered at his hand after with some level of hesitance, before looking up and away. His brows lowered, and he wiped his hand off on his pant leg. He readjusted himself, clearing his clogged throat and fixing his hat. He looked around for Gertrude, now seeing her again, on that dirt path called a road, staring at him with black eyes emptiness.\n\nWith the same expression as before—if not more impassioned—he threw his hands up, raising his voice.\n\"What? Whatchu want-?\"\n\nShe turned around after, walking away and along the curved road, but that was her own choice, unshaken by the words of those around her. He nodded, satisfied and vindicated that he told that neckerchief-wearing donkey off into being her own woman- at least for the moment.\n\n*Briar Ridge*\n\nHe let himself get the\n\nFull taste now that he was close enough by proxy of greedy, enlivened eyes that went over everything there was to possibly give way of a glimpse. His feet carried him along the beaten and worn-in trail with a distinct softness more akin to pads on moss than heels in cobbly, bumpy ground. The loudest thing now was Gertrude's black shoes clobbering pebbles at this hour. It was soon sunset, and after a long day of traveling Lorcan was wide awake. \n\nNever skipping a beat, he stalked down the middle of the road, expecting the same thing he had assumed it would all before finding his silvery whites staring at the towns stately centerpiece. An oak tree. Interesting place for one, right in the middle of it all. It looked like it didn't belong there, even for as long as it stood it should be the opposite. He walked closer to it, stepping over unearthed roots and between benches to knock at the bark with the back of his knuckles. He squinted, before he moved on to the next thing. His hand brushed the tops of the benches, before turning to face the board in front of it."
},
{
"author": "Riley Sutton",
"message": "**TW/CW: Mentions and brief descriptions of killing and dressing a rabbit for meat (I tried to be vague I swear, please let me know if you'd rather I just cut it out of the response as I can easily just edit it out)**\n\nThe day had gone as smoothly as one could hope for a week before certain chaos. He had been counting the days as was everyone else who was in the know, counting each time the moon rose in the night and seeing first hand how close it was getting to being full. Five days, that was all they had left to prepare. Like most Riley could feel his feet grow lighter and ears more sensitive with anticipation, but that didn't stop him from doing his daily chores on him and his Granny's little homestead. It was tiny compared to some other residents, with an open yard out back facing the forest and a small, patchwork house claiming the land as the Sutton's. He felt real grateful none of his rabbits or chickens were casualties as of yet, but part of him wished it was them instead of the beasts favorite chew toy who just so happened to also be his boyfriend. That strawberry blonde had stayed the night again and left in the early afternoon, leaving Riley to tend to his rabbits as if nothing was amiss. They slept in late, a little treat before all hell broke loose. He fed the chickens, collected his hen's eggs with care, and gave three of his rabbits their final rites.\n\nThe three he chose - Pumpkin, Tulip III, and Dashing - weren't dying of old age but of his own hand, to feed the town and his little family. He didn't have any treats to give them but still sang, sitting outside of their pen with a five string banjo and strumming a simple melody. He improvised most of it, occasionally fumbling before expressing his frustration in low hisses and groans. This lasted for about an hour before it was time, Riley standing to collect his rabbits. He was already dressed in an apron while a carving knife rested on the porch behind him.\n\nPumpkin was first, Riley grabbing ahold of the auburn rabbit and cradling it in his arms while he walked over to the rabbit wringer. The next few steps went smoothly, a silent and swift death for Pumpkin before hoisting her up by her back legs on a tree near the house, leaving her to lifelessly hang while Riley got to work with the dressing. He repeated this process with the other two, humming to himself as he did so before grabbing the remaining cuts of meat and heading inside to wet age what was left. Heading back outside Riley took to a pump nearby, washing off his hands further before grabbing a shovel leaning against the house to bury the remains near the garden, hoping and praying to nobody in particular that it would act as decent fertilizer when the time came.\n\nThe rest of the day was spent running errands in town, his Gran giving him a list of things to pick up from the store after Riley insisted that she take the day off. After a bit of playful banter back and forth with Granny B teasing him by reminding him not to steal anything (despite it being over a year since he did such a thing) and Riley claiming that his grandmother would most likely bring home actual flowers rather than flour due to her failing eyesight, she relented, ending their verbal sparring match with a kiss on the cheek and a demand to be back before dark. Riley, of course, replied with sarcasm, declaring that he couldn't make any promises before heading out, shouting at her from the porch to not break a hip while he was gone. Grabbing a small hand-drawn cart pressed against the home his grandmother echoed his words as loud as she could, exclaiming *\"No promises!\"* From inside before he finally took his leave.\n\nThe sun was lowering itself below the hills by the time Riley left the general store with a bag of flour, some more salt, sugar, and other basics in tow, plopping them all in the wooden cart he parked outside.\n\nMoving through town square on his way home however there was a most peculiar sight, some guy he doesn't recognize with skin pale enough to let Riley believe the man saw a ghost not too long ago. However, a long brimmed hat and worse for wear coat covered almost everything else. What most piqued his interest though was the donkey nearby, leading Riley to conclude that this guy was a wanderer of some sort. He knew almost everyone in this little holler, whether it be from his childhood antics to more recent endeavors selling eggs and meat, so it was only natural for him to want to investigate, maybe even give the odd man a warm welcome - he sure looked like he needed one.\n\nStrolling up to the stranger and making no effort to be quiet along the way Riley watched as he moved from the tree in town square to the notice board nearby. Given the rifle on his person though Riley tried to stay a safe distance away, just in case the guy got startled easy. Setting the handle of his cart down with a clang Riley tilted his head and put a hand on his hip, raising an eyebrow with a lopsided smirk with a sort of playful curiosity. \"Lookin' for a job or something?\" Riley began, his smile widening to the point it made his eyes crinkle if Lorcan were to turn and look. \"I can assure you that tree you just knocked on isn't hiring, and I doubt anyone's home either way.\" Riley was rid of his apron, now only dressed in a simple white button up shirt with light brown suspenders and repeatedly repaired dark brown pants.\n\nHe wore an undone burgundy wool flannel over it all, one that also seemed well loved after years of wear and tear. Ginger hair was held up in a messy bun, a bun that was starting to come undone after being worn all day. Possibly the most jarring feature was two scars jutting across the right side of his face, both raised and slightly darker than the skin surrounding it. His scar in combination with a dusting of red freckles over his whole body and scruffy stubble led to a crowded yet still youthful face, albeit also with the fatigue most people in town wore nowadays."
},
{
"author": "Lorcan MacFaolan",
"message": "He had heard the folks moving around behind him, taking their looks. No long looks- after all, Briar Ridge had always had its fair share of 'fresh meat' drifting into town. All except the one, at least. Lorcan didn't notice- not yet. He was too busy reading all the flavors of penmanship on the board. The delicate ink that marked a studied hand, the work of a typewriter, the blocky metal-work talk, and some poetry about God that he had no sufferance to understand. The thing that mostly got him to lean and take a peep closer was that dainty, colorful little poster. A smile nearly could have curled on his lips, but there were much greater things weighing on his mind to allow it, then. \n\nHe slowly looked down at the donkey drifting its way next to him, chewing on the grass in the little patch of nature that marked the root of the town. She wasn't helping much, either. He shook his head at her, interrupting again. What caught him in the headlights was the sound of that silvery jangle of the farmer's cart full of the days staples. If he had long ears, they would surely have perked up to the air as quickly as his neck. He turned as Riley spoke, a hand finding a way to the hip that twisted his body around. \n\n\"H'Why? You offerin' for some protection?\"\n\nHe cocked his head, his thumb gesturing to the one he frankly struggled reading the most. He looked the man up and down- younger and him, not by awful much, but still enough for anyone who cared much for that kind of thing to point it out. Lorcan had to tilt his head back, flicking at the floppy part of his leather hat so his eyes could make out the more important details. The first thing was obvious- the scars. Something gnarled and fierce got to the feller for true. His eyes lingered, but only until he talked about the tree. \n\nHe looked back at it before tilting his hat back and returning his attention with a waving hand. Now he smirked, tilting his hat back to show his sensitive eyes, possibly paler than his own skin, which\n\nIs a large part of why he had the wide brim to shield them.\n\n\"Knockin' on wood, you know. It means good luck. Oaks like this' un are sacred, wise old trees.\"\n\nHe seemed avidly ready to bounce to the next thought- even in spite of his brief moment of spirituality- he was trying to piece together what exactly this man was. He was no mind reader- but he liked to try. Messy, truly long ginger locks tied up in that bun, that scruff that struggled to grow. He knew the ill- maybe just a few more years. He didn't think much of Katie as she swung on his shoulder, more like an appendage than a weapon. He stepped closer with a somewhat casual demure as he leaned against the notice board- as casual as could be forced after the past week's events. \n\n\"*You believe God has blessed this little town, stranger?*\"\n\nHe had forgotten about the donkey for the moment, but he'd get there soon enough as she continued her grazing while wearing her red neckerchief."
},
{
"author": "Riley Sutton",
"message": "Riley was certainly glad to be received positively, a little quip of the stranger's own soothing any apprehension he may have had deep down. The notice board, like always, was filled to the brim with all manner of advertisements and declarations. Some people just put up little pieces of art, mainly little kids who wanted to show it off to the whole town or didn't get the attention they wanted back home. Sadly there wasn't any examples up right now but Riley recalled doing the same - or at least something similar - as a young child, shortly after his brother vanished.\n\nShaking childish scribbles of a *\"Wild man\"* Out of his head Riley was quick to return to the matter at hand, listening in to why the stranger was knocking on the tree in the first place. It was easy to notice his ghostly pale eyes, the younger lad being unable to stop himself from wondering why they were that way. He'd heard of certain conditions that reduced pigment in the skin so maybe it was that? Whatever it was though it most certainly wasn't any of his business, even if he'd never seen eyes so pale. Curious as ever Riley grabbed his little cart again and approached the board, meeting the stranger in the middle and taking a gander of his own at the notice board.\n\n\"I don't really know how old this tree *Is* To be honest, prolly been here since the town was founded but I bet I was told at one point and I've just forgotten now. I guess some extra luck is good, especially now.\" Riley remarked, his eyes still scanning the notice board while a free hand began rubbing his chin absentmindedly, feeling the rough texture of his stubble. He tried not to pay the donkey much mind but he could only hope she was friendly and wouldn't kick him into oblivion.\n\n*\"You believe God has blessed this little town, stranger?\"*\nRiley was reading a birthday invite when the taller man before him spoke up, causing him to freeze in place for a moment.\n\nFor some reason that felt like a hard question to answer even if he knew what he wanted to say. After straightening out again and a couple moments of thought Riley decided to just start talking, letting out an uncertain hum to start it off. \"Eh... I don't know. I mean, I do know what I *Think* But... I still don't know. I'm not a man of faith myself so I doubt a nonexistent god could bless a town but metaphorically I would reckon that the gods, spirits, or whatever else is out there are placing bets instead.\" During this first part Riley sort of avoided eye contact, looking down at his hands as they gestured while he spoke, waving his hand dismissively toward the sky when addressing the topic of God. \"We certainly aren't the most lucky but we've stuck together despite it all so I suppose there's a blessing to be found in that.\" Riley continued, concluding his thought with a slight shrug while finally looking up into the man's sensitive eyes.\n\nShortly after he finished his thought Riley stuck out a hand, offering another smile while he changed the subject, \"I suppose introductions are in order though. My name's Riley, born and bread in this holler so if you need further directions I'm your guy. Do you and your donkey friend have names or am I just gonna be referring to you as *\"Dude with a hat\"* And *\"Old donkey\"* This whole time?\""
}
] | 997 | 5,530 |
298.121212 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She couldn't stand it any longer. Abel Hughes, God bless him, was an incredible host. He was kind and caring, albeit a little short with her at times because of her nonsense, but he was doing his damned best. He was not the reason she couldn't stand to be in that house for another minute. No; she was just restless, like a bobcat in a toolshed. She couldn't begin to understand how anyone could sit still for longer than a minute, and she'd been sitting still for damn near a few weeks now! \n\nShe'd be back in a few hours. She'd actually been feeling more up to things lately, and Abel had even let her sit in some of the other rooms than her assigned bedroom, which had been nice. But goddamn it, she needed to get *Out*... And maybe let Abel get a break from playing nanny. \n\nSo, she'd left him a note on her bed and grabbed a walking stick and her cloak, throwing it on to defend against the cold. She'd forgone shoes for some reason and set out along the path away from the Hughes house and into town, looking for just about anyone to talk to. She was already enjoying the fresh, frigid air, as she sucked air in through her nose. It was still hard to move in some ways, but honestly, she was starting to feel better and better with each passing day, which she was so grateful for. She just hoped no one tattled on her to Abel before she got back... Especially about not wearing any shoes. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "After the storm had blown its way through Briar Ridge, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake in the homes and hearts of residents far and wide, Marianne Wilburn couldn't put off a trip into town any longer. Truth be told, she waited a little too long. Sudden change was not her forte, and the blizzard had been yet another disruption in a long line of changes that had hit her home and heart as of late, leaving her unsettled and on edge. The last thing she wanted to do, though, was regress, slip backwards when she'd come so far in months gone by, so it was with a heaviness on her shoulders that she'd laced her boots and made her way down the trail to the town square. \n\nBetween the butcher's and the tailor shop was when she laid eyes on someone she hadn't seen in a while. The last she'd heard of Dimitra Florakis, the woman had been attacked by a werewolf the night of the December moon, and (though she'd admit she hadn't searched) Marianne hadn't seen her since. With any luck, she'd been holed up letting her wounds heal. And now, she stood just across the street, barefoot but wrapped in a cloak, leaning on a sturdy stick and by the looks of things, entirely alone. \n\nWell, that simply wouldn't do. \n\nMarianne caught up to her in a few long strides, boots crunching on the gravel, and cleared her throat when she was a yard or two away, not wanting to send the woman into shock through creeping up behind her. \"Dimitra.\" There was no question in her tone - she'd know that figure anywhere. \"It's been a while. I was beginning to worry about you.\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She'd made it to town square with little fuss about it, and now here came someone, hopefully not to flag her down or tell on her. She heaved a sigh of relief at Marianne, leaning heavily on her stick and tilting her head. \"Oh, well, you know what? Not like some werewolf is gonna keep me down!\" She laughed, though it was strained for the bandages wrapped around her throat and upper chest. \n\n\"No need to worry about me— just out for a stroll in the fresh air!\" She insisted. \"Abel obviously knows, of course...\" She trailed off, a mischievous smile on her face. \"Well, I left him a note, of course. Just don't tell him I'm running around barefoot?\" She snickered. \"I just like to feel the earth, you understand?\" \n\nShe dug her heel into the solid earth, before she looked up at Marianne. \"Don't look so worried,\" She insisted. \"Smooth out the wrinkle on your brow, I'm perfectly fine!\" Well, maybe not *Perfectly* Fine but... Well on her way, wasn't she? \n\n\"I was planning on going into the woods, actually, if you wanted to join me?\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "It was evident from the smirk accompanying Dimitra's words that the preacher did *Not* In fact yet know that she'd gone walkabout from her sickbed. But seeing as how the man wasn't someone Marianne considered a friend (and nor did she hold his position in much high regard, but that was an entirely separate concern), it didn't seem her place to go running to the church to tell tales on the other woman. There was no harm in a walk, surely? Though Marianne would have preferred to see her suitably booted for the cold, she'd heard many a time that fresh air had been known to promote healing, not hinder it, and she was no-one if not a believer in taking advantage of what nature had to offer to them. \n\n\"I'm glad you're feeling better, in that case. And I swear, if he hears a word of any of this it won't have come from my lips.\" She smiled back then. \"I won't worry, if you insist I mustn't. And it would be a pleasure to accompany you. It's a fine day for a stroll.\" She offered the other woman her arm. \"Though I suppose I must see to it that you *Do* Return to Abel when you tire.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She was delighted at Marianne's promise to keep quiet, a secret smirk growing on her face as she leaned on her stick. \"He'll be fine if I'm gone for a little while. It'll give him a chance to relax and stop worrying over me,\" She said. She did feel guilty about it; Abel had hardly left her side, not even attending his congregation most services in favor of taking care of her. She wasn't sure how she'd ever repay him for the kindness... Though she didn't want to think about any of those negative emotions right now. She was supposed to be taking a stroll, and damn it, she was going to! \n\nShe took a deep breath, sucking in the cool air, and glanced to Marianne as they began their trek towards the woods. She took the arm offered for support and exhaled a shaky breath. \n\n\"I'm feeling much better,\" She assured her. \"I think it won't be too long before I'm back in the game, if you know what I mean,\" She flashed her a toothy grin. \"I miss my house... Though, sleeping in a house with other people has been nice. I hate sleeping alone.\" She shook her head. \"But I miss my bed, my kitchen... My *Car*...\" She sighed deeply. \"You know? I miss all the little things, too. Like my bathtub, and the wood stove, and the family of squirrels that live in my attic.\" She pouted a bit, thinking quite hard. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "\"Oh, I know what you mean, you scoundrel.\" The smile came easier now, spurred by Dimitra's own grinning face, though Marianne couldn't help but wonder if the gesture tugged at her healing wounds. If it did, she didn't seem to care, as expressive as ever despite all that had happened to her. It seemed that the attack had done nothing to dull her spirit - indeed, if possible, she seemed feistier than ever, as though determined to prove what she didn't have to. \n\nSimply surviving the attack had been proof enough to the town that Dimitra was just as strong as she professed to be. Possibly even stronger. Strength didn't come from muscle and bulk. It was found further within, in the fire in a belly and the passion in a heart. Dimitra lacked neither.\n\nMarianne would have liked to have been more like her, in another life. \n\n\"I can understand that. I think I'd hate to be away from home so long, but then, I've always been a homebody at heart. You'll have Abel free you only to not spend so much as a moment in your own four walls. I know you. Wild thing.\" She was laughing through her words, though, thinking of the woman she'd met years ago, in the dark of the speakeasy, the winter of the year she'd moved home. Dimitra had been dancing then. She'd seized Marianne by the arm and dragged her to dance too until her feet were sore and her breath caught in her lungs. It had been the first time she'd felt *Alive* Since the accident. Dimitra had always had so much fire in her that Marianne had found the flames licking at her like firewood untul she caught, too. \n\nIt felt like a lifetime ago, now they walked arm in arm up towards the trees. \n\n\"You know - if he were to allow you home - you aren't so far from me. I'd visit if you'd have me, lend a hand around the house... If the squirrels haven't ventured beyond the attic and taken over your bedroom by now.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "Oh, how long ago those nights in the speakeasy seemed to be. How easy it had been back then; to spin and twirl and have no more care in the world than to worry about what you'd have for breakfast the next day. Dimitra yearned for those times again, instead of worrying about losing a limb or your *Life* To a dog with a need to kill. \n\nWalking this distance proved to be a little more difficult than she imagined, her chest tightening and her breath puffing out in the cold. She should've really taken it easy, but she was stubborn as all hell, and refused to admit defeat to anyone, if not to prove a point. \n\n\"It's not my fault that I like to go places, see things! I'm a traveler, I'm not really meant to stay in one place for so long,\" She said, casting a wicked grin and letting a giggle pass over her lips. \"However, I love guests, and you have no idea how much I'd love to host,\" She squeezed her arm as they walked along. Marianne had slowly but surely began to come out of her shell with her, for which she was grateful. Now, walking side by side for all this time, she truly felt like a friend she could trust. \n\n\"I'll make dinner and you can make sure I don't fall on my rear end or pass out!\" She said. \"If the attics have taken the bedroom, it'll just be that way, I suppose. Not much I can do if they're cold,\" Dimitra laughed aloud at the thought. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "crow0951",
"message": "As the path grew rockier and Dimitra's shoulders tensed against each step, Marianne only held her tighter, squeezing her arm right back and hoping that the *'I've got you, you're safe'* Didn't need to be said aloud. She allowed her injured friend to set the pace, and steadied her, even as Dimitra continued to talk and laugh through laboured breaths as though she'd not a care in the world besides the here and now. \n\n\"So long as you promise you won't go disappearing without a goodbye, I don't think anyone can begrudge you your travels and adventures,\" She sighed. \"Just promise me you'll always find your way back! I need to hear your stories, they're better than any book I could find in the library. And you tell them in such a way it's like I've really *Seen* The things you've seen... Of course I'll come to visit. You couldn't keep me away if you tried, and you know it. If you're cooking, I'm handling the sweets. And the squirrels if I really got to.\"\n\nDimitra's laugh was contagious, and Marianne found she couldn't wipe the smile from her own face even as the trees around them began to thicken. \"Did you have a destination in mind, or are we taking whichever path the wind blows us along?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "Dimitra gave pause as Marianne spoke, and she bit the inside of her cheek. \"Honestly...\" She started and stopped, seeming far more serious than she usually did. \"I've never stayed in place for so long before, you know? I'm used to breezing in and out of places; been that way my whole life until I moved here.\" \n\nDimitra chewed her lip as they walked along. \"I thought once I left here, I'd probably never come back.\" A pause followed and she looked around the forest a moment. \"But I don't know if I could do it anymore. Leaving everyone behind would be like leaving my family... Again.\" She laughed, albeit weaker than she normally would. \"But maybe I'll still travel. At least for a little while, so I can come back and tell everyone what I've seen.\" \n\nShe puffed out some air and looked down the forked path they came upon. \"I think we take us wherever the wind blows.\" She grinned and gestured down the left path. \"Which I think... Is this way.\" It was full of twisted and gnarled roots, and she stumbled slightly and caught herself. \"By the way, you're more than welcome to bring the sweets. Carina Templeton brought me a box of caramel creams that I've been savoring, it's taken all my willpower not to devour them all.\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "crow0951",
"message": "\"Take someone with you,\" Came Marianne's soft suggestion, as she allowed Dimitra to lead her down the fork in the path, uneven as the ground was underfoot. \"There's so many people here that have never seen outside of Virginia. Or even outside of Briar Ridge at all. You could have a helping hand with your work, and perhaps it wouldn't feel so much like leaving it all behind if someone from home were with you. And you'd just *Have* To come back that way.\" She squeezed her friend's arm gently. \n\n\"You know me. I've been cooking up a damn storm every chance I get lately, I'll make you anything you want. Though I can't promise I'll be able to stand up against Carina's caramel creams, they sound delicious. They'd not have lasted a day in my kitchen, I can tell you that much.\" \n\nA chill breeze whistled its way through the tree branches, blowing Marianne's hair in front of her face. \"Ugh, I can't wait for this weather to be behind us. Give me springtime and all the work it brings over another frost, *Any* Day.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "Now there was a thought. \"But who would I take with me is the question,\" She mused. \"Would have to be someone okay with my line of work, so that's Abel Hughes out. Plus, he wouldn't want to leave the church in his apprentice's hands.\" Dimitra sucked her teeth in annoyance. \"Carina wouldn't want to leave the general store...\" She sighed in mourning. \"Plus, she's finicky. She likes to be home, you know?\" \n\nShe looked to her side and squeezed Marianne's arm. \"At this rate, maybe I'll have to take you along, won't I?\" Dimitra laughed a little and walked alongside her. \"I will miss those caramel creams when I go. I've been savoring them since I got them, it really does take every bit of my willpower to keep myself from devouring all of them.\" She cracked a wide grin. \"In part, because they were a gift from my dear, sweet Carina. Call me a sucker, but I can't help but be a sap for a present from a pretty lady.\" \n\nDimitra snickered and shook her head as they wound through the trees along the path. Her breathing was growing a bit labored and she had to stop a moment to catch her breath as she leaned on a tree for support. \"I like the cold, sure, but I love the summer. Nothing like the feeling of the sun on your skin, warming you to the core... And skinny dipping.\" A mischievous grin crossed her lips. \"I'm gonna drag you to the river again, you mark my words, Miss Wilburn.\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "The notion of an adventure by Dimitra's side was one as tempting as it was exciting. Though she wouldn't pretend she knew all the ins and outs of her friend's unscrupulous line of work, from the tales she'd heard in the dark of the speakeasy it sounded like lifetimes away from the tranquil mundane that Briar Ridge was - or at least had been. Fantasies of smoky back rooms and running from the law, meeting different strangers every night, dancing in the depths of bustling cities until the sun rose... What could they do in a world without the fear of monsters lurking in the shadows?\n\nBut there were monsters everywhere. And men could be the worst monsters of them all. \n\n\"I'd go with you so long as you promised to bring me home in one piece.\" Marianne grinned. \"You could make me go anywhere with a smile like that.\"\n\nShe took advantage of the pause in their walking to fix her hair, pulling a bedraggled ribbon from her pocket and tying it in a loose knot, a weak attempt to save the curls from the unrelenting wind. \n\n\"Oh, the river... The moment the ice melts you won't be able to drag me *Away* From it,\" She insisted. \"I've missed swimming. I've missed being able to do *Anything*, I wasn't raised for these horrid winters.\" When her family had been alive, they'd stayed far away from the country, warm in townhouses, every fireplace burning as merrily as the last. Curtains had been drawn over the windows, grand meals prepared and the outside forgotten. Even after all these years, she sometimes found herself still struggling to adjust to how biting the frost could be away from the city.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "God knows, Dimitra was sick and tired of monsters. She was tired of the ones who ripped at her throat and the ones who held a gun to her head. She always knew what to expect from the monsters that lurked in the woods of the holler; but man itself was unpredictable, evil, and selfish. That was why she carried a gun on her thigh, even know, just for safety reasons and nothing more. \n\n\"I think you'd do really well in the city. You could so easily slip in and out of the crowds, soak in the bustling city centers... Oh, it's so fun Marianne, you've no idea.\" She squeezed her arm and cracked a wide grin as she watched Marianne tie her hair up. \"Here,\" She said, taking a spare bandana from her pocket and reaching to wrap it and tie it, keeping flyaways out of her face. \"How's it feel?\" She asked her. The bandana was dyed red, a deep almost-burgundy color. It was her favorite, currently. \"You look amazing, by the way.\" Her eyes sparkled. \n\n\"You know, sometimes I enjoy the winter. I like snowball fights and hot coffee on a chilly night and... A reason to get snuggled up with someone is never lost on me!\" Dimitra tipped her head back and laughed, coughing after and wincing. \"Let's do it, then. In a few weeks, we'll go somewhere exciting,\" She said and dusted herself off as she stood, confident and beaming as usual. \"I promise we'll be back for summer skinny dipping. Wouldn't miss it for the world,\" She winked and laughed."
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "Marianne stayed still, closing her eyes as Dimitra's cold hands brushed her temples, tucked her hair behind her ears, tied the bandana at the nape of her neck. It wasn't a touch she'd shy away from - despite the icy fingers, it was sweet and familiar, like the sweep of the spring's first warm breeze, and though it made her skin prickle, she had no reason to shy away from it. When she looked back up at her friend, she couldn't help but giggle, shaking her head slightly to check it was truly secure. \"That's definitely better. Thank you. Now I can properly see you smile.\"\n\nShe couldn't remember the last time she'd done any of the things her friend talked of spending the season doing. She was more inclined towards tea in the evenings, herbal blends to help her sleep, and around the time she'd hit her teens, Ma had become a lot stricter over the things that were expected of a young lady, and her chances at running amok in the snowy orchard with the Estep siblings had become less and less frequent until they faded altogether. And when it came to *Snuggling*... Well, she'd barely considered any kind of physical closeness after losing Julius. \n\nNot that she'd have minded it, perhaps. Here and there. But the opportunity hadn't often presented itself. \n\nDimitra coughed, and Marianne was brought back out of her thoughts and into the present. \"I can't wait. Really. I think I need to get away from all of this for a while.\" She sighed softly. \"Are you sure you're still alright out here? We could go somewhere, get you out of the open.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She felt so proud of herself, hands on her hips as she observed Marianne's hair tied up in her bandana. She did think she looked quite lovely. \"Keep the bandana,\" She insisted. \"It looks better on you than me.\" \n\nThough she coughed a few times, she shook her head and waved Marianne off. She couldn't come across as weak, but the icy air really did make her lungs burn just a bit. \"I'll be fine, I'm tough as nails, you know?\" She cracked a grin and straightened herself up a bit. \"All I need is to convince Father Abel to cuddle up in bed with me, and then I'll have a perfectly good winter season,\" She wiggled her eyebrows a bit before she let out a laugh again. \"Could you imagine? The pastor, cuddled up with me of all people?\" There was a strangeness to her words, as she looked off into the distance. \n\n\"I'm just looking forward to fully healing so I can get back to work. I really am getting stir crazy, and I hate sitting still. It's enough to drive me mad.\" Dimitra grimaced. \"As soon as I'm healed, I'm dragging you to the city with me,\" She swore, pushing off the tree and setting off further down the path. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "Tough as nails was just about the best way to describe Dimitra. If a werewolf attack couldn't keep her down, then surely nothing could. A little cold wind wouldn't stop her if she truly had her heart set upon completing her walk. \n\nMarianne laughed at the mere image of Father Abel cuddling *Anyone*. Admittedly she didn't know the man well (and was fine with keeping things that way, for she held no desire to spend much time in such close proximity with the church and all that came with it) but he always seemed to hold such contempt in his gaze that she couldn't imagine affection coming easily to him. \"I'm not sure even your charm could make that happen, Mimi. I know you love a challenge, but I doubt he'd be willing in all but the most dire circumstance.\" A fond roll of her eyes, and she linked arms with her friend once more to help her traverse the rocky path. \n\n\"That's a promise I'll hold you to. Some time away from the ridge would do me good,\" She decided. \"But *Only* When you've a clean bill of health from the doctor. I shan't be the one to blame for stealing you away before that... Though I'll keep my own promise of visiting as soon as you're back home. You're more than welcome to my books to keep your mind busy.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She flashed a wicked grin Marianne's way and she chewed her lip. \"Oh, you don't even know the half of it,\" She said and laughed, tipping her head back as she did. \"My charm does wonders on that man,\" Dimitra said, and it came out far more fond than she'd intended. \n\n\"You know he was the first one at my bedside after my attack? Sat there praying his heart out, clutching my hand.\" She felt a throb in her chest at the thought and squeezed Marianne's arm. \n\n\"...There is someone else I've been thinking about, too,\" She admitted. \"It's bad of me, you know? But I don't think it could ever work out. With anyone, really— I keep thinking about being a domestic type and all, but...\" Dimitra chewed her lip. \"The people I like end up thinking I'm just a fool.\" \n\nShe sighed and leaned her head, wild hair and all, on Marianne's shoulder as they walked. \"I can't wait to get gone for a little while when I can. Away from... Pastors and pretty eyes and *Werewolves*...\" She scowled. \"I can't believe that bastard got me as good as it did!\""
},
{
"author": "crow0951",
"message": "Marianne rolled her eyes. \"I suppose if any woman could charm the pastor it *Would* Be you. My father used to tell me stories of snakes and those who could whistle them into doing their every bidding... Perhaps that makes you the whistler, and poor Abel the copperhead in the grass.\"\n\nIt made sense that Dimitra would have a string of admirers, and all the more so that she would feel as though she were forced to choose between them. She was the kind of girl that drew the eye in any room she walked into - at least, when she wanted to, though she was equally likely to pass unnoticed in the darkness. With beauty like hers, she could be the sweetheart of half the town without much effort at all. \n\n\"There's no need to be making any rash decisions,\" Marianne advised softly. \"At least not now. You've still enough healing to do that I doubt anyone's breaking down your door to demand your hand in marriage or something equally crazy.\" She let Dimitra lean on her, wouldn't have pushed her away nor let go of her for the world. \"You'll be okay, I know you will. You ever want to talk it all out, get your thoughts out in the open and see if they make a little more sense when you've said them all aloud... I'll be there. You like your tea sweet, don't you? Explains how sweet your smile is.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "Dimitra shrugged a shoulder and sighed. \"Am I charming or just beautiful?\" She wondered. \"Do they like me because of *Me* Or do they like me because they like to look at me? That's my question,\" She said softly. \"I fall for these people, you know, who scrunch up their noses and tell me I'm a complete mess. People who like to live orderly lives with rules; and that's not me.\" Dimitra bit the inside of her cheek. \"I could never be what they want. Rules and order are not something I know.\" \n\nHer eyebrows knit together sadly before she pushed it away. \"It doesn't matter,\" She said softly. \"Because you're right; I don't have to make any decision anytime soon. Maybe I'll have to come to yours soon and give you all the juicy gossip, though... Tea as sweet as you are.\" \n\nShe bumped her with her hip and laughed, trying to force the tension out of her body. \"You can't let me talk the entire time, you know,\" She said. \"Now... What about you then? Hmmm?\" She raised an eyebrow. \"Give me something to work with, Marianne! I want to know about all your little gossip too, you know. I'm not about town anymore, someone needs to be filling me in.\""
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "\"You're definitely charming. Beauty comes second to wit and good conversation in any man worth his salt. Women... Well, I know less about them in that regard, but I'm sure any good woman can see beyond a pretty face too. And you've got much more to give than simply beautiful, Mimi. You've one of the purest souls I've ever had the luck of running into.\" Marianne smiled a little, and then, able to tell when a topic had run its course and Dimitra would rather move on from it entirely, pushed onwards. \n\n\"Well, seeing as you asked... Francis came to the door a couple of weeks ago. He brought wonderful cakes, just like the ones his mama used to make for us when we were children, and we talked... And since then we have talked, and talked, and talked.\" Her cheeks coloured a little, but it felt nice to get the words out in the open - she didn't often get the chance to confide in anyone like this, and with Dimitra having been shut away recovering, there had been few in Briar Ridge she felt she could really share this kind of thing with it. Not that it was meant to be a secret, but it didn't feel like the kind of thing to be telling over a shop's counter or on the corner of the street, either. \n\n\"He... He grew up rather handsome, I suppose. And trust me, I spent every summer chasing him through that orchard, and he was a sweet boy then, too. I was taken by him as soon as I knew what it meant to be taken in by a man, you know? We've been apart for so long I thought things would be different, but they aren't so far from how they used to be.\" Beet-red now, and giggling despite herself as she thought of Francis, she did all she could to press on. \"What do I do now? What's the in-fashion way to show a man you're interested?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She was relieved for a moment as the conversation moved off of her and onto Marianne's own romantic entanglements. Her eyebrows shot up into her hairline at the name of *Francis Estep*, which was not unfamiliar to her. \n\nInteresting. She knew the Esteps well enough; they owned the orchards, they produced things that she could carry in and out of Briar Ridge. Primarily, she worked for the Coopers of course, but... \n\n\"Well look at you, Miss Marianne!\" She whistled and nudged her with her elbow. \"Having cakes and *Talking* With an eligible bachelor like Francis Estep!\" Dimitra raised her eyebrows a few times, squeezing their linked arms together. \"He's handsome, alright. And a businessman, too. He'd be able to take good care of you... Financially of course, I don't know about any *Other* Way.\" A mischievous grin crossed her face at her own innuendo. \n\n\"Now? Well, now...\" She looked up to the treetops. \"You could do what I do, which is outright make your feelings known. You don't have to say it as much as... Dropping hints.\" \n\nDimitra kicked a rock down the path, using the side of her foot to do so. \"Showing him lots of affection, complimenting him, asking to be alone together. Francis seems like the kind of man who wants to be the one to make the first big move, but God knows, all men are the same— and he'd be a fool not to fall for you, Marianne. So... You'll need to lead him to the conclusion that he *Must* Have you.\" She stopped walking and turned to face her, so they were looking at each other in the eye. \"You could invite him over, make dinner. Accidentally brush your leg against his, just barely, and see if he presses his leg against yours in response. Watch his eyes, tuck your hair behind your ear, lick your lips. Then make your moves accordingly.\" She squeezed her shoulders and laughed. \"Does that help?\""
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "Just when Marianne thought she couldn't flush any deeper, Dimitra let out what could only be described as a wolf-whistle, and though there was nobody around to hear nor see, the redhead's cheeks burned almost as brightly as her hair. \"Mimi!\" She whined, but it was impossible not to laugh a little too, as Dimitra launched into talk of Francis *Taking care* Of her, and of dropping hints and touching and *Flirting*, all things with which Miss Wilburn could only describe herself as woefully inexperienced. \n\n\"I think I can do some of those. Not all of them! But some,\" She decided, deep in thought as they picked their way along the path and she tried not to dislodge the rocks beneath her feet. \"He has nice hands, and strong arms. I've been making a point to try to hold them.\" She smiled. \"He's just such a *Gentleman*. Always has time for me, seems to want nothing more than to sit in the kitchen together and listen to me talk. And I'm finding I have so much to say after all these years without any more than a wave and a smile. It's... Exciting, I suppose? I really never thought I'd get to experience that kind of thing all over again. Not after Julius, and the wedding plans, and... Well, you know how that turned out. I rather like not being a hermit after all.\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "\"Ugh, gentlemen,\" She teased her with a fake eyeroll, a grin on her lips. \"Aren't gentlemen just the worst? They never want to make a proper move! They want to sit around and gaze into your eyes, smile and not lay down their feelings for fear of coming on too strong!\" Dimitra was only half joking, of course. \"I believe you can do all of that and *More*, Mari.\"\n\nThey turned a corner and she spotted a patch of mushrooms, peeking up just barely through the cold grass. She stopped a moment to pick one up, before she was plucking them from the ground and stuffing them into the front pocket of her dress. \"It's sweet, though,\" She said after a moment. \"If he makes you happy... And in turn, you make him happy, then you don't need any other reason.\" She paused a moment, as if her own kind of realization was dawning on her. \n\n\"And you should take risks. Because you know, of course, taking chances is important. You never know how things might go. You never know how things might change.\" She turned to face her friend now. \"So you should really go for it. Totally and truly, take this newfound... *Relationship* By the reigns, Mari!\" She insisted. \"Before some pretty church-\" She paused a moment to collect herself in her slip up. \"Before some other woman decides to take her chance, you know?\""
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "As usual, Dimitra was right. It was one of the reasons Marianne liked to confide in her - she always knew what to say, how to make the world seem a little simpler. Things could get so overwhelming when one kept them to herself, Marianne was lucky, privileged even, to have a friend she could turn to before it all got to be too much to bear. \nAnd when she said she *Believed* In her, it made Marianne believe in herself. \n\nShe knelt to study the mushrooms, winter oyster by the looks of them, and picked a few for herself, slipping them into her shopping bag. It always made her marvel to see what the forest floor had to offer for them, even in such harsh conditions. And if the mushrooms could be resilient enough to flourish even through the mountain winters, then the townsfolk could survive, too. They'd make it through, just as the cream-white caps of the fungi did. She made sure to only take what she'd need for the time being, wondering how well they'd turn out if she were to dry them on the stove. \n\n\"He does make me happy, Mimi. I don't think it's much of a risk to take... And even if it were, I've spent so long avoiding risks that perhaps it's time to take one.\" She smiled, sitting back on her heels. \"Thank you. I'm sure the next time I see you I'll have news on the whole situation.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She had taken enough to cook for dinner tonight; she thought maybe Abel would like it if he came home to something warm on the stove, which was a terrifyingly domestic thought. \n\n\"Then you deserve to be with someone who makes you happy,\" Dimitra said, straightening up and smoothing out her skirts as best she could. She looked to the sky and took a deep breath, before she just came right out with it. \n\n\"What I was talking about before,\" She said, looking over at Marianne with a hope for an answer. \"I almost certainly have deep feelings for Abel Hughes,\" She said softly. \"But that's ridiculous, isn't it? Our lifestyles... Can you imagine? And I'm not going to become a pastor's wife proper! I'm not giving up my life!\" She bit down on her lip in thought. \"Can you just tell me that I'm being stupid about the whole thing and to give up?\" \n\nShe knew it wasn't the answer but she wished it could be. It would be less stressful that way. \"I suppose... Things are just complicated when it comes to love. Too many uncertainties.\" She bit down on her lip before she cast her a smile. \n\n\"But I demand a full report next time on everything.\" She nudged her with her elbow. \"All the nitty gritty, dirty details,\" Dimitra laughed aloud at the thought. \"Promise?\""
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "Marianne shook her head almost imperceptibly, the gentlest refusal she could manage. Dimitra having those kinds of feelings for the pastor... It wasn't something she exactly adored the idea of. But who was she to deny her friend a shot at happiness? At love? \"I won't tell you that. If you're looking for someone to shut it down, I'm not that girl. I think... If he's important to you, then you should do what your heart thinks is right and good.\" \nShe sighed softly. \"Love, in all its forms, is woefully complex. All we can do is try to keep up with it.\"\n\nA smile, then. \"I'll tell you everything. I promise. Every sordid detail, from every time we touch to the things he says and does that make me feel like a teenager again.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She bit down on her lip a moment and nodded, sliding her arm back through Marianne's. She wasn't sure what she should do, still. It was all so... Confusing. She supposed she'd just have to think about it. \n\nAs they headed back along from whence they came, she looked to the sky with a heaving breath. \"You'd better. I'll know if you're holding out on me, Mari,\" She flashed her a grin. \"And you'll be the first to know if I make any *Moves*,\" She raised her eyebrows a few times and laughed. \"As if that would ever happen,\" She shook her head and just smiled thoughtfully. \n\n\"My legs are killing me,\" She said as they walked back towards town. \"I don't know what I was thinking.\" Dimitra shook her head. \"Would you mind walking me back to the Hughes residence?\" She asked her."
},
{
"author": "crow0951",
"message": "Marianne took Dimitra's arm again with ease, making sure she was properly supported before they turned back down the track, their pace a little slower than before. She could sense that her friend was tiring, and when the admittance came that she was in pain, her worries were proven worthwhile. \n\"Of course I'll walk you back, I wouldn't dream of letting you go alone.\" She only hoped she could get there and away without running into the pastor himself, but if he had been out long enough for Dimitra to slip away unnoticed, then perhaps he would stay away a while longer and allow time for Marianne to deposit her friend safely back in bed. He could remain none the wiser in regards to his patient's little jaunt back out into the world. \"I'm not so sure what you were thinking either, but I learned long ago not to question you, see. Or at least, to question you as little as possible. Perhaps next time you venture out you'll consider appropriate footwear? Something to support your poor legs at least until you're fully recovered?\" It was half a tease, half a genuine request. She did hope to see Dimitra again sooner rather than later, but that would require the other woman making a true effort when it came to her healing.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She huffed out a little noise. \"The lack of shoes is hardly the issue here,\" She argued. \"I just don't think I should've taken such a long walk is all.\" She was a little breathless and wincing every few steps. Although, Marianne wasn't wrong. The ground was frigid and she couldn't even feel her own toes. \n\n\"I'll consider it, however. For next time.\" Dimitra was not one for wearing much else besides what she usually did. She was so warm all the time, she relished in the cold too. \"I'm going to make a broad assumption and say you don't want to come in for tea,\" She said, casting a look to her side at her friend. \n\n\"Abel wouldn't bother you anyhow,\" She waved her hand around. \"He's always around... And when he's not, he's at the church.\" She raised her eyebrows. \"But he's been out of the church more and more. He's been so concerned about me, he won't leave my side most days. He's giving that poor assistant of his quite the load of work to do.\" She shook her head and cast Marianne a look. \n\n\"But don't be a stranger, Mari. I wonder if people don't come to visit me because of where I'm staying... Though Rhett doesn't have any trouble with coming over to bother me.\" She snickered."
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "Marianne simply nodded - she knew when it was worth pressing on against Dimitra's protests, and when to let her well alone, and she sensed that the topic of footwear was one she wasn't going to win the fight on. This damn stubborn woman knew what she wanted and even better what she didn't want, and no doubt if Marianne pushed back again she'd only be more inclined to venture out barefoot again even more. \n\"For next time. Of course. And - no. I'll save taking tea with you for when you're back in your own home, sweet. Though I don't doubt you when you say he wouldn't cause a stir, I shouldn't think he'd take too kindly to my being in his home when I haven't darkened the church's aisle in years.\" She laughed a little. \"He must have enough on his mind without having to add me to his list of most pressing concerns.\"\n\nShe paused, turning to look Dimitra in the face. \"Rhett visits you at the pastor's house? You never mentioned that. My, I feel as though I haven't seen that man in months. How is he?\""
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She rolled her eyes fondly and smiled as they walked along, eyes tracking the ground for any little shiny rock or interesting object. She had a tendency to collect little bits around town, keeping them in a little box in her room. \n\n\"He wouldn't come and hassle you,\" She shook her head. \"Abel isn't nearly as bad as you think he is.\" Or maybe she had a soft spot for him. His fire and brimstone talks went in one ear and out the other because frankly, she was too busy looking at the crinkle in his brow and the set of his jaw. \n\nDimitra seemed surprised at Marianne's surprise, but laughed it off. \"Oh, visit is a way to describe it. Crawling in my bedroom window at night is another. He's been sneaking me booze,\" She tilted her head back to laugh. \"And we gossip and all. He's been... Better, got into a nasty fight with Alma but I think they've been settling it.\" She waved her hand vaguely. \"That pretty boy is a mess, I'll tell you that.\" She grinned anyhow. \"Like I said, you're more than welcome to come visit me...\" She trailed off as the Hughes residence appeared off in the distance."
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "\"You want me climbing in your window too?\" Marianne laughed. \"It might go down better than my coming in the front door if the dear Father is around... I'm teasing, I promise. I believe you when you say he'd leave me alone. Though do tell him a lack of faith isn't contagious. And I don't intend to go poisoning any innocent minds with my suspended beliefs.\" She nudged Dimitra's shoulder lightly. \"I won't say I'll never visit. But I'd also like to say I'll see you home sooner rather than later, and the moment you're there I'll be on the doorstep. With sweets and tales of my next meeting with Francis. That's a promise.\" \n\nShe shouldn't have been surprised to hear about Rhett's nighttime adventures, really. It was well known that that man made his way about town, but at least his intentions with Dimitra seemed innocent - and even if they weren't, it appeared her thoughts were preoccupied with a very different man. What a web it was that had been woven, and how hard one would have to think to even begin to untangle it."
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "Though she couldn't deny that her and Rhett had gotten up to no good once or twice, that was well in the past for both of them; thick as thieves, they were, on a purely platonic level now. \n\nShe giggled and stepped up onto the bottom step of the porch and turned to hug Marianne around the shoulders, pressing two big kisses to her cheeks. \"If you want to crawl in my window, by all means!\" She clapped her hands together and looked over her shoulder at the door, a soft smile on her lips. \"I'll let him know you said so,\" She turned back to Marianne with a warm grin. \n\n\"I'm going to take the longest bath on earth and have a lie down,\" She told her friend, blowing her a kiss before she stepped for the door, pulling it open. If one listened closely, you could hear the pastor off in another room, cursing her name for having run off, and she laughed. \n\n\"Bye Marianne!\" She called through the open door. \"And remember, seize Francis by the reigns!\" She waved and shut the door up tight."
}
] | 293 | 9,838 |
496.444444 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "wesley gray.",
"message": "Mornings after a full moon had become familiar in the worst way in Briar Ridge. It had been a handful of days since Wesley awoke, dread hissing from every creak in the floorboards as he made his way downstairs. The Grays had been lucky; so far, the beasts had avoided their flock in favor of larger prey. All the while, though, as Wes had hauled on his boots and pulled on his thick wool sweater, something gnawed at his gut in a way it hadn't in previous nights. \n\nHe knew it as soon as he walked outside. The fog had been dense that morning but there was a visible blot of darkness where a hole had been torn in the side of the smaller barn. Most of the sheep were huddled together on the far side of the field, bleating nervously at Wesley as he approached. When he entered he found what remained of a sheep he'd named Josephine. Around the corner was Perla, torn in two. Lastly he found it: Cathy, who he'd named after borrowing a copy of *Wuthering Heights* From Miss Grant at the library, had delivered her lamb in the night. \n\nWhether this lured the beast or it had been some other stroke of fate mattered little. All that mattered was that Wesley had lost three of his youngest lambing ewes, and now there was a big, messy hole to board up. As he knelt to begin cleaning the carnage Wesley had been shocked to find that somehow, despite being dangerously cold and still, the lamb was still alive. \n\nIn the days since, he'd been nursing her himself and carrying her around in a sling he'd fashioned from a blanket. Ruby, as he had taken to calling her, spent most of the day sleeping at Wesley's side or crying to be fed. The farmer in him knew better than to get attached to her, but Wes couldn't deny her the chance after she'd made it through such a night.\n\nHe couldn't avoid the workload ahead of him, though, so he'd taken his horse into town to pick up some more nails from the general store. Wes' mood was a little sour. He'd planned on using a lot of that milk for the next batch of soap. With three fewer ewes, the yield was bound to be slimmer, and winter was approaching. In his satchel he carried the severed hooves of his lost ewes. He'd have to stop by the butcher with those, see if he couldn't get a few cents for them.\n\nThe lamb in his sling let out a bleat of protest as Wesley dismounted in town and tied up his horse. \n\n\"Relax, relax,\" He sighed, patting the outside of the blanket. Whether he was talking to himself or the lamb was entirely up for debate. He didn't want to keep carrying around the sheep's parts, and as a result set out down the road to the butcher's shop."
},
{
"author": "petra osterhaus . . .",
"message": "`CONTENT WARNING: descriptions of cow death/gore.`\n\nThe meat of a wolf-murdered cow was a waste. By morning, the flies would have already beaten Petra to the carcass, maggots soon to follow. The bodies would have to be buried at least to the height of a man below the earth to avoid a foul smell upon decomposition, and even then the coyotes and the rats may still be attracted. Burning was the best option, though the pyres smelled unsettlingly like a decent dinner once the hair singed away.\n\nBefore the bones were charred completely through, the ashes were collected, what calcium remained set to be tilled into the garden soil to feed the potatoes. Petra had only just washed the smell of that thick death smoke, along with stains of rancid black blood from her skirts and aprons, mourning all the while for the loss of life that brought forth such a sad ritual. The wolves did not deal a death blow to the skull or the spine, instead eating their prey alive while it watched them do so. \n\nFinally presentable in sight and smell, she was overdue for a trip to town. She took the short journey on foot, with a large empty canvas pack over her shoulders to carry back the supplies. After an hour of errands on Main Street, her burden was heavy with flour, cornmeal, and yards of folded fabric. Her last stop was the butcher to collect money from last week's beef and pork commission. At the opposite side of the door, she spotted a friendly face. \n\n\"Wesley,\" Petra greeted softly, doing a light skip to readjust her heavy pack. As she approached, she realized that what he held at his chest was not his own grocery haul, but a little lamb. \n_ _\n\n\"Oh, Liebchen, look at you. So warm in there, yes.\" She greeted the lamb, the alternate harsh/soft of her thick German accent unexpectedly soothing. Her eyes were still bright and soft from the sight of the sweet baby when she looked up to ask why the little darling was not warming beside its own mother, but then she remembered the moon. Her expression darkened. \n\n\"How has the flock fared this month?\" She asked, hesitantly. Perhaps she should have left more time for small talk and niceties, but death was always on Petra's mind. She did not consider it an unfit subject for most occasions, and casual conversation was no exception."
},
{
"author": "wesley gray.",
"message": "Wesley was putting his change into his pocket, hopeful about what bonuses he might reap with an extra 85¢ in his pocket. Petra's appearance was a welcome one; Wesley only ever saw her in passing around this time of year, when both of them were busily preparing for the coming winter (and the arrival of the holidays). He didn't even have to say a word – Petra's razor wit had already pieced together Wesley's reasoning for having the lamb with him. He expected as much and used the time to rebutton his coat, adjust the scarf he'd adopted for his ride into town. \n\nHer question amused him a little. It was just like Petra to get right to business; it was in her nature, but Wesley wondered how much of it was because of the slaughterhouse. His little homestead-farm was on its own time, which was to say that it was on nature's time and Wesley was merely an interpreter of patterns, perennially obedient to the whims of the land. A slaughterhouse was manmade and precise; it operated on swift, regular protocol, and Petra seemed to employ the same qualities in speech. This hardly bothered Wesley. He and his own family were quite the opposite; Grays were fond of conversation. Pearlene, especially, made it her business to try to learn everyone *Else's* Business who walked in the door. After this last full moon, though, Wes just didn't have it in him to pretend his mind was on much else. \n\n\"I'm sure you can guess,\" He sighed, absently patting the little lamb's head. \"Lost three of my ewes. This one's momma was lambin'. Guess the noise caught its attention,\" He said of the beast, his face drawn.\n\n\"Won't be as much soap to sell,\" He continued, dancing around the gravity of the issue. \"Seems like there're bigger fish to fry, though. How're you and yours?\"\n\nWhat he really meant to ask was whether the Osterhaus' livestock had suffered a similar fate. Wesley often had a habit of softening his questions, speaking in turns of phrase when he would rather not be direct. He appreciated Petra's ability to spearhead the conversation."
},
{
"author": "petra osterhaus . . .",
"message": "Petra searched in Wesley's face for his impending answer, as if the slightest bit impatient with his sigh. She watched the little lamb close its sleepy young eyes against his keeper's idle touch, and suddenly she had all the time in the world for a reply. She looked dreamily back up to Wes' face as he paused, darkening again as she took note of how the corners of his mouth fell. \n\nBigger fish to fry? The disconnect was sudden; Petra had never heard this combination of words. Her only recourse was to believe Wesley was referring to actual fishmongering as a replacement for the lost soap income. \n\n\"We lost only one cow this month. The wound made to another was fixed, and he will heal.\" Petra answered with her own account of bloodshed, sweeping past Wesley's soft broaching of the question. She was still caught on the fish comment, but had prioritized maintaining the order of responses in the conversation before asking a follow up question. \n\n\"Tell me— what fish are you meaning?\" She persisted, only realizing when the question was out of her mouth that he might have been using some cheeky play on words. Her English was intellectually understandable, but her conversation and humor left a bit to be desired, \"Or were you making a joke?\" \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "wesley gray.",
"message": "Oh, shucks. Inwardly Wesley was kicking himself. Outwardly, his neck had begun to itch as an embarrassed flush crept unseen up his throat and settled heat into his cheeks. He knew better than to use those kinds of idioms around Petra, who didn't have the requisite culture to explain them. \n\nHe broke out into what he hoped was a slow and easy smile as if to ask for forgiveness, tugging with his free hand at the scarf he'd tied around himself. It had started out as a nice oatmeal color but over the years had been patched and repaired into a colorful bricolage of oranges and greens. \n\n\"That's my bad, Ms. Petra,\" He chuckled, sheepish. \"Bigger fish to fry just means I've got more important things to worry about. It's a figure of speech, is all.\" \n\nLucky for the Osterhauses not to have lost much of their yield. Wesley felt some relief at the sound of it. If the Grays couldn't provide mutton, the Osterhauses had beef. No one would go hungry — provided, of course, that they were as lucky during the ensuing full moons. As the holidays approached there'd be more of a demand countywide for all sorts of goods, not just in Briar Ridge. Even the Grays had begun venturing outside of town to sell canned vegetables, and homespun wool yarn for homemade gifts. \n\nThere was still the matter of the beast — beasts? — and Wesley hardly knew how to handle that. His was a mind suited to careful monitoring of the land and his sheep, to nosing through a book on the porch, to inhaling apple cookies fresh out of the oven. He was a farmer, and could handle the employment of death. Hell, he'd had to dispatch countless rabbits in his time. All of those deaths, though, had been in his control. All of those deaths had a purpose, whether it was to feed a paying family or to keep the rest of the herd stronger when a straggler was born. Those were deaths of which Wesley could make sense. Because they made sense, he could let them go.\n\nHe couldn't let go of this, and it showed in the uncharacteristic sadness he wore as though he'd borrowed it from his older brother. He never did borrow anything from Ezra for long, though. He hoped his brother might yank this responsibility away from him so that he could wash his hands of it. In the same breath, he knew he'd never let Ezra carry the weight. Wesley had long since decided this. The lion's share of responsibility on the farm was his for a reason. That reason would remain close to his heart but it was, in some way or another, his motivation for asking Petra his next question.\n\n\"If y'all find yourselves needing any extra hands, you let us know,\" He continued, reaching up to absently scratch at the back of his head. \"My horse is tied at the end of this block, if you want us to carry home some of that load for you. That fabric looks mighty heavy.\" \n\nAll he knew how to do when he felt powerless was offer his help. It was among the only ways he felt like he had any control over his circumstances."
},
{
"author": "petra osterhaus . . .",
"message": "Wesley's smile caused further agitation, at first. He seemed to be quite enjoying whatever joke he'd made at her expense, but oh! — he was teaching her. Now, she was smiling too. \n\n\n\nAt Wes' offer for help, Petra gave but a curt nod and a steely look. She was sure the Grays had plenty of their own work, so it made little sense to her why Wesley would offer to step away from it to pay her a kindness she hadn't asked for. The courtesy of the Southern United States had never settled into the collective psyche of the Osterhaus family. Their own familial moral code guided them to be generous as they experienced excess, and to be kind when kindness was shown to them. It did not freely prescribe acts of charity. On the contrary: there was fine print that encouraged incredulity upon offers of senseless goodwill. \n\nHaving spent more time around the citizens of Briar Ridge than her parents, aunts, uncles, etc., Petra did have a unique understanding of the warmth exchanged between neighbors, but this did not mean she practiced it. Still, she'd observed enough to know that people here became offended at too many refusals of kindness, and she resolved to decline his offer politely: by not acknowledging it at all. She moved on.\n\n\"I am fine to carry it.\" She paused, familiar enough with the cadence of these kinds of exchanges to hear a hole in the response. \"Thank you,\" She filled it. \n_ _\n\nBehind Wesley, affixed to a wooden notice board outside the butcher shop, Petra caught sight of a flier she'd found elsewhere around town. The pages seemed like they'd been on view for a while— the weather had wrinkled and ripped them, but the text was still legible: `ANTI-WEREWOLF COALITION.`\n\nShe pointed suddenly to the notice. \n\"You've seen this?\" She asked, striding forward and reaching out to take the paper in her hand, \"Have you been to work with them? Something must be done, it is good to see people meeting.\" Petra nodded again, lowering the flier to peer over at the lamb in Wes' sling. A small, fast smile twitched over her lips, borne mostly of sadness. Her brows came together as she addressed the animal. \n\n\"Your mother should not have been taken from you so soon.\" \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "wesley gray.",
"message": "Wesley chuckled, a little embarrassed. He ought to have known as much. Southern hospitality was hardwired into his brain, so much so that offering assistance – or sustenance, or just about anything – was second-nature for him. He'd never ventured far from Briar Ridge, and his relative naivety often got the better of him when it came to cultural boundaries. Discomfort swelled in his belly as Petra pointed out the flier, which he'd been doing his best to avoid. \n\nIn truth, he was painfully aware that townsfolk had been meeting. But his family had already befallen so much tragedy. He didn't want to be responsible for any more of it. Throwing himself to the wolves, so to speak, felt a little like picking up a self-fulfilling prophecy he'd been trying to leave in the past.\n\n\"No,\" He admitted. \"Just been real busy. Ezra has plans to help out this weekend. I'll probably be stuck on the farm.\"\n\nIt wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth, either. He couldn't deny that he'd begun to use his responsibilities on the farm as something of a crutch, particularly when Ezra was perfectly capable of helping out more often. It was easier to say he had other responsibilities than it was to say he was scared. \n\n\"I'm gonna take his place,\" He said suddenly, as though announcing it to Petra would further solidify the idea in his mind. \"I want to help.\" *I'd rather it be me than him.* \n\nPetra was near-impossible for Wesley to read. He was grateful he'd brought the lamb with him as a sort of bridge for communication. He only shrugged at her words.\n\n\"It was only a matter of time,\" He sighed. \"But this one comes from a good bloodline. Can't let it go to waste. She'll bring us better lambs when she's bigger.\"\n\nHe frowned for a moment. He'd forgotten what it meant to anticipate the future on a larger scale, so preoccupied with the details of the contained life he'd managed to create. In his efforts to maintain control, perhaps he'd woven himself into a lidless basket.\n\n\"You want to come and join up?\" He asked. \"We should all be –\" He paused, searching for a more suitable way to say *On the same page.* \"We should all know what the plan is, I reckon. If there's a plan at all,\" He added, looking a little miffed at the idea of having to improvise."
},
{
"author": "petra osterhaus . . .",
"message": "Petra'd had a reply at the tip of her tongue as Wesley made his proclamation, but she held it. Her smile, once meant for the lamb, was now meant for Wes. She nodded hurriedly along to talk of the animals before the subject turned again to defense. \n\n\"Oh, yes. I would very much like that.\" She agreed hastily, \"We will be together there. I hope, too, that my brothers will join.\" She told him, pleased to hear their values align in the way of service. Urs and Aurel were often 'busy' out of town, securing markets for the products such as hide, bone, and hooves that their slaughter operation produced in excess. She had a theory that they were taking advantage of these brief but frequent escapes from under their mother's thumb to enjoy pleasures outside of Briar Ridge (including but not limited to women, gambling, and dirty, dirty booze). They barely tried to hide the lipstick stains on their collars in front of her. \n\nFrankly, Petra didn't care who the twins shared beds with, as long as they came home and kept their corners of the farm sharp and functioning. She'd adopted a colder regard for them as they had grown up and away from each other, losing track of where to place the love she'd always offered them. They had no use for her sisterly affections now that they had spread their wings so wide outside this town. Perhaps, if they were keen to join the fight against the beasts, all three siblings' involvement in this quest would bring them close again. Wishful thinking. Petra wouldn't let herself fall into such a daydream before she'd even shown them the flier. \n_ _\n\nBack in the present, Petra nodded in agreement, reading over the paper for the fourth or fifth time. \n\"You have a gun to bring?\" She looked quizzically up at him, her eyes glinting with a curious violence. The only weapon of which she claimed mastery was her captive bolt pistol, but she'd never placed it in a combat setting. Her father told her that its force could shatter bone if positioned correctly, but she figured the beasts would not be as still and lumbering as cattle. Perhaps the boys could lend something from their sport hunting arsenal, a hobby she detested. \n\n\"I hear the beasts calling, on the nights they come. I have never seen one.\" She admitted grimly, carefully watching Wesley's face for a reaction, \"I should want your lamb to tell us what to expect.\" \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "wesley gray.",
"message": "\"I've never seen one either.\" Wesley frowned at the very idea, looking a little like he'd touched something nasty in the wash basin. \"I don't really care to change that until we have to.\"\n\nHe'd never seen Petra's brothers before, only heard them mentioned in passing. If they were anything like Petra, Wesley surmised he might have to do more of the talking. Maybe they weren't, though. He wasn't really anything like his brother. Or his other brothers, either, when they'd been around to compare. On the contrary Wesley felt more like an only child than anything else, most of the time.\n\nHe frowned at her question. The Grays weren't hunters, and only had a few arms lying around the house. His father's hunting rifle was mostly meant for scaring off coyotes who wandered too close to the field, and it did its job well enough. Unless...\n\n\"I'll borrow my brother's gun,\" He replied, nodding to himself. \"And I'll learn how to actually shoot it, too.\" It was a joke, and he laughed to punctuate it, but Wesley's concern was written all over his face. His big brown eyes were shadowed and wide with a concern he figured was useless to hide from Petra.\n\nIt was rare that Wes saw Petra Osterhaus smile. It was more difficult still to yield a smile from her for longer than a second. To see it bloom at his decision was affirming. If Petra's work ethic saw sense in Wes' decision-making then, surely, he was making the right choice. He was, wasn't he?\n\n\"Think I'm done taking chances with my lambs.\" Wesley chuckled, a dark sound. \"She'll be at home with Ez. I'm glad we ran into each other, Petra. I wouldn't have seen that flier otherwise.\" His mouth set into a hard line as he thought, doing his best to avoid idioms in farewell.\n\n\"I'll see you there,\" He concluded. \"You might want to bring something to carry jam. No doubt my mama'll send me off with goods for everyone. Y'all be safe, now.\""
}
] | 500 | 4,468 |
533.705882 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "When you're a nurse in Briar Ridge, it wasn't often you'd get to step outside and take a deep breath of that cool air. The days were gettin' warmer but the nights still felt nice and cool, even as the moon rose up in the distance. It was that perfect moment, as the sun was disappearing and the world got all pink and purple and grey in the sky. \n\nLorelai had a rare moment to breathe tonight. Maybe it was because of the recent events, or maybe it was just the look on her face and the fact that she might be getting grey hairs— but Nathaniel had ushered her right out the door and told her to take a walk; suck in some cool air for an hour or two, and get some rest. She had argued and huffed and crossed her arms, but the doctor had seemed intent that she had been working herself to the bone since the full moon. \n\nSo, she'd washed up at home and set about taking that well-deserved stroll. She wasn't used to it; taking in the world around her lately had been done through the windows of their little doctors ward, and she didn't mind it. She often walked through the square with her eyes half closed, prepared to drop into bed half dressed from the doorway, and pass out for the next few hours. \n\nBut she felt a little more awake today; she took in the sight of children playing in the last bits of light. People bringing in their things from outside, fires being lit in houses and casting warm glows on their windowpanes. \n\nShe came to a stop at a wooden bench, which she took to sit down and sigh. The world could be beautiful when you didn't think about all the bad things around it. And Lorelai also couldn't help but think how lonely it could be, too. Families, couples, friends. Maybe she worked too hard. Maybe that was it. \n\nLorelai did, however, see one person alone. She sat up a little straighter and flattened out her dress as she gave a subtle wave to the woman; just a mild greeting with bashfulness tacked on the edges. \"Miss Templeton,\" She said.\n\nShe rested her hands in her lap afterward, worrying a loose thread on her dress. Carina Templeton — the last time she'd tried to speak to her, she'd gotten little response. Following the death of Mrs. Bigby, she'd tried to check in. The woman had barely answered the door. Understandable; from the way the woman had posted up at the side of the woman's bed, she came to understand that they had something of a familial relationship. She could understand that heartache; to lose someone you loved that much. \n\nBut now, she could see that Carina had not wasted away, as she'd feared. \"How're you this evenin'?\" She asked her. She hoped she wasn't intrudin' on her night. How terrible that would be."
},
{
"author": "CARInA VAnORA TEMPLETOn",
"message": "Now that Carina shared her home with another, she needed to get more creative with how she found her time alone. For a few weeks after Lily's arrival, Carina would stay late at the general store, hiding up in her old apartment and sometimes even cooking herself dinner there. After a while, she got fed up with herself, wondering why she'd even bothered moving out to the old Baker house at all if she was just going to be squatting back here in an abandoned apartment. The next day after this realization, she put an advertisement out on the town notice board to rent out the shop apartment, keeping herself from fleeing to her old sanctuary. \n\nNext, she tried sequestering herself to her bedroom, but quickly grew bored of the confinement. After attempting to remain in the common areas of the home in the evenings for a few nights straight, she became intolerant of waiting for Lily to either appear or not appear. The anxiety of the guesswork involved in this approach was exhausting. So, she began to take walks. Now that the weather was warming up, she found this to be the best solution to being active, alone, and unbothered by social obligations. \n\nThese walks reminded her of the days she'd first arrived to Briar Ridge: getting used to all the strange outside noises at night, having staring contests with the empty darkness near the treeline. It had felt romantic and mysterious then. Somewhere along the way she'd lost that curiosity of flirting with the void of night, distracted by her new responsibilities at the general store, and her budding kinship with Mrs. Bigby. Now though, she was free to rebuild her courtship with the stars and lightning bugs, even allowing herself a smile each time an owl spoke up, or when the choruses of peeper frogs swelled at the edges of the river. \n_ _\n\nTonight's stroll led her through town. Some evenings she had a strange unconscious urge to see other people out and about. Even the ambiguous shadow of a passing teenager would meet her quota for vague companionship. As she heard her name sound out from beneath the oak tree in the square, though, she frowned to be receiving more attention than she had bargained for. \n\nLorelai Roswell beckoned with a wave from the bench a few feet away. At first, Carina thought to return the wave and keep on her route, but her recent run in with Dimitra had inspired what might be identified as a streak of compassion in Carina's cold heart. She could recall her last couple interactions with the nurse, and in each one of them, Carina acknowledged to herself that she'd been far from cordial. Perhaps she owed Miss Roswell a handful of pleasantries. \n\n\"Miss Roswell.\" Carina tipped her head, pausing slightly before stepping her way over to the bench. She didn't waste any breath asking to join her; she just sat down, with a healthy space between them. She looked out at the empty square and sighed. \n\"Why, I'm alright.\" She offered, glancing down at her feet and pausing a moment, \"I'm sorry I was a bit short the last time you came calling for me. It's... Nice to see you again.\" The apology was a struggle, and the compliment (if you could call it that) was moreso. It was all she could afford for the moment, not thinking to ask after Lorelai's health or mental state, even given the recent bloody string of events, of which Carina was well aware. She was abundantly self-centered in that way, how it took everything she had to volunteer a simple human greeting, and at the end had no energy left to search the situation for anything she'd forgotten to address. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "She hadn't expected Carina to stop, nor had she expected her to come over and strike up conversation. From the impressions she'd had of Carina Templeton, she didn't seem like someone who liked to make idle chit-chat. In fact, the few times Lorelai had tried to do so at the general store, she was sure the pleasantries had made Carina uncomfortable. Perhaps that wasn't the right word either— but it looked like she had bugs under her skin, eyebrows knit together and disgruntled. \n\nIt hadn't been much better at all when Mrs. Bigby had passed. She knew Carina had mourned the woman, and she didn't deny her the chance to be upset and angry at the world. People dealt with their grief differently; which was why Lorelai hadn't been upset when her attempts at checking in afterward had gone unanswered or clipped. Carina had been dealing with so much— she'd seen worse in her life than a woman with a little bit of anger under her skin. \n\nSo Carina's seat beside her and her subsequent apology took her by surprise. Lorelai looked at her out of the corner of her eye before she twisted, turning her body more to face her. \"It's nice t' see you again too,\" She said, and Lorelai tilted her head a bit. The setting sun was lowering and that moon was coming slowly, casting a glow on the outline of Carina's elegant face. Lorelai didn't know much about her, but she knew she wasn't from here— she carried herself different, she seemed so much more... *Refined*, all around. Even the way she sat— Lorelai fixed her sitting position to be a little more like it, even. \n\n\"Everyone deals with these things differently,\" She said with a clearing of her throat. Her eyes went back out to the world, searching the landscape. \"Some people cry and some people get real mad. And some people... Just rather feel nothin' at all.\" Lorelai chewed her lip a moment before she paused and pushed her hand into her pocket to retrieve the folded up handkerchief. \"I made cookies,\" She said to her.\n\nShe unfolded the embroidered handkerchief and revealed those sugar cookies, holding out the square to her to share. She even slid a little closer on the bench so they could share easier. \"You can have as many as you'd like, I got plenty more at home,\" She assured her. \"I been so anxious because of everything... I don't know what to do with myself when I got free time. If I don't do somethin', I'll start starin' at the wall and thinking of the worst.\" She bit into a cookie with a snap and chewed slowly."
},
{
"author": "CARInA VAnORA TEMPLETOn",
"message": "Hearing her \"Compliment\" Echoed back to her, Carina felt the struggle anew. It wasn't a lie, though. She was glad, she supposed, for the chance to make a better impression on Lorelai from the last time she'd seen her. She wondered if the nurse meant it. Was she truly glad to share a bench with a woman who'd previously been so sour towards her? Carina crossed her arms– not for any feelings of reproach, simply because it was her default comfort station. \n\nShe could feel Lorelai looking at her, and kept her eyes trained ahead on the sleepy street, watching a few kids come out to light the gas lamps to answer the quickening blanket of darkness. Carina made sure her posture was right: shoulders back, chin level, spine straight. She only looked back over at Lorelai as the other woman faced forward again. This wasn't the first time Carina had studied her. She'd found ample time to watch the nurse from the corner of her eye while Lorelai was working in the doctor's ward. Holding Mrs. Bigby's hand, Carina's attention had roamed from her mentor many times to the sweet smiling face of Miss Roswell; her gentle eyes and pretty pursed lips were a constant source of distraction from mourning. Naturally, she had resented her for being *So pretty* While Carina was noblely busy trying to be solemn at the bedside of Mrs. Bigby. \n\nNow that the worst of her grief storm had blown over, and Lorelai was not so closely stitched into the fabric of hospital linens and the smell of iodine, she was even prettier a thing to be distracted by. Carina forgot to look away before Lorelai's attention was back on her, which caused a slight heat to rise to her cheeks. \n\nToo busy thinking of Lorelai's lovely little upturned nose, and the neatly woven arrangement of dark hair that framed her delicate face, Carina conveniently forgot to get angry at the nurse's commentary on grief. Even so, as Carina played Lorelai's words back to try and summon some indignation, a stack of cookies was produced. \n_ _\n\nStill silent, Carina took two treats without hesitation, stealing them back to herself with the protective manner of a scared mouse. \n\n\"These are delicious,\" Carina commented, unable to withhold praise over a delicious thing, mouth impolitely full. Against Lorelai's polite chewing, Carina crunched loudly, reaching for a third cookie while the second was still unbitten in her hand. \n\nEating the second just marginally slower, Carina realized that, unfortunately, conversation was the payment she owed for the sweets. She swallowed and winced. \n\n\"The hospital must be one of the most unpleasant places in town, as of late.\" Nice one. She realized her blunder, and cleared her throat, \"It's important work you do, Miss Roswell. And it's good to have outlets, too. We mustn't dwell on what pains us.\" There. She wasn't sure she'd completely mended the situation, but it was good enough to afford her another bite of cookie. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "She was truly delighted to see someone take some enjoyment in her cooking. Ever since her weaselly cousin had up and took off from her place, she hadn't had many people to share with. She still contemplated renting out her spare room, especially since she'd heard that there was a nice lady living on down by the creek with her horse. But for now, she was very content to watch Carina greedily snatch up the cookies, biting into them with a hastiness she wasn't sure she could begin to match. She caught herself smiling, and Lorelai had to force herself to look away a moment for fear of staring too long. \n\n\"I'm glad you like 'em. Old family recipe,\" She explained, cheeks a soft pink color. She was bashful about it, and in all honesty, she hadn't expected anything in return aside from Carina's silent companionship. However, she was certainly not one to turn down a lovely little conversation, even when the subject matter turned out to be less than savory. \n\nHowever, Carina's phrasing did make Lorelai laugh. It was a soft bubble in the back of her throat that carried off, making her tip her head to the side as she tried to stifle it down to a giggle behind her hand. Perhaps it was the sheer honesty of Carina in this situation, no sugar coating aside from the loose sugar that stuck to the woman's fingertips. Lorelai could bet that Carina might be good at piano or something, with elegant hands like that. Maybe she had really nice penmanship; something of that nature. She could only believe that God himself had crafted hands like that for purposes of making something beautiful. \n\nOr maybe, much like the rest of Carina herself, she had been crafted to be looked at. Lorelai could imagine it; she had a pretty face, beautiful posture, an elegantly curved spine and all. \n\nBut back to the conversation - Lorelai lifted her gaze to Carina's, full of warmth as she giggled again. \"Unpleasant... Yeah, I'd say that about fits the bill.\" She bit down on her lip to keep herself from laughin\n\nG. \"You're right. It's best not to dwell on all'athat.\" Lorelai looked to the darkening world around them and just smiled a moment, before she chimed back in. \"I could make you more.\" A pause. \"Cookies. I could make more and bring 'em, if you'd like that.\" Lorelai twisted her fingers into the fabric of the handkerchief a little. \"But feel free t' take the rest home.\""
},
{
"author": "CARInA VAnORA TEMPLETOn",
"message": "Carina whipped her head to Lorelai as she stifled a giggle, her eyes fractionally narrowed. What was so funny? She swallowed her healthy mouthful of crumbs and stilled to watch the woman's next move, seconds from bidding Lorelai a hasty goodnight, unable to sit with her discomfort in having embarrassed herself by saying something daft. But oh– Lorelai was agreeing? Finally, Carina remembered that of course, laughter could come from more sources than contempt. She settled back down and took another bite, staring vacantly ahead as she attempted to process her own reaction. \n\nThe only peace she could make with herself in the moment was that she needed to find calm. Just as pain wasn't for dwelling, neither was meaningless upset. Neither was a wound to her pride, she reasoned. After all, most attacks on her ego originated in her own head. This instance was much the same. Carina sighed, coming down from an emotional odyssey, hidden from Lorelai in all ways besides the time Carina took to answer her offer. \n\n\"That would be lovely. I admit to having quite the sweet tooth.\" She finally said, her voice dulled and softened– sweet, in itself. \n\n\"I like to bake, too. Cook, more than bake, I suppose.\" Carina dabbed at her mouth, feigning politeness after such a feral display of devouring, \"Do you know much of French cooking, Miss Roswell?\""
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "She was quite pleased with herself; Carina wanted her baking, and that made her quite happy, actually. She liked sharing these kinds of things with people, and there was nothing better than sharing these kinds of things with pretty girls like Carina Templeton. \"Well then, I guess that about settles it, don't it?\" She smiled wider, wrapping the handkerchief up around the leftover cookies and gently placing it down in Carina's lap. \"Take those home with you when you go, okay? Then when ya finish those, you come 'round my place with my handkerchief, and get a fill up?\" She raised an eyebrow, a smile quirking up the corner of her mouth even more. \n\n\"Y'know, 'fraid I ain't know much about French food... 'cept a few recipes my brother has asked me t' make. He was stationed over in France durin' the war, and I was too for a lil while, but I was mostly in the hospitals. Lotta cheese and bread.\" Lorelai smoothed her hands over her dress to brush some crumbs off of it. \"Mostly I make a lotta meat and potatoes... I like bakin' bread a whole lot.\" She was nervously fidgeting still, and she lifted her hand to her mouth to chew on the nails. Was that unpleasant? She dropped her hand again and exhaled in a rush. \n\n\"Do you?\" She asked, and realized the question seemed to come from nowhere. \"Do you know much about French food, Miss Templeton?\" Lorelai asked her then, her eyes flickering from Carina's face, to her elegant hands, and to the stack of cookies on her lap."
},
{
"author": "CARInA VAnORA TEMPLETOn",
"message": "Carina took her turn to fiddle with the edges of the handkerchief, now that it was within reach. Small acts of kindness like this took her quite a bit of effort to understand, but it was getting easier, and this act in particular was simple to wrap her head around: Lorelai was a good person with a good heart, and she wanted Carina to have cookies. For a moment, Carina considered that the other woman was demonstrating pity, making Carina out to be some kind of charity case. *Oh, poor thing, must still be grieving and weak—* But no. Anger felt misplaced here, crowded into her head all close and hot. There was no place for anger with Lorelai. Only... Gratitude. She nearly shivered at the prospect. \n\n\"Thank you, Miss Roswell.\" She pronounced, looking over to the woman, her eyes betraying softness, rare as a comet when it came to Carina. \n\nShe listened to Lorelai respond, but got caught up on the first half of what she'd said. She'd been stationed in France? In the war? The *Great* War? Carina paled, and didn't dare take her eyes from her company. *This* Woman, this sweet gentle woman, with the delicate smile, and the handkerchiefs of cookies, had been exposed to horrors on a scale magnitudes worse than werewolves. Carina's mouth went dry. She didn't realize she'd been asked a question, so busy was her mind in rearranging everything she thought she'd understood about Lorelai. \n\n\"You were... In the war?\" She asked, trouncing over any expected social decorum. You didn't just *Ask* People about their time in the war! —but Carina didn't know that. A few moments ago she'd wanted to tell Lorelai all about her silly little hobby of French cooking. How she'd gotten a silly little cookbook a few years ago and was teaching herself silly little French so she could read it and make *Silly little recipes*— oh *God!* What had Lorelai lived through? Carina moved just a hair closer to the woman, clutching the bundle of sweets in her lap like a life preserver. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "She realized quickly that she'd lost Carina to her thoughts; the way her eyes got a little bit wider, like she was staring straight through the ground to uncover something hidden deep underneath the rocks and stones and worms. When the woman surfaced from her thoughts with a single question, it caught her off guard. No longer were they discussing food, but rather *War*, and that was something Lorelai was keenly knowledgeable on. \n\n\"Only for the tail end of the war,\" She said, because Carina was curious and she had no trouble filling in the gaps for her. She didn't speak too much on her time in the war, but that wasn't for a particular reason of not wanting to. She just... Had no need. When she was alone, sometimes, she would recall those months and shiver and stuff them back down again, not eager to think about any of it. But Carina was asking, and Lorelai was answering, because... Well, how could she deny her just a few simple answers? \n\n\"My brother— you know, Leroy? He was stationed there, in all the action.\" She turned more, facing Carina head-on now. \"I was turnin' 18 and I thought... Well, I wanna help. I'd always wanted t' be a nurse and so I signed up, got shipped over on a boat.\" \n\nIt had been a long journey. She'd never stepped foot outside Briar Ridge, and then she'd found herself in New York City, on a loading dock bustling with people, and then she was on a crowded boat, and then suddenly she was in *France*. It had been a bit of a change for her, to say the least. \n\n\"I was in one of the hospitals— well, can't really call it a hospital, but that's what we called it. It was kinda like a big tent, and lots of cots. Right on the edge of the battlefield.\" She chewed her lip. \"But I did some training in a big ol' building that used t' be a Girls School, but they done set up cots and all everywhere to house all the soldiers.\" \n\nThis was probably the most Lorelai had ever spoken about her time— even to her family. It was all coming out like word vomit, now. \n\nShe was\n\nN't sure Carina wanted to hear all this, but it seemed like it was too late, now. \"I knew it would be bad, but it was worse than I thought. It was... Muddy. And there was always blood in the mud, too. And men was dying right in front of me, yknow, missin' legs and missin' arms. Blown to bits by grenades. Cryin' for their wives, their kids. Worse ones were the kids ain't barely older than me at the time, cryin' for their mamas.\" She gave a weak sniff and realized, after a second, that a single tear had rolled down her face. She quickly wiped it away and fixed herself up proper, giving another little sniffle. \"But we helped a whole hell a lot of people, too. Got people back up and into the fray and all... Lotta heroes.\" She said softly. \"And a lotta wooden body boxes, too.\" She chewed her lip as she looked back to Carina now. \"I'm sorry. I... You didn't ask me all that. I just never... I ain't ever talked about it before, I guess.\""
},
{
"author": "CARInA VAnORA TEMPLETOn",
"message": "Questions piled up behind Carina's eyes. What was New York City like? How had it been to take such a long boat ride? Did Lorelai get to see Paris? Did she learn any French? \n\nAnd then, as the nurse knelt deeper into her recollection, Carina's thoughts stilled and darkened. She'd always perceived the war as terrible, sure. But moreover, as it related to her, she'd seen it as a big European vacation for the men of her family to go and make business deals in bad conscience, eventually leading to the scattering of the Templetons to the winds, muddying her name in the only place she could have ever thought to call home. Richmond was miles and years away, now. Briar Ridge was home, and she had a new family here, in many ways closer and more precious to her than the one with which she shared her blood. Lorelai was already more significant in her life than any of Carina's own sisters had ever cared to be. \n\nCarina was fully turned to Lorelai now, having come even closer. One of her legs was tucked up under herself, her elbow slung over the back of the bench, her folded knee nearly brushing Lorelai's thigh. She was wrapt, her face a neat display of grief: of empathy! She didn't recognize this at first, wondering where the sadness and stress were originating from within herself, until she realized they were coming from Lorelai, instead. She let it happen. She didn't know that she'd ever felt this level of closeness with a person, and as terrifying as it was, it was new and exhilarating. It felt *Important*, and so Carina Templeton opened her heart and kept it open. \n\nCarina's right hand was on Lorelai's knee by the time the woman sniffed back her tears, her left hand dumping the cookies in her lap from the nurse's handkerchief and shaking out the crumbs. She offered it back to Lorelai, all without taking her attention off the woman. \n_ _\n\n\"It's amazing, Lorelai,\" Carina dropped the formal address for the first time, calling the woman by her first name, \"What you did. All that you gave. Don't be sorry.\" Her voice was quiet, and something in her brain was coming up with more to say, suggestions like *Thank you for telling me,* And *You can talk about anything you'd like to,* But a person could only make so many social strides in one night. Those suggestions stayed buried like vague memories of distant dreams. \n\nSomething tickled Carina's cheek, and her hand flashed up to brush it away, her fingers coming away wet. She found that she had shed a tear, as well. Her heart began to hammer. Where did she go from here? \n\n\"*I'm* Sorry, I–\" She tried to recover herself, to scurry back into the husk of the girl she'd been a few minutes ago. That body was no longer her home, and she was confused by the strange architecture. Still, she tried, but it was clear she was panicking. There was a watery smile on her face, blooming there as evidence of her conflict. \n\n\"I said not five minutes ago that it doesn't do to dwell on unpleasantness.\" She chased her own tail, unable to contain her internal monologue. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "It was funny— she was sad, she was stressed, and yet... She was momentarily amazed by Carina's nature. She wasn't sure she'd ever seen Carina be *Gentle* In her nature. No, she was sure she'd only ever seen her eyebrows set into a furrow, jaw set, shoulders rigid. It was like Carina liked to keep all her walls up, surrounding her heart like a fortress. For the first time, it seemed, Lorelai witnessed a hole blown through one of those walls, like a cannonball. She couldn't help but stare, and she took that handkerchief and so gently, she lifted her hand and wiped the remnants of wetness from Carina's cheek. \n\n\"Don't apologize,\" She said, and her voice was soft and sweet, and above all, full of understanding. \"You're right. We shouldn't dwell on the negative stuff. Ain't good for nobody involved, now is it?\" Her knee was burning from where Carina had laid one of her elegant hands, and it was unfair how someone so beautiful could still look that way when she cried. \n\nShe could see conflict all over her face, and she tilted her head to examine it. Carina did not handle her own emotions well, did she? It was fascinating— where Lorelai felt too much, perhaps Carina felt too little, but not in being cold. In protecting herself, perhaps? She wondered about her. \n\n\"Do you know a lot about French cooking?\" She asked her again, recalling her question from earlier. They were sitting so close now, but the blanket of darkness wrapped around them, and Lorelai didn't think there was anybody nearby to see them anyhow. \"I picked up some French in the war, but only talkin', don't know much 'bout readin' it,\" She admitted. \"I bet you'd be real good at learning French, Carina.\" A name for a name. It made her stomach feel a bit funny when she wrapped her tongue around the word. *Carina.*"
},
{
"author": "CARInA VAnORA TEMPLETOn",
"message": "True, Carina's fortress had been breached. Rubble collected at the foot of the eastern wall, falling away from a Lorelai-sized hole in the stone. The woman herself appeared in the dust with her handkerchief and Carina did not flinch away from the motion. Alien gratitude swelled her ribcage, and then on its heels, resentment deflated her. Why should she be inspired to softness here and now, and by this person? Try as she might to summon it, her usual quickness to anger was dampened, to her horror. There was nothing here to be angry about, after all, and for once, Carina saw that fact and sat with it. It added a certain quiet to the darkening night. \n\nLorelai was agreeing with her, moving on from the subject that had brought them both to tears. The departure seemed artificial. Just as important as fleeing from darkness into light was the attempt to understand darkness. Carina knew this, but did not practice it. Under Lorelai's influence, however, she felt herself inspired yet again. \n\nNo matter. The subject had changed, and Carina would be damned if she passed over a chance to speak at length about food. Before they'd begun their diversion to war talk, Carina'd had a slew of recipes primed to speak on– she'd wanted to boast about how she ordered the most precious ingredients special (maybe even offering to put in a good word with the stockist on Lorelai's behalf, should she ever want something different than could be found on the General Store shelves). Now, whatever trite drabble she'd had lined up seemed insignificant, especially in light of the way her belly twisted when Lorelai said her name. She hoped the nurse would never call her *Miss Templeton* Again.\n_ _\n\n\"I know quite a bit of French, actually. I studied it when I was a girl. Reading recipes helps me practice, and I end up in the kitchen from there.\" She said simply, restraining herself to keep her gaze low, on the collar of Lorelai's dress, or down at their laps where both women's hands nervously occupied themselves. She found that the swarming feelings in her head only became more restless when she allowed herself to study the other woman's sweet features for too long. Carina did look up, though, possessed by some masochistic desire to experience that frenzy of emotions again. \n\n\"Knowing that you speak some French, I suppose it might be a laugh to *Parler, un jour.*\" She was caught by a nervous grin before managing to straighten her mouth once more, \"That is, if you would wish to.\" \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "Like Carina, Lorelai relegated her gaze to the parts of her companion that she considered to be \"Safe\", such as her beautiful hands, her elegant shoulders, and the space where her hair was so beautifully tucked behind her ear. If she was sneaky, her gaze would flicker just a bit to the side, in hopes of catching just a glimpse of the woman's beautiful jawline.\n\nTo be infatuated with the feminine was torture, and not for just the reasons one might expect. Of course, there was the matter of keeping everything very quiet, but there was also the issue of women being creatures of beauty that was sincerely unparalleled. Carina was one such specimen, and this was not the first time Lorelai had noticed it. She had seen it whenever she came into the general store, which is why she kept her eyes down on the counter most days. She had also taken note of her beauty as Carina sat as Mrs. Bigby's bedside, but of course, it was not time for such thoughts when one was mourning. \n\nShe was grateful to move away from morbidity, because she far preferred to see Carina in a more positive note than one dotted with tears. \"I'd love t'... Get back in the swing'a speaking French,\" She said, her cheeks dusted rosy pink. She was grateful that the setting sun and the distant lamplight wouldn't give her away. \"But y'can't make fun of me for not remembering all'a it. Been a while since I got around to usin' it.\" In all honesty, she was nervous to fumble in front of Carina. Lorelai was all *Briar Ridge* In the mouth, with that thick accent she could hardly shake to save her life. \n\n\"Maybe... Maybe you could come 'round and we could try a hand at one of them French recipes,\" She suggested, heart hammering in her chest. \"See where the night... Takes us?\" She cleared her throat right after, and she decided to become acquainted with the rocks on the ground by staring at them intently."
},
{
"author": "CARInA VAnORA TEMPLETOn",
"message": "Should Lorelai have voiced her thoughts aloud, Carina would have fervently argued. To be infatuated with the feminine was *Objectively* Correct. To be tortured would have been to know the harsh angles and rough skin of a man as comfort and attraction. Carina could imagine nothing worse. How a woman could look past the delicate slopes of another woman's shoulders, chest, thighs, in favor of the brutish male architecture, she would never know. Though, she would reluctantly agree to have much in common with men of the heterosexual persuasion: they had good taste in lovers, though she was of the opinion that no man who held a woman in his arms was deserving of her presence. The species needed to continue somehow, she supposed. \n\nSexual politics aside, Carina was fairly certain that Lorelai had just proposed... A date? *No, no. Surely just a friendly–*\n\n*\"See where the night takes us.\"*\n\nCarina's blush deepened, equally grateful for the dim light as her company, though she didn't know they shared this sentiment. With Lorelai looking down, Carina stared over at her in what could only be described as amazement. While she had taken to Dimitra's bold invitation to dinner with scandal (and flattery, she would admit), she received Lorelai's sweet suggestion with quiet appreciation. What class! What propriety! Carina laughed, airy. The sound paired well with the soft smile at her lips. She hadn't meant to laugh, but it had just happened: a symptom of her joy. She was unused to such side effects.\n_ _\n\n\"An excellent idea.\" She managed, her eyes reluctantly straying from Lorelai's delicate profile to try and find what she was studying on the ground.\n\"Next Friday?\" Carina ventured, looking back at her company, failing to see what was so fascinating at their feet, \"That will give me time to receive ingredients from the stockist.\" Her elaboration sounded more like logistics than romance, and since she'd decided that was what Lorelai was hinting at here (wasn't it?), she tried to steer the tone of conversation back around. \n\n\"If you ever wanted anything special... Anything *Not* On the shelves, you just tell me. I'm a good connection to have in this town.\" Her eyebrows raised, and her lips pursed. She gently rocked to the side to nudge Lorelai with her shoulder, before straightening up again, her hands nervously squeezed together in her lap. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "The sound of Carina's laughter was at once a delight and the sound of Lorelai's anxiety tied up all in one. It was a beautiful laugh; Carina's laugh was a rarity, she was sure of it. For so long, she thought the woman might've been incapable of cracking a smile, and here she was, *Laughing*. Now, the secondary emotion came about with the question of: *Why* Was she laughing? Was she laughing at Lorelai's mere suggestion of an evening together? Did she think she was ridiculous, off her rocker? Had she misunderstood everything about their conversation? The crickets were in full force as the light had all but disappeared tonight, and their chirps sounded like a chorus of children pointing fingers and laughing. \n\nHer shoulders slumped as Carina continued on, and all the anxiety that had wound her nerves tight seemed to get snipped; the taut chords sprung loose, and her body felt like it was crumpling like a marionette with no strings. So she *Didn't* Think she was a dumb country bumpkin after all. What a relief. \n\n\"Next Friday,\" Lorelai agreed, and as Carina pulled her eyes up, she forced herself to do so as well. It was polite; but the intensity of their eye contact made her feel like she was about to burst. \"Absolutely. Dinner. I'll be off work by five, because Doctor Ashworth is a lovely man, you met him? Wants to make sure I don't work myself to death these days, and I'm grateful for it.\" Her fingers rubbed at the fabric of her dress again, and her eyes began to treacherous climb of Carina's arm. Up her wrist and to her arm and then her shoulder, soaking in the way her arm moved and the tucking of hair behind an ear. \n\n\"I feel like I know a secret nobody else does,\" She admitted, and she bashfully leaned into the touch when Carina nudged her with her shoulder. Their shoulders were touching again, even after Carina pulled back, and the warmth was enough to send Lorelai into a flush that rose up her neck and cheeks. \"I'll be sure t' use it to my advantage.\"\n\nHer eyes flickered down briefly at the white-knuckled hold that Carina had on her own hands, and she sucked in a breath. She wanted to fit her hand over those delicate fingers and caress them to relax. To press her thumbs into the tense muscle and relax her. She did not do this, for fear of overstepping. \n\n\"It's a lovely night,\" She observed softly, not taking her eyes off Carina now. \"Sitting here with you... I've really enjoyed myself.\""
},
{
"author": "CARInA VAnORA TEMPLETOn",
"message": "It was true as of late that something inside of Carina Templeton was coming alive. The seismic activity launched from the death of Mrs. Bigby, combined with Dimitra's affections (and from seeing the woman torn into by a werewolf), multiplied by offering comfort to the grieving Marianne, and finally reinforced by the shared company of Lily, served to rearrange Carina in a way that supported a new, more hospitable kind of architecture within her. The curtains were peeking open in one of her cobwebbed windows; the rugs were hung on the line for dusting. For once in her life, it was becoming difficult to question softness and simple pleasures. There was no source of anger here, sitting with Miss Roswell. There was nothing to be defensive or embarrassed or ashamed of. \n\nCarina continued to smile, her throat threatening to bubble with another laugh. \nShe was *Happy.*\n\n\"I'd be upset if you didn't.\" She promised, venturing her gaze to the side of Lorelai's face, caught in her staring as the other woman looked up. Carina boldly held her attention.\n\n\"It is a lovely night.\" She agreed, with a curt nod, \"I don't see why we shouldn't sit here as long as we please.\" \n\nOn another night, perhaps with a dinner in their past, Carina might have taken Lorelai's hand in hers, dragging it over to her lap to hold it properly; close to herself. On another night, perhaps with months of dinners in their past, Carina might hold that hand and tilt her head over to rest on Lorelai's shoulder. \n\nOn another night, with dinners and lunches and breakfasts in their past, Carina might have forgone reaching for Miss Roswell's hand at all, instead reaching her fingers back into her hair. On that night, Carina might have kissed the nurse, smile to smile, for only the oak tree, the street lights, and all the stars to witness. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Lorelai Roswell",
"message": "\"I don't have any obligations,\" She said, her voice a little breathless. This felt like something far more intimate than anyone but the two of them could understand. Their shoulders touching, sitting together like this; her heart was racing. Anyone normal might think it was a little bit funny, getting so excited about something like this. However, Lorelai knew that this was much more than that. They'd made plans for dinner, there was a silent understanding that from here on out, it was not mere friendship they were seeking. \n\nShe could imagine what it would be like, to slide her fingers between Carina's and hold on tight. To feel the warmth of skin on skin, to exchange kisses in the darkness of the shade of this tree. Neither acted on this ideas, these... *Wants*, but they both felt them. They exchanged them through that simple shoulder touch; that there could be *More*. It was exhilarating; Lorelai had been so sure that she would never find someone else in Briar Ridge who could possibly feel like she did, and here she sat - Carina Templeton knew how it felt to love the beauty of a woman. The potential nearly had her buzzing out of her seat, but she kept it contained to a smile directed in Carina's direction. \n\nThey could sit there for forever, she thought. Plant roots down, become part of the bench. Maybe their branches would twist together, until two smaller trees became one, and no one could tell where one began and the other ended. Lorelai hoped, she *Prayed* Quietly in her head, that these ideas of hand holding, of kissing, enjoying company - breakfasts and tea and dinners, dessert by candlelight, all of it - she prayed she could have it. \n\nThey wouldn't leave til it was late, when Lorelai couldn't muster another word and her eyelids were heavy. But she would, however, dream about delicate fingers and Carina's rare, honeyed laugh that soaked into the very marrow of her bones."
}
] | 546 | 9,073 |
413.923077 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Shady Rooster",
"message": "**FEBRUARY 27, 1929**\n\nSomebody else was living in that big house, and it wasn't like he *Let* His imagination run wild, but Shady couldn't help but think of the worst. He'd come up with a dozen different endings for April Baker and her little ones, each worse than the last, by the time he wandered out to the schoolhouse. It was after hours, but what did he know about school, anyway? Kicked rocks around like a kid set outside to think on what he'd done, then rode out to the town proper.\n\nIt was funny: Shady thought he was a ghost, but damn if people didn't start asking, \"Rooster?\" And, \"...S'that you?\" Well, *Some* People. \n\nCustomers. Drunks.\n\n** **\n\n** ** Shady was a little ornery about it. He shrugged them off, bristled. Tried to pick a fight or two, but no one was having it. Just as well. He was here on business, was all. He'd be good and gone again in a few days' time. Of course, the particular hospitality he'd been foolishly banking on didn't pan out, and now all there was to do was crawl into that new Ford and drop off to sleep in a field somewhere. He was none too eager. \n\nThe sun began its slow death-plummet, searing firelight across wispy strips of clouds as it sank toward the mountains. Shady pressed his shoulders into the back of downtown's most famous oak and stood, crossing his arms over his chest and tucking his fingers between them and his ribs. It was just cool enough he could see his breath, but he knew the temperature would drop quicker than the light.\n\n'Course, folks who had somewhere to *Go* Were still out and about, and this was Main Street. The shops were still open, warm light in the windows, silhouettes coming and going. That homey reek of hickory smoke from all those chimneys. He started to go, then froze at the fork in the road. It was a mean looking squint, but Roosters were seldom self aware. It was just he could barely make out the details; could barely tell if it was her, or wishful thinking playing tricks with the day's last light."
},
{
"author": "April C. Abrams",
"message": "She hadn't seen hide nor hair of Shady Rooster since all those months ago; she'd thought he'd skipped town to avoid the mess, which she didn't blame him for. But Briar Ridge was home, and she couldn't help but fear that Shady Rooster's lack of return didn't come from fear of beasts in the night, but rather, something else entirely. If he'd gotten himself into trouble out there, God knows she'd have no way of knowing. It wasn't like anybody would tell her of all people, and who was to say his family would ever get that news anyhow? \n\nThe evening was falling upon them and she tugged her shawl around her tighter, vision focused ahead on her goal of getting home as swiftly as she could. The moons made her anxious and jumpy these days; she preferred to stay at home, with her family, where she knew everyone was safe and tucked away. It didn't help she was encumbered by the stomach that was growing heavier every month. Nearly five months along now, she found that even her trips to the market were a chore. \n\nThe dim light didn't do well for tricks of the mind— God knows, April had seen enough in Briar Ridge to last her a lifetime. At first, so could only assume he was a figment of her imagination. She was exhausted, she was jumpy, her mind jumped to conclusions far more these days. When she realized, no, he was not... She could only assume he was a ghost. Whether a real one or one of her past, she hadn't figured out yet. \n\nOf course, as she drew closer down the road, she realized, *No*, he was very real and very tangible. \n\nHer breath caught in her throat a moment and she opened her mouth. \"Shady,\" She said, and it was shock and relief all balled into one. \"Shady Rooster, you almost gave me a heart attack!\" She said, her feet moving much faster than before as she stood before him. \"Where did you—? How did you—?\" She stammered, those big blue eyes wide enough to be compared to dinner plates."
},
{
"author": "Shady Rooster",
"message": "Well, just like fishin', seems if he wanted the right folks to come along he only needed to be quiet and wait.\n\nHe was done being quiet just as soon as his name left her mouth, though. He helped to close the distance, and halfway looked like he might go for a scandalous smack-in-the-middle-of-town embrace — \n\n— but on closer inspection, that wasn't a funny trick of fabric. That was her *Belly.*\n\n\"Missus Baker,\" He blurted out, sinking under her dinner-plate stare to crouch on his haunches, leveling himself with her stomach as if this were a perfectly appropriate way to behave. \"Yer gonna give *Me* One. Who's this?\" A grin was starting to pry at the corners of his mouth, but then his eyes flicked up at her face and the realization struck. \"Y'all ain't Missus Baker,\" He realized, *Then* Realized his foot ought to have gone in his mouth far earlier. \n\nHe stood and his hands hovered aimlessly like he didn't know where to put 'em. \n\n\"I got gone a while,\" He told her, \"Good'n lost. But I come back. Jest for a little while, mind. An' *You—* Y'all've been busy. In the good sense.\" She'd patched him up. He'd been so *Worried,* And that feeling was new to Shady Rooster. It was something he didn't dare say to the rest of his brood. They would have pecked him to the bone about it. \n\nHis hands gestured open palmed at her belly, and he repeated with greater feeling, \"Who's this?\""
},
{
"author": "April C. Abrams",
"message": "Now that just wouldn't do, would it? April was a hugger by nature; and so as soon as Shady was still enough to allow it, she hugged him so damn tight she might've squeezed the air out of him. Damn anyone who might say it was scandalous; she was married, yes, and she *Loved* Her husband. Shady was not that to her; he was a friend, damned near family to her at this point. She didn't care if people said something sideways about it, because she'd been worried sick! \n\n\"Gone a while!\" She scoffed at the words as she pulled back, looking at him up and down. \"You can't say you'll up and leave again after coming back like this,\" She said, voice weak as her hands gripped his arms, like he might up and disappear right there in front of her eyes. \n\nThough the edges of her mouth did quirk up just a little, because at least there was something to talk about that was good outside the tragedy. \"It's Mrs. Abrams now, but honestly Shady, you *Can* Just call me April,\" She said, hand going from his arm to his hand to place it on her stomach. \"These are the twins,\" She said, eyes sparkling. \"You know Eli Abrams? The milkman?\" She blushed to her ears. \"We got married a few months ago, if you can believe it. And, well...\" Clearly they'd put in the work the night of their wedding, because here she was. \n\nThe life inside of her squirmed a little, a leg kicking out and hitting his palm, which was pressed against her stomach still. \"We're still working on names,\" She told him. \"But enough about me— are you really going to leave again?\" She asked him. She didn't blame him, but that didn't mean she wasn't worried sick about what was going on with him."
},
{
"author": "Shady Rooster",
"message": "It wasn't propriety that kept Shady from hugging on April, for he had none — rather, it was the uncertainty that stemmed from being around pregnant women precious few times in his life. A few times it'd been Ma Rooster, and he was just little back then. Then it was Ophie, and all he knew was that she was *Delicate.*\n\nBut April didn't seem delicate. She had a grip* And he only got one arm out of the way to return it with. No matter! After being home, a warm welcome was just what the doctor ordered. Better than that split on his temple, hidden under his unruly hair. \n\nIn any case, he made a show of contrition: she'd stayed. And lived. Got married, got pregnant. \"I reckon I will,\" He agreed, \"Lest y'all go changin' it up again.\" A wink, insinuating he knew she was a good woman. That she was a family woman, respectable — all those things that made the fact she was here talking to *Him* Real funny. He appreciated that about April; she'd treated him like anybody else from the start, and she hadn't needed to.\n\nA small, mute shake of his head — he did not know Eli Abrams — but then a little chuckle that grew into a (kinda crass, actually) laugh as her cheeks colored.\n\n\"Missus *Abrams,*\" He pretended to admonish, and added as though it were terribly scandalous, \"The milkman.\" But he didn't mean that. His hand was on her belly, feeling the alien movement underneath her skin. He didn't even mean he was gonna keep calling her by such an unfamiliar sounding title. In the next breath, it was, \"That's somethin', April. That's really somethin'. I was afeared I might not find y'all when I come back around.\"\n\nHe about couldn't take his hand away. He'd never known they moved around like that. \"Twins,\" He muttered, looking faraway for a beat. He had so many questions about this in particular! How could they tell? Would the names rhyme? Would they mark one to tell them apart, if they came out the same gender?\n\nShe changed the subject, and he slowly took his hand off her. \n\n\"I cain't s\n\nTay,\" He said, the three words breathed out in a defeated laugh. Of course he couldn't. But his eyebrows furrowed, and he was awkwardly quiet for a spell before he said, \"April, I sure would like to talk to you s'more. Was you goin' home jest now?\""
},
{
"author": "April C. Abrams",
"message": "They looked like incredibly unlikely friends, but April had never considered Shady anything other than her equal. He was kind, she knew that personally. He was tough, sure, but so were lots of respectable folks around Briar Ridge. He was a criminal, sure, but no more than Alma Cooper or Dimitra Florakis or any of the other moonshiners and bootleggers. It was so normal here, April wasn't sure she could ever really consider it so *Criminal.* \n\n\"I promise, it'll be Mrs. April Abrams until I die,\" She said softly. \"This one is a keeper, Shady, he's a good man.\" The simple ring around her finger was something she cherished; she twisted it around her finger a few times as she spoke. \n\n\"Don't say *The milkman* Like that!\" She said, pretending to be scandalized about it all. She supposed it did seem a bit... Scandalous, what, with her having been a single, widowed housewife and him the handsome milkman... Like something out of a novel. \"Here I am. All of us are safe and fine; the boys are getting bigger since the last you saw them. Mickey turned three and all, can you believe it?\" \n\nThough her joy was sapped quickly, because *Of course* He was leaving again. But he couldn't— no, she understood why he wouldn't want to, but... It frightened her, the uncertainty of him going back out there. \n\n\"I was just heading home,\" She gestured down the road. \"The boys and I moved in with Eli, just down the way...\" She linked her arm with Shady's, her basket of groceries in her other arm. \"He has the boys, but I'm sure they'll be back soon.\" She assured him. \"And I can show you the nursery!\" \n\nShe could pretend the conversation didn't have to become so solemn if she just acted like everything was completely normal, of course. Nothing was ever normal here, unfortunately."
},
{
"author": "Shady Rooster",
"message": "Oh, but now he was more determined than ever to say *The milkman* Just like that for the foreseeable future. And *Oh,* He saw the little lapse when he told her he was going, and Briar Ridge seemed like the warmest place on the planet just then. After where he'd been, it was hard to leave. He didn't want to go. He didn't want to be without these people — the same ones he was so irritated with before she showed up! Now he saw them in a different light. It just took the little mood shift she triggered.\n\nShe caught on to his self-invitation, and they linked their arms. \n\n\"Lemme get that,\" He said, reaching across her to try and nab her groceries. He was fairly insistent about carrying the weight, because she seemed to have plenty already and he couldn't help a bit with *That.*\n\n\n\nThis and, \"Naw, I cain't hardly believe it. Three years old — yer gon' have'ta put that boy to work, ain'tcha? He oughta learn the dairy trade. Seems as a lotta folks want they kids to get into that coal business, but it ain't no good, Missus April.\" That was a slip; it was hard to acclimate so suddenly to her first name by itself. \"I reckon they's both takin' to *The milkman*?\" And, as if it was a great concession, \"To Eli?\""
},
{
"author": "April C. Abrams",
"message": "There was little argument to be had about him carrying the basket; she could pick and choose her battles and honestly, this was one she didn't want to fight. Her back was killing her but she persisted as she must— the world didn't stop spinning just because she was a little tired. She had mouths to feed, things to do... So his assistance was something she actually deeply appreciated. \n\nHer lips pouted out a bit with each time he said *The milkman* In the way that made everything seem so scandalous! \"Shady!\" She whined, nudging him with her elbow gently, an admonishment for his behavior that was all in good fun. In all honesty, this was something she'd needed— a little bit of relief past all the things happening in Briar Ridge. To focus on a friend's return, just for a moment, she could pretend everything was normal again. \n\n\"Eli's family is wealthy,\" She explained, tucking some hair behind her ear. \"But they live off in the city. They sent us some money to help with the babies— they're just excited he decided to get married and have children!\" She beamed; clearly her marriage and family were something she was extremely proud of. \"But he works awful hard for us.\" \n\nApril paused a moment, resting her free hand on her stomach as one of the babies delivered a swift kick to one of her organs. \"I'm not sending a single one of my children to work in any mines— especially not after that mine shaft collapsed.\" It made her sick to her stomach to think about all those poor people, trapped down there... \n\n\"To answer your question; the boys love him. Absolutely adore him. He's so good with them too— when we first started seeing each other, you know, he got up with them in the morning and made breakfast! I've never slept in before, I felt so...\" She put her free hand on her cheek bashfully. \"Listen to me, going on and on about myself and all...\" She looked to him now, eyebrows raised. The path was winding, taking them further down the residential area. \"Tell me what's going on!\""
},
{
"author": "Shady Rooster",
"message": "Right now, April represented that life went on. He'd been gone, but life went on, and good things happened to people who deserved good things, and maybe there was no need for him to come back, after all. \n\nWhich was a little sad, but mostly, it was encouraging. And he was glad if her boys were loved and growing up happy, because that was one area where even he could get a little sappy — it was good to see a kid be loved. It was good to see a kid get to be a kid. That's all.\n\n\"Y'all talk like yer so lucky,\" He said, and grinned at April while her grocery basket swung whimsically in his other hand. \"But I reckon he is even more.\" (He sorta wanted to meet *The milkman.* Not that it was up to Shady to measure who all was good enough for April Baker, but part of him still wanted to make sure.) \"An' anyhow, I could listen to y'all goin' on all day. It's nice. I'm glad things is been so good for you an' yin's.\"\n\nAnd he. Had. *Questions.*\n** **\n\n** ** \n\"I gone home a spell. Seen my folks. They's jest as ornery as they ever was. Ma's jest as big an' mean, an' Pa's as little an' crafty.\" All an understatement. Ma and Pa Rooster were still two overlords reigning terror over a strange holler in Somewhere Out Yonder, North Carolina. \"Seen my brothers. Got in a fight with Argent — he's the big'un. Seven feet tall, I shit you not.\" (About six feet and four inches, actually.) \"Boy, he busted my head good. An' I been seein' the country, too. It's been nice.\" It wasn't, really, but they were playing a game where everything was mild and funny or outright idyllic, right?\n\nHe just wanted to come back to her life, really. \n\n\"Y'all's sure gonna have a lotta youngin's runnin' 'round here. Half the school's gonna be the Abrams kids.\" It ran up against what he'd been telling her about his life, like he didn't want any questions. And to drive that idea home, he went on rambling, \"Shit *Fire,* It sure is cool. Ain't y'all too cold, Missus April? I kin spare my coat, these gloves...\""
},
{
"author": "April C. Abrams",
"message": "She was sure they were both keeping things to themselves, at least for now. Neither wanted to confront the horrors they'd seen in this world; to talk about what might be out there and what was left behind here. They wanted to pretend for a little while that they were just catching up like it was an everyday sort of thing, that everything was *Normal.* \n\n\"I'll bet it was nice seeing everybody again,\" She said, though she knew that it had to be a little more than what he let on. Shady was an enigma, rough around the edges. She could only imagine his family had to have been of the same kind— she had an image in her head of a rough and tough mother, brothers with stern eyes and overalls. \n\nBut clearly, he didn't want to talk about all that, and she didn't blame him. Her parents weren't with her anymore; they'd caught a nasty case of pneumonia and passed a few years ago. Family wasn't always easy to talk about, for whatever reason someone may have. She was pulled from her thoughts by his words, and she blushed something fierce up to her ears. \n\n\"Only four!\" She said, laughing a bit in embarrassment. \"Four isn't too much— there's some in town with seven or eight kids,\" She pointed out, shaking her head. Though he wasn't entirely wrong; four was a lot of kids for their small house. But they'd manage— they were already looking for another abode to move into anyhow. \n\n\"Don't you worry about me, Shady,\" She said, pulling her shawl around her a little tighter. \"I'll be alright against the cold. It's been worse. You should've been here a few weeks ago when the blizzard came through. We were stuck inside for a few days!\" She said, a soft laugh following. \"Thank God we had firewood to last us.\" And being able to get cozy with a loved one was nothing to be upset about. \n\n\"Since when are you such a gentleman?\" She joked softly, nudging him with her elbow. \"Oh! That's it there,\" April said as she pointed towards the little house down at the end. \"Isn't it cute?\""
},
{
"author": "Shady Rooster",
"message": "Nice was one word for it.\n\n\"*Four,*\" He emphasized, and followed up with a low whistle. Of course he was teasing her; he'd grown up in a family with more youngin's than that. But, \"'Least four more to go, ain't they?\"\n\nHe knew about the blizzard, albeit not the version of it experienced in Briar Ridge. It'd wrought havoc all over the north and southeast, and he'd been holed up with his unpleasant relatives for those same days April mentioned. He repeated her once again, saying, \"Thank God,\" With inflection that suggested his mind had flown far away. \n\nOnly for a beat. He eyed her shawl like he didn't quite approve of the thickness of it, and only when her elbow prodded his ribs. She was pointing him toward her house, and bless her heart, the little lady was house proud! He was grinning before he'd even looked away, but raised his eyes to the house and admired it from afar for a few minutes without slowing his stride.\n\nIt *Was* Little for four kids, sure - but that didn't register. People lived where they lived. It didn't occur to him it could be within someone's means to move for the sake of adding room. What the place had was walls. A roof. A cellar? He almost asked.\n\nInstead, Shady said, \"Real cute,\" And grinned in his facetious Cheshire way. Cute was a funny way to describe a house; not a word he'd ever have picked. But, somehow, the fact she described it that way did seem to fit the bill for that particular expression.\n\n\"I reckon I'm playin' cavalier 'cause I's about to ask for somethin',\" He went on as they approached her sidewalk. He was making that up as they went along, picking up the words like a trail of breadcrumbs left on the walk. What could he ask for that wouldn't impose? \"See, I been outside a minute. Reckon I could thaw my fingers out 'front'a the fire a minute? I been standin' out a while an' all. I'll carry y'all in some firewood for the trouble.\"\n\nHe didn't leave much room for a denial before throwing in the proposal of his favor."
},
{
"author": "April C. Abrams",
"message": "She couldn't help but to laugh. \"Four, period. Absolutely no more after this!\" She said, though she knew her words were far from truth in her heart of hearts. If Eli had asked for one or twenty, she'd happily do so. She loved children and she loved her husband, and making a family together was something she loved; seeing him with the boys made her heart so warm in the darkest of days. Shady wasn't so far off from the truth of it all— who knew how large their brood would end up? \n\nShe was so proud of her house. She'd really whipped it into shape; from a bachelor pad to a proper home for all of them, she'd scrubbed the floors and washed the walls and done everything she could. She'd even made brand new drapes from an old dress that didn't fit anymore! \n\nShe beamed with pride, before her attention turned towards him more and she reached out, feeling how particularly icy his fingertips were. She inhaled sharply and shook her head, already pushing him along towards the house. \"Why you think I'd put you out in the cold after carrying my basket home is beyond me, Shady Rooster,\" She said as she pushed the door into the house and let him in. \n\n\"Go on, get in. I'll stoke the fire and you... Just settle in.\" She said, gesturing towards the couch. They had a lot to talk about, didn't they?"
},
{
"author": "Shady Rooster",
"message": "A pang of guilt shot him through the heart when April felt his fingers — which were, thankfully, cold. He grinned at her through the agony of it all, and stepped right after her into the sudden welcoming heat of the home.\n\nHe couldn't help but stand there in the foyer, his arm dropping slackly to free her. The groceries hung in the other hand, no longer swinging with his stride. For a spell, he took the place in; the story was all painted there for him. It smacked of a woman's touch. That was always something thrown over the bones of a place; it was in the little details. It was in fabric and comfort and warmth. Had he broken into this place without knowing the owners, he could have said with certainty there was a wife who loved her family, who made this place a home.\n\nHis smile had grown faraway; all the mischief leached from his eyes. As she stepped farther into the house, he closed the door behind him and did not so much as cut a glance at the seat she offered while he turned the lock."
}
] | 446 | 5,381 |
299.3 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Asher Laurens",
"message": "The chill of the morning air greeted his cheeks and entered his lungs, as Asher took a deep breath to greet the day. It had been at least a week since he moved into Briar Ridge with his father, and Asher wasted no time in finding a job as soon as he could.\n\nWhat luck that they needed a postman, so Asher eagerly took on the job. He had long legs, he could run fast and make deliveries! Plus, he could see what the town had to offer, and even get to meet the good folks that lived here! Sure, he'd only been here for a week, but to Asher, it was the first day of his new life, maybe even the rest of his life. Who would know? He sure didn't, and that's what excited him!\n\n...Until he hit the first roadblock: a letter with handwriting barely decipherable.\n\nSo in the middle of the town square, poor Asher could hopelessly squint at the letters of the envelope, mumbling to himself.\n\nThis was bad; he couldn't mess up on the first day of the job! There were still so many letters to deliver!!\n\n|"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "It was a rare day off for Freddie, and one he intended to make the absolute most of. He'd left his pony to her fresh hay to enjoy the rest period for herself, and made his way into town with a little spring in his step thanks to the early spring sunshine. Whatever the day ahead held in store for him, he'd take it in his stride and make the best of it, as always. \n\nThe usual cast of friends and strangers milled around the streets, and Freddie liked to let his mind wander and imagine what they might be up to in each of their own lives. There was the pastor's apprentice, deep in conversation with an older man that looked as though he might be his father. The schoolteacher, hurrying her way down the path. Two women deep in conversation beneath the oak tree, too far away for Freddie to catch even a snatch of their talking. \n\nAnd a man standing in the square, looking helplessly at something in his hand, clear distress written upon his face as he did so.\nPerhaps he needed Freddie's help? His mama always said every day would be better if you made sure to do a good deed during it. This stranger could be on the receiving end!\nThe blond was happy to bound up to him, a smile on his face at the thought of providing someone aid in their time of need. \n\"Hi! Need a hand with that?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Asher Laurens",
"message": "\"Weh-?!\" Not expecting the sudden presence addressing him, Asher jumped slightly before composing himself. \"O-oh! Oh, no sir, it's fine! Just tryin' to read the address here!\"\n\nAdjusting the very-full bag of mail on his shoulder, the man continued to squint at the piece of mail. Was that an A or an R...? What about the rest of the letters? Was that a lowercase B or a D? Asher was decently literate, but the handwriting on this letter made him doubt that for a moment.\n\nIt was his first day on the JOB!! He didn't want to look bad in front of other people, especially this person that ran up to him! What would happen if he were late? What would his father think? He could almost hear the words of disappointment... Laced with colorful curse words thrown at him.\n\nAsher began to glance between Freddie and the letter for a few seconds, before letting out a resigned sigh. It would seem that help would be needed...\n\n\"Actually...\" He began, his smile faltering. \"...I can't read this letter, and I need to deliver it.\" Once again, Asher adjusted the stuffed mail bag before adding on. \"...I need to deliver ALL of this, still!\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Freddie *Beamed*. Finally, perhaps his wandering around town and satisfying his every curiosity could prove useful. He could help someone, and they could get their job done, and there was even a chance at making a new friend in the process. Today was turning out just great and it had barely even begun.\n\n\"You're in luck! I know where a lot of people live in this town, actually. It's pretty easy learnin' the streets once you get used to 'em, but I got lost all the time when we first moved here too, so I get it. I got you,\" He assured, leaning in to look at the envelope. The handwriting was a mess, even if he didn't feel like he could judge too harshly considering the state his own got into when he was writing with his only intent being getting all the words on the page before he forgot some. \"I don't know- I mean, I'm not totally sure what that name says but it's gotta be someone I know. Maybe if we take a walk we'll run into someone lookin' for their real important letter?\" He suggested, tone hopeful. \"An' in the meantime I don't mind helpin' you out with the rest of 'em. Seen as how this town ain't on the map yet I'm sure there's all sorts 'a crazy addresses goin' on on those envelopes. But two heads are better'n one! We can find 'em all a whole lot faster if we work together... That is if you don't mind me taggin' along for a while?\"\n\nHe shot the other a grin. \"My name's Freddie. Lovejoy. If you got anythin' with mine or my parents' names on 'em I'll happily take it from ya right now. My sisters write all the time but it's a coin-toss as to whether they wind up puttin' the right instructions on there. Some'a these streets and houses don't have names and numbers yet, see, it's not all formal like a big city. But I'll put twenty-five cents on bein' able to get that bag empty for ya.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Asher Laurens",
"message": "\"W-wait what? Really??\" Feeling like the looming anxiety was just tossed out the window, Asher also beamed as Freddie's radiance and enthusiasm seemed to rub off on him. Thank the Lord, he didn't have to embarrass himself in front of the entire town... AND he could potentially make a friend at last!! \n\n\"Thank you!! If you don't mind, I can definitely use the help!!\" The taller man smiled back at Freddie. When he mentioned his last name, Asher paused. \"Lovejoy... Lovejoy... That does ring a bell. Hang on a sec...\"\n\nTaking a moment to rummage through his bag, Asher occasionally brought out a letter, reading off the names to himself. \"Was this it? No... What about this one? No, that's not it either. Where is iiiitt... AHA!!\"\n\nTriumphantly pulling out a letter that had \"Lovejoy\" On it, Asher handed it to Freddie. \"Yeah, here's one right here for you! O-oh, and my name's Asher! Nice to meet ya, Freddie!\"\n\nNow that that little business was out of the way, Asher adjusted the bag on his shoulder. \"Okay! Where should we start? I don't know this area too well.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Freddie hadn't actually expected there to be a letter for him, but he was delighted all the same. He recognised Catherine's neat handwriting right away, and clutched the small envelope to his chest for a brief moment before tucking it into his shirt pocket. She always wrote in blue ink, and the unfortunate left-handed writing that ran through the Lovejoy bloodline led to light smudges through the letters. He treasured each and every one, and looked forward to reading it aloud to his parents by candlelight when evening came. \n\n\"Thank you - Asher.\" He smiled, a true heartfelt smile, and took a step forward to join the other fully. \"Let's leave the difficult one for a bit later? Start with the easy ones! That one there in your hand - Father Abel Hughes is the pastor, which means we should head for the church ta find him. And maybe on the way we'll run into the mystery person waitin' on their very important letter.\" He laughed. \n\nWhen he'd left the house that morning he hadn't expected to be venturing into quite such a mission, but he did so love to help people, and his knowledge of half the town at least had to prove useful for Asher. He wished there'd been someone so welcoming willing to show him to the mines his first day, but he'd made the long hike up to the mountainside with only his father, the two of them finding their way together, neither with a better idea than the other as to where they truly needed to go. \n\n\"The town centre's easy to find everyone in. All the houses are close together, an' lots'a the time you'll see folks just goin' about their days, so you'll get ta know who spends their time here an' there. It's once you get up to the farms and the big houses it gets tougher, but don't worry! You got me as long as you're needin' to have me today.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Asher Laurens",
"message": "\"Oh!\" Having the letter pointed out to him, Asher glanced at the name. Sure enough, the name said \"Abel Hughes\", and just as luck would have it, he wasn't that far from where they were. \"Yeah, the church sounds good! Thank you for your help!\"\n\nRelief washed over the taller man, as he was glad that someone was helpful enough to show him around. As much as his mind could be faulty at times, Asher inhaled sharply in preparation to start memorizing the directions, locations, and everything Briar Ridge had to offer.\n\nAnd so they were off, with Asher following behind Freddie as close as he could while making sure he didn't get distracted, which was a hard feat to do given all the new sights, sounds, scents, and the like that tempted him in various directions. Thankfully, he had a job and company to keep him anchored to his task.\n\n\"S-so um...\" Asher spoke, but was unsure how to follow up with the initial opening. For now, the best choice was to attempt small talk. \"...W-what do you do in Briar Ridge, Freddie?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Freddie's first instinct was to set off running - they had a lot to do, after all, if they were going to get the whole bag empty! - but he managed to keep his energy in check, and go at a simple walking pace, checking over his shoulder to make sure Asher was always close behind as he weaved his way through the street and the people in it. He was more than happy to engage in simple conversation, and glad that the other had initiated it so he didn't wind up rambling about anything and everything that entered his mind. \n\n\"I work for the coal company, actually. Been workin' down the mines for a good few years now,\" He began to explain. \"Moved here with my family back in the fall - they told us there was better work here, but they ain't tell us about the reasons why, so it's been... Well, it ain't been easy, that's for sure. But I don't mind it so much. The foreman likes me well enough, an' he saw how well I got on with the ponies. We use 'em for haulin' the coal up to the surface from miles and miles underground. I basically got one all of my own now. Named her Angel, for she's sure my guardian angel down in those dark tunnels, never so much as misses a step no matter how steep or badly-lit it gets, an' I get to bring her home with me at night so I don't wind up walkin' all the way up there alone.\" \n\nHe smiled, biting his lip and looking to make sure the other man was actually following his words. \"Sorry. I do like ta' talk a lot.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Asher Laurens",
"message": "Following closely, Asher couldn't help but smile as Freddie chatted away about his job and his pony. He felt a sense of excitement he never felt before as he was actually engaged in a conversation that lasted longer than 10 seconds, and that excitement helped him pay attention to **Everything** Freddie was saying. Asher nodded every so often to let the smaller man know that he was paying attention.\n\n\"You good!\" He reassured with a beaming smile. \"Workin' at the coal company sounds like a whole buncha hard work, I imagine! Having a pony is really nice, too. I remember when I was younger, I used to live on a farm, and we had a couple of ponies ourselves! I'm not sure if the post office would allow me to have a companion like that, though...\"\n\nFor the brief moment his mind wasn't engaged in the conversation, Asher took notice of the building they were approaching. \"I reckon that's the church, yeah? What kind of religion they practice here?\"\n||"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Freddie hummed in agreement. \"Sure, it's rough work. Dirty an' hot an' the like, but it's all I ever known, and it makes me good an' strong.\" He grinned. \"Shoulda seen me 'fore I started workin' down there, real scrap of a kid I was, but now I got as much muscle on me as any good minin' man. You should tell me more about the farm, I ain't had much time to go meetin' the animals that live around here just yet but you *Bet* I be wantin' to.\" Maybe they'd run into some today on their adventure, and the thought filled him with nothing but delight. He knew there were sheep up on the Gray farm and by *God* Did he want to pet their little woolly heads. \n\n\"Yeah, that's right. Church straight ahead, cap'n.\" He turned back so Asher could see he was laughing, and then walked a few steps backwards, just for the fun of it. \"What d'ya mean, what kind? It's church. You sit in a pew and try not to squirm around as Father Abel talks about the Lord. Jesus and Mary and the sinners and all'a that. Close your eyes and pray for... Salvation, sanctuary, good health for your family, all that. I ain't never known nothin' about no kinds'a religion but that.\"\n\n||"
}
] | 276.5 | 2,993 |
367.636364 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "The walk to Briar Ridge had been uphill all the way, and draggin' a two-hundred-pound boar behind him from two miles out had been no mean feat, but Algernon Granville was used to a challenge, and this one didn't register too highly on the list of things he'd done. Still, there was more than a drip of sweat on his brow, trickling into his beard, by the time he'd hauled the thing to the base of the oak tree that seemed to divide the road in two. \nHe couldn't recall when he'd last spent any amount of time in a civilised-lookin' place like this, with real streets wide enough to drive a motorcar down 'em and young'uns playing and running in the open. His last stopping point had been little more than a circle of tumbledown shacks, most long abandoned by whoever had inhabited 'em, with an old man burning a fire in the middle of it all day and night, only really moving to poke at the embers.\n\nAlgernon shucked off the fur that had been wrapped around his shoulders, hung it on a low branch, and turned to lean against the oak's trunk, lookin' around and takin' it all in. Just what the hell kinda place was this Briar Ridge, then? The few signs on the buildings were faded, paint peeling, standing no chance against the elements of what was proving to be a harsh winter, and even if they'd been entirely intact the letters wouldn't have meant all that much to him. He could see a window stacked up with books, another glass-fronted store piled high with what looked like kitchen supplies. And the people... Hell, there were people everywhere, all kinds of people, young and old and everything in-between, some wrapped up well against the cold and others looking as though they'd be better off anywhere but outdoors.\n\nThe still-warm boar carcass had left an ugly streak of blood in its wake, vibrant crimson staining snow already muddied by boots and wheels, the whole thing a foul slush. But it meant the meat was good, the kill fresh, and that could only be a good thing when it came on to sellin' the damn thing. Yet it seemed the folk here were keepin' a wide berth - had they never seen a hunter before? Or was there something else off-putting that Algernon hadn't quite figured out?\n\nHis hands were bloody. Right under the nails. But that could be a problem for later on. For now, he needed to find a place to properly butcher his kill and dry the hide, a pair or two of hands to pass the meat on to, and a good stiff drink."
},
{
"author": "Noah Owens",
"message": "There was a hole in Noah's gloves. He hadn't realized it when he left the house that morning to run some errands before the new moon but he certainly realized it now, the cold winter air bit at his fingers. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets as he rounded the corner and a splash of crimson in the snow caught his eye.\n\nImmediately, his heart began to race and his eyes darted around, expecting to see the evidence of another attack, yet another body ripped to shreds by the monsters who, up until now, had been confined to the nights of the full moon. The moment passed when he realized that, while the other townsfolk seemed wary, no one was running or hollering or crying for help despite the very obvious trail of blood leading towards the center of town.\n\nCurious, with fingers and toes tingling from the adrenaline that had just spiked through his body, Noah decided to see what exactly all of this was about. The trail led him to where the road forked near the center of town and the sight of the large man and very dead boar answered his questions. A hunter of some kind? A stranger for sure. One that was being avoided by pretty much everyone else that hurried by.\n\nWell, if no one else was gonna stop and see what the man wanted or, at least, point him towards the butcher, Noah guessed that the task had fallen to him. He approached the man, hands still in his pockets, bright blue eyes wary despite the expression of friendliness on his face. \n\n\"Afternoon. Thats a hell of a boar you got there, you take it down yourself?\""
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "\"That I did.\"\n\nAlgernon regarded the newcomer with a surly stare, lookin' him up and down as though sizing up a piece of meat. A young thing, scruffy-haired broad-shouldered and keepin' his distance, as he oughta. \n\n\"Put up a hell of a chase, but I got 'em good in the end. Always do.\" \n\nConversation didn't come too easy these days. He dragged one long nail beneath the other, flicking away dirt, and wished the stranger would get to the point. But when he didn't, Algernon heaved a weighty sigh, seeing that any kind of conversation looked like it'd fall to him.\n\n\"Came to sell it. You know a man in the market for game? I'll clean it up real good for ya, and I'm sure we can come to a fair price. Same goes for the skin, but it'll take a couple days to get it dried. Sure you understand.\"\n\nHe was a man of few words, almost sure this was the most he'd spoken in weeks, and frankly, he hated it. The stranger was lookin' at him again, blue eyes sharp as a tack, clear as a summer's day sky. At least he, too, had filth beneath his nails and in the grooves of his fingers. A working man, then. Perhaps one to keep on the good side, but it was too early to tell just what the man's intentions were. \n\n\"If you're not interested, keep movin'. I don't mean no trouble, just came by to scout out the place. Heard on the road you folk got a herd of deer need thinnin' out, but if I heard wrong, you just tell me and I'll be on my way 'soon as this is off my hands.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Noah Owens",
"message": "\"Is that all the folks on the road are saying about Briar Ridge?\" He was genuinely curious. Noah knew that he kept his mouth shut about what was happening in the holler when he was in the cities. After all, who was gonna believe a hick from the mountains showing up raving about monsters and he needed his contacts to have faith in both his abilities and his discretion. \n\nHe took a few steps closer, turning his attention from the man to get a better look at the boar at the base of the tree, \"The butcher'd be interested in the animal if you're looking for fast cash but you could make more if you pieced it out. Lots of folks around here are happy to trade for some fresh meat this time of year too if you need other goods.\"\n\nNoah glanced back over at the stranger, a hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. \"I wouldn't mind some myself. I cant take the whole hog off ya, but I'll give you fifty cents for a few pounds of bacon. Throw some hooch in for the pelt if you're so inclined as well.\"\n\nHell, he'd offer a lot more for some meat that wasnt salted to hell and back but this is what Noah was good at, always offer less than what you were willing to part with to start. At best, you get yourself a deal, at worst, you haggle for a bit and either take what you can get or walk away."
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "Algernon raised a bushy eyebrow. What did the man mean by that? \"All I heard,\" Was his reply, watching closely as the other studied his kill. It had been a neat end, all things considered, a bullet to the flank to take it down and a second between the eyes to cease the twitching. It would be an easy clean and butcher, at least. \"I'm in no hurry. Been dead an hour or two is all, shouldn't take me too long to break down... If there's somewhere less out in the open to get to work, mind.\" He may not have been familiar with the area, but something told him if he began to gut and piece apart the boar right here in the square, the people might take even less kindly to him than they already had, and he wasn't so sure he could afford further disdain if his plan to settle here for a while was to come to fruition. \n\nThe mention of a drink caught his attention again. Sure, he didn't know what kind of 'shine they could rustle up in a place like this, but a Granville man never turned down liquor, and it had been days since he'd drained his hip-flask dry. \"Sounds like you got yourself a deal with that there offer. Tell you somethin' - you take me somewhere away from all of this,\" He gestured to the square, still busy with the townsfolk, though they seemed to have averted their stares for the most part now he had company, \"And I'll give you first pick of the cuts for your money. Find me a couple more buyers and the hide's yours... And if the hard stuff's good, there should be more where this one came from.\"\n\nHe was no stranger to driving a bargain. And it could be good to have an ally, if this unassuming holler turned out to be as hostile as it seemed at first glance. \n\n\"Name's Algernon. Yours?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Noah Owens",
"message": "\"Noah Owens,\" He offers his had to shake, ignoring the tacky blood that he can see on Algernon's hands. These gloves were done for anyways. His smile sinks into something more genuine, \"My place is just on the edge of town, there's plenty of space out back to do what you need to with the hog.\"\n\nHe chuckled, \"Im happy to help you carry the thing over but Im afraid I won't be much more than company when it comes to 'breaking it down.' I've never been much of a hunter myself.\"\n\nNot to say that he ain't never hunted, Noah was pretty sure most folk in Briar Ridge had been out in the woods at least a couple times. He never quiet developed the stomach that came with field dressing animals and it took him almost a year after the war before he could go out into the woods of his birth with a gun and not strain to head the whistle of shells dropping on his head."
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "Noah. A good name, a strong one. Biblical, not that Algernon was a particularly religious man. \n\nIt seemed to fit the man that was invitin' him back to his place after knowing him for all of a few minutes. Maybe things weren't all bad here. Sure, most of 'em seemed it. But one good man was all a little town needed to make it bearable. And there was nothin' saying he had to stay too long. Algernon clapped his hand into Noah's and returned the shake, rough and firm and decided. \"Good to meet you, Noah Owens. Shouldn't be all caught up in your hair too long if all goes to plan. No need to get yourself filthy though - I hauled it here this far, a little more won't hurt a bit. Can even show you how it's done if you're interested.\" Many hands, after all, made light work. If he could get Noah on his good side, there'd be all the meat the man wanted if he could offer up help and a drink here and there. Even if he couldn't, he promised a good price, and in Algernon's book that was more than enough. \n\n\"Lead the way, if you would. Swear I'll be right behind ya.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Noah Owens",
"message": "Algernon's offer put Noah in a bit of a spot and he didn't want to admit that the sight of blood and guts in that quantity tended to turn his stomach. He wasn't as bad as some folks, he wouldnt go fainting or getting sick over the matter, but at the end of the day, if he never had to butcher something ever again, Noah could die a happy man. However, even worse was the thought and sitting back, watching someone else do all the work when he'd been invited to join.\n\n\"Alright, as long as you don't think I'll be in the way, I wouldnt mind the lesson.\" It was best to stay on the hunter's good side. Who knows, maybe the man will stick around and Noah would do a lot of things for some good bacon.\n\nHe waited until Algernon gathered the boar and his belongings and led him through town to his place. They got a few stares from the townsfolk but an easy grin and a few words from Noah had their expressions morphing from open distrust to at least a mild interest. Word would be spread of the fresh meat and hopefully the hunter would find selling the rest of the animal a simple endeavor.\n\nIt wasnt long before they came upon the Owens' house. There were times that Noah thought about moving, with what he was making from the Coopers, he could probably afford a better place, something that had been built in the last 30 years at least. But he had been born within those walls, had so many memories that etched themselves into the beams. No, it might not be much but it belonged to him just as much as he belonged to it.\n\nNoah led the hunter around the back so that they wouldnt be easily visible from the road. If the weather looked like it was gonna turn, they could easily move into the shed but Noah didnt want to risk getting blood on his baby if he didnt have to. \n\n\"This should work for us. Is there anything in particular that you need?\" Other than the shine. If Noah was gonna be cutting up an animal, there was no sense in doiing it sober.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "\"Can't imagine you'll be gettin' in the way, Noah. Worst comes to it, say it turns out you've thumbs for fingers, least you can say you tried.\" It was a surprisingly accomodatin' thing for Algernon to come out with - there'd been a time he would've laughed at the thought of a man unable to do somethin' so simple as skin and store his own kill. But he got the sense that they did things a little different 'round here, and to shoot down his first chance at an ally in a town of strangers would be a surefire way to find himself on the town's bad side. He'd had to flee from more than one place in the dead of night before, and he didn't fancy the midnight run down that mountainside without enough light to see himself puttin' one foot in front of another. \n\nA short walk went by without much further conversation, and Algernon watched Noah greet and smile at the folk around them - they didn't seem so hostile all of a sudden now he had company. It was lucky then, perhaps, that the man had come to him when he did. \n\nThe house and yard would do just fine, the walls providing enough shelter from the wind to get to work, and being out of the view of the main town square would give a little privacy from passersby and their curious eyes. Algernon laid out the boar, and into his pack he went, bringin' out his knife and the stone to sharpen it. He sat himself down heavily, legs outstretched before him. Good lord, it was nice to get off of his feet after all that walkin'. \"Shouldn't need much. A knife of your own if you have one, make things quicker with two pairs 'a hands. And a little hot water for the cleanup won't go amiss, but that's a while away yet.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Noah Owens",
"message": "\"I'm gonna remind you you said that.\" Noah laughed softly.\n\nHe watched Algernon get settled and gave a nod at the instructions, \"Knives I've got. And I can at get a pot of water goin' so we wont have to wait so long once we're done, be right back.\"\n\nNoah took a moment once he was inside to push away the discomfort and grab a jar of shine from the false back of the cabinet. He helped himself to a long pull, wincing at the burn, before dividing the moonshine into two flasks. He glanced out the window, keeping an eye on the hunter, noting the the sure strokes of the blade against the stone. Algernon seemed friendly enough, if quiet, but Noah probably wouldnt have done much talking lugging around the animal either. The man's clothes had to be hiding some muscle with how easy he made it look.\n\nHe quickly finished his other tasks and returned to the yard, his own knife and whetstone in hand. He sat down next to Algernon and withdrew one of the flasks from a pocket and offered it over, \"Sorry, I'm gonna need the flask back when youre done. Have a taste and let me know much much you think it's worth for the pelt.\"\n\nThe liquor was decent, Noah had had smoother here and there but he'd also had much much worse. He might or might not also have a couple jars tucked away that had some different fruits added to it that he was looking forward to trying. He pulled out his own flask and took another drink before he began to sharpen his knife.\n\n\"So, where do we start?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "Though not the most perceptive of men, Algernon sensed some reservations comin' from Noah when it came to the butcherin' of the boar, and though he'd never ask it aloud wondered what kind of a man he was really dealin' with. Seemed kind enough, sure - hospitable without a doubt, but how did anyone survive in wild places in the middle of the woods without at least knowin' how to catch and fix a meal here and there?\n\nKnife well sharpened, he was waitin' patiently as he could for the other man to return, and the ghost of a smile flickered over his face as he saw what was in his hands as he walked back out of the house. \"Man after my own heart,\" He commented as he accepted the flask, noting the metal painted a shade of green he recognised from days gone by. A military man, then. He wanted to ask how Noah had ended up here, but it seemed too early in knowin' one another to go askin' the personal questions, so he kept quiet, and took a long drink from the mouth. It burned against the roof of his mouth and his throat, but in the warm way good home-brewed liquor often did, the perfect thing for the cold day and the task at hand.\n\n\"Strong stuff. Much appreciated. Best place to start's by skinnin' the main pelt off of him. Long, smooth strokes, watch.\" Takin' up his knife and setting the flask aside, Algernon rolled the boar onto its back, and cut a neat line across the belly, from forelegs to hind. Fresh blood spilled, rolling in thick ropes down onto the grass beneath its body. \"You don't wanna go sawin' back and forth, or you risk tearin' it altogether. Sharper the knife, cleaner it'll cut, and you save the quality that way. Best to treat what God gives us with respect, or he'll not give you no more where it came from.\"\n\n||"
}
] | 377 | 4,044 |
506.4 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "It was not at all like Hazel to be forgetful. \n\nA child who was trained to maintain a strict schedule often grew into an adult who could not allow themselves to divert from that rigidity. Hazel was one such adult, and on the rare occasion that she forgot anything at all, it felt to her like an ego-shattering mistake. She was kicking herself for a mistake like this today, and as a result, Hazel was a little more off-kilter than usual. \n\nShe was dealing with a lot more at once than she'd ever had to deal with, and felt very much as though she was on the precipice of learning about a whole new world of truths. On top of her daunting personal growth was the larger situation at hand, the full moon, the influx of newcomers to town, the pressing fear of a major deadline coinciding with a potentially destructive event. She hadn't meant to, but Hazel had gotten used to the slowness of her life in Briar Ridge. Only recently had she found herself truly busy again. It would've felt good, if there weren't so much else going on outside of her control.\n\nHow she had managed to forget to check that she had all the fabric she needed was beyond her, but Hazel had had to shell out a pretty penny once she'd realized she needed more gabardine delivered for the suit she was working on. The woolen fabric was perfect – so perfect, as it happened, that she forgot she'd used it to make a host of mittens last year, which had sold like hotcakes for their cheapness and brought her a hefty profit, just as planned. When she pulled it out, she was dismayed to find a good two-thirds of it gone, and she ended up having to pay for a telegram, of all things, then waited even longer to start her order.\n\nIt was this newly-added time crunch which had so discombobulated Hazel as to have her walk-skipping down Main Street in an attempt to get back to her workshop faster. She was doing her best to avoid anyone whose path she might've crossed, but her success came to an abrupt end when she rounded a corner a little too quickly and immediately found herself knocking harshly into someone, then feeling her own bottom hit the dusty ground. *No!* \n\nShe'd managed to get dirt on her fresh fabric, stain her day dress, *And* Rip a small but unsightly hole in the skirt of the woman into whom she'd so carelessly bumped. Damn the little heels on these shoes. Carina had no business wearing them around. Hazel would have to clean them again before returning them so as not to tip off her friend.\n\n\"I'm so sorry,\" She babbled, entirely unlike herself and very taken aback. \"Oh, I'm so sorry about your skirt, miss. I'm so sorry. I'm a tailor, I can fix it.\" All the while as she talked, there was obvious awe on her face. She'd never seen this woman before, and she'd certainly never seen anyone who looked quite like her. It was like studying a piece of fine art for the first time. Intrigued and equally embarrassed, Hazel picked herself up and did her best to dust herself off. \n\n\"I... My shop's just at the other end of this street,\" She continued, breathless. \"If you want to stop by, I'll gladly stitch it up, free o'charge.\""
},
{
"author": "Kinsley King",
"message": "Damn these skirts. Damn them all to hell. While she was at it, damn that colt who tore her best pair of britches, and her last clean set apparently. \n\nLittle prick tore the back pocket clean off trying to get that sugar cube she had forgotten was in there. She rolled her eyes even at the thought of what had happened only mere hours ago. She huffed as she tugged at the length of deep red fabric that threatened to trip her up as she turned the corner, cussing under her breath. Her ink covered fingers tugged hard at the skirt as she attempted to dislodge herself from a stray nail on the decking. \n\nAs she gave it one final good yank, she came to a sudden halt as another feminine frame came crashing into her own. Perfect, what a wonderful way to top off the day.\n\nKinsley's icy blue eyes studied the small woman as she sat on the dirt path, stuttering over words of apology, despite Kins not being the least bit upset about the new tear now adorning her skirts.\n\nHer head tilted slightly like a beast studying its newly discovered prey. A tilted, crooked grin met her full lips as she offered the woman a hand up, shaking her head. \n\n\"Don't fret, I hate these blasted things anyways.\" She said as she narrowed her gaze back to the fabric with a glare. \"Always found myself more comfortable in a stout set of cotton britches anyhow. Though, if you're the tailor, I suppose I may have just been looking for you anyhow.\" She said as she held up her own britches that were in dire need of mending. \n\n\"Think you could mend these up for me in the mean time?\" She said as she held them up. \"I'm happy to pay, and possibly discuss some other business as well.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "Oh, wow. Hazel was peering up at a woman she could only think to describe as striking. She couldn't have been more than an inch or so taller than Hazel, but the woman's energy made her seem closer to six feet than five. Inky tattoos blanketed whatever visible skin Hazel could see – where did she get all of those? – and long, dark eyelashes framed a pair of icy blue eyes. \n\nThe woman's reaction was equally unexpected, but Hazel was grateful nonetheless. After a moment's hesitation she accepted her new acquaintance's hand and hoisted herself up onto her boots. She recognized the way the woman's head tilted when she scanned her. Hazel might have done the same to a new servant on the estate, a decade ago. She knew she was being given the once-over, and immediately she respected the woman for so boldly analyzing her. It was obvious that the woman cared little for decorum in favor of doing what she liked, and Hazel's eyes shone with awe. What must it be like, she wondered, to be so free in her body? Envy pricked at the tips of her toes.\n\nIt seemed rather serendipitous to find that the woman's intent seemed to be to find a shop like Hazel's after all. A smile appeared on the tailor's face as she recognized the outline of an opportunity, silvery and silhouetted in an ink-stained stranger.\n\n\"Oh, I'd be happy to help,\" She chirped in her best and most agreeable tone of voice. \"And while we're at it, I'd be happy to alter some men's trousers to fit you.\" The only other woman she'd seen in town wearing trousers was the librarian. Given the way with which most women in town seemed to be bucking up to fight a *Second* Monthly threat, perhaps Kinsley might inadvertently become a model for Hazel's new designs. An opportunity to make some fresh coin, yet.\n_ _\n\nThat, and she found herself wanting to know more about this woman. How she'd come to be in Briar Ridge and escape Hazel's notice for this long was something about which the tailor was already coming to kick herself. What could she learn from this woman? What would she be willing to teach her?\n\n\"I'm Hazel, by the way,\" She added, realizing she'd yet to introduce herself. \"I don't reckon I've seen you around before. I would've noticed your trousers.\" Hazel stopped to dust the loose earth and pebbles from the folds of her skirts and took up a pace alongside the woman so that they could walk together."
},
{
"author": "Kinsley King",
"message": "\"Kinsley,\" She introduced herself with a crooked grin. \"I'd love to see your work. As long as the stitches hold through rough riding, I'll be a happy customer.\" She said as she gathered the rag tag ends of her skirts and joined in the walk next to her. \n\n\"My trousers?\" She said with a questioning phrase yet she already knew a few of the answers that could come. This day and age, a woman in trousers was as unique as the fact she had inked skin. She was. . . Unique, in a very nice phrase.\n\n\"I've noticed not many women here in Briar Ridge wear the mens folks style. I never could fall in line and hassle with the dresses and skirts and frill.\" She spoke as she turned her head to look at Hazel with admiring eyes. \"Though I do find myself envious of women who look as dashing as you while also being able to function.\" She offers a smile as she turned her head again to pick her way through a bit of a washout in the street. \n\n\"I'm not from here, really. Though I'm not a far off stranger neither.\" She said with a shrug of her shoulders. \"A bit of a wanderer, if you will. I just set up a homestead a way out of town and trying to get my footing here.\" She said as she began to think. Should a friendship between Hazel and her strike up naturally, she wondered what she could learn from the small woman with mousy brown hair and beautiful round, hazel eyes."
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "Hazel preened a little at the praise, but maintained composure. She was focusing instead on the comment on style in Briar Ridge. It was true — their town was quirky, to say the least. \n\n\"On the one hand, we're such a small town, things don't move as fast. On the other, I think you'll find that most women around here aren't so traditional, even if we look it,\" She chuckled dryly, echoing Jade's statement from a few days prior. \n\nAs they continued their walk, Kinsley expressed her envy towards women who could don trousers with style and functionality. Hazel chuckled softly, a hint of playfulness in her voice. \n\n\"It sure did take some time for me to find the right balance 'tween fashion and practicality. But I believe there's no reason why women can't look dashing while still being able to move freely.\" Hazel offered a cheeky smile, small and ephemeral but personal enough that it might as well have been a reference to an inside joke between the two of them. Talking to women had always been easier than talking to men.\n\nListening to Kinsley's story of being a wanderer, Hazel found herself intrigued. She had always been fascinated by tales of people exploring the world and finding their place in it. Her own journey had brought her here, too, but that hadn't been wandering so much as fleeing. \n\n\"A homestead,\" She echoed, nodding along. \"That's real impressive.\" She dreamed of owning her own home someday. This woman's will must have been made of steel, for her to have accomplished so much without a single gray hair on her head. That grit – that drive, that survival instinct – that was something she recognized, something she could respect. The world was rarely so kind to women as to men; those who persevered never did so without a little roughness to them. Hazel looked at Kinsley with curiosity in her eyes. *I'm sure there's much we could learn from each other,* She thought, tilting her head. \n_ _\n\n\"Me, I just live above my shop,\" She continued. \"The shop already existed, so I took both units. Don't know what happened to the first guy, but I'm here now.\" As they approached the street where Hazel's shop was located, she guided Kinsley to follow her around the last corner. In the display windows hung a few pairs of work trousers, paired with coordinating jackets – though most didn't match completely and were leftovers from previous sales. \n\n\"What'll it take for me to persuade you to try on a pair of trousers?\" Asked Hazel, deftly unlocking the door of the shop and holding it open for Kinsley. \"They're mens, 'course, but I just wanna pin them on you so I can make somethin' fresh. On the house, for your trouble,\" She added, smiling."
}
] | 533 | 2,532 |
875.2 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Alma Cooper",
"message": "The gunshot cracked through the forest, bouncing off of rocky cliffs and boulder faces two times taller than a man. A crow cried in alarm and darted into the sky. A couple of squirrels chittered angrily as they sprinted up tree trunks to safety. The cottontail- the target - dashed into the underbrush, kicking up brown and red maple leaves in its desperate flight. \n\nAlma winced as she lowered the gun. Her shoulder was gonna be bruised tomorrow. She could feel it in the way the sinews ached as she lowered the rifle. Good. It meant she'd done something. She and Rhett had been at it for a couple of hours now and the weariness was starting to set in. Whatever progress she'd made earlier was slowly being seeped away by the cold and encroaching nightfall. The metal of the rifle was leeching the steadiness out of Alma's hands. She'd missed her target. Not by much, but it was enough to make her brows furrow with dissatisfaction. \n\nPartially because she wasn't a bad shot when she was using smaller weapons. Partially because of what a missed shot represented. Mainly because she wanted to make Rhett proud. \n\nAn apology fell from her lips before she could think better of it. When she'd approached Rhett with the proposal of hunting practice, she'd mainly done it to get him and her away from the cage. Just for an evening. Rhett needed a moment to breathe. Alma didn't mind falling asleep at the workbench, but she did mind when he did. She was slowly starting to learn what the soft shifts in his breathing meant. What tension in his jaw hinted at. It wasn't a perfect science yet, but she was always watching. It was hard not to when they spent nearly every day working on the trap together with the other volunteers.\n\nBut the practice was meant to be an escape. Alma had never much cared for hunting, but she knew Rhett did. At least, that's what she'd gathered from what she'd heard about him and his cousin. Alma just wanted to learn how to use something bigger than her Papa's revolver. Something that felt good and strong and wicked in her hands that wouldn't knock her off her feet the way a shotgun might. So, she'd apologized for failing to take his advice to heart this time around. Her last shot had earned her a squirrel when his advice was still fresh in her mind. She should've listened better. Her shoulders sagged as she pulled the lever on the Winchester 94, ejecting the shell with the soft click of metal. \n\n\"I should've had that one,\" She grumbled quietly. Her breath came out in small, white puffs. The knitted scarf her mama gave her now smelled like gunsmoke. She buried her nose into it anyway, muffling her voice. \"Thanks for tryin', Rhett. Guess I just gotta get more practice in, huh?\" She let out a weak laugh - not because it was funny, but because it was an easy deflection. \n\n\"Dunno how much time we got left...\" Her eyes darted up to the sky, but the sky was mostly blocked by branches laden with orange and red leaves. The last of the season. It was a cloudy day, so all Alma knew right then was slivers of grey sky and the cold of the shadows. At least, that's what she was trying to tell herself as she pushed down her longing to stay out longer with him. She didn't want to acknowledge that this had been *Fun*. That she'd needed the break too. That it'd been so freeing to just *Walk* Away from town and do somethin' verging on normal. \n\nHow selfish of her. \n\n\"Should we git goin back now? I don't quite like the idea of gittin' caught out here come nightfall. Plus I think I hear a warm cup'a cider callin' my name.\" Alma finally craned her head up to him, her cheeks red from the cold and her brown eyes hinting at the smile beneath the safety of her scarf."
},
{
"author": "RHETT TERLIng",
"message": "Alma didn't need as much help shooting as Rhett had supplied, mainly in the form of standing just off her left shoulder and muttering small encouragements. **Squeeze** *The trigger, don't pull. Use your breathin' to time the shot.* It was all advice he'd gotten from Cliff's dad, Uncle Earl, when they were teenagers, but Alma got along just fine without it. Rhett was just glad to be with her outside the walls of the shack or the Davis barn. Seeing her in the sunshine was a welcome contrast to seeing her by lantern light, though both pictures sure were special. \n\nThey'd been spending a lot of time together, and since Alma'd brought him the blueprints for the cage, Rhett had mostly been under the impression that all those hours logged were under the pretense of work. At the start, he'd been a pair of good hands and sturdy boots for a project, but as the months had gone on, he wasn't sure what he was to Alma anymore. The fact of her asking him out for a day of shooting practice was one he couldn't neatly file into his understanding of their relationship. Still, he took it for what it was: just a beautiful day with a girl that he damned well considered beautiful but hesitated to label her as such in his mind due to the complex nature of their association. \n\nAh. *Simple.*\n_ _\n\nAlma didn't need to worry herself over making Rhett proud. To him, every angle of herself that she'd shown to him was outlined in gold. She took care of her community, her family, her students. Hell, she took care of *Him.* The only thing she didn't look after so ardently was herself, but Rhett had decided weeks ago that he was more than willing to help her fill in any gaps there. He couldn't bake like she could, or hold a conversation very well. He couldn't draw out figures and schematics, and he didn't have much money. What he could do was walk her home after long nights working, or drape her with a blanket if he noticed her fall quiet in the workshop a room over only to walk in and see her sleeping. He could listen to her talk about her students and what book she'd been reading, and he could accept and eat all the things she cooked for him because he knew it made her happy. He could take her hunting to practice her shot and tell her what he knew. \n\n\"No sorries in huntin' unless I've got yer shot in my leg. Then I'll take a sorry,\" Rhett laughed, and it was a shining thing. His tired eyes had brightened out here after a day in the woods under the filtered sun of autumn's last hanging leaves. \n\n\"Oh, practice, sure.\" He nodded, still smiling, \"You're well on your way to puttin' a good dinner on the table, Alma. We might be eatin' good by Christmas.\" He teased, gesturing down to her squirrel. Not too hearty a meal, but the fur on the tail made a damn fine paint brush (which he'd told Alma to keep her spirits up). Rhett'd bagged two rabbits, himself. He could've made it three but he missed the last on purpose to better even the playing field. \n_ _\n\nWhile Alma's eyes went skyward, Rhett's went to her, and he was still looking when she squinted back to him. \n\"I reckon we should. I think I hear that cider callin' me, too.\" He wouldn't turn back to town until she did, a bit reluctant to leave the sight of her colors out here and the way they paired with the warmth of Fall. As he fell into step beside her, he noticed a flash of yellow out of place. \n\n\"Oh, ah— you've got somethin'...\" He laughed, nervously this time as he stopped walking, \"You've got somethin' in your hair. I kin just—\" Rhett steadied his slightly cold-numbed hand to pluck it out without taking any of her hair with it. A pretty, perfect little maple leaf. He hesitated— agonizingly, but briefly— before he let the light spirit of the day lead him, and smoothed back the strands disturbed by the foliage, careful not to let his touch linger long. His heart still flopped embarrassingly in his chest at the slight contact. He held out the small intruding leaf for her to take. \n\n\"Maybe it's good luck or somethin'.\"\n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Alma Cooper",
"message": "Alma had made Rhett laugh, and it felt like she'd won herself some kind of prize. It sounded easy and free and light compared to the ones she'd heard before. It wasn't until they were a few miles out of town that Alma had realized Rhett seemed different out here. Perhaps he was more in his element? Sure, she'd made him laugh before, but it seemed to come easier today. She was grateful for it. The dark bags under his eyes - under both of their eyes, though she'd never admit - almost seemed lighter now. She liked watching him shine like this. She made herself a note to try and get him outside more often if it meant he'd laugh like this. \n\nThen he was talking about Christmas. Her stomach did a little flip. Was it really time to start thinkin' about Christmas? Surely that was months away? But, no, it was only a couple of months. She supposed she knew Rhett well enough that she needed figure out a present for him. What did Rhett like? Did he need a new pair of work boots? Or could she knit him up a hat? Surely he was getting tired of her baked offerings. She tried to sneak a glance at him out of the corners of her eyes, sweeping her gaze over his clothing. Maybe she should pay a visit to that seamstress? Oh, what was her name again? \n\nFor the first time since July, Alma wasn't thinking about the cage. Just what'd make him smile the biggest and brightest and- \n\n\"I do?\" Alma was shaken out of her thoughts as she caught up with what Rhett was saying. She paused in her walking and reached for her hair to fix it, but he'd beat her to it. She froze. He was touching her hair. The leaf was already out and he was willingly touching her hair. Smoothing it back into place. \n\nThe one question seemed to plague her the past few weeks dashed back to the forefront of her mind; was this the action of a friend or...?\n\n_\n_ Everything so far had been neatly tucked into boxes and labeled in big, black lettering: \"Friend\". And, even when it wasn't so neat, she would fold it and cut off its edges until it *Did* Fit. She had to make it fit. She simply could not afford for her to interpret it as anything other than the actions of a friend. \n\nShe needed him. \n\nThis one wouldn't fold quite so easy, though. It was like a blanket left out to dry on a cold winter's day. Crunchy and stiff. It would break if she forced it. So, she left it out to dry on the line instead. That could be done another, warmer day. For now, she tried to pretend the blush that had crept across her cheeks was still from the cold as she gingerly took his gift, her fingers lightly grazing his. She immediately quashed the selfish desire to hold his hand.\n\n\"Thank you. I'll take all the good luck I can possibly get these days. \" Her voice had gone quieter now without her meaning it to. It was just a silly, little leaf but she looked down at it like he'd just offered her a golden necklace. She pinched it between her forefinger and thumb and rolled its stem, spinning it around.\n\n_\n_\"Kin I confess something to you, Rhett?\" She reached up to hook a finger on her scarf and tug it down again so her voice wouldn't be so quiet. \"I been thinkin' recently 'bout us. 'Bout how littler me would'a never thought you n' I would do somethin' like this together. If I could go back and speak to myself ten years ago and say that that me n' Rhett Sterling would be good friends, I think I would'a looked at myself like I'd grown a third head!\" She laughed a little and got brave enough to look him in the eye for just a second. \n\n\"I'm grateful you came back home. Grateful I got to know you as an adult instead.\"\n\nDog chose just that moment to come crashing back through the underbrush. He was walking lopsided. There was a large, heavy branch in his mouth that was about as thick as an arm and still had quite a few twigs stuck to it. \n\n\"Lord, Dog! You think you're gonna haul that thing all the way home?\" Alma teased, holding back her laughter. Dog's only response was the furious wag of his tail and globs of drool that fell from his lips onto his floppy ears. Lovely."
},
{
"author": "RHETT TERLIng",
"message": "*Kin I confess something?*\n\nOh, good Lord. Great, merciful God, was this the clarification he'd been–\n\n*I been thinkin' recently 'bout us.*\n\nHe wasn't ready. He shouldn't have put his confusion into the universe, because he was *Not* Ready to reckon with what this meant for the two of them–\n\nOh. He let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, his thundering heart rudely reminding him of what Alma meant to him, which frankly, was more than he was prepared to quantify, especially in this moment. He felt like he was under attack– a great werewolf of intimacy crashing through the window glass of his chest. But he was safe. He was so, so safe. His bewilderment was replaced by a sad smile as he finally fell in step with Alma's words. \n\nRhett didn't blame her for trying to make sense of their friendship from the shoes of her former self. They hadn't been close when they were young, and just the opposite: Rhett had stood by to witness ugly words thrown Alma's way by the hands of kids he'd considered friends. Over the past few months of them getting to know each other as adults as she'd said, Rhett had spent a lot of time simmering in quiet regret for how he'd stayed silent back then. He'd chosen to follow those kids because they'd offered a kind of brotherhood that felt healing to him. His childhood had been exceedingly lonely, and in those boys, however nasty they could be, he'd recognized the prize of loyal companionship and strength in numbers. \n\n\"I'm grateful, too.\" He promised, meeting her eyes. Now was the moment to tell her all the things he was sorry for, and he set into the task before he lost the nerve. \n_ _\n\n\"'N I'm sorry, Alma. For how we knew each other when we was kids. I was real good at hiding behind other people, then– I guess I still am. But I'm better at sayin' sorry these days.\" He winced, growing immediately spirited with another thought, \"'N I'm sorry for how I was to you when you came around to the shack that first time. You were hurtin' in so many ways 'n I was too worried 'bout myself to be a good man to you when you needed one.\" By now, he'd looked away from her, back to the woods behind her where he heard a far-off and slightly worrying thrashing in the leaves, \"And I'm sorry it took me months to... To *Tell* You I was sorry.\" \n\nThe rustling grew louder, but the light of day somehow kept the fear in the eaves of his mind. Maybe he'd sensed all along it must've been Dog, informed by the bloodhound's absence from their heels, because when the creature made his entrance, Rhett gave a peal of easy laughter. He was unburdened by unloading his owed apologies, and joy came easy, though he couldn't help but half-hope Dog's conveniently distracting presence would keep Alma from focusing too hard on the words freshly out of his mouth. \n\n\"Aw, he jus' needs a little help, don't he? Here, Dog, lemme give ya a hand.\" Rhett trundled through the fallen leaves to the bloodhound, his voice taking on a playful, even childlike quality, \"You gon' let me lighten your load there, pal?\" He gingerly lifted the slumped side of the branch, half expecting a game of tug o' war to begin. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Alma Cooper",
"message": "*\"I'm grateful, too.\"* \n\nThere was a relief that came with those words. Alma could have floated back to town on that alone. Let sleeping dogs lie and let the sins of the past be forgotten. Even if Rhett hadn't intended it in those simple words, Alma had already forgiven him by the time he started apologizing; something she most certainly wasn't expecting, but was grateful for. \n\nHalf of her had figured he wouldn't remember the bullying the way she did. Frankly, she would've been fine with that. It was never Rhett who was doing the teasin'. He certainly kept foul company, but Alma didn't remember a time that he was slinging venomous words her way. It would've made perfect sense for him to have forgotten about the book shy girl his friends used to sling insults at, but he remembered. So, she thanked him quietly. \n\nHim apologizing for their first meeting, however, really took her by surprise. \"It's alright, Rhett. We was practically strangers when I showed up at your door this summer. In fact, the only reason I knew you were back in town was from the way folks were gossipin' about you at back at Bigby's. You know how it is,\" She joked in an attempt to mask just how impactful his words had truly been. \n\n*\"... I was too worried 'bout myself to be a good man to you when you needed one. And I'm sorry it took me months to... To tell you I was sorry.\"*\n\nAlma knew what a good man looked like. He was fictional. He wore armor and rode into battle on a fiery steed and pulled princesses from their prisons. He knew how to slay dragons in one chapter and then dance the night away in the next. Most importantly of all, he wasn't real.\n\nAlma's image of a good man shattered during her childhood. Her Papa went off to fight in the War when she turned 12. Her older brother was off working the coal mines before she'd even reached 5. When the draft came, so much of the town had been taken over by women that Alma could only ever find good men in books. Then, the men who came home came back twisted, just like her Papa did. She learned quick there was no such thing as a truly good man, and that was okay. Her Mama taught her how to handle the world without them. \n\nBeing a good man was just an ideal to aspire to. Alma hadn't come to Rhett expecting him to be good. She'd come to him because he could work steel. \n\nBut, Rhett, she realized, was the closest she'd ever come to meeting a good man in the flesh. He listened to her when her sanity felt like it was cracking at the seams. He worried over her back when her leg was freshly broken. He allowed to her chatter about whatever book she'd just finished with boundless patience. He nursed Spider back to life, and he knew how to treat both Spider and Dog right. \n\nShe realized his goodness was buried in the color of his laughter and the easy way he went over to 'help' Dog. The world felt a little colder without him at her side. Rather than unpack that thought, she allowed her instinct to have her follow him a few paces back.\n\n_ \n_ The Bloodhound had no intentions of handing over its hard earned trophy. He let out a playful growl and, the second Rhett's fingers landed on the branch, Dog set about tugging with all his might. The forest floor was slick with damp leaves, though, and he went skittering this way and that, all the while letting out growls that'd seem ferocious were it not for the way his tail wagged like sapling in a thunderstorm. \n\n\"Somethin' tells me you ain't helpin' him too terribly much, Rhett!\" Alma managed between peals of laughter. \"If you two goofballs keep that up, we're gonna be stuck walkin' home in the dark! Don't make me leave you two behind!\" The threat was nothing but a load of hot air. Still, she took a few slow steps backward, waiting for them to turn around. Soon as she caught their eyes, she whipped around and started leading them back towards town."
}
] | 892 | 4,376 |
377.181818 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": ".puddnhead",
"message": "*Beaux is up to no good as usual, went and blew all his cash taking a chance. Now the music's shaking half the town down.*\n\n**Contains mentions of alcohol and substance abuse as well as other cool stuff.**"
},
{
"author": "Beaux T. LeBlanc",
"message": "*Beaux couldn't stand the silence anymore.* \n*Something was just itching away at him as he sat in his abode, all the work done for the day, dread found it's way drifting through the air. He stewed in it for a while, but he couldn't take it. With spite in his step, he got up from his rocker and stormed out the door. A man on a mission.* \n\n*Sure, everyone saw the posters around town. But when the night came around, the scope of it was unbelievable. No expense was spared. There was complimentary Cajun cuisine, Chicken and Tasso gumbo n' rice, smoked andouille sausage as an hors d'oeuvre along with honey mustard to dip in along a few other pieces of charcuterie. Meats, cheeses, grapes, and some warm fresh ooey gooey's picked up from the new bakery in town.*\n\n*The spread was impressive enough. But that didn't even include the other party favors. There was booze in every variety Beaux could get his hands on. Moonshine, Bourbon, Rum, and some classic Applejack with plenty of bitters and mixers and toppers to make sure everyone was happy. Then there was Beaux's personal stash. All of that freshly cured bud prepared in almost any way you can imagine. Rolled into cigarettes and displayed all pretty in a cup, looked almost casual enough to be displaying pencils. Ground and ready to be put into personal pipes by the patrons, hell, he even had a 4 person hookah. Not to mention the horrifying new contraption that was a gas mask from the great war attached to a pipe that'd flood the eyes, lungs, and nostrils of anyone brave enough to put that deathtrap on.* \n\n**Then there was the lone tray of brownies that sat over in the corner.**\n\n*Beaux's own batch.* \n\n*Unlabeled, Just **Begging** Some curious soul to take a bite and find out.* \n\n*The place was lit by gas lamps, a few had the glass painted to give off a more ambient light, especially in what was now the dance hall. What was once a living room, had been stripped of all the old rotted out furniture, and given new life. Hell, so\n\nMeone even managed to wheel an old piano in.* \n\n*That's where the band set up. One on a standing double bass, one on fiddle, one on piano, one on the washboard,a guitar or two, and a few proper drums.*\n\n*The Unmistakable Tamino Rossi working the door. Ladies got in free, of course. Lads paid 3 dollars at the door, and once you were in everything was free, so long as you behaved.* \n\n*But this weren't a fancy soirée, there was no dress code. No strict set of rules besides from treating others as you'd want to be treated.* \n\n*Then there was Beaux. No shoes, ragged old jeans, but at least he had on his classiest sleeveless shirt. Pupils wide and black, hypersensitive to everyone creek of the floor or the sound of a mice passing wind out in the yard. Heightened to a point of overwhelming awareness and consciousness. Sure, he greeted the first few guest. But after a while, he was busy as can be. Blazing through the place like a bat outta hell, grinning like the devil.* \n\n*He'd drink, smoke, singing n' dancing to everyblues song he knew by heart. Jazz narrating the energy of the room, freely flowing between tunes, Playing with all his might to drown out the noise and live for now, living like he might not see tomorrow.* \n\n*He kept it up for a good three hours, dancing between instruments, playing keys and strumming strings, a blur of radical strawberry blonde setting the house ablaze at the peak of the musical madness, taking brief breathers to play a slow tune. But the music never stopped. Eventually, he just took a bow, and slipped back into the crowd, handing off the torch to another local musician to take his place.* \n\n*He weaved and crept his way out the back door, To a little peace. Late at night, or was it early morning now? Beaux didn't really care.* \n\n*He just slipped away under the stars, going walk through morning dew in his garden. Taking a breath of fresh air, and lighting a smoke.*\n\n*For a minute there, it almost felt like Bourbon Street again.*"
},
{
"author": "Bo Luppe",
"message": "It wasn't like Bo to check his traps so late at night, but his errands in town ran long and it wasn't good to leave any kills sitting overnight. Still, Bo hoped he didn't spook the wrong person as he made his way through the dense forest with his shotgun strapped to his back and only his memory and the thin light of the moon to guide him. \n\nCould it have waited till morn'? Absolutely. Especially so since every trap Bo checked was licked clean by some mischievous young buck or still baited perfectly pristine. Crummy results didn't put Bo in the best of moods but it wasn't the worst he'd ever had — and the weeks back in Briar Ridge had allowed him to restore his essentials so it wasn't like he'd starve tonight. This was his last trap for the night to check — empty, great — and then Bo could follow the lights from the town to get back on the main path back up to his cabin on the ridge. \n\nHe prided himself on knowing the path well enough, even in the dark, but Bo wasn't going to risk a twisted ankle and fall into the brambles if he could avoid it. \n\nWhich is what he would have done if he hadn't heard the unmistakable sound of music thumping through the woods. He followed the sound, curious, until the noise was so loud that even the nearby trees seemed to *Thrum* With the energy. Oh, right, this was that Beaux's place wasn't it? Bo didn't normally come this way since it was a wide breath from his usual trapping path and in the opposite direction from town, but there was no harm in lookin' he supposed. \n\nThough it seemed Bo was approaching from the backyard rather than the front entrance. He kept a wide range, just in case anyone got spooked, but there was just one lone figure standing out in the gardens — and this was a face Bo knew since it was a man shaped by circumstances not too far from his own. \n\n\"Evenin'!\" Bo called out when he got close enough, making sure he approached in loud, heavy stomps. \"Just passin' through to check on the huntin' path.\""
},
{
"author": "Beaux T. LeBlanc",
"message": "*Beaux weren't so much as scared, more so just surprised. Surprised enough to make him choke on a puff of smoke. But, seeing a somewhat familiar figure, he managed to keep his eyes from popping straight out of his face. Politely blowing it out the side of his mouth away from Bigfoot over here. Of course he didn't say that out loud though. But he thought about it. Made him giggle a little.* \n\n\"Hey neighbor. You're working awful late tonight. I don't believe we formally met yet? I'm Beaux. I've seen you trapping up here a few times, never wanted to interrupt.\" \n\n*Beaux extended a hand for shaking. He smelt of sacred herbs, and smoke, and garlic, and celery, and bell peppers, and cayennes, and diced onions, and smoked Tasso, and butter, and chicken, and sausage, and a decadent flour based roux fueled by broth. Served with rice. With hot sauce even?* \n\n\"Say, what does a guy do for fun around here?\" *Beaux would pose the question. Eagerly awaiting a response from Sasquatch's distant cousin.*"
},
{
"author": "Bo Luppe",
"message": "Bo came close enough to shake the young man's hand with a bit of a mischievous smile. \"'Fraid I know you, buckaroo, but only because we seem to share a name. Name's Bo Luppe. Nice to finally greet ya.\" He couldn't remember who made the connection first because everyone Bo talked with eventually came to the same conclusion and thought it was the funniest thing since sliced bread. It wasn't enough to make Bo start going by his given name of Bruno, though. Only his Ma and the Lord could call him by that name. They alone had earned the right. \n\n\"Sounds to me like the latest hot thing has been tryin' to avoid gettin' mauled by wolves,\" Bo answered Beaux's second question with a deeper cut to his crooked smile, still not sure how to feel about the whole thing but sure enough that something was happening to cut a joke about it. \"But I'd say if anyone was lookin' to have fun, they'd probably be here. You've got quite the rager goin' on in that place of yers.\" \n\nEven being hard of hearing, Bo already felt too close to the noise. The shivers that the music sent rumbling through the ground and shaking the trees was unnerving and he shifted nervously where he stood, like a horse that felt incoming danger. The War had bombarded Bo with enough constant noise that it still unnerved him whenever his environment was too loud with anything that wasn't birdsong or the heavy fall of rain. He wasn't ever one for parties much anyway. \"Even besides, people have fun the same way here that they do in big cities, just on a smaller scale; booze, thrill-seekin', or competition will get any heart pumpin'.\""
},
{
"author": "Beaux T. LeBlanc",
"message": "\"Hardy Har-Har. Look how hard I'm laughing.\" *Beaux would sarcastically reply. But despite his tone, the remark did still earn a little grin. He never really had a problem laughing at himself. It might as well have been plastered right on the front of the papers at this point. It seemed like everyone knew.* \n\n\"I don't know that I've met another Bo before. We should start a club. Roll call would be a little complicated though.\" *Beaux would tap the ash off the end of his skunky cigarette and give the other a once over. Stewing in deep consideration for a moment.* \n\n\"Why don't you come inside? Fix a bowl of gumbo, take a break from the traps. A Big man has got to eat. You've gotten this far already. Something tells me you're gonna be popular in there. The sight of you ought to get some hearts pumpin' n' thumpin'.\"\n\n *Beaux would egg him on, playfully bumping Bo with his shoulder at the mention of pumping and thumping. The long haired man looking up at the giant with hopeful eyes.*"
},
{
"author": "Bo Luppe",
"message": "Just as he thought, this Beaux was a relaxed sort of fella who at least could take a joke. And even jab at Bo with his own! That was a nice, refreshing change that Bo couldn't help but grin at. The young man got one thing right — he did love to eat, and he the last time he had gumbo was already too long back. \n\nHad to be at the Kentucky fair last summer, when the air was so hot the bowl of gumbo in his hands felt like it would start boiling. The stall shelling out gumbo had a variety of options but Bo was always a sucker for shellfish when he could get 'em and this bowl had been chock full of the goodies; shrimp, crab, a handful of mussels even. \n\nBo had still yet to see the ocean with with his own two eyes but he could taste it in the flesh of the shellfish, salty and mysterious, so unlike any common river fish in every way. His eyes would water like hell from the spices but damn, he wouldn't ever turn down a bowl of gumbo. \n\nUnless that bowl of gumbo was trapped in a house of noisy, loud young things. Bo glanced past Beaux's shoulder into the heart of the house and already felt his head aching at the thought of diving in there. The noise was good noise — music and laughter, Bo reminded himself, as if that would help — but the thrum of it was just constant enough to make his heart squeeze with terror. \"Party like that ain't my scene,\" Bo started as he dragged his gaze back to Beaux's expectant gaze, \"....Don't suppose I could ask you for a bowl for the road, though?\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Beaux T. LeBlanc",
"message": "*Beaux's heart ached a tinge hearing Bo's response. But, he trusted that he had his reasons. He didn't plan on pulling the big fella in by his ear, despite how bad he wanted to, so he just nodded.* \n\n\"I suppose, I suppose.\" *Beaux huffed a theatric little sigh. Like it was such a cumbersome task.* \n\"Don't go nowhere. I'll be right back.\" \n\n*Beaux would tap his guest on the arm before stepping off, hopping up his steps and greeting Tamino on the porch. Letting him know how good a job he was doing before slipping inside and making his way to the kitchen.* \n\n*A short while later, Beaux would return with a steaming bowl in hand and a cup of coffee. A few more treats haphazardly stacked on his arm. He'd wave Big Bo over as he sat down and let his legs dangle off the far end of the porch. Still in good view of the landscape, just a bit closer to the music and in outcasted light from the house.* \n\n\"Chicken and Tasso gumbo, and a fresh brownie for our gentle giant.\" \n\n*He'd offer him the bowl, and a little special brownie wrapped in paper for the road. Sure it wasn't quite a seafood gumbo, but Beaux almost always preferred it that way. Something about smoked meats in a roux just brought about a warmth that seafood couldn't seem to compare to. Besides, real fresh seafood can be hard to come by. Of course there was still plenty of peppers and herbs and spices, an extra meat or two, but it didn't quite roll off the tongue quite like Chicken n' Tasso.* \n\n\"We got all kinds of drinks and stuff inside too if you need. Just holler at me.\" *Beaux would sip at his coffee. Eventually dipping his own brownie into it before taking a bite.* \"Fun kind I should say.\" \n\n\"So, where'd you blow in from?\""
},
{
"author": "Bo Luppe",
"message": "Bo got himself settled on the porch next to his companion for the evening. Even at the end of the porch the music was still loud, but the gumbo in hand was enough to distract Bo for the time being. He hadn't ever had gumbo that wasn't chock full of seafood before, so it was different, but Bo found himself still enjoying it all the same. Where were they supposed to get fresh shellfish this far into Virginia, anyhow? It was probably for the best. You couldn't just throw any damn fish in a pot of gumbo and call it a day. There was an order to this sort of thing. \n\n\"Stuff's good,\" Bo said sometime after his third bite of the gumbo, \"Your chef knows how to make a mean gumbo.\" Big man like him, it didn't take Bo long to clean his bowl. It was a wonder he didn't lick it clean with how he was going at it. That just meant the brownie was left — and though Beaux had wrapped it nearly in paper for the road, that didn't stop Bo from picking it up and starting to eat that, too, piece by piece. \n\nBeing in the forest for as long as he had been, Bo was *Starving*. All the errands he had to run didn't allow him a chance to grab a bite and he was hoping a trap or two would give him something quick to cook up. But they didn't, so this was hitting the spot sweetly. \n\n\"'m from Kentucky if that's what yer askin'. Life dragged me here and here I've been since. What about you? Gumbo's southern food — more southern than here. Take it too far up and people can't handle the spice a lick.\" Bo grinned at the thought and tore off another piece of the brownie to eat. Gumbo was best sitting in the belly but chocolate was worth savoring on the tongue. \"Actually, might be runnin' that risk even havin' it here.\""
},
{
"author": "Beaux T. LeBlanc",
"message": "\"Thank you, Thank you. My Momma taught me everything I know.\" *Beaux would give the credit to where it was truly due. It almost made him homesick talking about old recipes and his sweet ol' Momma back home. Not to mention sitting on an old wooden porch under the moon like he did many many times before. It made him miss old times, when things were okay. When he was just young and sweet and everything was just so much simpler. Like before the war.* \n\n*The other half of him, well, was just trying to hold it together seeing Bo unsuspectingly eat away at that Brownie. Doing his best not to smile too wide. Now, it was just a matter of time. The merry little prankster just had to do his best to make sure the big fella would stick around under his watchful eye.* \n\n*So, he kept up. Bite for bite. Until he just finished it off and washed it down with coffee. Of course this was his second brownie of the night among other things so he had a little head start. But he was handling it remarkably well. Feeling all warm and fuzzy inside. Of course, it'd come on a little stronger in time. It always hits harder when you eat it, don't you know?* \n\n\"Just follow the Mississippi all the way south until you hit the gulf. That's about where I'm from. I've kinda stomped all through that mucky area between Texas and Mississippi but I've always been just about a stones throw away from the beautiful brown, muddy waters of Louisiana.\" *He said, with a **Pinch** Of sarcasm.* \"I think this's the farthest north I've ever been. But Kentucky-huh? You know how to pick any of that bluegrass I've been hearing about?\"\n\n*By this point, Beaux was sitting like a child. Criss-cross-applesauce, leaning back against the post and clutching his coffee close. Trying to pick at the other's brain and see just what kind of man he was.*"
},
{
"author": "Bo Luppe",
"message": "The way Beaux spoke made Bo wonder if he fancied himself an 'old-soul' as they called it. Talking with him made Bo feel that way, anyhow, like he was talking with someone his age instead of someone he was sure was a near decade younger (if not more). Maybe it was the travels Beaux mentioned — or maybe what he found on the roads between. \n\nBo took another bite of his brownie in contemplation. \n\n\"This is the furthest south I've ever been. I've near tapped Canada once or twice just to say I did but otherwise the rest of this American land is unknown to me.\" Funny how their travels complimented each other like that — though it sounded like the both of them needed to go see the Western wilds ones of these days. Bo would buy a cowboy hat and everything. \n\n\"Bluegrass doesn't grow high enough for pickin' half the time. Makes for terrible hay because of it so it's best to just let it be.\" Bo sucked the chocolate from his thumb before adding, \"You can make a mean grass-whistle from it though. Better than any other state, promise. Sound carries twice as far and sounds twice as pretty, too.\""
}
] | 367 | 4,149 |
309.594595 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "Cw: Depictions of blood and gore, panic attack\n\nThe first thing they notice is the smell.\n\nCharlie's night had, they thought, been like any other: they'd curled up among the roots of an old oak tree, their suitcase held tightly to their chest. The burbling of the creek had aided their descent into slumber, like it had each night before, and they felt safe. Content.\n\nWhen they awoke, a multitude of new and unfamiliar sensations hit them. The first, again, was the smell: a heavy copper scent, almost rancid. The second, of course, was where the smell was *Coming* From. The ground had been saturated with smatterings of blood, and they could recognize the deep gouge marks of *Something* In the dirt.\n\nCharlie's mind swirls with the implications. Whatever had been here had been big, and with the amount of blood, they'd had either been hurt or had *Killed*. How the hell were they still alive? How did they not wake up?\n\n*What if they had never woken up again?*\n\nTheir breath catches in their throat as they scramble to their feet, clutching so tightly to their bag that their knuckles turn white. They need to go, to find someplace to hide and be safe, but it feels as though they're *Drowning*.\n\nSo, they run. They ignore the way their lungs start to burn, the fat tears starting to roll down their cheeks, and run run run run-"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "Emery had been walking for an hour or two by now, someone in the next town over took enough pity on them and drove 'as close as they dared get' to Briar Ridge but it was still a good ways to town. They'd started early enough but the hot southern sun started to beat down through the trees and they'd ventured off the path to find the creek, slinging off their heavy pack and carefully sitting their banjo down near the trunk of a large tree. \n\nThey sat by the creek, resting their feet and splashing water on their face as they let themselves take a much needed rest. The water wasn't ice cold but it cooled their skin well enough as they rubbed it over their arms and cupped a handful to splash across the back of their neck. They took a deep breath, eyes closed as they let the quiet and calm wash over them. \n\nThen they heard it. Footsteps, *Quick* Running footsteps that were getting closer and closer. Their eyes shot open but they stayed glued to the spot, willing their heart to calm enough to shift through racing thoughts. Usually ignoring any noises in the woods worked well enough but whatever this was was coming up fast and right for them and it took too much time for them to shoot up and turn towards it - before they were crashed into. \n\nThey stumbled but kept their footing, realising it wasn't a booger after them but a person who looked much too distraught to even know they were there. \n\n\"Shoot, sorry, I'm-\" They stopped short as they took in the person in front of them, sobbing and damn near shaking with what was definitely blood on their clothes. \n\n\"Whoa, hey, hey, are you alright?\" They kept their hands out and voice soft, akin to how they'd talk to a spooked animal. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "Charlie's crash into Emery does little to quell the panic that lays heavy in their chest, but it does bring them to a temporary halt. Their chest heaves as they stand there, suitcase shaking in their grasp violently until it finally falls to their right with a *Thud*.\n\n\"No, no no no, you don't-\" They manage to choke out. \"You need to go, there's something *Here* And there's so much *Blood-*\"\n\n*It pools and sinks into the hardwood flooring, marring the old oak of their grandfather's home. Crimson stains their cotton sleeves, the denim of their pants, the newly broken skin of their knuckles-*\n\n\"I can't-\" They wheeze, \"I can't- Please-\"\n\nCharlie's knees buckle from underneath them, and they fall to the dirt gracelessly. Their hands scramble for purchase on their chest as they gasp for air, eyes wide and fearful. The woods feel too large, and they feel so *Small*. They can barely register that there's a stranger here with them; their mind is racing too fast to recognize the safety that comes with numbers, still latched onto the overwhelming fear.\n\nThey still need to *Go*, to run as far away from here as possible, but their legs refuse to cooperate.\n\n\"I can't-\" They sob in a mantra, \"I can't-\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "Emery glances around at the mention of 'something here', especially lingering out over the strangers shoulder but they see nothing. Nothing but the empty jaws of never ending woods, the only noise they heard being panicked words and the babbling of the creek. Of course they'd heard talk of strange things in these woods and after all they'd seen they'd never deny its existence... But for now at least, they really did seem to be alone. \n\nThe poor stranger was shaking like a *Leaf* And they shook so hard they fell to the ground, leaving Emery frozen. Their panic wasn't unfamiliar, Emery had been in a similar state a handful of times themselves. What *Was* Unfamiliar was it being someone else — they didn't even know them but couldn't bear if they were the reason to make them panic even more. Emery took a steadying breath before slowly kneeling down.\n\n\"Hey, it's alright.\" They kept their tone soft but voice raised enough to cut through the panicked mantra, their hands still held out in front of them.\n\n\"Ain't no one here but us, just...\"\n\nThey crouched down more, trying to meet the strangers eyes as they took a deep breath in, hands rising and then falling as they let it out nice and slow. \n\n\"Just breathe, yeah?\" They took a moment to glance around the woods again just to be safe and, yup. Still empty. \n\n\"I'm just gonna sit right here with you, and you just,\" They took in another deep breath and let it out just as slow. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "Charlie's eyes finally settle onto Emery's outstretched hands, then slowly drift up to their face. In another time, they'd fluster over how a pretty stranger was worrying over them, and embarrassment would be red hot in their veins. This sort of panic wasn't something new to them, but having someone witness it was. Charlie never cried: not in front of their sisters, their grandfather, no one. Those times were reserved for dark nights, where their only company was the illumination of the moon.\n\nThey manage to take in a shaky breath alongside Emery, their eyes drifting closed on the exhale. Another has their hands shaking less, and the next has their body stilling. Their tears still fall, but the panic is slowly wicked away, leaving only an odd hollowness.\n\n\"It's not safe here,\" They whisper, voice soft. \"Something is out there, I saw it's claw marks, saw the blood.\"\n\nThey can't stay here any longer, but where will they go? They've already made a stink with that man from Maldorano's- what if word's spread? They'll need an actual place to stay, a way to earn money, but they don't-\n\n***Breathe.***\n\nCharlie breathes in again, then reopens their eyes.\n\n\"...Thank you.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "Emery breathed through the panic with them, only lowering their hands once the shaking seemed to subside. The strangers sunken eyes might as well have been a creek of their own the way tears kept spilling over and down their cheeks and Emery patted at their pockets before realising with a huff *Damn skirts*. \n\nTheir pack was just a few feet over and keeping their movements slow they pushed themselves towards it, reaching and dragging it closer as to not go too far while digging through small side pockets before pulling out a handkerchief. It was... A bit stained. The interlocking patterns hid most of it and they'd just done a big washing of all their clothes before heading out so like most of the things they owned it wasn't necessarily dirty just, well used. \n\nThey stilled a bit as the stranger spoke. Told them of the beast they were so desperately running from. *I know. That's why I'm here. That's what I've been running to.* \n\n\"Well,\" They scooted over to the creek, dipping in a corner of the handkerchief to soak up some cool water before settling back down and offering it over, \"Blood never bothered me much.\" \n\nEmery was almost embarrassed at the way their mouth flapped from the thanks, a *Genuine* Thanks. It was rare they heard it and they struggled for words as they glanced back and forth between honey coloured eyes, eventually pulling their own away to look back down at the handkerchief and thrusting it forwards again, nodding down to it. \n\n\"Yeah, it's... No, it's no problem.\" They stumbled out.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "Charlie sniffles as they take their offered handkerchief, but instead of wiping away the blood that stains them, they just... Stare at it. They trace the patterns with their thumb for a moment. It's pretty, but they don't know why-\n\nOh.\n\nThey blink once, twice, then look back up to Emery with furrowed brows.\n\n\"I don't want to ruin this,\" They offer the handkerchief back with a small smile, \"But I appreciate the thought. It's pretty.\"\n\nWhatever embarrassment Emery is experiencing from Charlie's thanks is not commented on; both from their own creeping bashfulness at crying in front of a stranger, and the fact that they themself act like this... Rather often. It's a normal thing, not being able to maintain eye contact!\n\n\"It, uh, suits you?\" Their nose scrunches, and they fumble to explain, \"I mean- your skirts are pretty, too. You look... Nice. Uh-\"\n\nThey stop themselves from continuing to put their damn foot into their mouth, awkwardly folding the handkerchief back into a neat little square. The blood is an issue, of course, and god knows how much of a pain it'll be to clean out, but another ruined shirt is a fair enough trade to keep a sentimental item clean.\n\n\"I'm Charlie.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "Emery couldn't help the soft huff of a laugh that escapes them as the handkerchief was held out to them, taking a moment to flit their eyes over the others clothes. It didn't seem like they were injured, just... Covered. It'd take a lot more than a wet bit of cloth to get out all the grime that clung to them but they pushed back the handkerchief towards them nonetheless. \n\n\"I don't mind none.\" They promised. \n\nThey watched as the stranger fumbled over words like they just had. Tried and failed to push down a creeping heat to their cheeks as they watched their nose scrunch up and compliments fall from their lips. No one really complimented them, much less their appearance. Their skirts were nothing special, they knew they'd be travelling so it was one about as stained as the kerchief and the hem was already dirty from walking and getting caught in more than a few brambles. \n\nThey scrubbed at their beard, a nervous habit, trying to scratch away not only the heat but the feelings that accompanied it. A tight little tug in their chest as *Charlie* Gave their name. \n\n\"Uh, Emery.\" They lamely motioned to all of Charlie,\n\n\"You're uh, you too. Nice- Look nice. I mean not all the, you know...\" *Damn it.* They took in a quick breath, keeping their eyes focused on Charlie's stained clothes, \"Blood ain't too hard to get out. Might stain a bit but, I could uh, help.\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "For a moment, an actual *Pout* Crosses Charlie's face, but it's quelled as they hold the handkerchief close. Instead of going for any of the larger stains, however, they simply wipe away at the small spatters of crimson on their sleeves. It does lift some, thankfully, but their ministrations leave their sleeves wet. The sensation makes their nose crinkle once again, so they move the handkerchief to the hem of their shirt.\n\nCharlie's head lifts at Emery's compliment, chuckling in response.\n\n\"You don't have to lie, Emery- I know I'm a right mess.\" Despite their own words, the tips of their ears flush red. The offer, though, brings them pause.\n\n\"I- er.\" They start to fidget with the handkerchief, lowering their head to focus on their own soiled clothing. \"I don't really have anything else clean to wear.\"\n\nThe shirt that Jade gave them had dirtied rather quickly, much to their chagrin, and they had to toss one of their pairs of pants after it'd gotten ruined by an unfortunately placed patch of brambles. That left... Two changes of clothes, one of which they were currently wearing, and an extra shirt.\n\nTheir grandfather's overcoat was tucked safely away in their suitcase, but they'd rather get shot in the damn foot than risk ruining that.\n\n\"...I guess I should go for a swim?\" Charlie's displeasure of the notion clear on their face. \"Deal with being a soaking wet rat of a person for a bit.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "Emery catches the way Charlie's features scrunch as the water bleeds through the fabric of their sleeve. Maybe the water was colder than they thought. They ignore the pull to reach over and help, to wipe the grime and blood from where it spread and cracked on their skin. \n\nThey finally look back to amber coloured eyes, tell themselves the red on the tips of Charlies ears is just stains or exertion. \n\n\"Nah,\" They shook their head, a small smile creeping up the corners of their lips, \"You just need a bit of cleaning up is all.\" \n\nThey glance over to the suitcase that had fallen beside them, then back to Charlie. Was that all they had? Not that Emery had room to comment on the amount of possessions one owned but, it seemed like they had more than them. And their clothes wouldn't fit them snug or anything but, it'd probably feel a hell of a lot better than what they had on. \n\nThe look on their face at the mention of going for a dip looked damn near disgusted and Emery's mind was made up then and there. \n\n\"No, here,\" They pulled their pack between their legs, loosening the main knot enough to reach in an arm and dig around blindly. They had just tossed all their clothes on top of whatever small bit of valuables they brought and knew each piece well enough by texture. They first pulled out a pair of weathered cotton pants, setting them right in front of Charlie, before digging back in a moment more and pulling out a light button up. \n\n\"Might not fit perfect but, just till you get those clean.\" They set the shirt down beside the pants, pushing them towards Charlie. \"You don't look all too fond of bein' a wet rat.\" They chuckled.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "Charlie's eyes widen, and the flush from their ears spreads to their cheeks. They stumble to their feet, grab the offered clothes, and thrusts them back towards Emery.\n\n\"I can't take these, Emery.\" They're unable to meet their eyes, instead settling on the clothes themselves. \"It's very sweet of you, but I just-\"\n\nGod, why is their heart racing in their chest? It's a simple kindness, reminiscent of what Jade did for them, but it feels... Different. Something about Emery's attention makes their skin warm, like the sun is shining on them. It's not something they can recall experiencing before, but it's... Nice.\n\nSomething to ponder for later.\n\n\"I-I can just strip while I clean, I've got my smallclothes on, that should be fine-\" The words tumble out of their mouth before they can truly process them, and the realization of what they've said makes them let out a sort of... Squeak of embarrassment.\n\n\"N-Not like that, I-I mean- That's- I-I'm-\"\n\n***God, strike me down now.***\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "Emery pushes their pack to the side, jumping to stand as Charlie does and shakes their head even though they know it goes unseen. They know their damn heart is seeping out their sleeves but they can't help it. Can't help the incessant want to *Help them* In any way they can. \n\nThey were gonna try to pull back, to stop pushing so much and mentally give themselves a good shake. They even reached forward, hands on their spare set of clothes to take them back. Then came the blush. Creeping over their cheeks and down their neck and they'd never been so glad to have a beard in the summer. \n\nThey stilled just long enough for Charlie to trip and stutter over a few words before laughing. It started as a snort they tried to hide behind a hand, moved to a chuckle that had them turning away. \n\n\"No, I know you didn't,\" They cut themselves off, trying to tamp down the laughter that kept bubbling up out of their chest, \n\n\"I'm sorry I,\" They took a steadying breath which broke a few seconds later from a string of snickers. \n\n\"*Sorry*, I,\" Another deep breath, this one finally steadying the fit in their chest as they turned back to Charlie with a wide grin \"Didn't mean to laugh like that just,\" They pushed they clothes back towards them, \n\n\"Go on, I really don't mind none. Just till your others are dry. I can even go downstream, just,\" They nodded towards the mess of clothes, \"You're probably gonna be a lot more comfortable not drippin' wet.\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "Charlie feels the first bubbles of frustration in their chest as Emery refuses to take back their own clothing, and they're about to just put the damn things back in their pack themself if Emery doesn't take them back-\n\nThen they *Laugh*, and it's the prettiest thing Charlie can remember hearing in their time away.\n\nSo, they just stand there, face flushing more and more as they listen to Emery's peals of laughter. Their embarrassment be damned, if they could make them laugh more? Charlie would gladly make a downright fool of themselves again. When Emery turns back, grin wide on their face, Charlie looks almost *Dazed*.\n\n\"O-Okay,\" They manage to stutter out, \"You don't have to go anywhere! I'll just go behind a tree.\"\n\nWithout actually waiting for a response, they dart behind a nearby tree, face positively burning. They almost trip, considering how fast they throw their own soiled clothes off to change, and they mutter curses under their breath as they button up the pants. Charlie marvels for a moment at how soft both articles are, in only the way well-loved pieces can get, and they feel their heart beat just a little bit faster.\n\nAfter a few more curses and a quick buttoning, Charlie steps back out from behind the tree, soiled clothes in hand. Emery's clothes don't fit them fully: the cotton pants are *Considerably* Too long on them, needing to be rolled up a few times as to not drag in the dirt, and the shirt hangs loosely on their frame.\n\n\"Uh, t-thank you again, Emery.\" Their eyes, once again, remain steadfast on the ground. \"You said you could help? With the s-stains?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "\"I'll be here.\"\n\nThey turned away even as Charlie stumbled behind a tree, looking out through the woods and feeling a strange sense of peace. Peace that usually only came in the cover of night under the hands of strangers. Peace they didn't expect to find anytime soon, especially in the woods of Briar Ridge. Emery bit back more laughter from the string of whispered curses, a few chuckles escaping despite their efforts and turned back only when they heard small footsteps. \n\nEmery didn't fully put together that giving Charlie their clothes to wear would mean that... Charlie would be wearing their clothes. They don't fit the best, long and loose in a way that has them feeling damn near domestic and leaves their face hot.\n\n\"Yeah...\" Emery answered a bit dazed before recovering.\n\n\"Oh! Yeah! Here, lemme just,\" They carefully took Charlie's clothes, setting them down by the creek much more gently then they'd handle even their own. Sitting as close as they could without getting wet they picked up the shirt, dipping it deep to where the coolest water dragged along the bottom of the creek. \n\n\"Cold water is what gets it out, don't use hot or it'll just set it in.\" They wrung it gently under the stream, letting most of the blood wash through before pulling it up, lightly rubbing their thumbs around the dried edges of the stain in a practised ease. \n\n\"And you don't wanna rub too hard,\" They dipped the shirt back in every few seconds, \"It'll make the threads thin all out and rip apart, then you get holes and, well it'll take a tick but...\" They worked around the largest stain, repeating the motion as they spoke, their brows pulling together with focus. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "Blood was never something that Charlie knew to remove from fabric. Grass stains on the edges of skirts, ink on the cuffs of school shirts, and even soot from fires that they'd only ever be a witness to. Blood, though?\n\nThat had always been something their mother took care of, with a roll of her eyes and a sneer on her lip. Things always had to be clean in just the right way, lest the Marsh family would become known for having disheveled appearances.\n\n...Charlie never did anything to exactly *Dissuade* That, of course; always savoring the looks of displeasure that their parents gave them when they came home with a busted lip and a bloody shirt collar. Even with Vernon and Eloise's apathy, they never turned a blind eye to something that could make *Them* Look bad.\n\nIt makes the care that Emery shows their clothes an odd juxtaposition. Gentleness was still something they were unable to wrap their head around, especially when it was shown to *Them* Of all people. Most times, it made their skin prickle, but now? All they felt was warmth, despite the ever chilling weather.\n\nThey pad over to join Emery by the creek, bringing their knees to their chest and resting their chin on them. The more they listen, the more that unfamiliar warmth in their chest spreads, but they can't find it in themselves to mind.\n\n\"You're very sweet.\" Their voice is soft, and if Emery looks over, Charlie's expression makes it seem like they're unaware that they said anything at all.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "The past year had found Emery jumping from town to town, never letting themselves settle too long in fear of wasting time with unanswered questions. The fear itched in their brain and stabbed their chest till they were on their way, chasing the next ghost. \n\nAll that travelling meant they hadn't had routine, not like they used to. The first thirty odd years of their life was a solid repeat of routine; wake up early, skin or gut meat for the shop, clean the shop, sleep, then laundry on Saturdays. They did both them and their Pa's, revelling in the repetitive monotony and sometimes taking half a day to carefully clean before the clothes were hung to dry. \n\nThey had missed it more than they knew, the slow process, the familiar sharp scent of iron that filled their nostrils. Charlie's clothes wouldn't be perfect, maybe once they got into town they could find some salt or soap to scrub the hard lines of stains away, but for now they let themselves get lost in the act of cleaning for someone else. \n\nSo lost, that they almost missed it. Charlie's compliment was spoken so quiet, so matter of fact, that it took Emery a moment to even register. They look at Charlie, eyes flitting over, almost studying them. Their dark messy hair pulled back, scars that tugged at the corner of their lips, then finally settling on their eyes, a brightness to them despite their sunken darkness. \n\nEmery'd never been good at accepting compliments, not with any sort of sincerity at least, but the way Charlie spoke, it had them damn near believing it.\n\n\"Thank you.\" They breathed, eyes staying locked to Charlie's,\n\n\"So're you.\" They spoke just as quiet, \"You're... You're real kind.\" \n\nTheir fingers rub at the fabric between them, not in any sort of aim of getting it clean but now out of a need to steady their nerves. They gaze at Charlie, allowing an aching longingness to wash over them for just a moment before willing their attention back to the shirt, dunking it under once more."
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "*Kind.*\n\nTo have it attributed to them makes their stomach churn, and they have to force the oncoming grimace away from their face. Charlie had always been a difficult person to know: reserved at best, and downright hostile at worst. They needed to be to protect their sisters, to protect themselves. The world was cruel, something they'd learnt early, and you had to match it to survive.\n\nThey'd made themselves meek during their travels, so that suspicion and blame could roll off of them without sticking. Sometimes, they could even fool themselves into believing it. Charlie Marsh, sweet as honey.\n\nThe thought always made them laugh.\n\n\"I'm not,\" They find themselves mumbling in reply, \"Not like you are.\"\n\nA small, distant part of them wants to be. There's beauty in kindness, in being gentle, in being *Soft*. Charlie fashioned themselves into something with sharp edges, something that would hurt to behold. They didn't know much about Emery aside from first impressions, but Charlie guessed that knowing them would feel like being swamped by a quilt on a cold day.\n\n\"Thank you for doing... All of this, though. For a stranger, no less.\" Their brows furrow, and their arms clutch even tighter to their legs. \"I don't know how to repay you.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "They had worked through and gently cleaned out most of the blood, small thin lines now faded to a clay brown all that remained of the mess. They wrung out the shirt, squeezing tight but careful not to pull at the garment, getting out as much water as they could before giving it a shake. They brushed their hand over a nearby rock, ridding it of bits of dirt and moss before laying it flat as they could.\n\n\"Well I think you are.\" They drawled, taking a moment to look over Charlie before sucking in a breath, following up on their next statement quickly to leave no room for debate. \n\n\"Just seemed like you could use the help.\" They said, shaking their head at the thanks.\n\nThey picked up the pants, the fabric on them was thicker and they tried to dip in just where the stains stretched so they wouldn't take as long to dry out. A thought flashed through their mind as they watched trails of blood run down the stream. \n\n*You could tell me what happened. Tell me how big it was. What it looked like.*\n\nTheir anxieties were starting again, gnawing away at the little bubble Emery created around the two and they wanted to stave it off just a little bit longer. To be selfish. Selfish in the illusion of safety that came by sitting right next to Charlie under the cover of unknown woods. \n\n*'There's something here.' \n\n'I can't. I can't.'*\n\n\"How bout you just show me round town?\" They smile over to Charlie, cutting off their own thoughts. \"You can tell me who's nice, who to avoid, all that.\" They rub at the pants but keep their attention to Charlie as they ask their next question, unable to keep the hopefulness out of their voice,\n\n\"Just keep me company?\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "It surprises Charlie with how quickly Emery refutes them, so much so that they can't come up with the reasons as to *Why* Thinking that is bad. There's an entire goddamn list, somewhere in the jumbled mess of their thoughts, but if they don't want to hear it? If Emery simply refuses that too?\n\nThere are worse things out there.\n\nNevertheless, their words bring the blush back onto Charlie's cheeks, making them feel *Shy* Of all things. Thankfully, Emery's attention is focused on their pants for now, and *Oh they're looking back over-*\n\nEmery's smile brings a flurry of butterflies to their stomach, and they find themselves returning the gesture, despite the clear burning of their cheeks.\n\n\"I'd like that,\" They breathe out, \"Though I haven't really been in the town much at all. I've mainly kept to the woods, but I did go to one of the homesteads? The courier shop, too.\"\n\nCharlie leaves out their initial plans for going to either place, of course, but recalling the courier shop makes their own smile falter for just a moment. God knows what sort of reaction they'd get if they went back there, but if Emery wanted to go? They'd be fine with a bloody nose, or whatever else was in store.\n\n\"I don't know if you have a place to stay yet,\" Charlie begins, fidgeting with the fabric of the loaned pants, \"But I could help you look? If you don't mind me trying to find lodging in the same place, that is. F-For company's sake, of course.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "Emery liked watching the blush spread across Charlie's pale cheeks. They could feel a twin heat across their own but didn't turn away, instead pausing their ministrations on the pants all together to just... Look. To let themselves imagine consistency with Charlie even just a moment. They caught the way their smile wavered at the mention of the courier shop. Maybe it wasn't the best place? No matter to them, not like they had anyone to send or receive anything from. \n\n\"Well, you can show me the woods then.\" Charlie was sitting close enough and they leaned over to gently elbow at their side, \"We'll figure out town together.\" They smiled.\n\nEmery finally pulled their attention away, anxiety keeping them vaguely aware of the sun just starting to take its dip down to the horizon, knowing they – the *Two* Of them – will be needing to find a place before nightfall. \n\n\"I'd like that. You. You to join me.\" They stutter out, taking a breath and pushing down more thoughts of Charlie and them living so near. \n\nTo have a semblance of routine with them. To say good morning. Good night. Ask how their day was. Emery dipped their hand to the bottom of the creek to cup a small handful of water up over the final stain as well as for their own sake, willing the cold to drive away their foolish thoughts. \n\n\"I uh, don't really have a place to stay. Heard town was in need of a butcher, so, figured I could find somewhere in trade for service? Or just bunk in the shop? Sometimes they got these little rooms attached, but, we'll figure something' out.\" Their speech quickened as they spoke, not used to talking about themselves, their plans, no matter how impersonal. They feigned focus on the pants, rubbing at a spot that was already clean. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "*Together.*\n\nCharlie's chuckle is soft as Emery elbows them, but they find themselves relishing the contact. How long has it been since they've let someone close enough to touch them like that? They're not one who's starved for contact, sure, but the familiar gesture makes their heart swell all the same.\n\nIt does occur to them that they're letting their guard down too quickly; each and every wall they've put up screams at them to push Emery *Away*, to exercise caution like they've done so many times before, but...\n\nIs it so bad to trust them like this? They remember the familiarity that Jade showed them, the way it made their skin itch, but it was... Nice. Why not do the same for Emery?\n\nThough, Charlie would be lying if they said it was *Exactly* The same: Jade reminded them of their sisters, of family, but Emery was different to the point that they don't know *What* To call it. It's both familiar and not- something they saw Lillian experience, surely, but never had time for it themselves.\n\n...A... Crush? Is that what this is?\n\nGood god.\n\n\"We could always share a room, if we find something?\" Their gaze travels to Emery's hands as they work. \"I don't mind taking the floor, as long as I get a blanket.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "\"No!\" Emery said suddenly, looking over and huffing out a laugh at the ridiculous thought of Charlie curled up on the floor with nothing but a blanket.\n\n\"No, I mean, we can get a room, just,\" They chuckled, shaking their head, \"I'm not gonna let you sleep on the *Floor*, Charlie. We can share a bed, or,\" \n\nThe words made their stomach twist, a gentle fluttering that rose up to their chest. They meant nothing sultry by it, not like other times they'd invited strangers to share a bed. It was nothing like those times. Everything with Charlie felt different, softer. \n\nWith others the fluttering in their gut felt like hungry moths, devouring and desperate as they infected their insides. With Charlie though, that fluttering felt like freshly hatched butterflies; dainty and just beginning to take flight. Careful wings that caressed up through their throat. \n\n\"We can figure something out.\" Their voice faltered. \n\nThey felt the ever present blush creep along the tips of their ears and they ducked their head back to the pants, slowly flipping them over a few times to check they had cleaned off all the blood. They were clean... Mostly. The bottom hem was just beginning to soil, little bits of debris and a layer of dirt that had them deciding if they were already cleaning they might as well finish, dunking in the ends and shaking them through the water. \n\n\"Almost done with these just, uh, just gonna get this last bit.\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "They immediately lift their head to refute Emery, shyness fleeing to leave room for the argument on their tongue, but the notion of the pair sharing a bed has Charlie let out a strangled cough.\n\nIt wouldn't be the first time they've shared a bed with someone, but this would be different- something as unfamiliar to them as the fluttering in their chest. The offer makes sense, of course, doubly so considering the approaching winter, but...\n\n\"You, uh, don't need to do that.\" Charlie's gaze ducks back down to Emery's hands, following their continued motions. \"I... Tend to take up a lot of room.\"\n\nIt's not *Exactly* A lie: whenever they were able to have an actual roof over their head, Charlie had the tendency to move. Each and every morning, they'd wake up in a tangle of blankets- they've even fallen off of their bed a handful of times. A problem since they were small, unfortunately.\n\nHowever, during their time in these woods, they've curled themselves up as small as possible before sleeping. It made them feel safer, enough to be able to catch a few hours of shut-eye.\n\n\"...I also cling to things in my sleep.\" They scratch at their cheek. \"So you'd either get a foot to the nose or my morning breath in your face.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "Emerys heart spikes at their cough, hand automatically poised just over their back to get them through but it went as soon as it came. No long fit or a kerchief full of blood and Emery blinked hard at their foolishness, hand curling away and awkwardly rising to scratch at their own mess of hair before falling back down to the water.\n\n\"Well, uh,\" Emery chuckled, willing their thoughts to the present and not the endless replay of ragged coughs they tried so desperately to keep out. They took a breath, Charlie's words taking a moment to run through their head before the meaning finally settled. \n\n\"Oh, I don't mind none. I stay still as a statue most nights.\" As long as they could face the door or closest window Emery hardly moved. It always took them a while to get to sleep, sometimes playing their banjo into the early hours before exhaustion finally took over. Even then, come morning, once they left the bed you could hardly tell anyone had been there at all. \n\nTheir heart, having just calmed, quickened again rapidly at the thought of Charlie's face so close to their own they could smell their breath, unpleasant or otherwise. \n\n\"Well, I don't,\" Their words broke off into nervous laughter, \"I don't know if I cling, but, that's fine. If you do. That'd be... I'm fine with it.\" By this point they had washed away all the visible dirt on the hem of the pants and then some and they lifted them out of the water a final time to squeeze, fist clenching and wringing harder than they ought. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "\"You don't have to lie, you know- it doesn't hurt my feelings if a stranger clinging to you isn't something you'd be fine with.\"\n\nThe anxious tinge in Emery's voice is misinterpreted as discomfort, and Charlie scoots a small bit away from them, intending on giving them more space.\n\n\"I'm good with the floor, and I don't want to make you uncomfortable at all.\"\n\nThey'd be lying to themselves if they said that they didn't *Want* To share a bed, even with how little they knew about Emery. This would-be puppy crush makes them hasty, too eager for the chance to be close to them. They raised themselves right, though, and they know when to not push things too far.\n\n\"Besides, I don't think it'd be fair considering I don't... Have money for a room anyhow?\" The words leave them in a rush, both an attempted distraction and an admission. \"I'd feel bad if I intruded on your space when you've done so much already.\"\n\nThe last of their money had been spent on heading to Briar Ridge, and even so, it wasn't enough to get them in the actual town. Their drop off point had been at some unmarked dirt road, and they simply... Walked their way here. Not the easiest way to travel, of course, but at least it hadn't rained.\n\n\"I... Do sort of have a job lined up, at one of the homesteads? I don't know if I'll get any sort of payment from it yet, but I can ask.\" They nod once. \"I'll figure out a way to help pay, in any case.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "\"What? No, that's not- I mean, I...\" *I'm more than fine with it. I want you as close as you'll let me.* \n\nEmery shook their head, scooting away from the creek bed, fidgeting with and creasing the damp pants to distract themselves from the way Charlie moved back. Emery didn't like to think themselves a liar, they just didn't always tell the whole truth. It had kept them safe; they didn't want to be like that with Charlie. \n\n\"I'd really be fine with it. Honest, it don't make me uncomfortable.\" They took a moment, willing the desperation out of their voice. A short quick breath,\n\n\"Like I said,\" They grinned at Charlie, \"I won't have you sleeping on the floor. Getting colder and all, can't have you freezing to death.\" They tried joking, turning away just enough to find a clear enough spot to lay the pants out flat, still fidgeting with them more than needed just to keep down their nerves. \n\n\"I really don't mind. I got enough to pay for a room anyhow, and you gotta keep me company, remember?\" \n\nEmery wasn't rich by any means, but they weren't exactly wanting for money. They got their Pa's savings when he... Disappeared. Going from town to town took a bit out but other than travels and the odd item they couldn't trade for they didn't spend much. They liked keeping up with old stuff, hand-me-downs with long worn memories that they cared for like an extension of themselves. \n\n\"That's nice you got a job.\" Emery smiled at Charlie, \"And on a homestead. Maybe you could get food, or, something like that?\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "With their insistence, Charlie finds themselves growing more flustered. As Emery is fine with it, that means that they'll *Have* To address this burgeoning crush sooner or later, as ridiculous as it sounds to themselves. Something out of one of Sylvia's storybooks, Beauty and the Beast, maybe. Emery certainly fit the bill for a beaut-\n\nThey clear their throat and nod again, barely managing to look them in the eye.\n\n\"If... If you're sure, then we'll share.\"\n\nIt's a nice soon-to-be reality, though: to wake up in a warm bed, next to someone that actually *Wants* Charlie to be there. They could work for Riley, clean up some, and things could even be downright domestic.\n\n...Do they even deserve to have that?\n\n\"It's nice, yeah.\" Another nod. \"Even if I don't get paid, I'm sure there's other jobs out there that can? People are always looking for help, especially with physical labor. I... Think there's a coal mine too, somewhere?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "A grin split across Emerys face with Charlie's answer, catching their eyes for just a moment. Even a moment of those eyes was enough, simultaneously calming their nerves and kicking up their heart. \n\nThey turned back to the clothes, the shirt was just starting to go from damp to dry, more so in the spots where the sun shone through the trees and Emery gently shook it for a moment before laying it back out. The pants were thicker but spot cleaning like they did meant it wouldn't take long for them to get dry either.\n\n\"Clothes are almost dry.\" They said, settling back with crossed legs and watching the creek as they listened to Charlie. \n\n\"The coal mines, those are uh... Pretty dangerous aren't they?\" \n\nEmery steered clear of mines, enough danger lurked outside and in their own mind without adding a natural disaster to the mix. They'd heard stories of whole mines collapsing, the unluckiest of the workers stuck screaming with no way to get out. Strikes held in vain. Surely there was some other work Charlie could find.\n\nThey reached over to unbuckle a side pocket of their pack, pulling out and unscrewing the lid of a jar filled with jerky. They took a piece, chewing at it and holding the jar out to Charlie in an offering. \n\n\"Deer? Just made it last week.\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "\"They might be, but I don't know if I have the option of turning things down based on how safe they are just yet.\"\n\nIt wouldn't be ideal- god knows how much Charlie despised enclosed spaces. If the pay was good, though? They could stomach it enough to get a paycheck or two, depending on how bad things really were. Money was money, even if they had to break their back to get it.\n\nEmery's offering of food breaks them out of that line of thought, and throws them right into the realization of how *Hungry* They are. When was the last time they'd eaten? Yesterday morning, maybe?\n\nTheir throat bobs as they stare at the jerky, pupils dilating. Instead of a verbal response, they instead give a jerked nod of their head, and reach a shaking hand to take the jerky. Charlie plucks it gently from Emery's hand, pauses for a few moments, then wolfs it down as fast as possible.\n\nIt's gone too soon, of course, but they have to take a second to catch their breath.\n\n\"...Can I have another?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "Emery opened their mouth, ready to protest them working in the mines. That they'd even help them find something, anything else. But they closed it right back without a word. They had no right to a say in what job Charlie should or shouldn't take, no matter how much they wanted to. Especially for a reason as selfish as not wanting them to get hurt. \n\n\"Yeah, yeah, 'course.\" \n\nTheir worry of imagining them at the mines is quickly replaced by the worry of the image right in front of them. The way Charlie's hand shakes as they reach for the jerky, the look of absolute *Hunger* In their eyes before scarfing it down so fast Emerys worried they might choke. They looked like they hadn't eaten in days. \n\n\"Yeah.\" Their voice was unintentionally soft and they slid the full jar right next to them on the ground as they watched them with creased brows, \"You can take your fill... Got another jar in my pack and I was gonna try to go hunting tomorrow.\" \n\nEven if Emery didn't have more food rolling around somewhere they still would let Charlie eat it all. They made a note to themselves to find a store or someone willing to trade for more food than just meat. Their cooking wasn't the best around, but they thought it was decent enough, and maybe by tomorrow they'd be able to have a proper meal to give them. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "The shame that burns in their stomach will come later, Charlie knows. They should thank Emery, or at the very least pace themselves, instead of scarfing everything down like a rabid dog. Their mother would harp about manners, how this is unbecoming of them, the shame they would bring the family...\n\nIt all becomes background noise as they grab the jar, and immediately get to consuming it's contents. The taste is wonderful, and if you compared it to the meals of whatever they could scavenge before? It was downright heavenly.\n\nCharlie doesn't take very long to empty the jar completely, and once they do, they simply cradle it in their hands.\n\n\"...I can't remember the last time I had meat, actually.\" There's awe in their voice as they look up to Emery, the tips of their ears once again flushed. \"Best jerky I think I've ever had, too.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Emery- for all of this.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "Watching them closely as they ate Emery felt something akin to pity. It wasn't like the times they made the mistake of making eye contact with an animal right before shooting it, or even when they saw someone else so hungry they couldn't contain themselves. This felt lighter, hopeful almost. Whatever it was only fueled their desire to take care of Charlie. Emery may not be the best protector, but at least they'd be able to keep them fed. To keep a fire lit by their side.\n\nThey tore apart their own jerky, ripping it piece by piece and slowly eating the shreds of meat. They always had a habit of eating slow, cutting and smashing food as small as they could before deeming it acceptable and by the time they'd finished Charlie was already cradling the empty jar. \n\n\"Once I get settled, get more game and all, you can have it any time you like.\" The awe in their voice pulls a smile back on their lips,\n\n\"'Preciate it...\" Emery rubbed at their beard as they start to ramble, \"I smoked this one. I think smoking it's the best way to go, you know? Last longer, you don't really gotta do much during it... Depending on the wood you use it'll taste different and all. And the *Smell*. That's probably one of the best smells there is.\" \n\nThey shook away Charlies thanks with a smile, looking out over the creek for a moment to the still woods and the sun that was dropping lower in the sky. Anxiety from the reality of soon to be darkness washed over them and they stood up, shaking off their skirts. \n\n\"We should, uh, probably get to heading toward town.\" They leaned down to pick up Charlies now mostly dry clothes, picking off little bits of debris before folding them over their arm.\n\n\"All clean.\" They smiled, holding the clothes down to them.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "Charlie happily listens to Emery's rambling, remaining silent the entire time. They have absolutely *No* Idea what any of it means, only knowing the very basics of food themselves, so they tuck it away in their mind for later. Do they actually think they'll ever *Use* This knowledge? ...Maybe.\n\n\"I wouldn't really know what to, uh, do with it, but I won't say no to your offer.\" The corners of their mouth quirk up into a smile. \"Maybe you could show me how you do it?\"\n\nCharlie's gaze follows Emery's as it turns to the sky, and the same sort of panic starts to bubble in their stomach. When the clothes are one again offered, they take them gently and... Just hold them.\n\n\"Maybe I should, uh, change in town?\" It makes the most sense, and has nothing to do with how comfortable Emery's clothes feel. \"Wherever yo- *We* Get a room?\"\n\nTheir brain takes a moment to realize that yes, they would probably be sharing a room with Emery *Tonight*, and it makes their skin feel as though it's been set alight. It's not a horribly bad feeling, but it does make them feel a tad more self-conscious than before. Emery hadn't judged them so far, thankfully, but the fear that they would still remained.\n\n\"...I, er, don't really have any night clothes either, just so you know.\" Charlie lifts their clothes a little higher. \"I'll just be sleeping in these, most likely.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "\"I'd like that.\" Emery smiled at them, at the thought of having someone to share their knowledge with no matter how important it may or may not be.\n\nThey had a long winded way of talking once someone would let them and too often their over enthusiasm for connection is exactly what kept people at arms length. Yet to have someone who'd listen to them prattle on and be happy to do so, that would be like a dream. \n\n\"That, uh, yeah, I think changing in town would be best.\" \n\nThat did, of course, make the most practical sense. To change in an actual room and not in the ever present chill of the coming night. It had nothing to do with the funny feeling that overcame Emery from seeing Charlie wearing their clothes. That domestic softness that had them foolishly hoping it wouldn't be the last time seeing such a sight. Of course it had nothing to do with that. \n\n\"Oh,\" *Right.* Night clothes. Emery paused at their words, looking down at themselves and then to their pack. \"Well, I,\" They chuckled, rubbing at their beard as a blush creeped over their cheeks. Their usual night wear of whatever undergarments they'd worn the day before wouldn't do. \n\n\"I guess I also don't have much in the way of night clothes. Huh... Well, I'm sure I got something I can use.\" The pants Charlie was now wearing were some of their softest, skirts were fine in the day but if Charlie moved around as much as they claimed they can't imagine getting tangled in a skirt would be ideal for either. So, just some pants and an old shirt. That wouldn't be too bad. \n\n\"I'll figure it out. Here, we should start heading that way.\" They held out a hand to Charlie, an offer to help them stand. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "Charlie eyes Emery's hand for a few long seconds, the flush on their ears only deepening. Their grasp is gentle as they pull themselves up, though they loose their balance once they're actually on their feet. Luckily, they don't crash into Emery, but Charlie *Does* Let loose a string of expletives under their breath.\n\n\"It's alright-\" Charlie straightens themselves upright with a shy smile, \"I'm more concerned about myself, really. I'm not the most put together, as you've seen, and I don't want to make your pretty self worry more.\"\n\nIt's not meant to be an outright flirtation, but their cheeks burn all the same.\n\n\"Uh, do you want to lead the way?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "Emery held Charlie's hand just as gently, barely closing their thumb across the top of knuckles as they pulled them up. They stayed holding it when they stumbled, free arm moving to catch them should they fall but never touching. A chuckle they tried to bite back slipped out at the various curses and they were on the verge of responding before what they said sunk in. \n\n*Pretty?* Did Charlie really think they were... Pretty? That simple comment had their breath catching in their throat, blush so fierce it had their face burning and itching and *Dammit, why had it been so long since they've shaved?* Their grip had tightened around Charlie's hand and they reluctantly let it go once they realised they were still holding it.\n\n*No. No, that's just something people say. Just an expression. That's all they meant by it.* They told themselves fruitlessly. They chuckled, shaking their head and leaning down to tie up their pack, \n\n\"No, I don't, I don't mind worrying. I mean-\" They swing their pack onto their shoulders, careful of all the various odds and ends tied on before picking up their banjo case, fingers tapping and clenching on the handle as they stand, looking at Charlie.\n\n\"I think you're put together just fine.\" They pause for just a moment after saying it then quickly turn back to the river, trying to get their bearings with the words *\"Your pretty self\"* Bouncing relentlessly around their mind. \n\n\"Yeah, it's, uh, this way right?\" They guess, starting to walk the opposite direction from where they came along the creek.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "They don't mind the way Emery's grip tightens, nor the way they stumble over their words when trying to reassure them. It's all so sweet that, in a distant part of Charlie's mind, they worry about cavities. Instead, they let out a soft chuckle, cheeks still flushed.\n\n\"I appreciate it, even if I'm going to question your taste now considering how I look.\" The shyness of their smile vanishes as they give Emery a grin with all of their teeth. \"Just think about how I look when I'm *Actually* Put together!\"\n\nCharlie grabs their own suitcase, packs up their freshly-cleaned clothes, and sidles up to Emery... Only to stop.\n\n\"...It's, uh, actually this way, I think. Don't worry, though- we'll make it together.\""
}
] | 321 | 11,455 |
331.444444 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "papercranes",
"message": "Thread Warnings: Depression, Parental Death. More may be added."
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "In the aftermath of Josephine's burial, the farm became unnervingly quiet. Crops still needed to be sown and tended to, never mind the turmoil that burrowed into their chests and brought fresh tears to their eyes.\n\nOwen knew that his sisters tried their best to inject life and hope back into every waking moment, just as Josephine had. Hazel was typically the most successful in the endeavor, followed closely behind by Rue. While they couldn't perfectly emulate the deceased matriarch's booming joviality, their efforts brought some much-needed happiness to the homestead.\n\nDorothy, on the other hand, had become skilled in making things tense.\n\nAs the youngest, Owen never had illusions that he would have the chance to become the next head of the family. Dorothy was reserved for that position as eldest, but even so, her commands to the rest of the family became extensive. She had always had a knack for ordering the others around, especially Owen, but now it was tenfold. \n\n*Run to the store, Owen.*\n\n*Did you remember to check over the seedlings, Owen?*\n\n*Go take care of this for me, Owen.*\n\nNever mind the fact that he was a man grown, never mind that Dorothy had her own children to send. She always called for him, even if he was busy, even if he said *No*.\n\nIn truth, there were probably better places for him to go and gather his thoughts, but Dorothy already knew about those. He'd never been out this far before on his own, but the atmosphere was pleasant. The brook was enough white noise without being overwhelming, and the tufts of grass were soft from their new growth.\n\nA peace he desperately needed, even as he fought against his urge to cry."
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "The traps had been re-set deep in the brush, and Algernon was done for the day. He'd found little to do around town in the morning, and even the birds in the trees were quiet as he passed the hours by amongst the familiar trees. Briar Ridge had gone from a place of strangers to one he almost called home, these days. The concept of home in itself was one rather foreign to him, but one he found he didn't mind so much. There was a feelin' of reassurance in walkin' the same paths day after day, goin' about his business without nobody disturbin' the peace. \nHe was just passin' by the creek as he did each afternoon when he realised he wasn't alone in the small clearing. \n\nSittin' on the bank where the water met the earth was a man - a farmer by the looks of him, flaxen-haired and well-built. His back was turned to Algernon, but the hunter hadn't made himself known to many of the farmers around town, so there would've been little use in tryin' to recognise his face anyhow. What Algernon did recognise was the slump of his shoulders, the bowin' of his head, altogether cuttin' a figure of the kinda sorrow so deep it sank into your very bones. \n\nAlgernon Granville was a good man (Sheriff Guerrero had told him so, and he'd taken it to heart) and he didn't have nowhere else to be. Surely it couldn't hurt to check in, to make sure the stranger was alright, could it? He had the time to spend talkin', though he weren't so sure he made good conversation, try as he might. Perhaps he could do somethin' for this man who'd found himself this deep in the woods, sunk to the ground in a frankly miserable-lookin' way.\n\nIt would be worth a try. \n\n\"Nice day for it, ain't it?\" He called out, footsteps heavy as he made his way across the grassy ground to come up behind the man - he called out, for he had no intention of startlin' the fellow and makin' things any worse than they already were. \"Always more peaceful by the runnin' water. Sorry for interruptin' your thoughts, sir, but if you ain't mind my askin', what brings you all this way from town?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "Owen remained still, at first. The voice was one he didn't recognize– it had an unmistakable gruffness, almost akin to his long-passed father, and it made the ache in his chest all the worse. So much had already been taken from his family in less than a decade, and god only knew how much more they would lose in the coming years.\n\nHe'd taken to wearing his hair down, lest his family spot the haggardness of his face, and was thankful that it provided him with a barrier to the stranger.\n\n\"Nothing that you have to concern yourself with, mister.\" He swallowed, willing the tears in his eyes to abate. \"I just came here to think, that's all.\"\n\nThe lie was clear in his voice and his body language in how both trembled, but whatever shame he would have felt vanished under the effort of keeping himself coherent enough to wave off Algernon's concern. Josephine would have chided him for being so cold, he thought, to open himself up for the chance at a new connection. You could have a new acquaintance, at the very least, and she always said that he needed more of those.\n\nWith his mother gone, though, Owen found that the notion made his stomach turn."
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "Algernon was no stranger to liars. Did he think that this man was lyin' out of malice? No. But he was lyin' nonetheless, and Algernon wasn't the type to go lettin' that kinda thing slide. Not when they were in the woods, and the woods were *His* Territory, and there was nobody around to be hearin' a thing and so what was the point in lyin' about wellbein' when Algernon had *Asked*?\n\nThe hard-hearted hunter of years gone by would not have pressed. Hell, the Algernon Granville of only six months ago would have shrugged his shoulders and said somethin' along the lines of *\"Fine then, keep yer secrets\"* And walked on to find himself a drink or a stranger more inclined to take his company. \nBut he was not the man he had been a year prior. Briar Ridge had brought about a change in him, and the changed man that stood beside the creek and watched the ripplin' of the water and the tremblin' of the shoulders of a man he had never before met was not a man who wanted to let this pass him by. \n\nWhat was it Rafael had said to him? *Sorrow ain't contagious.* That had not been a whole truth. Sadness was somethin' that could fester within a person and leech its way into the earth beneath his feet, into the very air he breathed. But to take a weight off of another's shoulders and place some of it onto your own was to lighten the load upon the one in need of it the most. \nAnd so Algernon sat himself down on the bank of the creek, not without a little *Oof* As he all but lost his footin' in the dirt and planted firmly on his ass. \n\n\"Sure, I ain't *Have* To concern myself with nothin'. But who's to say I ain't in the mood to do it anyhow? Penny fer your thoughts, mister, and perchance I'll find a few'a my own to be sharin' when you're all done. Name's Algernon. Granville. What kin I call you?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "For a moment, Owen thought he'd driven Algernon off. Sure, being alone with his thoughts scared him as much as a sudden conversation with a stranger, but at least he could avoid the shame of his exposed emotions. The ungraceful *Oof* From the older man brought his head up, however, and directed his watery gaze over.\n\nHe opened his mouth to speak a few times, to try and convince the stranger that this was a fool's errand, but it closed as soon as Algernon spoke again. Owen wasn't sure if the tight feeling in his chest was gratefulness or his despair worming its' way deeper. Either way, the feeling was... Uncomfortable.\n\n\"Owen Barnes,\" He rasped, \"I just wanted to find a place to gather my thoughts for a bit. Things at home are...\"\n\nTense came to mind first, followed by hostile, depressing, unfamiliar-\n\n\"...Not ideal.\""
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "Algernon was firmly of the belief that so long as you knew a man's name, he weren't a stranger to you no more, and thus Owen Barnes cemented himself firmly in Algernon's mind as, if not a friend, an acquaintance at the very least. It would do well enough. \n\n\"You done picked a good spot if you don't mind me sayin' so,\" He replied, noddin' his head as he spoke. The creek, with its bubblin' waters and the faint sound of birdsong up in the trees, was a peaceful place when no other could quite provide the solace needed. He'd spent many a quiet afternoon here himself, though afore the snow had melted it hadn't been quite so invitin'. Things were greener now. Spring had well an' truly sprung upon the holler. \n\n\"What is it that's troublin' ya, Owen? Nothin' I can help out with, I'm guessin'? If it's a case'a work to be done I'd be happy to lend a hand here an' there, I'm gettin' good at all'a that, but you fill me in an' we'll see what's to be done about things.\"\n\nIt was a rather pragmatic approach for him - unusual, but not unhelpful, at least he hoped that would be the case. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "That had managed to get a small laugh out of Owen. \"No, I don't think it'd be considered a case of work that you could help with, Mister Granville.\"\n\n\"My family lost my Mama recently,\" He started, hesitance clear in his voice, \"And we're all mourning. My sisters and I, we're doing our best to tend to things and make sure everything is still running smoothly, but my oldest sister...\"\n\nHis eyes closed as he heaved a shaky sigh. \"She's been pushy to all of us lately, but she acts like I'm her servant these days. Not that I mind helping her, not at all, but she's always *Yelling* At me, like I'm a little boy and not the grown man that I am. Hell, she snapped at me that I forgot to weed the damn winter wheat crop when I've taken care of it every year since I was able to WORK on the farm! She didn't even go out to the fields to check, no, she just looked out her window! You can't hardly see anything from the window as well as you can in the field!\"\n\n\"We've been doing this for years, her even longer than me, and she knows that *I* Know how this sort of thing works, but everything I do gets her hissing at me like a cat. I'm *Trying* Not to get mad, I know she's just upset about Mama being gone, but I can hardly take her yelling at me anymore.\"\n\nOwen turned to Algernon, lip trembling. \"It's like she *Hates* Me, Mister Granville.\""
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "Algernon listened close as Owen talked, turnin' his body to face the other man to give him what could only be described as full and undivided attention. He could tell there was some nervousness to his tone, so he did his best to make himself small, less intimidating, and only hoped that gettin' it out might make Owen feel somewhat better. \n\nA death in the family was never an easy thing to handle, especially when the weight of all the grief felt as though it were fallin' solely upon your own shoulders. Or at least, that was what he'd heard, and what he'd gathered from his time in Briar Ridge, a place in which death seemed to follow those who deserved it the least, haunt them in the shadows and strike at a moment's notice. Owen was only a young man. He should have had so many more years with his mama. Algernon couldn't blame him none for the emotions spillin' over, especially as he went on to explain the situation with his sister.\nIt was natural for grief to affect folks in different ways, and well-known that women perhaps handled their feelings differently than men might, but that was no excuse for mistreatin' someone - your own flesh and blood no less. Algernon's heavy brow furrowed, and he turned the words over in his mind. This oldest sister, troubled though she may be, sure didn't sound like a nice lady.\n\nTears, unshed as they were, were *Not* Something that Algernon had much experience in dealin' with. Thankfully, some instinct he wasn't previously aware of rose up, and he wrapped a large hand around Owen's forearm, squeezin' all gentle and reassurin'.\n\n\"Hey, now. I'm damned sure she don't hate you. It's like you said - she's upset, feelin' all the same things you're feelin'. I'm sorry about your mama - losin' somebody so close to you like that ain't easy, 'specially if it's an unexpected losin'. But it don't give your sister the right t'be cruel over nothin'. You sounds like you understand her good. She oughta offer you some'a that same understandin'.\"\n\nHe could not allow himself to grow angry on Owen's behalf, but somethin' about that sad wet shinin' in his eyes made him want to march down to Owen Barnes' farm and give the sister a small piece'a his mind right then and there. It wouldn't help, though. Algernon had never been good at talkin' things through. What he could do was stay with the man, and let him keep on sayin' his piece, and try to soothe his woes. \n\n||"
}
] | 336 | 2,983 |
579.818182 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Victorine Astor",
"message": "With the rise of a new moon, a blanket of velvet darkness shrouded the world. Rolling foothills and leaf-bare woodlands surrounding Briar Ridge's town proper were more quiet than usual. Perhaps that cursed kind of magic that lay in Briar Ridge's denser groves thrived by the light of the moon and slept in its absence. \n\n She, of anyone, looked a daughter of the moon. Lanky, pale, and fair of hair, her movements were usually fluid with grace. Tonight, however, with no observer save for perhaps the looming specter of hypothermia, she was anything but. Her jaw clenched to fight the incessant chattering of her teeth, her eyes and brows were contorted in something resembling pain. A slimly-fitted black coat hung wide around her naked form, the belt forgotten. \n\n \"Blasted thing,\" She whispered, lips numb and nearly refusing to move. Moisture ran down her face, only visible by orange sparks flying each time she tried to strike flint to steel. The rudimentary firestriker was a failsafe, and clearly not one she was all that skilled with. She crouched by a small stone circle with gathered dried wood. It would only stay dry for so long, as water dripped from her trembling arms and hands each time she tried to drop sparks into tinder. \n\n Though there was some advance preparation and even a little knowledge that went into building this place for a fire, something had gone awry. These were the actions of a person that had reached a point of desperation. Her mind moved sluggish, trying to count down the stretch of minutes it took from her home to reach this spot. Thirty five. Maybe forty? She'd freeze through before she made it halfway. She came here often enough to dare fate and fulfill obsession, but this had been the first time she'd actually felt danger. Home was too far, and the fire refused to light.\n\nAs if taunting her, to go back into its frigid depths and become *Clean* Again, the icy river babbled in its flow a few feet away. Even as her movements seemed to slow against her will, the water continued. Crumpled cardboard of a wet box of matches nearby maybe gave a hint as to maybe how she'd found herself in this situation. However, the pale wet hair dripping over one shoulder and the white linen undergarments completely wet through and draped across a nearby rock only spoke to some sort of madness.\n\n She wept. Just a little. Tears stinging her eyes against the cold. There was a frantic sort of sniffing and huffing, trying to keep all that emotion and moisture contained. Her fingers were beginning to disobey her, dropping the flint once, twice, thrice. Maybe someone older and wiser may have taken a scarce few precious seconds to collect themselves and ball their fists in hope of suffusing warmth back to their fingertips. But she was neither. Trembling fingers picked up the flint and tried again, rapping out a metallic sound against the steel."
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "The hunt had taken longer today than Algernon would have liked, though he at least had two fat hares a-hangin' from his belt by the time night truly fell upon him. A small victory for which he was truly grateful - though the paths and woods were thick with the threat of those beasts that weren't quite deer, his traps still held strong enough to ensure there was meat here and there, and the greyish hides of today's catches would perhaps make a good pair of gloves to replace the worn ones that he'd forced to last through the last two winters. \nThe moon was new and didn't hold much in the way of light, but he knew his way well enough, and he was soon back upon the beaten track that bypassed the creek, plannin' on returnin' to the jailhouse and seein' if Rafael was still around so late and might want to share a talk and a cigarette before turnin' in. \nThat plan, it seemed, might be somewhat delayed, for he came across a figure in the clearin', and stopped dead in his tracks, a hand movin' automatically to his gun.\n\nBut then he blinked, and realised this were no threat to him, at least not in the moment. Not a monster, nor a man. A woman. What a woman would be doin' out in the woods at this time a' night was anybody's guess, especially seein' as how she didn't seem to be makin' her way home like any sane one would've when the light grew dim. Instead, she was crouched over a rudimentary campfire - or what would've been a campfire if the flint and steel in her hands didn't keep fallin' victim to the water drippin' from her hands and her shiny blonde hair. \nHe watched her for a minute or two, as though watchin' a wild thing through the scope, awaitin' his moment to pull the trigger. But pounce or shoot he did not. No bullet would whistle through the air, nor would the door of a trap swing closed upon the stranger in his midst.\n\nShe was cryin'.\n\nAnd Algernon would be the first to admit he didn't know shit about womenfolk, havin' been raised around precious few and knowin' even less of 'em as he made his way through adulthood. But he had a little chivalry about him from his days back in the army, when the boys had had it drilled into 'em to be good to the rare lady they came across, be she nurse, clerk or otherwise. You weren't supposed to stand by and watch when the fairer sex were brought to tears. \n\n\"Evenin', ma'am.\" \n\nIt was a start, at least.\n\n\"You'll have ta' excuse me for comin' upon ya like this in the darkness. I ain't meanin' no harm.\" He was aware he cut an intimidating figure, big as he was and loomin' up on the woman outta nowhere. \"Was just headin' back into town and couldn't help but be noticin' you might be havin' some trouble with that there fire.\" He gestured towards her pile of sticks and rocks - callin' it a fire right now might've been a stretch, but he wasn't about to slander her efforts outright. \"I can give you a hand if you're needin' one.\"\n \n||"
},
{
"author": "Victorine Astor",
"message": "Throwing the flint and steel down, she scrambled for the matches once again. Her hands were shaking so hard now that the box sounded like a maraca. She flexed one fist hard, fingernails biting into the heel of her palm, and then gave it a frustrated shake. As if this might suffuse that precious warmth of flowing blood back into the fingertips. \n\nThe matches rattling all around, she was putting so much concentration into pushing the box open, he could have watched her straight up until the moment she laid down and grew far too still. She would not have noticed him. For all her tributes, prayers, and rituals in the woods, for all her beliefs that she was attuned to shadows, they leaned in close to her, but remained silent. \n\nNo forewarning, no whispered comfort. Only his voice out of the darkness that brought a stifled little yelp. She was too cold for the startle to follow through into any more motion than a lurch of her shoulders. Head snapping up, her eyes widened on him, unable to make out much of the details. Her own strange beliefs and experiences led her to find reliable comfort in massive masculine silhouettes in the shadows. He wouldn't understand the way she felt relief upon seeing him, but it was liable to come across in the way she seemed naive. Too trusting all at once.\n\n\"Oh yes, please,\" The words fell out of her mouth in a rush, her voice having gone smaller than she expected. Clearing her throat around her lower jaw refusing to stay still, she tried again. \"I would be ever... So grateful... For your assistance.\" This time, the words came haltingly. Even chattering, there was a crispness to her speech, some of that New York infatuation with British poshness that infused the Transatlantic. It seemed remarkably out of place in these cursed woodlands surrounding nothing but a holler.\n\nShe sat back on her heels, giving the fire embankment just a little berth. Her hands fumbled with the buttons trying to close her coat, but it was an impossible task. She settled for the belt instead, grateful for the concealing darkness. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "Her voice sounded mighty funny, like somethin' Algernon hadn't come across for many a year, not since wartimes when he'd mixed with all kinds of people from all the walks of life you could imagine. Fancy and affected with a mighty kinda air, but who was he to judge the lady when all he knew of her was her tone and her apparent inability to do somethin' so simple as light a fire? But she was a young thing, he realised as he got closer to her now he had her permission, and perhaps could be given a pass, though he held his own reservations about anyone found out in the wilderness lackin' in the most basic skills for survival.\n\nHe dropped down to the dirt beside her stick-pile (not a fire, he decided, it weren't built half well enough to bear that name), and reached for the matchbox she'd discarded, only for her problem to become immediately apparent as his fingers touched sodden cardboard. \"Ma'am, respectfully, you ain't gettin' no spark outta these when the striker's soaked through like that. You'd be best off in future makin' sure your hands and hair are dry when you pick 'em up.\" It was like talking to a child, he thought, not that he had any real experience with those. \"Lucky for you, I got a set of my own just here.\" His hunting pack was dropped from his shoulder and a moment of riflin' through it brought forth what he was lookin' for. After taking a moment to disassemble and put back together her wood in a manner better for burnin', with the driest leaves stripped from the branches and placed atop for tinder, he struck a match in one try and held it to the structure until it caught. A moment of breathin' over it to spread the flame, and he sat back in triumph as the cracklin' began. \n\nHe beckoned her forth, frankly worried for the possibility of how close she might be to freezin' to death. \"There. Should do you well for the night,\" He declared. \"Give it a minute and you'll forget you were ever cold at all.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Victorine Astor",
"message": "The girl's mind felt blurry, like a camera lens with a smear of petroleum jelly, softening all the edges for a prettier picture. There was a great temptation in all of her bones to lie herself down in the snow there. Her parents had frozen to death. Soaked right through, bobbing in the Atlantic rimed in ice, under a dark sky full of stars, with a thousand wailing people around them. She reasoned she could hear them, if she breathed soft enough.\n\nThere was something like a buzzing gnat. Was that... Was he being condescending towards her? *He*. Her mind remembered where she was, that she was not alone, and she snapped away, ripping herself from the way it lulled her. \n\n\"Obviously I would have...\" Her thought went unfinished, trailing off on a chatter of her teeth. \n\nThe strike of the match bought clarity back to the world, if only for a few moments. She listened and watched him blowing on the tinder, babying the flame, as if she were a thousand miles away from this scene, watching it on a silver screen.\n\nEven as the flames grew larger, casting light on them both, she couldn't quite decide what was real and what was not. As if that had ever mattered much to her. Leaning towards the fire, her head swiveled, wide eyes beholding him like some kind of curiosity. She blinked slow. Was he real or some spirit of the forest? She had never seen a man like him. Not up close, living,\nBreathing, outside of the grainy black and white ink of a photograph. What had it been? That book on American history. Some men that had forged a path west. Her lids half-closed for a long moment while she lived and breathed back in the classroom of her younger years. And then they opened again.\n\nDreamlike, she was slow in leaning forward on her knees and reaching out to touch him. His face, specifically. Her fingertips were small pinpricks of ice against the tip of his nose, the bridge of his cheeks. \"Curious,\" She murmured to herself.\n\nShe lowered her hand, and the other made an appearance beside it, both extended towards him. By the light of a growing fire, her fingers were blue-tinged and very pale against the black cuffs of her coat. \"Please.\" Her eyes drifted off into the woodlands around them, as if she were listening for a few moments, and then snapped back to attention. She found his face with her gaze. \"Please, hold my hands. They are so cold.\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "The cold had gotten to her head, that was the only way of explainin' it. Algernon had never known a woman - nay, had never known *Anyone* - to approach him like this, to throw caution to the very wind that chilled her to her bones and not only come so close, but touch him like he were a statue, or a creature mounted to a wall. He wondered if his eyes, in the light of the flames, were glintin' like the glass eyes put into that grizzly he'd shot back just outside of Charleston in '22, the one which had had its head pinned above the desk of the governor himself and netted Algernon a hefty price for it in the process. Her delicate hands felt as piercin' on his skin as the frost had when the January blizzard hit. He withdrew slightly, not wantin' to be touched no more. \n\n\"You ain't gonna get no more warmth from me than you will from your fire, Miss,\" He told her, but this time his words didn't hold quite the contempt they had before. \"You use 'em for what they're meant for. Sure I'll only get you dirty anyhow.\"\n\nHe held out his hands to show her - almost twice the size of her own, more like paws thick with old blood and soil than the way a good man's touch oughta be. He'd have been almost ashamed to tarnish her with 'em, considerin' how she'd clearly been bathin' afore the night fell and all he could see of her was milk-white and well cared for. It wouldn't do to put his touch upon a young thing. Wouldn't be proper, for all her askin' for it. \n\n\"I'm only stayin' til I can be sure you ain't about to freeze to your death, besides. Once you're gettin' your strength back good I'll be gone from your pretty hair. Got places to be of my own, respectfully, see. But you'll be alright, we'll make sure of it. Say, why don't you tell me what a young girl like you's doin' out in the woods on a cold night all alone? And don't go tellin' me you ain't got no place to go to. Your coat ain't made around here and the ladies o' the holler don't talk quite like you do. You're a stranger to these parts... I was a stranger here too, 'bout six weeks back.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Victorine Astor",
"message": "\"Dirty,\" She echoed, like it was a foreign concept. At least her lips were thawing out enough to move. Her eyes swam out over the truth presented to her. Even by dim light of the fire and darkness of a full moon, his hands did look both massive and unwashed. Her eyelids slid down over those big eyes, and sat there half a second before opening again. And then they sped up into a rapid blink like butterfly's wings. \n\n\"Oh, so they are, aren't they?\" This was murmured to herself on a breath, as if she were commenting in passing on some new shoes she'd seen in a shop window. And yet, she couldn't help herself in touching one of those large paws, with just the tip of her index finger. Her fingers were long and thin like her limbs. She tested the thickness of the skin with the lightest prod, and wiped a small streak of the grime away with the moisture of her fingertip. A hint of unsullied flesh lay beneath, the color examined.\n\nRapt as her attention was on his singular hand for a few long moments, like a fixated child, it broke off abruptly. She turned back to face the fire, both hands extended towards it. \n\nHe was saying an awful lot of words. Some of them seemed slow, and some went by so fast she barely caught their meaning. As her blood flow proceeded from a crawl to sluggish, she realized that it was her own perception and not his way of speaking.\n\n\"I come here to make myself clean. Every night.\" Scooching closer to the fire, she was liable to burn her toes if she moved one centimeter more. \"And to pray.\" Her eyes slid to the side, considering him. It was clear she was coming to her senses and regaining some composure with it.\n\n\"You're right about my coat. You're very observant for a...\" Pausing to lick her lips, she blinked at him, as if he might supply the answer. \"Mountain man? Is that what you call yourself?\" While she spoke, her gaze traced the silhouette of the furs around his shoulders. \"Where is it a man like you would have to be at th–\" Her eyes landed on the dead rabbits splaying onto the ground from his belt. Her instinct was to touch those too, but she stopped herself. \"May I?\" She asked, extending her hand for one of the hares.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "*Odd* Was about the only word he could come up with to describe such mannerisms as the girl here was exhibitin'. Algernon was sure he'd never seen anythin' even close to 'em before. She was like some strange creature of another world entirely - the word *Changeling* Came to mind from a fairy-story told to him long ago, back when he was still small enough to sit upon his momma's knee and listen to those kinds of things. Babies stolen after birth and traded with the children of the fair-folk and left to survivin' without knowin' what they truly were. But fairies weren't real - though if they were he was almost sure it'd be Briar Ridge that kept 'em within its woods and walls. Damned holler. \n\nThe water on her hands was still cold when she touched him, and it took away with it some of the filth from the back of his hand, leaving it not clean by any stroke of the imagination, but cleaner'n before. How she could stand to bathe nightly in the icy waters of the creek was a question far beyond him. How she'd gotten through Lord-knew how many nights of it with the apparent inability to light her own fires only puzzled him further.\n\nA low laugh rumbled outta him unexpectedly when there she went again with her funny words. A *Mountain man*.\n\nHe rather liked the descriptor, unusual as it were. If there were to be a man of the mountains and ridges, of the brush and briar, that man would be Algernon Granville before any other for miles around. \"You got a good ol' grasp on speakin', Miss. Strange way'a puttin' some things, mind, but I ain't about to say you're all wrong. Can call me a mountain man if you're inclined that way, but I find 'hunter' and 'trapper' work jus' about as well with folks round here. I go from place to place where the animals is and I catch 'em or shoot 'em. Whether they're botherin' the towns or just mindin' their own business, I gotta do what I can for survival. The meat's good, see, and in the right places I can bargain a good price for that an' the furs and the like, people often find themselves in need'a those, 'specially come winter, if they don't got the means to go out for their own.\" \n\nShe was taking a distinct interest on the hares at his belt, and when she reached out and asked permission to touch one, he didn't waste no time in untyin' the limp thing from where it hung, , layin' it out in his lap for her to see, and indeed to feel should she still want to when she'd gotten in a good look at it.\n\"Set myself a trap for these two nights ago,\" He explained. \"Found both of 'em in it together when I came to checkin' it before sundown. They'll make somethin' good and warm to wear and a hearty meal atop'a that once I've seen to dressin' 'em nice. Lovely fat specimens, the pair. Though I'm sure you'd've enjoyed their company a damned sight more if they'd been alive for you to meet 'em.\" \n\nThe hare's grey coat was wet with its blood - it'd wash out, course, but he still half-expected the girl to recoil when she noticed it."
},
{
"author": "Victorine Astor",
"message": "He didn't explore uncharted lands, skillfully drawing maps. Nor did he lead lost settlers along unbeaten paths. Not like those mountain men of a handful of decades ago. They were indispensable pushing forward the western frontier. She supposed that made sense, the western frontier having been fully established now. What might he lead a settler to? The general store? A little disappointment showed in the twitch at the corner of her mouth, like a child that had been told mermaids weren't real. \n\nBut he did move around, making a living off the land. And he also rid towns of burdensome beasts. She'd heard tale of wolves snatching sheep and worse, bears carrying away children. The more she thought about it, she supposed this was fascinating in its own right, the satisfaction faintly visible on her face as he explained this lifestyle that was so foreign to her. The fact that he was not boastful was something she especially appreciated, her very limited experience with men having dealt with more than its fair share of braggadocio. \n\nShe turned on him a curious expression, first to his face, and then the hare he'd laid out. \"I'm sure I would have.\" Enjoyed their company, that was. Leaning forward, her fingertip stroked the ridge of softest downy fur where the ear met the skull. There were bits of the sweet creature not covered in blood, and she was careful to touch those parts, leaning forward even more. Her eyes traced the slope of its skull, the tiny eyelashes peeking out from beneath closed eyes, the stiff whiskers like translucent filaments by firelight.\n\nAnd just as quickly, caution was thrown to the wind. She plucked the hare up with both hands. There seemed to be a great desire in her to test out the weight and size of the animal's carcass, from the way she handled it. \"Did you kill them? Or did the trap do that? Do you break their necks?\" Holding the hare with one hand, the other tested the flexibility of its head, trying to determine the answer herself. Her free hand then set to running down the length of the hare's front legs. \"They're quite leggy compared to the rabbits one might keep as a pet, aren't they?\" \n\n\"Thank you.\" With the utmost care, the hare was laid back across his lap. Dim of night concealed much of the crimson color now streaked against her hands, leaving it simply glossy dark against fair skin. Rotating her hands, she observed them almost as curiously as she had the hare, then looking back at his hands. It was clear she was considering him and his lifestyle in great detail. She supposed, with time, and enough layers of blood and whatever else, her own hands would eventually turn a soiled shade like his own. \n\n\"My grandfather used to take me hunting with him sometimes. Mostly an excuse to gallop full-tilt. He let me fire his rifles, but...\" A shrug and she turned to extend her hands back to the fire. \"His dogs did most of the killing. Do you miss? Often? With your rifle. Or do you...\" She puzzled, looking around the woods on half a sigh. When she'd first started venturing out this way, she had been surprised to find several foothold traps as the woodland became more dense. Fortunately for her, she had learned long ago to be careful in the woods. Especially foreign ones. \"Do you just leave traps everywhere?\""
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "Every move the woman made had Algernon more cemented in his thinkin' of her as a queer one. But he also found himself warmin' to her oddities, in ways he couldn't quite understand. Perhaps it were that he, too, had had his fair share of interactions that might've been considered unusual to those on the receivin' end of his actions and words. He'd spent so long on his own that he still had his moments of misunderstandin', of bein' altogether unaware of what the customs were from place to place. Even since settin' foot in Briar Ridge he was sure he'd put his foot in it more times than he could count, whether that be in conversation with the sheriff or even, on the very first day he'd arrived, that boar he'd killed havin' bloodied up the whole town square. \n\nHe watched the way she held the hare, turnin' it to and fro in a way that would've been dizzyin' for the creature if it weren't already long dead. \n\n\"Sure, I killed 'em,\" He confirmed when she asked. \"Some people prefer to buy 'em live in the big cities, so the traps don't do more'n break their legs sometimes when they go snappin' shut. 'Round here, though, havin' the meat and fur's enough for most, and if I can carry 'em on my belt like I have here, leaves my hands free to work, or shoot somethin' else along the way. I slit their throats, see.\" He flipped the hare onto its back in his lap, so she could see the neat cut across the jugular. \"They're flighty things. The shock kills 'em jus' by bein' picked up more often than not, and their souls're onto better places before they can feel too much pain. Or at least, that's what an old man told me once long ago, an' I choose to believe it.\"\n\nWhile he was no church-going gentleman, he rather enjoyed the thought of a place in the clouds where the little things could frolic without their bloodied coats. \n\n\"I don't like wastin' a bullet on somethin' little like these. Save those for the hogs and the deer. When it comes to those, I ain't the kinda man to miss.\" There was a confident air to those words. He knew he was a good shot, and while he'd little need to ration his bullets now the sheriff had given him access to the town's ammunition supply, he took pride in knowin' he didn't need to waste none. Each shot still had to count for somethin'. \"If you miss, the target's much more likely to get away from ya, see. Makes a hell of a noise to fire, 'specially in quiet woods like these, and I ain't fast enough to catch if I can't at least wound 'em from the start.\" When he was a younger man, he'd tracked and chased all kinds of creatures through thick briar and dense forest, but comin' on in his years made it harder to move his bulk at a runnin' pace. He preferred to lay low and wait for the moment to come to him. \"Ain't never found a horse that could hold me, so there's no gallopin' to be done neither. The traps work well so long as nobody goes foolin' around with 'em.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Victorine Astor",
"message": "Of all things this mountain man was talking about, it was that these creatures had souls. Her head canted to the side, not a bit of her teeth were showing but she grinned wide, lips stretched across her face. One long, dainty finger ghosted over the slit across its throat. What a peculiarity that he made some small livelihood off the bodies of these little beasts, and still had such a soft hope to wish them into an afterlife. \n\n\"Oh there is a horse to hold you,\" She chuckled soft-like to herself, \"Though I imagine the poor beasty wouldn't be so sure what to do in this sort of...\" Glancing around them both, the thought went unfinished, a shrug taking its place. \n\n\"What else do you eat?\" She'd already sized him up. Another thorough once over with her gaze was not needed. He was massive. \"Surely you can't live off the land alone? These little elegant things haven't a bit of fat on them. Have you heard of *Mal de caribou*? I'll bet you haven't.\" \n\n\"A Danish explorer recently reported his findings after spent a great lot of time with the Inuit people. They subsist almost entirely off meat and fish. But those that could only eat lean caribou died before long, despite having their fill. Isn't that the most curious thing? I've often considered taking up the diet myself but...\" Large teeth poked out from behind small lips in a sheepish grin. \"I'm terribly ignorant of how to fish.\"\n\n\"I suppose you rely entirely on the whims of what mother nature brings you? There's something poetic in that.\" Maybe it was the sudden warming blood flow to her brain that kept her rambling along. Leaning closer to the fire, she almost folded herself over entirely, hands grasping her ankles. The cuffs of her coat were still wet. \n\nAnd then the idea seemed to strike her all at once, her eyes sliding over to glance at him and his catch. \"Can you show me how you do it? How you... Take them apart?\"\n\n||"
}
] | 533 | 6,378 |
279.583333 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "DEP. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "*Chances are, you don't know me, and I don't know you. That's fine. I want to deal with the wolves in town, and I need information.*\n\n*I'm in the woods near the creek most Wednesdays. Look for the black hair and facial scars, and ask for Marsh.*\n\nRafael Aguilar Guerrero was, in some ways, a wolf in his own right - a hunter, a fighter, a marksman, a survivor. But before all of those things, he was an investigator, and a protector, and a savior. And the town had just been informed that they could not be protected by the one man who was supposed to protect them all. It made him feel... Small. Broken. Moreso than the scars on his body or the bandages around his heart did. One thing was for certain, though: he was going to get revenge on the people who had done this to him.\n\nIt chews at him something fierce: was the wolf who had run him down in the street his comrade in arms? Was... Was all of this for nothing? Was he to be betrayed over and over again by his superior officer?\n\nNot again. Never again. He touches the locker on his neck - inside, he carries a picture of Johanna. Her death wouldn't be meaningless. He wouldn't let it. He would carry the weight of a murderer like a cross on his back for the rest of his life. Leaning against a wooden cane, still bruised and broken, at the risk of opening his own wounds again, he stumbles into the woods by the creek that Wednesday morning. He breathes slowly, heavily, trailed behind by his two loyal hounds, and approaches.\n\n\"*Oi,*\" He calls out into the woods, to a figure across the creek. His voice is weaker, here; more haggard. Not the sweet voice of a brother or uncle he used on Blanca, and not the appreciative patient he was to Marianne. He would rip and tear through these woods if he had to. He would rot out any weed; he would imprison the devil. \"Are you Marsh?\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "The woods had come to be a sort of hotspot for Charlie, though it wasn't by true choice. Aside from their initial investigation and the ear that was found, they have... Next to nothing. No new leads, no more information- just the corpse of a sheriff that they never even *Met*. It's tragic, of course, but there's more of those damn beasts out there, and even if they have one, there's bound to be more.\n\nThe notice, truthfully, had two purposes: either Charlie was going to get an ally, or they'd find someone stupid enough to try and fight them. They'd prefer an ally, but the frustration boiling in their stomach wouldn't mind popping a few shots off at one of those furred fucks.\n\nCharlie had been poking around a few old bones with the barrel of their rifle, searching for something that'd be of use to Emery. Not that the butcher *Needed* More bones, but it was something better to do than simply being idle. When Rafael calls out, their head lifts, eyes immediately darting to his dogs before the man himself.\n\n\"...I am, yes.\" They sniff, slinging the rifle back over their shoulder. \"Nice dogs, hope they don't try to bite my head off.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "DEP. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "\"They don't bite unless I tell them to.\" Rafael replied, matter-of-fact, free hand in his pocket. He looks at Charlie across the creek and gives them a once-over with a sigh. They were in better shape than he was, that was for sure, but he didn't know how much longer that was going to be true. Fools rushed in to help others, save others, and yet... With a purse of his lips, Rafael planted himself there, using the cane to keep him upright. He would survive this - all of Briar Ridge would. \"But I'm not in the business of hurting anyone today, *Amigo.* Not after what our town dealt with on Tuesday.\"\n\nA short whistle, and both dogs relaxed, beginning to play with one another in the creek far from the worry of either person standing here, sliding around on the ice as they chomped at some of the bubbles trapped under it. Slowly, Rafael began to move forward, crossing the ice with practiced silence until he made it over to where Charlie stood, extending the bandaged hand that was once in his pocket.\n\n\"Deputy Rafael Aguilar Guerrero,\" He introduced himself, gaze cold but voice warm, like a fire that was hollow on the inside. \"I understand you're in the business of trying to continue the trend of putting down these beasts, *No?* Or perhaps I misunderstood the tone of your notice?\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "\"Excuse my saying so, but you don't look well enough to hurt anyone for the next month or so, Deputy.\" Unthinking, Charlie takes Rafael's hand with their right, only to be met with an ache radiating from their chest. Their grip becomes *Too* Tight for a moment, their jaw going rigid, but Charlie tries to hide it with the motion of the handshake.\n\n\"Charlie Marsh, and you understood it just fine, Mister Guerrero. I've done some work on my own, but I don't have enough to show for it- aside from a severed ear.\" They tilt their head, gesturing to the rest of the woods with their chin as they drop their hand. \"I won't assume that you have any more information than I do, but I *Will* Guess that we're out here for the same reason.\"\n\nThey glance down at Rafael's cane, then back up to his face. \"Are you sure you want to be out here, though? Especially after Tuesday?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "DEP. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "He's aware of how wretched his injuries are - and he is aware of the pain that courses through his body as a result. He shouldn't be up and about, he knows this, but there is no one who can protect these people now that Sheriff Rowe is gone. Why is he so desperate to prove himself to these people, these people who barely know him in this way?\n\n\"I'd like to see that ear, *Amigue,*\" Rafael says, extending his hand. Something about Charlie - and he's heard the rumors of Charlie's fights and survival mechanisms - makes Rafael believe they have the ear on them, especially given that this meeting was specifically for investigating and examining the werewolf investigations. \n\n\"You'll have to forgive me,\" Rafael adds, his hand still outstretched with anticipation, \"After the news of Sheriff Rowe's true nature, I have... Very little information, for obvious reasons. But I have the resources to launch a formal investigation... I'd like to do so soon.\" \n\nA pause - Rafael's hand trembles slightly, the muscle fatigued. \"It doesn't matter to me if I'm injured. I've been through worse in the War. These people need someone they can trust - and I refuse to fail them. The ear, *Por favor.*\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "Rafael's words, both the request and the admission, make Charlie pause. True, they've always been wary of law enforcement, doubly so whilst in large cities, but Rafael was only *One man* In a town full of monsters. His insistence on protecting these people, even if it's ill advised, is... Familiar to Charlie. They feel the same way, even if it only truly concerns one person so far.\n\nIf it's a mistake to trust this broken exhausted man, then may one of those furred freaks strike them down now.\n\n\"There's nothing to forgive, Mister Guerrero- we're both here for the same reason.\" Charlie pulls the ear out of their coat pocket, doubled wrapped with scraps of fabric and a handkerchief, and hands it to him.\n\n\"I'm not sure how much you'll be able to do with this, though- I haven't found much yet myself.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Narrator",
"message": "The ear has been poorly preserved in its handkerchief wrappings, but its earlier... *Draining of fluids* May have helped to keep it on the fresher side of decomposition. Either that, or the forest had simply wanted the two humans to be able to examine the gory trophy. Who could ever understand what the forest wanted? It wasn't unheard of to find deer corpses perfectly untouched by scavengers. Some folks believed that was how the Not Deer start their second round at life though, and that it was best to leave such corpses alone immediately and to take a scalding hot bath as quick as you could. \n\nThankfully, a severed ear was no threat to these two.\n\nThe ear itself was a light shade of brown. Freckles dusted the top of its rim like sprinkles. It had been *Ripped violently* From its owner, and still bore a couple of puncture marks. The ear was a normal size for an adult and did not appear to be pierced, though it was difficult to tell from the angle at which it had be wrenched from its home."
},
{
"author": "DEP. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "Rafael immediately goes to cover his mouth and nose — he's seen such things in the war, but sure, he's never seen some kid take it out of their fucking pocket and show it off like the teacher is asking them to show and tell. Still, he approaches taking the thing and shifting it left and right. It surely is dead, unable to be seen back on — though, this is a lead.\n\n\"I'm going to have to take this into evidence, *Charlito,*\" He says earnestly. With Sheriff Rowe gone, Rafael technically now holds the title — he just needs to get someone to sign the damnable paperwork. For now, though, he is *Acting Sheriff Rafael Aguilar Guerrero.* He has the authority to do such things — and come on, *Carrying around human flesh in your pocket?* That's more fucked up than shooting a man. At least, when you shoot a man, you can't carry it around.\n\nHe folds it back up into its wrappings, reaching into his messenger bag and, one-handed, slides the flesh into his bag. He grimaces, knowing there's nothing of real importance in there, but God, would he have killed for a paper bag.\n\n\"Tell me everything about how you found this ear. Start to finish — leave no details. If you leave something out on purpose, I'll have you tagged for accomplice to murder.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "Bile bites at the back of Charlie's throat when Rafael unravels the ear- they'd more or less had gotten used to the smell, as horrible as a thought that was, but it was worse whenever it was uncovered. It's not something a well-adjusted person would carry around, they know. This town has enough of it's own demons, though, that they can't truly find it in themselves to *Care.* Fucked up, yes, but at least they're not out there mauling fellow townsfolk with the changing of the moon.\n\n\"Are you batty? I didn't rip anyone's fucking ear off, *Deputy Guerrero.*\" Charlie rolls their eyes, but continues, \"There isn't much to tell, though. I found it just outside the ruins after October's full moon, sitting there plain as day. You should know that I did find fur coming from inside the ruins, too, but I haven't gotten much out of that either.\"\n\nThey wave a hand. \"The ear is all yours, though, so go crazy.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "DEP. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "Rafael scans their face for something - anything - that might hint that Charlie is lying to him. He puts the pieces together - fur, the ear, the ruins... It's the beginnings of a lead. If, perhaps, there was a physical manifestation of Rafael's mind working, perhaps it might look like cogs, turning and turning and pushing steam out of his ears until inevitably he created enough power for that lightbulb to go off, and —\n\n*Oh.*\n\n\"Well, thank you, Charlie,\" Rafael nods, \"Believe it or not, you've just advanced one of the leads I have, of which I am appreciative. Very much so. \" He doesn't say much else outside of that, the bag on his arm psychologically heavier than it was before. This was the body part of one of their citizens - one of the people he promised he'd protect. Why does he feel like a knife has been stabbed into his gut again, as if the betrayal of Sheriff Rowe was not enough?\n\nIdly, his other hand reaches up to hold his crucifix. \n\n\"You should be getting on back, now-\" He exhales, slowly, \"-there's strange things in these woods. Men who look like monsters, coal haints... At least, those are the stories. The fact that you've had an *Ear* In your pocket for however long I'm sure is not helping you hide from being bait. Or a snack. Or... Whatever it is people who smell like death might be in comparison.\"\n\nHe shifts his weight, balancing it back out. \"And I need to be getting back to the police station.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "He's a bit like a well, Charlie thinks: to give away bits of himself for the sake of others, then blaming himself when he starts to run dry. The well is never at fault for a lack of rain, and Rafael isn't at fault for the town's losses. Even if he believes it to be so, he's just *One man.*\n\n\"I know that there's dangerous things out here, but you seem to forget that I'm still looking for answers, Mister Guerrero.\" They cross their arms over their chest. \"I'm not going anywhere yet, *Especially* When you look like a breeze away from keeling over. I'll walk you back.\"\n\nCharlie has all the intimidating nature of a puffed up kitten, but there they stand, waiting for Rafael to say no.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "SHRF. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "\"You'll be disappointed to find I don't have much, even at the police station,\" Rafael gestures with his free hand, almost nonchalantly, almost exhaustingly so. \"That is to say, I do not have answers for you yet - but this... *Erm, flesh?* Will point me in the right direction. The information I find will be somewhat public when I find it, so you'll have some information then. *Lo siento,* I'm not intending to be difficult, but there are things that are done in certain orders to make the information I gather is correct.\"\n\nHe makes a little motion with his head, here, as if to say *What can you do?* Of course, Charlie seems adamant to be present — while he can't let them go snoop around in the police station with all of the evidence of various cases, the light amount of weaponry they have, and some of the stock resources to be distributed on nights of full moons — but Rafael has dealt with many a young person in his lifetime. Charlie reminds him of the younger boys in his regiment; ready, roaring, and looking for someone to take their frustration out on. He also remembers those boys' coffins, the sound of their mothers weeping over the unfairness of outliving their children.\n\n_ _ \nIf Charlie is not careful, they too will end up in a box, with no one to mourn them. Rafael does not intend to let that happen - and underneath those soft, empathetic eyes of his own exists someone, something who is looking for revenge. His wounds have taken away his self-sufficiency, in part; with the Sheriff being a werewolf, Rafael has no idea who could have been the mutt that ripped him to shreds. But he was a martyr, in a sense; hearing his screams, the town rushed to his aid, where they were able to stabilize him. (He remembers that young girl who sat at his bedside, who placed the wet rag on his head to stop the sweating that came with trying to heal one's body.\n\nHe exhales, slowly. \"But, fine- you're welcome to come back with me. If only so that I know you actually *Go home.*\" A snort, and he turns, beckoning for Charlie to follow.\n\nHe hoped the woods would let them get that far."
}
] | 261.5 | 3,355 |
500.6 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Ernest Estep",
"message": "Lately, Ernest had had a hard time handling the fact that all this land was *His* Now. Ma and Pa were too old, and frankly, not right anymore since they had disappeared into them woods. Francis had been the one to take it all on, and as much as Ernest had disliked praising his brother in the past, he knew the man had run this place well... For the most part. It was a well-oiled machine, even if Francis was dealing in some particularly shady business towards the end of his life. Christ almighty, Ernest didn't even know where to begin siftin' through all those letters. Angry letters, mostly. Demandin' a whole lotta shit that Ernest didn't have. How do ya explain that Francis Estep had up and died, and sorry, he didn't have what they were askin' for no more? \n\nEither way, Ernest couldn't rightly believe that these acres now were all in his hands. He'd always wanted a piece of the pie but he didn't know he'd get the whole damn pan with it. Hell, he wondered if he even deserved it. He didn't work for a damn thing. All Francis had to do was up and die on 'em for Ernest to get what he'd wanted for so damn long, and that just didn't sit right with him. But to hell, he wasn't about to watch this operation go under, neither. He wouldn't squander this opportunity none. \n\nHe liked to familiarize himself with the land - it was a damn lot, wasn't it? Ernest had taken to try and look around every corner, 'cuz God knows, things changed in five years. The biggest tree on the orchard lay dead ahead; a great big thing, the top leaves felt like it could nearly brush the sky. The silhouette of a woman below was what caught his eye, and as Ernest drew nearer, he felt he could certainly recognize her face. *Marianne Wilburn*, if he was recalling correct. They were around the same age, yeah? She looked real sad, didn't she? \n\n\"Y'alright?\" He called to her, stepping into the shade with his eyebrow raised."
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "He had promised her, back in the winter, that when the apple trees burst forth in colour and the sun shone through the branches, dappling the rich ground in light and life, that he would bring her here. That they would walk where small feet had once run, talk where children's laughter had been carried on summer breezes. That he would take her by the hand as she had when she was small, and rather than drag her onward in search of adventure, he would stay by her side. \n\nFrancis had not made it to the summertime. But Marianne had, and so, one afternoon late in May, when the air hung thick with bright, wet heat, she had followed the hum of the bees and found herself in the orchard alone. \n\nIt was strange to her, to walk alone in a place where she had always had company. It had been many years since she'd come by the orchard and actually walked *In* The gates instead of simply looking through the elaborate wrought-iron bars. The Estep orchard had been a bustling place when the brandy operations were in full swing, scattered with workers and more often than not, Francis himself - he had, after all, never been a man to shy away from work to be done.\n\nAnd if she had come to enjoy the view of him between the trees, freckled skin shining with sweat and callused hands shining too with the gold of the rings that Marianne now wore around her neck... Well, who could blame her?\n\nShe held those rings, now, feeling the cool of the metal in her hand. Imagined them hot, instead, burning skin the way that that damned cross had burned April Abrams' palm in the town square months before. Had Francis burned the same? When had he known? When, exactly, had he taken them off, and why hadn't he told her, and...\n\nIt was, altogether, far too much to think about. \n\nUnder the largest tree in the orchard, Marianne stopped, and leaned up against its great trunk, to catch her breath and feel the breeze ruffle through her curls, and to try to clear her mind of all thoughts. The shade here felt good - she had been out for long enough already, and no doubt would find herself freckled and burnt in equal parts come the next morning. But none of it mattered. \nHe had promised her they would come, and in his absence, she had come alone, and in that, she would find sanctuary among the leaves he had loved so much. If he had stayed, and loved her even half as much as he loved the saplings, then she would have been loved enough to last her a lifetime. \n\nA voice broke through, then, seemingly out of nowhere and achingly familiar, and she looked up from where her eyes had landed on her own feet.\n\nIf the great tree had not been at her back, then she would perhaps have collapsed where she stood, for her gaze landed upon Estep brown eyes and strong shoulders, on tight curls and full lips and contoured cheeks. \n\n*Francis.*\n\nAnd then, she blinked, and it wasn't Francis at all. \nThis man was younger - like the Francis she had come to know again when she first returned to Briar Ridge. His hair was longer and his clothes were more of the city-style and he wasn't so tall, and... She knew him, still, but this was not the man she longed to see again.\n\nFor a moment, though, it had been as though his spirit stood before her. The May heat had been forgotten, and her very bones felt heavy and cold as January snowfalls. \n\nMarianne opened her mouth, to try to tell Ernest - *Ernest*, who she hadn't seen in many years, not Francis, whose body lay buried only a short walk from here - that she was fine. \nInstead, she promptly burst into tears. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Ernest Estep",
"message": "He damn near jumped back a foot or two as the floodgates of Marianne's emotions seemed to burst. He hadn't meant to make her cry; certainly not! He would have to be plain stupid to not understand the root of her upset. He had know Marianne, once upon a time, though she had always been closer to Francis. Of course, Ernest didn't mind that - women had never been an object of his affection, but he also knew that Marianne and Francis' relationship had been far more complicated. He was older, and she had been doe-eyed and young. From what he'd gathered from his own sister, their romance had been a more recent development. Marianne didn't just mourn a friend, but a *Lover.* Ernest couldn't blame her for the tears, nor her ghostly presence in the orchard. \n\n\"Marianne,\" He said, voice real gentle as he came closer. \"S'awright, I didn't mean t'...Startle ya.\" Though he wasn't sure if it was his presence that had made her cry, or perhaps he'd just caught her at a bad time. Surely, she didn't think he would throw her off the property, did she? He dropped down into the grass, settling in by the roots, just as she did. Ernest pulled his knees in towards his chest, looking up into the branches above their heads. \"....Y'remember,\" He started, chewing on his bottom lip. \"He was real good at entertainin', huh? Charismatic son of a bitch,\" He cracked a small smile. \"Gotta give him that. Charming as all hell.\" Ernest paused for a long time. \n\n\"...Those his rings?\" He asked her, pointing to the chain 'round her neck. \"Glad they ended up in the right hands.\""
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "Though she did all she could to stem the flow of her tears, stopping them appeared to be out of the question for the time being. How bitter it was that every time she thought she was past crying over what she had lost, it came back to bite her. How grief stung like nettle-barbs, scratched into her skin like tiny thorns over and over until it grew to be something she could no longer ignore. Seeing Ernest should not have made her cry so, and yet, cry she did, even as he came to sit by her, offering apologies, and then going on. \n\nErnest and Francis had never been the closest of brothers - at least, hadn't seemed that way to Marianne, though she had shared in childish play with both of them and Dotty more times than she could count. It was still strange to hear folks talk of Fran in the past tense, in *Was* In place of *Is*. She followed his gaze up to the leaves overhead, and clung to his words, and when she thought she had full control of her voice again, gave a small nod. \n\"He was... Oh, he was.\" Charismatic and charming were only the beginning when it came to describing Francis. \"Could give him a lot of things, really - I *Did* Give him... So much.\" \nShe sighed softly, and though she could not muster a smile to mirror Ernest's, she could look at him, and remind herself that he was a friend despite it all, and watch as he gestured to the rings that hung around her neck. \n\nHer hand came to them again, fingers closing around the metal. \"Dotty gave them to me... Just before he passed on, really. My guess is that she'd no idea you'd be coming home, though. I- I got some other pieces of him. His scarf, and a sapling he was tending to, and...\" She stopped herself before she could say *His heart*, for it was truer that Francis had taken a part of hers, and that it lay buried in his grave alongside his own poor ruined one. \"I don't mind, if you wanted them back. If they ought to stay with the family rather than with me.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Ernest Estep",
"message": "Ernest shook his head, eyes flickering about her person for a moment more before casting them off towards the orchard once more. \"Naw. They ended up with the right person,\" He assured her. He couldn't help but think that Francis would like how things ended up, in a way; not the whole *Dying early* Bit, but the impression he'd made on people. Marianne would always carry a piece of him with her, wherever she went. This orchard would have his blood, sweat, and tears in it's soil. His soul was soaked into the roots of every apple tree in this damned place. Francis was a bit of a cocky bastard; liked to show off, didn't he? Well, he had really left this world with a bang. \n\nHe felt his chest get tight in a way that he hadn't allowed himself. When the letter had come from Dotty, he hadn't wept. When he took the long train back home, when he'd stepped in the house, when he'd walked the length of the orchards and back - not a tear had fallen. But now, looking at Marianne, his chest felt constricted. Like a great snake of grief had wrapped itself around his body and tightened, willing him to give up his breath to be consumed in one large, jaw-unhinged gulp. \n\n\"I ain't-\" He paused, his voice was gravelly and rough, and he cleared his throat. It felt like he had something lodged in his throat. \"I ain't get to 'pologize to him, before he...\" He bit down on the inside of his cheek, drawing blood as he did. \"I said a lotta... Lotta mean shit to him 'fore I left town.\" He glanced to Marianne. \"Some of it he rightly deserved, you know he was a hardass 'n a bastard at times but-\" He sucked in a breath. \"He was still my brother. Still... Francis.\""
}
] | 450 | 2,503 |
723.909091 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "SHRF. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": ">>*And once i hear them clearly say / who, who are you really / and where are you going / i've got nothing left to lose / i've got nothing left to prove / see me bare my teeth for you / so who are you?*\n\n*— or, rafael accuses francis of being a werewolf.*\n\nHis wounds were healing, and for that, he was grateful. There was so little needed to appease him. The doctor Olander patched him up real nice and he went regularly to get his stitches cleaned and his wounds re-bandaged. Over the last few weeks, the deepest parts of Rafael's body had begun to heal, and while he was patiently making his way through his recovery, prolonging it by his exacerbation of the self, there was still too much to be done.\n\nCharlie Marsh had given him an ear - a disgusting concept, in theory, and that's why it sat in the evidence room for god-knows-how-long, waiting seemlessly for the moment that Rafael had it in him to go speak with Francis Estep. The pieces had all lined up - the tear of the werewolf's ear, the remaining lobe, the hat that Francis seemed to wear. Occasionally, Rafael had almost been caught looking at Francis, trying to memorize the pattern of his light-brown skin, trying to see if the thing in his jailhouse was a match.\n\nAnd frankly, he thought it was.\n\n_ _\nThat's why he makes his way to the Estep Apple Orchard today, his messenger bag hanging loosely across his body, the damning evidence inside. Rafael was not a stupid man, but he was not an educated one. No, see, everything was like a puzzle - easy to work around, connecting the dots. Francis' name had intentionally been left off of the board for now, and he's yet to decide if he should put it up. One of two things was going to happen today - either he was going to accuse Francis Estep of being a werewolf, and there was going to be no evidence that countered the evidence in his bag, and he was going to take action, or he was going to accuse Francis Estep of being a werewolf, and he would have an alibi and evidence that countered the claim, and Rafael was going to offer his sincerest apologies and head home.\n\nEither way, the accusation was being made today.\n\n_ _\nThe orchard was... *Big*. Now, admittedly, Rafael had known of the place since his arrival, even purchased some apples in the summer months, but he had never been. As the newly-knighted Sheriff, he had the right to be here on the grounds of a de facto subpoena; the warrant was held tightly in his hand, written and signed by the man holding it. He still followed the protocol down to the letter of the law, and as the highest (and, well, only) paragon of justice in the town, it was quick and efficient to get things done around here. As he crosses the near-mountainous threshold to the Orchard's main house, Rafael took several moments climbing the stairs, exhaling slowly once he got to the top of the porch. He adjusts his jacket, makes sure his sheriff badge was displayed on the front, and took the leap of faith to knock on the door.\n\nRafael is a good man, a discrete one — the knocks he offers are that of a neighbor, rather than the police, but protocol says he has to announce himself. \"Mr. Estep,\" He calls through the door as soon as he's finished knocking. \"It's Sheriff Aguilar Guerrero. I need you to open up, sir; this is official business.\"\n\nHe takes a step back from the door in case it swung out, and waited."
},
{
"author": "francis estep",
"message": "The knock at the orchard house stirs Francis from his mindless task: one he is reluctant to leave. He's clearing snow from the large glass panes of the greenhouse so the sun might reach the saplings within. It'd been a toss up for him, whether or not he would leave it there as insulation. The sun had already melted most of the winter's blanketing from the roof, and light was getting through. Heat was being generated, though only at high noon. Francis didn't like it. \n\nThe next 10 years of apple production rested among the small, growing branches of the grafts within. They needed warmth. They needed tending. And so Francis shovels. \n\n*...Sheriff Aguilar Guerrero–*\n\n– comes the warning. Reluctantly, Francis poses his shovel against the wall. He straightens his coat and tugs his hat down around his ears. As much as it is his first instinct to cause a scene here, intimidate the Sheriff off of his property, the last thing he needs in this town is another enemy. He thinks of Marianne and the upcoming election. He needs to keep his nose clean for her. Surely he can answer any question the Sheriff may have. He can be civilized. \n\nHe makes his footsteps loud around the side of the house, clearing his throat as an extra precaution. No one likes being snuck up on. \n_ _\n\n\"Sheriff Guerrero,\" Francis calls, brightening his expression in a welcoming smile. The way he says the sheriff's name is a near recording of how the man has said it himself. Francis makes a convincing mimic; the surname sounds natural on his lips. This is a skill he has practiced. This is one of his *Most* Practiced skills: mirroring in an effort to construct kinship. \n\n\"Official business, you say?\" He asks, stepping closer, holding out his hand for Rafael to shake, in a manner of friendly greeting that is not standard for their acquaintance-level relationship. Whether or not Rafael accepts the handshake, Francis steps up beside him on the porch. \n\"You know, my paw's always said that *Official business* Goes down easier over coffee. Come in, Sheriff.\" Francis' voice is smooth. Easy. It does not waver or betray his nervousness, because he is not nervous. Why should he be? He, and by extension the entire Estep family, is a friend of the Sheriff. Friends of the law! What apple brandy? \n\nFrancis removes his coat and scarf, tucking his gloves into the coat pockets. He gestures to the coat rack for Rafael to discard his heavy clothes if he wishes. He leaves on his hat and he leaves on his boots, which track muddy slush across the kitchen as he begins to prepare coffee. \n\n\"I hope you and the dogs fared well through the blizzard, Sheriff. Those winds gave us quite a fright here.\" \n\n_ _"
},
{
"author": "SHRF. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "Rafael is not a stupid man, but he is a kind one. Despite whatever airs or authorities a man like Francis Estep - intelligent, charismatic, calculated - is putting on, Rafael doesn't intend to treat him any differently than he was doing right now. So, when Francis comes around the side of the house, offers his hand, pronounces his name correctly, Rafael smiles, reaching out to shake his hand. The paperwork is held loosely in his hand, here, as Francis invites him in for coffee. The right thing to do would be to reject it; the kind thing to do would be to welcome it, and kind he is.\n\nHe enters the house, marvelling briefly at how pretty the interior of it is. His own cabin pales in comparison to something like this, but he supposes this is the result of many years of this orchard being the way that it is. (He notes the hat. Isn't it rude to wear a hat inside, especially to a man who's familiar with official business, *Especially* To a charismatic and practiced man? The warrant in his hand feels heavier.) Rafael lets out a low whistle, nodding with a smile. \"You've got a beautiful house, *Senor Estep,*\" Rafael compliments as they turn into the kitchen, watching the footprints leave behind a trail of something. Rafael himself dusted his own boots off on the porch before entering; perhaps he misunderstands completely what it is that the Esteps consider manners. Or perhaps he's been ruder in his time than he thinks - military men usually are.\n\n_ _\n\"Ay,\" He rolls his eyes, laughing when Francis mentions the blizzard, \"My dogs and I were trapped in the jailhouse for two days. *Más o menos,* Could have been worse, could have been better. I had access to food, and a warm stove, and a bed. So, really, it wouldn't have been any different than staying in my home. The only plus-side is that my mountain of paperwork is *Almost* All the way gone. The clerk that left town a bit ago, after the Sheriff Rowe incident, seemed to care little about organization - that, or she had a place for everything and none of it makes sense to me. Did you and yours end up alright?\"\n\nHe sits at the table, his heavy coat abandoned on the coat rack at Frencis' gesture. He feels lighter, here, but it doesn't shake the feeling that something bad is about to happen. He's polite here, feet flat on the ground, hands on his knees. (The slush drives him up the wall; isn't the floor going to be ruined if that stays there like that?) \"The coffee smells delicious,\" He adds at the end, nodding, \"Thank you for the offer. I couldn't remember if I thanked you on the porch.\""
},
{
"author": "francis estep",
"message": "\"*Grahseeahs.*\" Francis thanks him for his compliment to the house, a less noble effort of Spanish than he'd managed for the Sheriff's name. Oh well. Can't win 'em all. \n\nThe Sheriff is right to be perturbed by the slush Francis tracks around. The Estep son's house manners are a crack in his armor, so to speak. While he's been able to tailor most of his behaviors over the years to communicate nothing but utter control, there are some things that evade his notice. There are some behaviors so innate to him, and that fall in step so well with his instinctual disregard of decency, that he wouldn't even think to alter them. Cleaning his boots is one of those behaviors. Dotty would no doubt have something to say about the stains on the floor later on. \n\nThe hat, on the other hand, is a different matter. Francis has earned some scars in the past few months that he'd rather not show off. Too bad there's no way to hide the chipped canine he'd suffered during the first time he'd been attacked. \n\n\"That *Is* A plus!\" Francis picks out the bright spot of Sheriff Guerrero's story. He places a sugar and creamer set onto a small tray on the table while the coffee percolates. Dotty would normally tend to guests in this way, but somehow, he's glad she's otherwise occupied with their parents. It leaves him an opportunity to make a good impression on the Sheriff. \n\n\"We fared just fine. Ran out of wood early on, but we had a... Surprise house guest to help restock. That boy from the coal family. Noah Owens? Stumbled in here lost from a hunting trip. Gave him some warm clothes and a nice meal. Couldn't send him back out in the storm.\" It was frightening how easily Francis lies, sometimes. In this moment, he can almost convince himself he hadn't had his revolver pointed at Noah for the first few minutes of his arrival. He can almost convince himself that it was he, not Dotty, who made a case for the frozen man to stay. \n_ _\n\n\"No need to thank me, Sheriff Guerrero. It's the least I kin do for ya. We appreciate what ya done, steppin' inta the Sheriff's shoes after everything that's happened. Happy ta have a man like you watchin' over this town.\" Finally the coffee is done, and Francis pours two generous cups. He takes a seat opposite his guest. Perhaps opening the conversation to recent events isn't the smartest play, but Francis figures the Sheriff isn't here to discuss apples. Still, he says no more, only glances briefly at the paperwork that's found its way from the man's hand to the table. Francis doesn't entertain the idea that Rafael will miss the glance. Quite the opposite: he's hopeful it will launch them into the topic that his guest has come to pursue. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "SHRF. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "Rafael listens, intently, smiling a bit as he turns and looks to Francis, hearing the highlights of his story. It always warms his heart when someone in Briar Ridge opens their arms up for another - and while the Esteps didn't *Have* To take Noah Owens in, he's grateful they did. He himself was locked in the Jailhouse with William Cooper - a breath is taken in, and then out. He knows the sins he's committed. He knows that come Sunday morning, he will need to go to the church and confess all that he's done to the Father God, to be forgiven for his inaction. His eyelids clench - he makes a note to find a flag for Mayor Cooper, to deliver to the children. They'll need one for the casket, or for the body if they cannot afford one. First Rowe, now Cooper - Rafael's metaphorical body count grows heavier and heavier, twisting in his gut like a knife.\n\nThe compliment is paid, the coffee is done, and now herein lies the moment of truth. He doesn't withdraw the damning evidence from the bag that he's slung over his shoulder, but his perceptive, investigative eye catches the paperwork at he's holding in his own hand, at the way Francis Estep looks at it. He would be a fool to not notice that that's a silent sign that the stakes are too high, that the air is too tense, and that the anxiety is too heavy for either man to carry anymore.\n\nHe takes the paper out of his own hand, unfolding it - in print letters, a shaky hand has typed blue ink into various spaces on a pre-written form, the verbiage of it implying it came from a much higher power than that of a Briar Ridge native, and is likely standard protocol for all sheriffs and deputies within Virginia:\n\n``` COMMONWEALTH OF VIRGINIA\n WARRANT OF PERSONAL PROPERTY ACQUISITION\n\nAs invested to the powers of any SHERIFF or DEPUTY of BRIAR RIDGE, VIRGINIA, whereas a requisition from the leading law enforcement of BRIAR RIDGE, VIRGINIA for the PERSONAL PROPERTY of the affected party, FRANCIS ESTEP. This acquisition of personal property is considered lawful under the CIVIL FORFEITURE laws of the COMMONWEALTH OF VIRGINIA. Law enforcement will have the right to search and seize any property at the location of the ESTEP APPLE ORCHARD from the months of DECEMBER 1928 to FEBRUARY 1929, so long as it is enclosed in the listing below.\n\nThe accused, FRANCIS ESTEP, under the charge of CONSPIRACY and ACCESSORY TO MURDER, may willingly forfeit this property as included in the WARRANT AND AFFIDAVIT, and other papers as to be filed with the CITY OF BRIAR RIDGE and the COMMONWEALTH OF VIRGINIA. \n\nNow therefore, I do command the empowered parties to seize the following property from the ESTEP APPLE ORCHARD in order that he may be tried under the CITY OF BRIAR RIDGE and the COMMONWEALTH OF VIRGINIA for the crimes in which he is accused. \n\nIn testimony whereof, I have hereof subscribed my hand and caused the seal of VIRGINIA to be affixed, this [???] of [???], 1929.\n\n* ALL PERSONAL HEADGEAR AS UNWORN BY ANY PERSONS, MALE OR FEMALE\n* ALL PERSONAL HEADGEAR AS STORED IN CELLAR OR ATTIC STORAGE\n* THE HEADGEAR CURRENTLY WORN BY FRANCIS ESTEP AT THE TIME OF SERVING THIS WARRANT\n\nSHERIFF RAFAEL AGUILAR GUERRERO\nBRIAR RIDGE JAILHOUSE & LAW ENFORCEMENT```\n\n\" I have a warrant, son,\" Rafael nods, sliding the paper across the table for Francis to read. \"For your hat.\""
},
{
"author": "francis estep",
"message": "There's something in him that appreciates the silence that follows the deliverance of the document– no fuss from Rafael and plenty of time for Francis to make some. He takes the page and watches the Sheriff for a good few seconds before turning down to read the words. \n\nMost of the legal jargon is lost on him, and for a few minutes his brow is creased hard in the act of translating what exactly Sheriff Guerrero wants with him and his *Estate.* \n\nThe words `ACCUSED.` and `CONSPIRACY TO MURDER` mumble angrily from the paper, and they would have struck a great fear into Frans' heart if they weren't so God. *Damn.* \n\nFunny. \n\n\nOnce he reaches the end of the document, Francis feels the corners of his mouth curl peevishly. Not that he means to laugh at the Sheriff, heavens no. He just means to laugh at the pretense of force laid out here and for what? Mama's bonnet? By the time he imagines his paw's old dusty riding helmet leaving the orchard house in an old apple crate, destined for interrogation at the jailhouse, he's cracking up. Thin squeaks of laughter peal from his grinning mouth. \n\n\"Take my hat, Sheriff, by all means.\" He concedes, after blotting some of the tears from his eyes. He sighs a great sigh of composure, and thumbs the brim of his cap, tugging it center before pulling it off completely. He sets it on the table. \n\n\"If ya liked it so much, Sheriff Guerrero, I coulda jus' sent away fer another! Didn't have ta go typin' this all up, throwin' murder around. *Shooooot.* Had me goin', sir, I'll give you that.\" Francis is still half laughing as he takes a delicate sip of coffee, and then shakes his head in good humored disbelief. \n_ _\n\nOf course the Sheriff didn't come for his hat. He came to see the man's scars, which were on full view. Three rows of pink gashes disturbed the freckles on the left half of Francis' face, starting through his eyebrow and trailing to his jaw. Another gouge at his right temple is revealed in the light. Most starkly of all, though, is his right ear. The top half is missing. \n\n\"You kin see now why I like ta wear it, Sheriff.\" He sighs, more gathered and somber now, \"I got got. Three months in a row, out there. I haven't quite gotten used ta the look of my own face since then.\" Francis' eyes are cast down, and his expression is pitiable. This is a man who has always found great value and power in his good looks. His face has been a source of confidence and pride. Now, it's ruined. He looks at the hat on the table longingly, as though he feels too exposed without it. \n\n\"You're doin' me a favor, I 'spose. These scars ain't goin' away.\" He points to his ear, \"'n this ain't growin' back. Better I git used to the new looks without hidin' behind a hat.\" \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "SHRF. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "Francis laughs at him, and Rafael's face is as cold as stoic as it had been in the Army. Whatever semblance of comedy existed on the owner of the apple orchard's cheeks was but tragedy on the sheriff's. Instead, he watches as Francis removes his hat, and Rafael looks him over, nodding. Rafael, too, bears the scars of being mauled by the werewolves - he has a thick gash from the jaw down, and underneath his clothes, he bears damn-near vivisection marks across his ribs, his stomach, his waist. His arms and legs are covered in combat wounds — *Rafael Guerrero knows what it is like to be the victim, and he knows what it is like to be the survivor.*\n\n\n\n\"No, I know, son,\" Rafael says, and he uses the opportunity to take off his bag, now. Inside, he retrieves a pair of black leather gloves and a wrapped item no bigger than his palm. The wrapped item is placed on the table, and Rafael slides on the gloves, one after the other. \"Truth be told, you'll find a lot of things in that warrant are me just attempting to cover my bases. I do have to say - making sure you covered your tracks is something Sheriff Rowe taught me upon meeting him. I suppose there's a laugh and a joke to be made about that, then. He hid his tracks so well from me that I didn't suspect him of being a wolf until it was too late.\"\n\nBoth gloves are on now, and Rafael holds the package in his left hand, beginning to unwrap it with his left. \"So, Francis, you're actually very welcome to keep your hat. I suppose, in some way, it would be too cruel of me to ask you to give up the only thing you have to take back what the wolves took from you. I understand, you know; trying to decide if you're a murderer or a man because of what something or someone told you to do. And, really, all I wanted to do was get a look at you. So I could do this.\"\n\n_ _\nHe finishes unwrapping the cheesecloth package, pulling out the other half of the tanned, freckled ear. Gloved hands hold it with some kind of precision, and really, Rafael is *So* Stunned that it hasn't become food for worms yet as he holds it up to the side of Francis' head, smiling when the grooves of one end of the flesh line up— well, *Somewhat* Appropriately with the grooves of the other kind of flesh. He tuts - and is that *Grief* That crosses the sheriff's face, as if perhaps he had been hoping and praying that he was *Wrong* This entire time? That the boy Estep could go back to his orchard and only hold a mild amusement for the Sheriff's outlandish claim?\n\nBut it wasn't. And Rafael's heart sat now next to his gut. \n\n\"You better have a good explanation for this, son. Because I know what this was when it was found in the snow, and I know what it is now, and unfortunately, the evidence is stacked against you in a thousand different ways.\""
},
{
"author": "francis estep",
"message": "The Sheriff proves to be a tough crowd, but Francis clings to the route he's chosen to navigate the situation. The two men stare at each other across the table, and Francis decides it only seems right to read Rafael's scars, too. The one past his jaw is an obvious claw gash. He wonders which of the wolves put it there, taking a moment to wince at the brutality of the fact that he recognizes the mark of the beast so easily. It's an accessory worn by so many around town these days. \n\nRafael brings up Sheriff Rowe, and Francis suffers a pang of loss. Noah was a good man. He was active and caring: a damn good leader to Briar Ridge when the Mayor had fallen so short. Francis hadn't wanted to believe the news that he'd been killed, and he mostly hadn't until he and his family were standing with bowed heads and clasped hands over a hole in the ground. \n\nFrancis is lifted from memory by the strange and formal procedure of whatever Sheriff Guerrero is doing in his bag. It pairs well with the typed out warrant, but all in all, it's a combination that makes Francis uneasy despite his best efforts. \n\n*I understand,* He says, *Trying to decide if you're a murderer or a man.*\n\nHe doesn't like what the Sheriff is implying. And he does *NOT* Like what comes out of that parcel. \n\n\"*Jesus fucking Christ,*\" He hisses, flinching away violently from the scrap of flesh Rafael extends to his face. Rafael apparently gets the answer he's looking for, and Francis nearly tips over his chair in the process. He remains standing, assuming a defensive posture, even once Rafael pulls back.\n_ _\n\n\"It's sick, is what it is. And what *Was* It, Sheriff? Was it half a goddamn ear then, too? God alive.\" He stands a little straighter following his outburst. He shakes his head and takes a sharp breath in. \n\n\"I bet I know where you found it. Outside the Ol Davis Ruins, huh?\" His eyes get a hardened look about them, \"That's where I got attacked the third time. With the volunteers. I was standin' guard for the project there. Had one of my cuts from the second attack pop back open while I was on post– moved my arm too fast movin' a crate a supplies. Started bleedin' like a stuck pig.\" Francis looks down to the spot on his elbow where the stitch had ripped, right where he has his sleeve rolled up to. The skin there is still gnarled and pink, tough with scar tissue as it always would be. \n\n\"We weren't keepin' no first aid around there just yet, 'n I ran home ta find somethin' ta stop the blood.\" His voice got quiet, reflective, \"Thought I'd be safe. Just a quick shot home. But one of 'em got me. Tore my ear. Got some new slashes 'round back of my head.\" He turns his face to the wall to show Rafael that the scars extend from his missing ear to the back of his skull where his hair still hasn't grown back. \n\"I managed to git away, but just barely.\" Francis takes the pause to sit back down again. His eyes are caught on a knot of wood grain in the table top and inside his mind he's somewhere else, making his way up the deer path to the orchard. \n\"I been keepin' to the orchard ever since. Stayin' 'round here, posted up in case somethin' comes for mama 'n paw. Or Dotty.\"\n_ _"
},
{
"author": "SHRF. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "Of course Francis rejects the notion that he's a werewolf, but Rafael isn't convinced. He listens, intently, at Francis' half-baked alibi. But there's already so much at stake that Rafael can't afford to fall back now. His captain once told him that if he was going to see something, he had to see it through to the end. He remains sitting, for now, and analyzes Francis' posture. \"Goddamnit, son, *Look* At me!\" He says, and he rises, too, matching Francis' intensity and his expression; they are both scarred, mangled men, both fighting some sort of rural sequel to a war that Rafael did not sign up to fight yet had to anyways.\n\n\"I know you ain't stupid, son,\" Rafael says, pointing to him, and then back to himself, \"And I know *You know* That I ain't either. I do, however, know a couple things about field medicine, and *This?* Your *Ear?* Should have been *Worm food by now,* Francis. Don't think I ain't stupid. I know how men in packs play; I know that when there are colliding minds, that there's infighting. I've seen that big white wolf run 'round here, I've heard of the things it does to the others like it. I know that when infighting starts, it's because of a change of *Morals.* And while I don't know whether or not you've got control of yourself when you do it, *I know* What *I know.* So walk with me for a bit, won't you?\"\n\n_ _\nHe wraps the ear up, leaving it on pseudo-display on the table between the mugs of coffee, a grotesque notion of acknowledgement that Rafael doesn't intend to change his stance. *Look at this,* It says in its existence, *An object of the monster I know you have become.* \"So, you're attacked - a horrible thing to happen, and you have my condolences. It's almost like I know a thing or two about something. You're attacked multiple times, which is damn near unlucky for you, and as a result, you are put away for some time. What was it, son, a few weeks? Maybe a month? But then, you put yourself back together to maintain some kind o' public image, ain't that right? I gave my body that same fuckin' treatment, and look at where the two of us are — you, healed, scarred, just fine. Underneath these clothes I got bleedin' gauze, *Mijo,* Ones that I'm gonna have to go change when I get home.\"\n\n\"And now, you're up here by yourself every month, with only your family. People who, I suspect, would agree with you in their entirety if I asked them of your whereabouts on the full moon. Not in one of the safehouses, not with the coalition — not even with the hunting group you once stood alongside to fight back against these wolves. No, Francis, instead *You* Are up *Here,* In this *House,* By yourself, with an iconclad alibi in your family's mouths.\" And perhaps if Justice could take a form, it wouldn't look like the blind woman with wings holding the scales of balance; no, instead, if Justice could take a form, perhaps it would look like a man with a gaze and fury defiant. Perhaps it would look like a man who does not speak with *Accusation* In the way that one might accuse a man of a crime but instead an *Accusation* A father might make of a son who is about to ruin his life.\n\n_ _\nHe makes a motion with his fingers to bring Francis' gaze towards him. If and when their eyes lock, Rafael lowers his tone of voice, a slow breath following. \"And now... You are the white wolf that is infighting with the others. You're the wolf that, for some reason, doesn't attack citizens all the time... But instead... Its packmates. Isn't that right? The soul of some kind of man is still inside of you, in some ways, and for some reason or fuckin' another, *You* Are dealin' with bloodshed. And if I had to make an educated guess, you chased one of your hellhound peers out through the back of the Ruins, *Where you weren't,* And that's where you lost your ear. And due to a combination of the snow and whatever crackpot healin' the wolves have that make them not bear the bullet holes we put into 'em, it's now sitting on your dinin' room table. And I'm stand here, makin' the accusation.\"\n\nHe lets this hang in the air for a good, long while, a dolorous bell overhead: he doesn't intend to put any more evidence down, his chips accented by his bluff — that the ear belonged to the white wolf, that the white wolf lost its ear, that Francis Estep lost his ear, that Francis Estep *Is* The white wolf. \"Francis, I'm not tryin' to hurt you, son. I'm tryin' to *Save* You. Just like I wished I could have saved Noah Rowe. My oath to Briar Ridge is to protect *All* Of her people, and that includes those afflicted with this *Shit.* And if you are what I think you are... I need you to tell me the truth, son. If you don't... This is gonna happen *Again* And *Again.* And what happens when it's your girl in someone else's maw, and you're not there to stop them, because you're 'posted up around here making sure nothin' comes for your kin'?\"\n\nA tilt of the head. \"So, what's it gon' be, Francis? You gon' give me a real reason, or should I give back the piece of you you lost in the war? Huh?\" He reaches into his pocket, taking out a silver crucifix. \"You wanna settle this here and now?\""
},
{
"author": "francis estep",
"message": "`Content warning: gaslighting.`\n\nRafael asks Francis to look, and he does. *Some men,* He thinks, *Command attention. Others have to ask.* The sheriff fell into the latter category. He holds his tongue, until he can't anymore, and he laughs. \n\n\"Do you *Hear* Yourself Sheriff? I mean really, do you understand what you're saying to me? You're makin' enough guesses 'n bets ta turn this kitchen into a casino.\" Francis' smirk dies down, not because the situation has lost its comedic value, but because he feels sorry for the man in front of him, so furiously grasping at loose ends. The sheriff's hands are rope-burnt and trembling. It's a sad thing. \n\nThe sloppily wrapped ear on the table nearly sets Francis off again. What if Dotty were to walk in? His paw? But there's no time to ask for decency. Rafael did not come here with that in mind.\n\nRafael walks Francis through a feeble rehashing of the last few months' events, and Francis stays quiet, a crease in his brow. He even nods a couple times to throw the sheriff a bone. After a few moments of silence following the string of accusations, rage simmering quietly behind Francis' eyes, he answers carefully. \n\n\"I don't mean to insult what you know, Sheriff. It's what you mean to assume that's got me a little angry.\" He admits, his eye contact with the sheriff unwavering. \n_ _\n\n\"You mean to assume what's under my own clothes. You mean to assume there ain't bandages there. You mean to assume– what? That I would choose to put myself out for wolf food *Again* Instead of stay and protect my own family?\" All that he truly wants to say goes unsaid. Painting himself a villain in the eyes of a man who believes him to be one will not turn out well, this Francis understands. If the playing field were even, he would go on: *And where were you this past moon, Sheriff? Weren't you keeping nice and warm in that jailhouse?* Francis knows things, too. \n\nHe *Hates* The way Rafael speaks to him. \nHe *Hates* The misplaced confidence of the man. \nHe *Hates* How he keeps demanding Francis' eyes like he truly believes he is owed the attention; like he believes a badge and a warrant can buy respect.\n\nIt's all Francis can do to keep from shaking in his rage, reminding himself to relax his jaw and keep his fists uncurled. Rafael claims to know Francis isn't stupid. Why, then, is he speaking down to him in such a way? Why is he helping himself to step into the role of father, in Francis' parents' own home? The color of blood begins to edge like a sick fog into the corners of Francis' vision. \n\n\"My soul is nothin' but a man's, sheriff.\" He finally says, \"And there's nothin' in your voice, in your *Story* That means to save me or whoever you think is important to me. I can save all that on my own.\" The pauses between his sentences are long. He needs the time to neatly pick his words clean of vitriol as they line up patiently behind his teeth. He releases them carefully, thoughtfully, once they are properly preened. \n_ _\n\n\"Your warrant has been served, sir. Come back to me with another, if you've got more business in my home. Come back to me with proof, and I'll entertain you again.\" He looks down pityingly at the silver cross in the sheriff's hand, and then back up to the man's face. He shakes his head slowly. \n\"I've given you the truth. I've shown you respect. If you're lookin' ta *Save me* As you say you are, show me the same, Sheriff.\" \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "SHRF. RAFAEL GUERRERO.",
"message": "Game. Set. Match.\n\n\n\n\"You're absolutely right, Mr. Estep,\" Rafael says, holding up both hands. He collects the ear, wrapping it properly in the cheesecloth and settling it on the table. Rafael doesn't need it anymore — he fears the day it will start to deteriorate, and stink up his evidence room. Besides — he is a stern, mean man, but he is not a man who is actively trying to break the spirit of his fellow man. Beast or otherwise, Francis Estep does have the rights to every piece of him... *Including the pieces not attached to him.*\n\n_ _\n\"I'll come back with a warrant for your arrest,\" He says, clear as day, a smile on his lips that seems to clash thoroughly against the newly-forming grey in his beard. (That wasn't there prior to Noah Rowe's death, he'd like to add, as if the long nights and the world at war around him hasn't been enough to stain the worst parts of him premature.) \"But I want you to remember, that at the end of this, I was willin' to help you. And when the peat moss takes other parts of you... I pray to God-on-High that you let me help you then.\"\n\nHe collects his bag, taking the warrant off of the table and ripping it in half. Turning over his shoulder, he waves his hand, sighing softly. \"Thank you for the coffee, Mr. Estep, but I'll be on my way. With spring coming around the corner, I'd be a fool to take up any more of your precious time preparing the crop. I'll be sure to pick up a bushel — *Basket? What have you* — when they're ripe this season.\"\n\nThe door closes behind him.\n\nThe way the house rings in his absence sounds too much like a funeral bell."
}
] | 672 | 7,963 |
344.666667 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She had a habit of not being able to stay away for too long; she was always poking around and prodding where she shouldn't be. Then again, doing this had always proved to be beneficial to her; God knows if she hadn't, she wouldn't be with Abel now, would she? Persistence was key, and she was always able to play the long game on it. \n\nThe same could be said about other people in her life. She could coax a smile out of Carina Templeton and could charm the hell out of just about anybody she came across. She knew it didn't take much with a guy like Lewis Ashworth, but it helped that she still had him wrapped around her little finger quite tight. Though they'd been broken up for a while now, he was still fond of her, and that was fine in her book. She liked Lewis still and all, despite some of his negative qualities; he could be pompous and rude at times, and they were both stubborn. It was why things hadn't worked out in the end - but as friends, she found that they could coexist quite nicely. They even could work together! \n\nAnd speaking of working... It was about time she got Lewis to take a look around the courier place. She'd given the place a sweep and a mop and a fresh coat of paint. She'd gotten Dallas Sinclair to patch up a few things for her, and hauled all the equipment into the basement for an extra couple bucks. This was *Perfect*. She could lead a \"Respectable\" Job for once, and keep on doing her shady shit under the table! A win-win! And having Lewis Ashworth on her team was a plus. He was a hard worker when it came down to it; and she was glad to have him. \n\nShe jumped up onto the man's porch and leaned there, debating on knocking before she just went ahead and popped the door open. It was unlocked, after all. \"Lewis!\" She called out. \"I know you're home!\""
},
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "As for Lewis, he was resting at home on his favorite couch after a job well done. The \"Fellowship of the Frog\", as he discovered, had a sequel under the curious name \"Joker\", and he was deeply engrossed in the chase scene between Detective Elk and some anonymous but undeniably evil individual, when he heard someone calling to him from outside the door.\n\nWell, he discovered after turning the corner, the sound was actually coming from inside, and Dimitra Florakis, the Devil herself, had gotten into his house again without permission. And she did not look surprised to see him at the slightest, despite the fact that Lewis faced her the same way he was: hair fuzzed up from laying on his back, barefoot and topless, fingers pinched between the pages of the book where his reading was interrupted.\n\nWith how Dimitra left his house last time, Lewis was worried he wouldn't see her again. The thought was uncomfortably worrisome, and drilled into his head with the intensity everything related to Dimitra always has. The woman had a gift to make everything she touched turn into something unforgettable. But now she was here, and oh my, did she look pleased. Why would he ever believe Dimitra could manage to stay away from him, again?\n\n\"You should stop showing up at my house that often, Dimitra,\" Lewis joked, voice sultry, as if compensating for all the days he wasn't sure if she would ever look in his direction again, \"People 'round the church might start getting their suspicions\".\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She had a knack for just doing as she pleased; she took pleasure in being unpredictable. She liked to keep people on their toes, always keep them guessing. Just seeing the look of surprise on Lewis' face was enough to delight her, seeing him caught so unawares. He was lounging as he always had; in a state of half undress, looking so casual and ruffled. To spring her presence on him so suddenly, to catch him like this, was enough to make her giggle just a little. How funny, to see him in his true form - lazily reading and without his usual composure. \n\n\"What fun is that?\" She asked him. \"Honestly, there's no fun if I just stop coming around, right? I always have to keep you guessing, Lew.\" She crossed her arms over her chest. \"What exactly do you think people at the church will be saying about me?\" She raised an eyebrow. Dimitra knew what he was implying - that perhaps she was running around behind Abel's back. It was a ridiculous notion; when she was single, she was a bit... Loose, perhaps. However, in her relationships, she was fiercely loyal!\n\n\"Get dressed,\" She said, leaning on the wall and observing him in his state of half undress. \"I have something to show you. You don't look busy, so no excuses.\" She clapped her hands together. \"Cmon, let's go!\""
}
] | 320 | 1,034 |
649.333333 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "l0st36",
"message": "**Characters featured**: *James Jennings* ("
},
{
"author": "James Jennings",
"message": "The day had been surprisingly sunny, only a few clouds occasionally blocking the sun as it tried to warm the snow laden ground. White snow and ice was now painted shades of orange and yellow as the sun started to set over the hills, bare trees casting long shadows amongst the forest's edge. James wished he could have enjoyed such wonderful weather more, having been stuck in the church all day meeting with people and even giving his first independent sermon. Abel had to be absent today which was both a relief and quite nerve wracking. Abel took his work extremely seriously and it was nice seeing his mentor take the time to look after both himself and the people he cared about since the previous full moon affected so many. However, this was the first time James did a sermon without Abel present and given how much their preaching styles differed he was honored to be trusted. He liked to think that he did a good job given how others reacted, having focused on the topic of forgiving both others and yourself through the lens of scripture. He knew many were struggling after it was revealed that Noah Rowe, the now deceased town sheriff, was a werewolf all along, so he felt like touching on such a topic would remind others to be kind to all in light of this development - including themselves. \n\nAnyways, James had just left work in the late afternoon and thankfully was still close enough to the church to go right back in and lay down on one of the benches in private when he felt some tensing and shifting in his neck and face, managing to get inside right as his head started to jerk to the side rather painfully. He laid there for a while until the pain died down and his muscles relaxed, trying to deduce why it happened. He was hungry and stressed about the sermon's reception, that was probably it. After he recovered he went straight to the diner for some food and rest before moving to the forest, looking to get some fresh air and maybe relax.\n\nHe wasn't dressed in a cassock or collar or anything, simply putting on a black button up shirt and pants without a tie. It took him a while this morning but his father was more than happy to help speed up the process, having attended himself in support but leaving right after the sermon itself was done to do some household chores. In fact, his brother Jesse, Jesse's wife, and young daughter had attended too, giving him praise which slightly soothed his concerns about how he did. They were family, sure, but he trusted them to be honest if there was a real issue.\n\nReaching the edge of the forest James began to grin, the view never failing to amaze him no matter the season. Dressed further in a worn brown sheep-lined coat and dark fingerless gloves James looked about, leaning mostly on one foot and two forearm crutches while he studied the horizon, his club foot being a bit too sore to lean on too heavily. In a beige messenger bag slung around his shoulder was a pouch once filled with snacks, a leatherbound journal filled with drawings, a well loved and annotated bible of his own, and a stick of charcoal wrapped up in cloth. He had intended to just sit and draw whatever he saw but something new caught his eye, a silhouette that was unmistakable. There was another person out here, their features mostly indiscernible from a distance but still an adult human, one with a thin build and long hair. Without hesitation James would approach, not knowing what or who he'd find but not caring too much. \n\nMetal crutches made of welded rods and an upcycled belt alongside a pair of brown boots crunched against the snow and dirt, James moving to the side in hopes that she'd see him from her peripherals first if he didn't hear him coming. \"Hey there!\" Was the first thing he said as he approached from the side, giving a wide smile that made his eyes squint for a moment.\n\n\"Um, sorry if I'm interrupting anything, I just noticed you as I was walking over here. Are you enjoying the view too?\" He'd ask with genuine curiosity, tilting his head for emphasis and not thinking to introduce himself until he asked the question, quickly adding onto his previous statement with an apologetic laugh. \"Oh! I'm James by the way, probably should've started with that.\" He was a bit unaware of any emptiness in the woman's eyes or what could be assumed from an otherwise disheveled appearance, at least not yet since he was more preoccupied with introductions than analyzing the details. Her face did look vaguely familiar, though."
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "The first sunny day in a while had been just the motivation Marianne needed to leave the house of her own volition for once. Though she'd been trying to get \"Out there\" A little more lately, the cold mornings and creeping darkness of the all-too-early evenings were an easy excuse to leave things until tomorrow - her shopping could often wait, and social outings weren't exactly her forte, she'd much rather be on the receiving end of guests so as to be able to shut the door in their faces should an unwanted visitor come to call. Still, it had seemed like the kind of day to reach out and grasp in both hands, and thus, she had found herself making her way home through the northernmost part of the woods, having taken a slight detour to make the most of the late-afternoon lingering light. \n\nThe undergrowth was thick out here, but she knew it well, the paths through the trees worn through decades of desire, of the townspeople's needs to get to and fro despite the trees and the brush. She'd walked them countless times, both in her youth and in more recent years gone by, and so long as she was home by dark there was little to worry about. She could have found her way home blinded and with hands tied at her back, had the need arose. It was about as peaceful as Briar Ridge could be, lately. Nobody came up this far unless they had reason to be here. \n\nDeep in her own thoughts - really, in her own world - she walked along the perimeter of the trees, mindful of the roots protruding from the dirt and twisting around one another. The hem of her dress caught on a particularly overgrown bush, and as she tugged it free and felt a rip, she sighed. Another to add to the seemingly never-ending pile of repairs to do, if she had a green thread to match and a needle to fix it with. Something to think about at home. There was always so much to think about. Sometimes, really, she wished she could make the thoughts stop.\n\nIn the end, it was a voice that pulled her from them. A man's voice, but not one she could immediately place, somewhat softer than any she thought she knew. She turned to him, an uncertain look upon her face as she tried to make out the figure, and skipped over another large root to make her way closer. No... A stranger for sure, a man walking with a pair of crutches, and though his face looked like one she might have known long ago, she couldn't place him nor remember his name. It seemed not to matter, though, for the next thing he did was introduce himself. James... James...\n\nShe was staring, rather rudely, and caught herself suddenly, cheeks flushing and a hand coming to cover her mouth. \"Good afternoon, sir. I apologise, I didn't see you until you called out. Marianne - I don't believe we've met, but it's a pleasure. I was making my way home - just a little further west from here. Did you need something?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "James Jennings",
"message": "James didn't think too much about her staring, assuming that it was either because of his crutches or that she was simply spacing out and analyzing the situation in her head. Sometimes James spaced out too so he could understand to a degree even if he only did it when around plants rather than people. It did give him time to get a good look at her too, his eyes sticking to her face and upper body. What he first noticed was the gauntness, the sharpness in her cheeks that were either genetic or due to far from healthy habits. Next he focused on her hair, kept down and the color of fallen leaves after a rainstorm. He didn't focus on it for long enough to note any tangles though, quickly moving to her eyes which appeared out of focus and were the color of a dreary day filled with fog and cloudy skies. She was probably in her own head so he was willing to wait, being quickly met by her coming back to earth to respond. He kept his smile intact even if it faltered with her sudden return and response since he too was caught kind of off guard by it. \n\nHis smile returned to it's previous state as she revealed her name - Marianne, vaguely familiar but not ringing enough bells to give any weight. \"You're fine, you were clearly focused on something so I don't blame you.\" He began with a tiny chuckle, hoping to put her at ease somewhat. \"I don't think I remember meeting you either but I always love seeing new people. Oh, and I don't need anything from you, just wanted to say hello and see what you were doing.\" James continued, pausing after those last few words to look around again and try and gauge where west was. His brother Jesse was always good at that and it was a running joke amongst the triplets as teens that the man had some carrier pigeon blood in him.\n\nGags aside he didn't focus on cardinal directions too long, not really having a need to since he wasn't going to her house anytime soon. \n\n\"I was initially coming out here to draw a bit but running into someone is also nice, especially after a long day. I won't force you to stay though since you were already heading home, I'd hate to keep you away from your house if that's where you'd rather be.\" James continued and finally stopped, wanting to preface that she wasn't obligated to stay and chat as much as he'd like to. He waited for some sort of confirmation that she would stay or leave, transitioning to leaning more on his good foot while he stood still, his back slouched forward a tad."
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "\"Only focused on what's inside of my own head, sir. Again, I'm so sorry I didn't notice you coming, I would have come down to you rather than have you come all the way up here. It's sure not the kindest path.\" Marianne smiled a little, making a slight gesture to the crutches James walked on. \"I'm in no hurry to be on my way, though I can't promise to be the best conversation you've had today.\" *Reach out and grasp the day in both hands*, she reminded herself, for any other time she'd much rather have made her quick exit and retreated home to her books and her phonograph. But no - she would stay. For all she knew, James could be a good man, a friend, and her life was sorely lacking in those as of late. \n\n\"It's awful cold to be out here only to draw,\" She continued, transferring her shopping bag from hand to hand and taking the opportunity to have a good look at James, the way he seemed to be looking at her. She could forgive herself for not recognising him, really. Besides the aids he used to walk, and the set of remarkably sharp cheekbones on his face, he didn't seem the type of man to stand out in a crowd, not that she'd been looking hard. Winter was a difficult time of year, one which brought with it memories she'd rather forget, and it led to spirals if she were to be too careless with herself. There was enough of a nightmare going on in the present without her making herself any more. \"You must be very good at your art. Or at least, very passionate about it. Is there something particular you were hoping to get a picture of?\"\n\nShe recognised him. \nShe couldn't place him, and that irritated her, but she racked her brain, thinking there must be something she was missing. A face in the past whose name had been lost to her. He should have been so distinctive, if she knew him, and yet, her youth felt so long ago she only pictured everything in filmy, sepia haze. \n\n\"Forgive me, James, but it'll drive me to insanity if I don't ask. Where might I know you from? You ring a bell or three... I wasn't raised here, but I visited often, it's unusual for me to forget. It's awful rude, I'm well aware. Only hope you'll grant me my curiosity.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "James Jennings",
"message": "James knew what she was gesturing to without even looking but he didn't mind. In fact, he was sort of glad she recognized that rougher or unkempt terrain could be more difficult for him. The only thing he offered was a smile and more reassurances, \"Again, you don't have to apologize. Forgive and forget, ya know?\" He said with a smile before Marianne continued, not paying much mind to her comment that she didn't believe she was the best at conversation. He could care less honestly, just a small chat no matter the quality was a nice way to clear his head. However, his smile faltered again as she continued and remarked that it was too cold to be outside simply to draw, James tilting his head and giving a small hum to express his confusion and that he disagreed. However, he could sort of understand what she meant if she didn't know he was already out and just stopping along the way to his house. He perked right back up and stopped thinking about her opinion of the weather once she started talking about his art directly, something buzzing and warm filling his chest and limbs. He always felt ecstatic to share his art with someone who wanted to see it. Her compliment added a sprinkle of red to his already reddened cheeks, James looking around for somewhere to sit before focusing on a log. \n\n\"Thank you! I'd like to think I'm good but it just depends on what you think good art is. My dad calls my art 'messy but in a good way'.\" James replied as he began making his way over to the log not too far from the main trail, leaning down slowly to sit.\n\n\"I just draw whatever I can find but I love birds and landscapes the most! I can show you some examples, just gimme a sec.\" He added once he got situated, holding a finger up to silently gesture for her to wait. He didn't really bother taking his forearm crutches off, being too excited to think of it and not knowing how long he'd be sitting. Slinging his messenger back over to his lap James started digging, swiftly taking out an old leatherbound journal with stray pieces of paper sticking out here and there. Removing the strap that held it together he started to flip through, looking for something that would most encapsulate his art. However, before he could really land on one Marianne's voice caught his attention, dragging his focus away from the journal and back towards her. \n\nJames didn't respond for a moment, pursing his lips and humming while he thought about where she might've seen him. \"Well... My dad makes and sells jams outside of our house so you could've saw me selling some jars of the stuff. I also was recently taken in by Abel to be a sort of apprentice or something since I want to be a pastor one day and I've been doing that for... Three years now? Something like that, I don't exactly remember. If you visited as a kid then maybe you saw me with my brothers. We all look alike and I had two crutches that went under my armpits for a while so I might've looked even more different then.\"\n\nJames kept trying to list off places Marianne might've spotted him but he doubted she saw him at the church itself. He liked to think that he could recognize most regular church-goers since he often greeted them and wished them a good day before and after service but he wouldn't be surprised if she slipped by. \n\nHe didn't focus much on her reaction, going right back to looking for a good drawing. Before long he finally found one, a charcoal drawing he made of his cat Pepper with dried flowers to replace her eyes alongside more pressed plants pasted around her to convey the idea that she was sitting in a field of some sort. \"Aha! Here, here's a good one.\" He exclaimed before turning the journal around to show her while pointing to the page with a free hand, the finger he used to point trembling ever so slightly. On the opposite page was some charcoal smudges from the drawing of Pepper but was otherwise completely blank."
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "The church.\n\nMarianne stiffened at the mere mention of the place. \n\nShe'd long ago discovered that the place, and Father Abel, and all his glorified book said about the Lord's work, were perhaps not things she had any reason left to believe in. \nIf there were a God up in a heaven on high, then He had forsaken Marianne Wilburn in 1919, stolen from her all that she held dear and everyone she had had to love. \nCountless nights had been spent looking up at the sky, and the stars, and the clouds that concealed what lay beyond from her eye, screaming demands to know, if He had been as benevolent and all-knowing as the pastor claimed He were, then why had He chosen to take them? What good had it done to leave her here alone, no longer a girl but not yet a woman in her own right, with no-one to guide her hand nor light her way? Had she done something to deserve the pain of not one loss, but three, all at once with neither warning nor apology?\nHad her ma, who'd never hurt a living creature as long as she lived? Pa, whose life's work had been dedicated to providing for his family and ensuring they never wanted for anything? \nAnd Julius, who had been sent to fight, to defend his country while barely old enough to hold a weapon, and who had come home with a bullet in his shoulder and still endless, heaping love in his heart... What had the Lord done for him?\n\nShe felt suddenly sick, and could only hope it didn't show on her face.\n\nJames was young. If he had only ever known Briar Ridge, there was a chance he had been sheltered from the evil that lay beyond its boundaries. Either he didn't know what his beloved church was capable of hiding, or he didn't care, and all Marianne could do was desperately hope it was the former. He had kind eyes and his words seemed genuine. But then, people were not always what they seemed. \n*Relax, Mari. Hold your tongue. You know nothing of him yet.*\n\nSo she bit her lip, and leaned in to look at the charcoal on the page he was showing to her - she couldn't deny her curiosity, bubbling under the surface of panic like a pot above the fireplace. \n\"Perhaps I did see you as a child. I grew up spending a good amount of time here. And I try not to forget a face, which is why it frustrates me so that I didn't recall yours. I'm sorry.\"\nThe drawing was a sweet one, a little cat surrounded by flowers, the shapes of the petals and leaves ones that she recognised but couldn't name in her unsettled state. They grew in her garden borders in spring, all shades of pinks and oranges. The bees liked them. She'd never uproot them. \n\"Oh, how lovely. What a sweetheart.\" She pressed her lips into something she could only hope was more a smile than a grimace. \"I'd cross a field to pet a cat any day of the week, no matter the weather nor the errands I had to run.\" \n\nStraightening up, she couldn't help but wonder.\n\"Did the pastor send you to find me?\"\n\nIt was no secret that she had scorned Father Abel years ago, when he came to the door to invite her back to the congregation following her hospitalisation. She'd never liked the man. It didn't seem too far-fetched that he might have sent a spy to try to rein her back in. \nThough James didn't strike her as much of a spy, it seemed best to know. \n\n\"And don't lie to me. Please.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "James Jennings",
"message": "James didn't notice her stiffen nor how her face contorted with discomfort, fear, and grief alike, at least not at first. It was only when she started to talk about his drawing that the pieces fell into place. He hardly had time to once again reassure her after another apology, his mind drifting to her reaction. It was very subtle, a consistent yet slight change to her tone after his exclamations coupled with some stiff expressions only giving James room to speculate. There were many reasons as to why she might've changed her demeanor which ranged from something he did wrong to something entirely out of anyone's control. It almost reminded him of disgust but not quite, the vague image of a similar expression on the face of an adult during his youth. Still, he tried keeping out of that memory and only focusing on other options as to why Marianne had shifted, but he wasn't super successful.\n\nHe remembered going with his dad to greet someone new in town, James making a drawing as a welcoming gift while his dad offered some raspberry jam on the house. When the newcomer answered the door there was joy and respect in their eyes right until they noticed James, the young boy holding up his drawing of the forest that he was actually quite proud of at the time. Suddenly their smile turned to a grimace, forced out of politeness while the rest of their body stiffened and eyes squinted. They hastily went back inside, thanking his father before closing the door on them both, not even seeming to consider taking the drawing. It wasn't common in all honesty, most of the residents in town having known James from birth up until that point while other children responded more with curiosity or hostility at worst rather than disgust. It was like the stranger believed him to be sick with some contagious disease and for a while James treated himself as such, too embarrassed to leave his house for a day or two until he regained his confidence.\n\nMarianne's expression wasn't exactly like that but similar enough to feel familiar, James' smile faltering and eyes shifting away as he worried that maybe it was him that made Marianne uncomfortable.\n\nThankfully, Marianne would speak up again, revealing why she was so uncomfortable all of a sudden. It had something to do with Father Abel, his mentor. It wasn't James as a person, just who he was affiliated with. In fact, her concern made little sense at first, James not knowing why Abel would seek others out who didn't believe until a few remarks acted like the glue to make the pieces stick. Abel often associated the sin of Briar Ridge with the werewolf attacks, something James definitely disagreed with since he saw it more as a condition rather than divine punishment. Sure, God could send down plagues, but as far as he was aware none of them ever made His children do the killing. Maybe she thought Father Abel was trying to convert her? Had he already tried?\n\nIn an instant James relaxed again, his smile returning but less bright and more geared towards showing compassion rather than joy. It took James a while to respond since he knew this moment might require some careful wording and gentle reassurance. Taking a deep breath in James began his statement, closing his journal along the way. \"First of all, no. Father Abel didn't send me to find you. Second, if he ever asked me to do something like that to convert someone I would wholeheartedly refuse. That just feels... Gross. Like, I want to be a pastor, not a missionary, and I just know that it would make anyone uncomfortable which is the last thing I want.\" James attempted to reassure, his voice quiet and hushed both due to nerves and wanting to be as comforting as possible.\n\nOnce he finished his initial statement James shifted gears and body a bit, placing his journal in his bag and gripping the strap of the bag nervously with both hands and even giving it the occasional fidgety twist.\n\n\"Um... I can't say I know what's happened or what you're thinking but... If it'll make you feel better I can just not talk about church stuff. I mean, you don't have to stay if me being associated with Abel makes you uncomfortable, I sure as hell know how intimidating and arrogant that man can be.\" James continued, leaving room for Marianne to make yet another decision based on her needs. As he spoke his eyes didn't really meet hers but once silence struck they returned to her, James offering a smile in hopes it would give her the courage to do what was best for her."
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "In all the time it took James to respond to her question, Marianne's heart was racing, and the thoughts in her head were doing much of the same. Was he quiet because he'd been rumbled, or was she over-analysing everything, as she was wont to do of late? She hadn't done anything to merit the attention of the pastor, nor his apprentice, beyond avoiding Sunday services at least, and she'd been doing that for years. She found no comfort in the church, nor the God who watched over it, and did not see that changing any time soon (or frankly, in her lifetime), so why would she spend her mornings in an uncomfortable pew allowing men who knew nothing of pain to preach over her head?\n\nJames was a good man. Though it took him some time to formulate an answer to the accusation, when he did speak again, it was reassuring. Comforting, almost, in a way that only men who were half still boys could be, words murmured in a tone not unlike the one Marianne reserved for young children, or injured wild animals, or the Gray family's sheep when she passed by their pasture. \nHe spoke so sincerely that she'd have been hard pressed not to believe the things he said. That not only had he not been sent by Abel or indeed, by the Lord himself, but if he had been asked to track her down he'd have rejected the challenge outright. \n*A pastor, not a missionary*.\n Marianne had met missionaries, as a young girl in Tennessee, and back then, she had listened to their stories and allowed them to pray over her.\n\nAnd it had done not a thing, in the grand scheme of it all. So much for their prayers, for their blessings and well-wishes and promises of fortune bestowed upon the family. A benevolent God would not have taken the things that Marianne had lost. \n\nShe found that James was waiting on her to speak, and though it did not come easily, he had said enough to merit at least some kind of response. She pressed her lips together, swallowed back against the fearful lump in her throat, and shook her head. \"I have no desire to leave just yet, sir.\"\n\nThat would do, until she could gather her wits back about her. \n\n\"Your... *Alliance* With the Father is... Unfortunate, we shall say. But I shan't allow it to be a barrier to a friendship. I've spent enough time these past few years alone, without dragging you into all the awful details. And I should like to know you, if my status as what Abel would no doubt call a heathen don't make you feel the need to turn tail and run.\"\nA smile, then, a genuine one. She was exaggerating, sure that even the pastor wouldn't go so far as to accuse her of heresy, not when her grandmother's crucifixes still decorated the old house inside and out. But it was a weak joke, one meant to lighten the mood that she had so unfortunately dragged down with her worrying. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "James Jennings",
"message": "The silence as Marianne digested his words was suffocating, causing his twisting grip on his bag's strap to grow tighter until she spoke. With her words came release, his hands stopping their fidgeting and his shoulders relaxing again. His smile, now completely natural, mirrored the one Marianne would soon flaunt. He still slouched but it wasn't fueled by fawning, only by habit. He couldn't agree more that him being the apprentice of Father Abel wasn't the most favorable or easy but he couldn't imagine anything else. In a way it gave him experience with different perspectives and ways of executing His word while also staying calm. Abel wasn't the most extreme but was a lot louder and more dominating when preaching, a stark contrast to James' preferred style and some of his interpretations.\n\nEven if Marianne was joking about her being a so-called heathen James couldn't help but take it a bit seriously, immediately rushing to reassure with a more light-hearted edge. Still, that didn't mean he couldn't laugh. \"Oh yeah, he's intense. Sometimes people expect me to be just like him when the only thing they've heard about me is my apprenticeship. Some people are disappointed but others tend to be relieved because, let's face it, he can be a bit too full of himself sometimes.\" James remarked with a small chuckle, actually being quite happy to complain a little bit about Abel.\n\n\"Like, he thinks he's so righteous and stuff... I do think that there's something deeper though, even if it doesn't excuse his behavior. Like, he sees doctrine as a rulebook I think, but why so strict? I feel like he's scared of the world but just won't admit it. I've found him asleep in his office before, just snoozing away at his desk. He probably wants to use his position or faith as a way to fight whatever he's afraid of or distract himself from something rather than facing the wider world.\" He continued, getting a little more contemplative and serious near the end than he would've liked. It was mostly speculation on his part but he'd never verbally expressed his queries to anyone before, hence why it all came tumbling out on a whim.\n\nAs soon as James noticed the more solemn tonal shift he tried to backpedal, not wanting to make this interaction any more sad or energy consuming than it already was. \"A-anyway, can I ask some questions about you? You said you live nearby. Do you have any pets or live with anyone? I've always wanted to live in a more wooded part of town but I don't think I'd enjoy it much if I had to take long journeys into town proper, I'm already sore as it is from standing during service today.\""
},
{
"author": "Marianne Wilburn",
"message": "\"I'm fair glad you're not like him, James,\" Marianne decided. \"It's all well and good being devoted to the faith as he is, and as I'm sure you are in your heart, but it's as you say - it doesn't excuse being hard-hearted about things. I don't find comfort in his speeches the way he insists one's supposed to and I fear at least half that is that I simply can't settle under his gaze. If I'm to be judged at the end of my life, I don't see what gives a mere man the right to judge me throughout it, too.\" She rolled her eyes a little, but was happy to have the conversation move on to brighter things, having no desire to dwell upon thoughts of Father Abel any longer.\n\n\"You ask all you want to,\" She assured, as James continued onward, naturally curious about her lifestyle and her home. She understood why - it wasn't as though she lived in the usual way, and many folks around town raised their eyebrows when it came to the way she went through life, alone in the big house up on the hillside. \"I'm happy to talk. I'm alone out here for the most part, I'm sure some folks still don't know that anyone lives in my home at all! I do so love to have visitors, but being off the beaten track as I am I don't get too many lately, particularly when the snow comes as it has this winter. The house was left to me in a rather grand will, crumbling as it was, but I've been doing all I can to keep it warm and habitable - I've been here a good number of years now, you see, so I've had plenty of time to work on it, though I'll admit I find much more joy in the garden than I do in things like roof repairs and brickwork.\" She laughed a little.\n\n\"No pets, unless you count the birds at the feeder. I often think of finding myself a dog in need of a home, but the world hasn't brought one to my doorstep just yet.. It *Does* Get quiet up here, and I like it that way for the most part. The journey don't seem so long when I've places to go on the way there and back.\"\n\nShe stopped suddenly, as he mentioned he was in pain, and she turned to him anew. \"Say, I don't suppose you'd like to come to see it? The house, and the garden. Feels like a shame to waste the comfort if you're not feeling so well, I'd be happy to stoke the fire and make you a warm drink - though of course if you're happier to stay out here I won't be rushing to leave you!\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "James Jennings",
"message": "As Marianne began talking about Father Abel all he could do was listen and nod along, actually agreeing with her every step of the way. He too didn't think it was man's job to judge people, merely help them while they're on earth and let God to the judging. Besides, he wouldn't be surprised if there were other things he is unaware of through scripture alone, such as translation errors leading to harmless things being declared sins in English versions or other sinful behaviors not making it into written word, a belief that sometimes caused disagreements between himself and other members of the church. Just like Marianne though he was happy to move on to a lighter topic, such frequent talk of religion being tiring even for a guy who was on the road to becoming a pastor.\n\nJames kept listening, occasionally reacting to certain statements with joy or sadness, but overall simply remained silent. He felt sort of sad that she lived alone in a house on top of a hill so far removed from the center of town, James not really knowing how he'd survive emotionally if he was completely separated without even a pet or neighbor to talk to. However, it seemed to be working out okay for Marianne if her surface level attitude was anything to go by. She looked a little all over the place, sure, but everyone had their problems, hers were just completely unknown to him besides some issues with Father Abel and the church at the moment. He did feel a surge of excitement whenever her garden was brought up though, James doing his best to not interrupt her as he held his tongue. He wanted to ask a billion follow up questions, such as what she grew there or what sorts of birds she saw coming to her feeder when it came time for her to mention that part.\n\nHis face probably gave his excitement away however, his already big eyes widening even further and smile expanding to an almost uncanny length.\n\nThe very moment Marianne shifted gears and invited James over he opened his mouth to speak, just about to accept on impulse before stopping himself. As enticing as it was he also realized that his father had no idea where he was going. Sure, his dad never worried too much when one of his brothers stayed the night at a friend's house without warning, but when it came to anything James did there was always more caution associated with it. How would his dad react to him not coming home at the expected time? James was an adult, he knew his father was aware of this and wasn't trying to be coddling, but at the same time he knew just how protective his dad could get. Would he go tearing up town looking for him, fearing he fell into the river knowing he couldn't swim? What about a wild animal? Then again, this could be a chance to prove to his dad once again that he could be independent, that he could be trusted to know his limits and be careful. After the werewolves started their rampage his dad was even more protective and fussy than usual, so maybe this could show him that he'd be fine? Yes, this would be a good thing, it was a win win! Besides, his dad would be fine, it wasn't like James would be gone for days at a time or miss important work if he stayed out later than usual.\n\nAfter a moment of silent contemplation James perked back up, having sunken back down and was quietly looking around as if he was analyzing some invisible chart in the air. In the end James regained his smile, one much more determined than before but just as overwhelmingly joyous. He had only spaced out for a second or two but it felt like an eternity on the inside, his voice breaking through every racing thought and scenario that flooded his head.\n\n\"You know what, I'd love to! Lead the way, friend-o!\" James exclaimed, swinging his messenger bag over so that it was resting against his side again before rising to his feet with the help of his crutches. From here James would faithfully follow wherever Marianne took him, albeit with a hefty amount of caution when it came to more overgrown sections of the path leading up towards her house. Moving up the hill left him exhausted and even more sore than before but at least he made it. At least he made it to a warm house with a promised hot drink and a place to truly rest his legs. At least he made a new friend today."
}
] | 632.5 | 7,792 |
417.166667 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "serah karim.",
"message": "A deer couldn't be cut down in time. It would spoil before going bad. Turkeys were out of the damn question — she didn't have a bow, and too many people have told her that turkey hunting with a rifle is a bad idea beyond cosmic proportion. So, rabbit it was. She felt bad for the poor things, really, but it was between her and Kama starving and the lives of some rabbits. You'll have to forgive her for her lack of care by the end of it.\n\nWith the game tied together via a rope, she tosses the spoils over her shoulder and exhales slowly; the breath she loses kisses the cool air with a *Hush,* But given that it was the turn of March, the equinox would bring in warm weather and — hopefully — better conditions for hunting. Huffing, she packs up the rest of her supplies into her brown rucksack, held on the shoulder opposing the small game. Sniffling, she shakes her head, looking around as she begins to make her way back.\n\nShe's a wanderer, first and foremost, and these desires of conquering her nightmares, now that they're here, take the forefront of her own mind. Swallowing, while Serah *Wants* To go back to Briar Ridge, she can't help but make her way more north, curious to see what is beyond the whisper of the forest that calls her name. (The dreams are so *Vivid,* Here, in that there are things in the water: hands, whispers, eyes, calls, teeth, burning—) \n\nSerah shakes her head. *Snap out of it.*\n\n_ _\nA blind man could tell that, since arriving in Briar Ridge, she hasn't gotten much sleep. The dark circles around her eyes are evidence enough of that. A metalworker and a mechanic by trade, Serah's occupation did not often keep her up at the forges and behind the house. (She needs to find a way to make some money soon; they can't keep feeding off of Dimitra's kindness like this. They'll need their own house, and Serah will need a place to set up shop... She cares little for the clientele. All dirty money gets cleaned when it's passed through a starving woman's hands.\n\nHer neck cracks from the left to the right. She steps on a branch.\n\nThere is something moving behind her. She hears it approach; she's been able to handle herself for years now. The game is dropped in a matter of seconds, the rifle pulled off of her shoulder, her hips turning, then her waist, then her shoulders, and *Then—* \n\nA person.\n\nShe is standing in front of a person, and they have just said something to her. She has her rifle pointed at another human being, and she is frozen in her expression, the fatigue of not sleeping (after dinner, she's going the fuck to bed) written across her features. Something primal inside of her knows this is no threat, for her finger isn't even on the trigger, yet she does not blink. It's like she's listening to this other person say something through cotton in her ears, and she wills herself to calm down, to breathe.\n\nShe says nothing, staring like a creature at the person before her. (Her head hurts. Fuck.) \"*What did you say to me?*\" She asks. Her voice is all too calm for it to be an accusation, yet her body language (read: *Her unwilingness to put down her rifle*) reads threatened, or better yet, a threat. \n\n*You need to be safe,* Says the survivor inside of her, and she doesn't budge. Not until the person in front of her repeats themself."
},
{
"author": "Hirano Akira (Ping Ye Qiu Liang )",
"message": "Nightmares, high fever, tremors. They said the human body could adapt to any situation no matter how dire, yet it took her about two weeks to be able to stand on her own feet without help. To say Akira was exhausted was an understatement, whatever illness took over her gave the woman some clarity despite the night horrors, she had time to reflect, to not fully give up. \n\nStill, she was far from being able to continue with her routine, she couldn't stay still. Stillness stressed her, it reminded her of woes that plagued this town and her life, the full moon would be looming over everyone's heads before they knew it. \n\nAki was lucky enough to live close to the forest, it felt like a friend she didn't speak to often, yet she was soothing and merciful. She thought of her grandma's stories whenever she ventured into it; it felt so close to her home in Japan. \n\nSpirits lived here, that was for sure, but what kind? Were they playful like the kodama? Or more sinister like the kappa and the werewolves from these lands? What about winter spirits? \n\nWell, winter spirits seemed to be hard to find as a new season rolled, but at least those kinds of tales kept Akira distracted from the bitter reality, her sickness and her weakness. That was, until she heard a sound.\n\n\"Huh? ...Hello?\"\n\nA person. There was a person nearby. Was it one of the Barcas? No, it couldn't be, this individual had a weapon in them, aiming at her.\n\nFor a split second, Akira had a memory. The image of a man firing a gun, right at her. Survival instincts kicked in and she lifted both hands up, with her thigh protesting in pain at the sudden movement. \n\n\"What did you say to me?\"\n\nAkira felt as if her legs would give out by the way she was shaking, she tried to keep her smile to appear as harmless as possible, like a scared pup that did something wrong yet didn't know what it was. She gulped, if the stranger really came with the intention to kill her, they would have shot her already. They demanded answers.\n\n\"Uhm... Uhm... Hello ...!\" The small woman stammered, trying to make eye contact with the hunter. \"I don't think I remember you..! Are you lost?\""
},
{
"author": "serah karim.",
"message": "*Be at peace,* The voice inside the back of her head, what's left of her common sense, coos at her. The woman before her is of not any threat, if the fear written across her face had anything to say about it. She doesn't say much, here, but she does ultimately handle her weapon with a practiced gait, setting it back on her back with a sigh.\n\n\"You scared me,\" She said, but there's no apology offered in response. Not... *Yet.* (One would come; it would just take Serah a little longer than most to realize that while Aki did startle her, she *Did* Just raise a weapon at an innocent passerby.) \"Lost... No, not lost... Just hunting.\" Here, her voice is soft, almost like she's asleep; lilting, gentle. She looks around, as if perhaps looking for something, but when she can't find it, she shakes her head.\n\n\"Sorry about all of that,\" She finally manages to say, readjusting the game hanging from her shoulder as a quiet little movement, as if she was commandeered by some unseen silver strings that demanded she move, else she lock up. \"I don't... Respond well to being startled. Are you alright? I must have given you quite the fright, here.\""
},
{
"author": "Hirano Akira (Ping Ye Qiu Liang )",
"message": "It had seemed that they both gave each other quite the startle. Akira understood that, visibly relaxing as the weapon was put away from her. \n\nWith the situation explained, now it made sense why the mysterious woman was out in the middle of the woods. \n\n\"O-oh, it's okay!\" She said, putting both hands down back into her pockets, glancing over Serah's equipment. \"Guns just startle me a little, ah... To make the story short, I'm not good with them, I had a couple of incidents and all that.\"\n\nOf course she was bad at them, how could she miss shooting at that werewolf back in October when it was about less than three feet away from her? How embarrassing. \n\n\"Ah, but where are my manners?\" Aki put a hand over her cheek, scratching the visibly scarf on that side of her face. \n\n\"I'm Akira Hirano. Nice to meet you, I don't remember seeing you in Briar Ridge before, are you new to town?\""
},
{
"author": "serah karim.",
"message": "\"Forgive me,\" Serah nods when Akira mentions that she doesn't handle guns well. It's holstered properly, the complement to the game hanging off of her back, and she nods. Serah's expression is that of a huntress, though as the rumors of Briar Ridge spread, people in-the-know and the local gossips would know that Serah was not a huntress by any means, instead serving as the town's metalworker and mechanic. Given, she hadn't had a lot of business - the impoverished don't own cars - but she's pleased that there are some people who are in need of her forging and her manipulating of the metals. It's a hard-earned art, in a way. (She thinks, perhaps, she might want to twist metal into something beautiful, one of these days.) \n\n\"Serah Karim,\" She introduces herself, a hand extended to shake the other's. Her accented voice was almost monotone, her eyes tired, and most things about her quiet and complacent. The damage to her brain had changed her fundamentally, and while she wasn't the most expressive, Akira might be able to see politeness or softness behind her deep, dark eyes. It's good to meet another face; she hasn't assimilated into Briar Ridge as easily as Kama has. \"Yes— I'm new. Dimitra helped me get here. I'm here with my sister... Looking to start over. I hear Briar Ridge isn't the most exciting town, all things considered, but I don't think I need exciting anymore. It's nice to be one with the world again.\"\n\n*Besides,* She wants to say, but she doesn't, *I'm looking for something. I'm looking for a good night's rest. It's been so long since I've had one.*\n\n\"I'm a mechanic by trade,\" She shrugs with one shoulder, \"But with business slow, I have to take care of my own meals by way of hunting. Everyone has to eat, right?\""
},
{
"author": "Hirano Akira (Ping Ye Qiu Liang )",
"message": "\"_Serah Karim_', Aki repeated the name in her head, rolling well in her tongue with ease. She extended her hand as well.\n\n\"A pleasure to meet you.\" The woman smiled at the other, tilting her head lightly to show her friendly and kind nature. \"Ahh I know Dimitra! She's quite a nice woman, loves to introduce others to town it seems.\"\n\nBriar Ridge, not exciting? Well that could had been true almost a year ago. But nowadays, the town was at war within itself as the wolf-men kept ravaging the whole place every full. From the looks of it, Serah had no knowledge of this. \n\nAkira felt uncomfortable by that fact, as she wasted no time to give herself the task of informing this new comer about everything. She needed to know. \n\n\"With a town as small as this... I can understand that starting out is hard. I'm not from the area either, but I can confirm that everybody here looks out for each other. I'll tell you what\" The woman said, seeing in Serah a bit of herself when she first moved to Briar Ridge with her father, with nothing to their names but their bags and suitcases.\n\n\"...If you need any food on your table, me and my pa can offer you some vegetables and eggs we got from our garden. We also stock rice and I think there's still meat in our ice box.\" Akira put a hand over her scarred cheek as she focused. \n\n\"You don't have to pay us anything, like I said... Everyone is welcomed here, we look for each other.\""
}
] | 376 | 2,503 |
597.352941 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Lily Brooks",
"message": "Lily Brooks was lost. _Shit._ She'd been told in order to get to the eastern roads, you needed to head north until you came across a bridge. Lily had not yet stumbled upon a bridge. What she had stumbled upon was a dense forest paired with a rapidly setting sun. The thief-turned-shine-runner had wanted to walk the path towards the bridge, just to familiarize herself with it properly. She now realized that might have been a slight mistake. They'd been an expert at navigating city streets and alleys, at weaving through crowds and slipping into darkened corners. The map of the neighborhoods she frequented had been etched into her mind, they'd known the streets in and out, and could navigate them almost blindly. This was new, this was different. Lily wasn't used to forests, they didn't know how easy it was for the woods to swallow you up. The sounds the woods made had set her on edge, the revolver she carried on her person was now held firmly in her hand. She didn't know that there were things out here that she ought to be a lot more than just 'on edge' about. The call of a crow made her jump, and she cursed under her breath that a bird got that reaction out of her. \"Just retrace your steps Lily...\" They mumbled under her breath. She took a few more steps in what they thought was the right direction when the sound of a snapping branch made her head jerk up.\n\n\"Who's there?\"\n\nHer voice rang out between the trees.\n\n\"I'm armed and I'm not afraid to shoot.\"\n\nThey may not be afraid to shoot, but they did feel fear, something about this place felt _wrong._"
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "Ruth was not the source of a sudden sound.\n\nBut for a moment, she almost believed she was.\n\nIt all started earlier in the evening. The afternoon cup of coffee did its job a little too well, and Ruth felt particularly energized. Prone to nightmares, she could not go to bed without being sure she was sufficiently exhausted. Sometimes it entailed a light jog, or maybe even a walk in the woods surrounding her house. And sometimes, - just like today, - Ruth aimed at killing a deer.\n\nDragging a deer's body to her house, or at least close enough where she could unmistakenly find it the next morning, was a task so draining she risked falling asleep on an old couch in her kitchen, unable to make it to the bed. Either that – or she would run around, keenly following every small noise, until she was tired enough. She was not in dire need of a good-resulting hunt; and generally, deer were never a great part of the Briag Ridge citizens' diet. She just needed something to do.\n\nRuth threw a sheepskin coat over her shoulders, grabbed Mary from her assigned hook, and drowned in the silk night darkness, like a pebble thrown in the middle of the deep pond.\n\nShe followed her instincts, then – the light triangle of a certain someone's tail, until the terrain got too difficult, and Ruth got too heavy and too slow and lost the sight of a light creature. Ruth stopped and brushed damp curly hair from her forehead. A quick look around, - and the abundance of moss on the bottom of the tree trunks hinted at her being in the northern part of the forest. She took a deep breath. Northern woods weren't her domain: there was little food running around and many opportunities to break a leg by falling through an invisible bump or hole. However, she *Has* Been there before. She knew how to navigate by the stars – a little. She would get out in time.\n\nAnd then, after walking for some time, the ground under her feet gradually flattening out, she heard something again. \n\nA person. She needed to squint her eyes to make sure, stopped in her tracks, her body immediately taking the hunter's stance without the need for realization. Human. The knob of hair, the rustle of clothes. Quick, shallow breaths. \n\nThe heart got stuck in Ruth's throat. She was dressed in all black, but there was nothing that could mask a movement in the forest from the deep senses of an old hunter. Seeing a person in the woods at night would be a curious circumstance, but in the northern part? Impossible. Impossible, and yet, here they were.\n\nNobody *Lived* In the northern woods. *Walking* In there was enough of an effort. The only one who tried was Sheriff Guerrero, famous for his hostility to unexpected visitors. Everyone in the Briar Ridge knew what *He* Looked like, and that figure certainly wasn't him.\n\nSo, without making as much as a sound, Ruth turned around and followed the figure through the woods.\n\nRuth was not a thinker, nor she was a considerer. She did not ponder upon what a young supposedly woman could be doing in the woods at this time of night. Nor did she make any theories. She just followed her wherever she went, staying in the shadows, quiet, stopping when she stopped, far away enough that when the person turned her head around, taking her surroundings in, Ruth stayed invisible. For a second, she considered, judging by her movement, the uncertainty and repetitions of their path, that the girl was lost; but quickly refused that idea. Nobody was *Lost* In the northern woods at night. Not dressed like this, and certainly not empty-handed.\n\nWhich is why, when the twig snapped, Ruth thought she had been found out.\n\nThe girl jerked alert, but their eyes, wide and white in the darkness, looked in a different direction. About sixty degrees from when Ruth was hiding.\n\nNot far enough. From both where she was looking and where the sound happened. And, whatever the girl was searching for in the bowels of the woods dressed like a gothic gentleman, was certainly not a rabbit. And so, Ruth stood completely, utterly still; her hands slowly, very slowly finding their way to their usual grip on her gun.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Lily Brooks",
"message": "She should have brought a lantern. The shapes cast by the setting sun and low light of the moon looked ominous. Lily, dressed in all black wearing trousers as she often did on trips that didn't require her to look particularly feminine but did require stealth, could have blended into the night if it hadn't been for her nerves. They'd done it before, tucked themselves neatly into a pocket of darkness right out of sight. They had excellent control and awareness of where her body was, a by-product of her dancing days that normally aided her in placing limbs exactly where she wanted them. \n\nRight now, she was stumbling, and Lily didn't normally stumble. Lily wasn't supposed to feel fear, she was stronger than fear, fear was for weaklings and she wasn't one of those. They'd escaped from the law, committed countless crimes, and gotten away with them too. But this wasn't New York City, the dangers here were new and unfamiliar. \n\n\"If you think you're being funny, let it be known you're not!\" \n\nThey didn't know Ruth had spotted them. They thought someone was out there, some unknown onlooker, sure. But the thought of a hunter trailing her did not cross her mind. Nor did she know that these parts of the woods were not supposed to be hers to traverse. Why anyone else would be out here at the current hour was beyond Lily. She had not expected to run into anyone. Was it another shine runner? Would that mean trouble for her? She didn't have any product on her right now, she could deny involvement at least. This was supposed to be a quick lay-of-the-land type ordeal. It was never supposed to last this long.\n\n\"I know you're there, you stomped on a branch, you might as well show your face so we can settle this like grown adults instead of playing hide-and-go-seek!\"\n\nHer words may have been confident but her voice wasn't. Hints of fear were slipping between the syllables as she called out into the darkening woods."
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "The person's screams had an effect, as two figures stepped forward from the tree line. And as soon as Ruth was able to catch the barest glimpse of them, her breath got stuck in her throat.\n\nThe figures were dressed in an old manner, a man and a woman, all of which Ruth could only assume, because the figures were only a silhouette, a shadow, if a shadow could stand up straight. Everything inside the silhouettes was darkness, darker than the night itself, so dark that no light could touch them. Around them, the milky gleam of the moon just... Stopped.\n\nOne of the creatures made a crackling noise again. *They did not step on anything.* The sounds came, as it seemed, from somewhere inside their body, radiating from them like their ominous aura, like a watery splash of ink. They smelled like deep disturbed soil.\n\nRuth could not move a single muscle. \n\nThere was nothing good in the woods at night. And yet, she wished it was a hungry wolf, a wild boar, or even, - and at that moment she truly believed it, - a Non-Deer. A creature like that could be shot, could be scared off. Ruth could attempt to do that while still staying unnoticed, in the shadows. It would be hard, yes, but doable. \n\nYet, this time, the only way to save the woman was to make her keep quiet. This did not allow Ruth invisibility.\n\nRuth did not know much about ghosts. Yet she did not doubt that shooting them would be the same as trying to shoot the moon. And scaring them? They were too human and knew too well what they wanted to be scared.\n\nIt was easy to ignore them, usually: they did not approach if not given attention. She had a proper encounter with a haunt only once: it was a particularly vile-looking creature. She had horrible migraines and dreadful visions all week, which only stopped when she crossed the threshold of the Briar Ridge church. She could not, in good conscience, wish it upon anyone. Could not let the spirits attach themselves to the woman. Follow her into her house. Watch her from under the cracks in the floorboards, from the periphery of her vision, from behind the slightly open doors. Inside of the mirrors. Drive her insane. The ghosts missed the world of the living, their world, and clung to any chance to come back here, any hint. Any accidental look. Any words, screamed at them out of fear, in the dead of night.\n\n \n\"Stop!\" Ruth called out, despite herself, not moving a muscle outside of her desperate, careless mouth, \"Don't look at them!\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Lily Brooks",
"message": "There it was again, the sound of a twig breaking, it was closer this time. _Something was coming up behind her._ It was something that didn't care about stealth, that didn't care if it was heard. It was something that didn't _need_ the element of surprise, it knew these woods and its own strength so well that it could afford to approach its prey while loudly proclaiming its presence. Few things scared Lily more than an enemy who knew it had the upper hand to such an extent that it could get away with a slow approach when its cover had already been blown.\n\nLily could feel eyes on them, a chill ran along their spine and the hair on their arms stood up. Something deep inside her knew that something was horribly wrong, that the eyes staring at her weren't natural.\n\nA voice called out to her, telling them to stop, to not look at whatever _'them'_ was. The voice was too late, Lily had already spun on her heels, revolver arm outstretched, finger on the trigger. Two shapes stood in the moonlight, the only light visible in them was where their eyes should have been. These weren't eyes that _should_ be seeing, these were eyes that weren't alive. Lily shouldn't have looked, they realized their mistake the moment they had made it. The shapes swallowed whatever light there was around them, they weren't just dark, they were the very absence of light. Lily pulled the trigger, and the sound of a bullet fired echoed through the woods. It did **Nothing**. Their bullet embedded itself in a tree behind the shapes. Shapes that had started moving again. Lily stumbled backward.\n\n\"S-Stay back!\"\n\nLily turned back to where the voice had called out to her and saw a woman there, armed with a much more fierce-looking firearm. She feared that the rifle would have about as much effect on these _things_ as her bullet had had.\n\n\"What the fuck are those things?!\"\n\nHer heart was beating so loudly, they were sure the woman would be able to hear it. She'd been afraid of people, or boars, bears, wolves, but she had not known to be afraid of ghosts. Lily didn't believe in ghosts, the Holy Spirit had rejected her, the only power Lily cared about was her own, nothing Higher was out there looking out for her. Ghosts, spirits, angels, demons, they weren't real, they _couldn't_ be real. And yet, these things were undeniably so...\n\n|| whoopsie"
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "*She shot them*. Ruth's breath was like a heavy lump of wax in her throat. Of course, they did. Fierce and unbending, demanding their explanations from the whole world, of course, they would shoot the figures. A waste of a good bullet, if you ask Ruth. \n\nOn the other hand, nobody acted smart when they met a ghost.\n\nAnd then, the person turned on their heels and saw Ruth. Their gaze grabbed onto her immediately, as if she knew what to look for. Undeniably, Ruth's voice matched her looks.\n\nFor a long couple of seconds, Ruth stood still under a firm, panicked gaze, strong as a headlight. A stranger's gaze fell on her weapon fist: without fear, but with another emotion Ruth could not decipher. She did not raise her weapon that time. Maybe, she thought that Ruth was also a phantom, a spawn of the forest; that her body would swallow the bullet like the water of a murky lake.\n\nThe knowledge vibrated on Ruth's tongue. She could've told the woman everything she knew, reassured her that the phantoms weren't as dangerous, if you kept your head low and led casual conversations, and pretended not to notice them, pretended *Well enough*. She could've admitted that yes, now she got them into a bit of a pickle, but the ghost could always get bored, could always find a better subject, they could always escape the zone of the phantoms' interest. She could try to explain what they were and what they wanted, but she also saw the needy hunger with which the figures reached closer to the woman after her question. *Talk about us. Wonder about us. Be afraid of us.*\n\nRuth extended her hand to the person, attempting to make her pick a side as quickly as possible. She had no hope of looking friendly or welcoming, here, in between the trees, up to her knees covered in sticky dirt, but she wanted to look like a better option between herself and the ghosts.\n\n\"Come here, please. I will gladly explain everything... Later.\"\n\nRuth tried her best to keep eye contact with the person, - she remembered that this small gesture usually helped establish trust. But even without looking at the ghostly figures, she could see that they did not enjoy her \"Later\". As much as the figures savored being menacing, their patience was thinning out.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Lily Brooks",
"message": "Hazel eyes shot back over her shoulder again, the shadowy forms had gotten closer. It was either face them or grab the hand of a complete stranger. A well-armed stranger. Neither option felt very pleasant to Lily, but one of them was decidedly less terrifying than the other. What choice did she really have? Whatever those things were, they weren't friendly. All the hairs on her body stood on end when one of them made that sound again, like a branch caught underfoot. Lily briefly wondered if it was wood snapping, or _bone_.\n\nIn that moment she felt like the scared child she had once been, roughly grabbed and being yelled at by a nun. A child who was taught that evil spirits did exist, that possession was real, that the Devil could send demons just as the Lord could send angels. _Be not afraid._ Lily was terrified. The God she got to know was an angry God, a God who punished those who had wronged Him, who sent signs to those who had acted against Him. And Lily had done nothing but sin since she left that orphanage. She didn't pray then, God wouldn't safe her, if He could have saved her, He'd have done so years ago. No, it was only one's fellow men that you could count on, even in the face of something decidedly not human. God wouldn't help Lily, not in these woods, why would He?\n\nShe lunged forward, grabbing hold of the hand as if it were a lifeline. In a way, it was. Whoever this woman was, chances were that she was less stupid than Lily had been, that she might know a way out of this haunted patch of woods. _Help me, **Please**_ said her hand as she reached for Ruth's. The shapes were only a few feet away from them now. They seemed hungry, as if Lily's fear was feeding something horrid inside them.\n\n\"What do we do? I got lost, I don't know where we are or how we get out.\"\n\nHer voice shook with fear.\n\nExplanations could wait, she just wanted to get away from the haints, that was the only thing that mattered to her. They hadn't been warned about ghosts when she agreed to start running shine, she didn't get paid enough to deal with spirits. There was no payment in the world that would make her willingly do this again. From here on out, if she made it out of these godforsaken woods alive, shine would be transported using an automobile only. Like hell was she going into the woods at night ever again. _Just get me outta here!_"
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "The stranger's long fingers grabbed onto Ruth's open palm like it was the last straw over the depth of the swirling river, and for a string of very long seconds, Ruth forgot how to breathe. Something happened in her brain that was akin to a very close, enormous lighting strike, leaving her blinded, with her heart fallen to her feet. \n\nRuth could only thank the instinct for making her move. Her feet stepped away from the ghosts, one after the other, her hand tightly grasped the smaller one, and then suddenly she was running, running away from the haunts as fast as her legs could carry her. The pull in her arm tensed up: the woman was evidently not ready for an increase in pace. Ruth could only hope the person would let her know if, - or, more likely, when, - the running would become too much.\n\nAn inhuman scream cut through the air, making the grass shake under their feet.\n\n\"Look for water,\" She whispered loudly enough, because she couldn't stop herself from whispering, barely meeting the other's person panicked eyes before averting her gaze, \"And don't look back\".\n\nWith that, Ruth tried to focus on leading the way. She needed to orient herself, and fast, before she accidentally steered them deeper into the woods.\n\nWhere could they be? She knew that not so long ago, she was in the northern woods, famous for its countless little rivers, including the big bubbling creak; but the thought of returning there woke up the nagging pain in her worn-out legs. Heading north would, without question, slow them down. Or, they could try to head south, where they would be greeted either by the Powell river, - a death sentence, - or the town, where her house should be the first to jump out at them from the darkness, a save heaven from the creatures of the night. From there, it wouldn't take long to cover the mirrors and light a candle under the small image of Jesus Christ she diligently kept in the corner. The problem was, she had little idea of the direction of the south. The ghosts seemed to be emanating this grainy sort of aura that made it very hard to see; she could barely distinguish the tree trunks to stop her and her unwitting companion from ungracefully bumping into one of them. And the sky suddenly looked exceptionally cloudy: no stars to read the direction, no moon to light up their way.\n\nAt times like these, there was only one Ruth could turn to.\n\n\"Jesus, Lord and Savior, show me the way,\" Ruth prayed under her breath, \"Lead us to safety, protect us, Lord, save us from the haunts, Amen.\" Her breath grew short, strained from the running, \"Amen\".\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Lily Brooks",
"message": "Ruth's hand became something akin to a lifeline for Lily, who would not be letting go until both of them were somewhere resembling safety, or if they were wrenched from each other before then. The woman pulled her along, Lily hadn't been prepared to start sprinting but her legs quickly caught onto the motion, aligning themselves with the fear in her mind. _Don't look back._ This time, Lily did listen. She fought the instinct to look over her shoulder, to see what had made that terrifying sound, and to see if the spirits were gaining on them. They could almost feel them grabbing hold of her legs, dragging her back, deeper into the pitch-black void that made up their form. She had to look forward, had to keep going. One foot after the other in rapid succession. She could run, she'd been doing so for years. She ran from that orphanage, ran from her past, ran from Ada, ran from countless laws, escaped numerous convictions, and ran from the dead bodies she'd created in her last successful attempt at fleeing. But she had never run quite like how she was now.\n\nThe woods seemed darker somehow, like the dim of the ghosts was spreading, tendrils wrapping themselves around what little sources of light remained above them. The moon and stars had hidden themselves behind a blanket of clouds. Lily could hear Ruth pray, and they had half a mind to join her in that familiar prayer. Prayer had never brought Lily comfort, but she was willing to give it another shot if it meant escape from the ghosts that chased them now. They didn't know if it was the Lord who had guided them, or dumb luck but Lily spotted what Ruth had told them to look for, the glint of moonlight reflecting on the surface of water.\n_ _\n\n\"There!\" They called out. \"There, water!\" Whether it was brook or puddle, Lily did not know, but they started pulling Ruth along with them to that hopeful glittering sight. They kept their eyes trained on its location, veering off to the right. She didn't know what good water was going to do them, but she had to trust this stranger. She was all Lily had. The shimmer disappeared again as another cloud slid to cover the moon, but Lily had locked on to the location. They were so focused on keeping their eyes on it that they completely missed the exposed root, only when her foot got caught in it did she notice its presence. The shine runner was sent crashing to the ground, landing hard. They let out a frustrated sound, followed by one of pain as she felt the telltale signs of a sprained ankle upon freeing herself from Mother Nature's tripwire. \"Fuck!\" They had to keep going, the water was so close.\n\n|| Let the record show I rolled for Lily tripping and it was a big fat 5 on the D20 lmao"
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "Jesus led their way.\n\nRuth never doubted in her heart Jesus would help her; and yet, hearing the stranger call out \"Water!\", Ruth felt the warmth of reassurance and safety spread to the limbs from her heart. Now, she could see it as well: the turbid faltering glimmer of the water's surface, just to the right of them. It didn't seem to be very wide or deep, but Ruth knew how deceptive the darkness could be, easily hiding the parts of the objects that would be so obvious during the daytime. Yet, this river was their main choice.\n\nThe other one was to keep running. But Ruth could feel her breath getting heavy: she wasn't the best runner around these woods. Her gun and the quietness of her step usually saved her the effort. Not today, though. Today was different in all the sudden ways.\n\nThe slightest tug of the stranger's hand was enough to make Ruth set course to the right. And yet, did she let go for a second? Did the person's leg get trapped in the entangled grass, did they slip on the mud or the wet rocks, or did the muscles betray them, suddenly realizing what they had gone through? Attempting to stop her from falling, Ruth blindly grasped her hand in their direction; yet the reflexes, unused to taking care of something so close to her, accidentally pushed the person off, accelerating her descent to the ground. Ruth had only hoped the stranger did not notice that.\n\nFrom a short, hurt yelp, it was obvious that the fall was far from painless. Looking at the woman struggling to stand up, carefully touching her ankle, Ruth realized that the fall was not harmless either.\n\nWith her breath rapid, Ruth looked around quickly. There wasn't much time to think. She couldn't hear the ghosts anymore, but it was hard to imagine it meaning anything good.\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" She muttered, bent down, and scooped the person in her arms.\n\nThey weren't a featherweight, yet Ruth, used to carrying the bags full of animal carcasses, lifted her with ease. She focused on holding her carefully and sacrificed the speed of her step for accuracy, every foot planted firmly on the slope down to the water. When she reached the bottom, the fresh smell of cold forest water imbued the air; and it seemed like Ruth's head became lighter. She took a careful step into the water: the creek was shallow, barely reaching up to half of Ruth's thigh.\n\nShe was unsure what counted for crossing the water, so she carefully dipped the stranger in water like one would dip a piece of bread into the herbal oil, sitting down on one knee to thoroughly soak at least the lower part of her as well. She hoped the person wouldn't hold a grudge against her for that. She carried them out of the water, up the slope again (fortunately, it was shorter on the other side), and placed them with utmost care with their back against the tree. Only after, she took a sit nearby; hopefully, far enough to not make the woman feel uncomfortable or threatened. Ruth felt so out of breath her brain refused to conjure up her trusty list of social cues.\n\nThe heavy heartbeat in her ears did not stop Ruth from intently listening for any signs that the danger was still hanging on their tail. But deep inside, she had already realized that it was over. It was as if some extraneous noise, to which her ears got so used they failed to perceive it, suddenly stopped, and a sweet onset of silence gently stroked her ears.\n\nRuth was finally able to breathe with her full chest.\n\n\"How are you?\" She asked the woman by her side, squinting her eyes at them.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Lily Brooks",
"message": "If Lily had not known any better, they would believe that the stranger had just shoved her to the ground, adding insult to her injured ankle. Their revolver had tumbled out of their hand and Lily had just enough time to grab it and shove it into the somewhat tight-fitting garment below their shirt before Ruth acted. She thanked her younger self, the one of a few hours ago, for not lacing it up as tight as they did when she wanted to look more man than woman. If the situation had been different, the thief might have joked about Ruth needing to buy her dinner first. There she was, scooped into the strong arms of a woman she had only just met. Normally this would be cause for celebration, a victory even, but this wasn't normal, none of this was normal. Nevertheless, Lily swung her arms around Ruth's shoulders, distributing their weight between her arms and the rest of her body, the motion felt familiar. It was a move she'd executed countless times while dancing with her previous partner, it had almost become instinctual. It was a habit from her previous life now performed in her new one, the stage shifted from a New York City speakeasy to the Appalachian woods, and the two could not be more different.\n_ _\n\nRuth was carrying her towards the creek, that much she expected. What they had not expected, however, was for Ruth to kneel down unannounced and lower Lily into the cold water. \"Hey, _hey!_\" She exclaimed and tried to climb higher into Ruth's arms or squirm out of them altogether. Lily was not a fan of water, she hated few things more than the feeling of wet clothes clinging to her skin. They couldn't even swim properly, her drive to be free from the stranger's arms was now in direct conflict with her drive to not drown in the frigid water seeping into her clothes and rippling below and around the both of them. \"What are you doing?\" Lily had no clue how deep the water was or how far Ruth was going to submerge her. The motion reminded her a little too much of a baptism, and it would take much more than a shallow creek to wash Lily from her many sins. Just as Lily was about to push away from Ruth, the woman stood up again, moving out of the water and crossing the stream. \n\nThe stranger placed her down with near-reverence, before sitting down a few feet away. Lily tried to get up before regretting that choice as her ankle throbbed once more. _Well, shit._ The ghosts were nowhere to be seen or heard. Something in the air had shifted, the feeling of dread was slowly ebbing away, it was as if the river had carried some of Lily's panic downstream. The eerie darkness had lifted and for the first time Lily got a good look at her rescuer. She was tall, with a stern face and a body that indicated she was used to heavy lifting. \n\nHow was she? Exhausted, shocked, wet, cold, still lost and much more scared than she'd like to be. Questions swirled in her mind: What were those things? Why were you out there at night? Why did you just dip me into a creek? How did you know to do that? Are you sure they're gone? Why were they there to begin with? \n_ _\n\n\"Who are you? Why did you help me?\" \n\nLily may have tried to sound braver than she was, but fear was still evident in their body language and voice. She did not feel comfortable sitting on the forest floor, unable to run should those things return again, but she needed answers and now seemed to be the time to get those.\n\nAltruism was a foreign concept to Lily. Ruth could have just as easily left them for the haints and saved herself. But she hadn't. Instead, she broke her cover and carried Lily to safety. Why? What was there to gain from helping a lost stranger, what did Ruth see that Lily did not?"
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "The question made Ruth's eyes open wider. She wasn't sure if the strong shiver in the stranger's body was evoked by the cold, the fear, or something else entirely. But why would a person who fears her wrap their hands around her neck as tightly as the woman did when Ruth lifted her up? The movement was so smooth it felt rehearsed, theatrical. Right then, for a moment, Ruth felt her cheeks warm up.\n\nOf course, she couldn't forget the second part either. The woman bucking and splashing in her hands, begging to let her go. A procedure like this would get anyone shaken up for the rest of the night. Of course, Ruth didn't mean no harm; but how could the person know this? In a town where the monsters roamed the streets every month, with no cure but a silver bullet straight to the head, there could've been worse saving rituals.\n\nSpeaking of the woman. Now, that they had more time, and she didn't need to avert her gaze in case the person would sense it and turn around, Ruth could properly make her out. Soft face but a lean rangy body, somewhat boyish in its silhouette. Eyes huge and wide, standing out on her face like silver fishes in a night pond. The kind of beauty that would be valuable outside of Briar Ridge. Inside of it, however, all that anyone could do was look.\n\nAnd speaking of the werewolves. Why would a person this graceful be in the northern forest, this late in the evening, completely alone? There was either some unbelievable scenario at play, which happened in Briar Ridge more often than she would've imagined, or – this wasn't a person at all.\n\nOf course, they didn't look like one; but, as Ruth had properly gathered out of the conversations of her cagemates, they never did. The most timid, quiet, kind-hearted soul would be clanging their teeth and dripping saliva as soon as the full moon would show its radiant side. These things didn't die when the bullets hit them one after the other, so why would the water be of any harm? A cold and shivering werewolf was a werewolf still.\n\n\"I never meant to drown you.\" Ruth still felt the need to apologize, to reassure, \"I'm Ruth. Hunter. I'm from the Coalition, too.\" She added, in case this would make the werewolf (if it was a werewolf) give up their slimy ways, \"If you saw traps on the way here, these are mine\". \n\nHer voice got fuller for a second, letting a teaspoon of pride seep in. She was always proud of her work.\n\n\"Don't see many people in this neck of the woods.\" Ruth rocked her head lightly, eyes still fixated on the stranger's face, looking for any signs of fleeing, \"North ain't a place for moonlight strolls. Now, why are *You* Here?\"\n\n\"And what's your name?\" Ruth added, albeit clumsily. Now would certainly be the time to learn their name. Better late - and having survived the chase with the haunts, - rather than never.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Lily Brooks",
"message": "The conversation had shifted more towards interrogation than pleasantries. Lily felt all too much like a cornered animal. They might not have seen any traps on their journey, but with their ankle messed up, she may as well have stepped into one. How could she have been so foolish? Letting her guard down around a stranger the way she had, Lily was getting soft, Briar Ridge was ever so slowly tearing down her walls. She liked the feeling of trusting people, she'd started to enjoy, _truly_ enjoy friendships and a small spark of hope had ignited within her. A spark that told her maybe she could be safe here, maybe she didn't constantly need to look over her shoulders, maybe people here wouldn't inevitably stab her in the back. Lily had let her guard down, and now she'd pay the price. \n\nEyes darted away from Ruth, looking for any signs those ghosts would return. Ruth's tone was friendly, but cops could sound friendly too, right before they got your supposed allies to betray you. Lily couldn't deal with not being able to run, they needed to have an exit at every moment. The first thing the thief did when she entered a room was look for exits, look for ways out, look for places to flee. It was an instinct she held onto even now that there wasn't anyone left to chase her. There was no place to flee here, not with Ruth so close to her, not when her foot was injured in a way that would slow her down significantly and certainly not when the threat was a hunter who had no doubt been in these woods for years. She was trapped.\n_ _\n\n\"Lily,\" She said, starting with the easy part. As to why she was here, she'd gotten lost, that was the honest truth, but the smuggler thought that Ruth would probably not deem that an acceptable answer. She gently moved her ankle, suppressing a pained hiss but unable to hide the grimace on her face. Definitely not fit for running around in the woods. Lily had heard someone mention the Coalition, supposedly they were anti-werewolf. She could understand why a hunter would make a good addition to the group. Lily herself wasn't very impressed by these so-called wolfmen. They'd left her alone for her entire stay. They knew that they existed and that they were supposedly get dangerous, but from where Lily stood, they weren't that big a deal. Powerful, that they were, and Lily was drawn to power in any form.\n\n\"I didn't see any traps,\" She admitted. \"I got lost, I promise you that's the truth.\" She looked back at Ruth. Lily didn't normally make a habit of speaking the truth in situations akin to the one she currently found herself in, but exceptions could be made. \"I was trying to head to the Eastern roads, looking for a bridge that I never found. If I did, I wouldn't have been here.\" Would Ruth be okay with Lily being a shine runner, Lily supposed there was only one way to find out. She just hoped the Coopers wouldn't find out and fire her for it. \"I'm a moonshine runner, I was pre-checking routes.\" Her tone was defensive and bordered on hostile. \"I was trying to head back to town when I ran into those,\" She looked around again, as if saying the word would summon the ghosts again. \"_Things._\"\n\n|| Ruth big strong woman that you are, you are frightening my little thief lmao"
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "*Lily*. The name suited the woman. Evasive and beautiful, a fusion between delicate and strong. Ruth wondered if it was chosen. People who ran around the woods at night and didn't notice her traps (which, she had to say, was a flattering compliment), usually didn't use real names.\n\nEastern roads, at Ruth's estimation, were pretty far from here. But if the woods at night could be misleading, the Briar Ridge forest was a master of deception. It was a labyrinth, and getting from east to north was far from the craziest theory, or the craziest thing to happen today to Lily. Ruth's gaze warmed up.\n\n\"So, criminal?\" She said, with curiosity and a tad of respect. There was a life of contraband right under her nose, unknown and wonderous, \"I didn't know Briar Ridge had its own alcohol. How do you like your job? Does it make the life here more... Exciting?\"\n\nThe last question wasn't exactly with her opinion: for her, Briar Ridge could be much quieter, with all its stories of dramas, love triangles and heartbreaks she was able to catch at her times in speakeasy. But people as beautiful as Lily probably required entertainment, high-quality one at that. Was the born here and yearning to get out? Or did they arrive here chasing something? Did they find it here?\n\nBut those, of course, weren't the questions for the first-time conversation in the woods.\n\n\"You want me to check your leg?\" Ruth asked, \"I'm not a doctor, but I've had my fair share of accidents. If it's twisted, I might be able to put it back.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Lily Brooks",
"message": "Ruth hadn't known about the moonshine operations that wove through the very heart of Briar Ridge. It wasn't just the Coopers, Lily had heard word of Ashworth shine, Estep shine, and of course, Dimitra was thinking about starting her own operation as well. Briar Ridge and moonshine went hand in hand in many a speakeasy conversation outside of the holler. For those in the know anyway. Hell, Lily and Dimitra had crossed paths multiple times back in New York. Moonshine was hardly a well-kept secret but apparently, not everyone knew about it. How it was possible for anyone to not be aware of the moonshine was beyond Lily. Just their luck, running into one of the few people who had no clue. \"That it does,\" She said, avoiding revealing who she worked for. They may not be a loyal person, but the Coopers were fine employers, for now. They didn't want to lose that job, not before Dimitra's operation was properly set up. \"I didn't know Briar Ridge had ghosts, guess we're both learning things today, huh?\" \n\n\"Criminal,\" They confirmed, cursing themself inwardly for just admitting it like that. What was she thinking, telling a stranger? Truth be told, Lily considered herself a thief first and a shine runner second. At least they hadn't spilled that part, nor was she planning on it. Ruth being interested in her career was a benefit for Lily, who had expected a much more judgemental response. \"Excitement is one to describe it, yes,\" She started. \"The job is-\" Great, wonderful, all I have ever known? They couldn't very well admit to that. \"-it's good. It pays my bills and normally I am better at it,\" She said, looking away for second. \"I'll be sure to avoid pre-checking routes on my own next time,\" They quipped, pretending to engage in pleasant conversation. She needed Ruth to be on her side if she was going to make it out of here. They needed Ruth to like her. \"It's not for everyone, but it works for me. I guess the same can be said about hunting, I couldn't do that.\"\n_ _\n\nLily loved her job. It brought excitement, adrenaline rushed through their blood when doing things she knew were illegal. They loved the thrill of taking things right from under people's noses, nothing felt as sweet as being able to get exactly what one wanted and pay for it with coin liberated from the pocket of a stranger. Shine running felt similar, the nights loading up cars between corn stalks, hushed conversations between people she'd started to consider friends, and the _other_ late night activities that followed were not unwelcome either. It felt like home to Lily, who had not known anything else since the day she turned 18. They'd found their people in criminality. \n\n\"The leg will be fine,\" A lie, a bad one at that, done on purpose. She didn't want to come across as too eager, better to have Ruth insist than to have to beg for help. Truth be told, Lily did not enjoy the thought of having a potential dislocation fixed in the middle of the woods. Altruism had always felt like a made-up concept to her, yet she was seeing evidence of the contrary in Briar Ridge. Ruth seemed to genuinely care, and few people were as easy to use as those with bleeding hearts. Ruth had gone out of her way to protect Lily, who was now aiming to make use of that urge to protect. She'd yet to fully lose her manipulative ways, if only she knew that they weren't necessary here.\n\nThey paused for a second. \"...Well, if you could,\" They sighed. \"It's not fine, you're right, but could we maybe look at it when we're not out in the woods?\" Lily let the fear she felt shine through again. If Ruth could show Lily the way out and back to the town, there was always the option of fleeing then. They needed Ruth to go back home. \"I don't feel very safe out here right now,\" She said, returning to a well-practiced role of helpless girl, just a toned-down version of it. \"You know the way back, right?\"\n\n|| lily is truly going ooohhh you want to help me so bad. Goblin"
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "The word \"Ghosts\" Cut Ruth's ears, like that invisible grass cut which hurt is always especially unpleasant. \n\n\"They aren't much ghosts, Miss Lily,\" She said politely. She wished to keep silent, but of course, she was now responsible for arming the charming person with as much knowledge as she possessed, if they would wish to roam the woods at night again for their scary and exciting profession, \"They are as much like me and you as a scarecrow. Just pretending to be human when they're weak. When they get stronger...\" Ruth took a pause, \"The legend has it, they can look like whatever they want. Can make you lose your mind. Ain't scared of the daylight, even. But I don't know. Never met any scarier than the ones me'n you saw.\"\n\nShe stretched her legs to give them some rest until they'll need to move again.\n\n\"My husband taught me the trick with the water,\" She told Lily, \"Said they won't touch if you if you pretend you ain't seeing them. But in case you didn't, cross the water.\" She paused, and when she started again, her voice was apologetic, \"Please, forgive me for... Lifting you up without a warning. I was panicking. There wasn't much time... For thoughts.\"\n\nRuth listened to Lily describe her job with pleasure. Of course, she wanted to reassure the woman:\n\n\"You did well.\" She added, \"Many people don't escape them at all. Bring them to their homes. Then their homes don't belong to them anymore.\"\n\nShe only nodded at Lily stating that her leg was fine, then correcting herself. Ruth understood that feeling. Sometimes her body didn't let her know something hurt until minutes, even hours after. It was good that Lily realized it so quickly.\n\n\"I don't know the way,\" She told them, \"But I can find it. Don't be scared, this forest isn't as big as it appears. But there is a long, lumpy way there from northern woods. Are you sure you can walk? I can carry you until we get to smoother grounds.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Lily Brooks",
"message": "They sure did look like ghosts to Lily. But she'd take Ruth's words for it. Whether they were, she didn't want to ever see them again. Nor did they want to come face to face with their more powerful shape-shifting counterparts. Lily was good at sussing out secrets, and enjoyed that fact, but now they were doubting if they'd stumbled upon something even they shouldn't have. If not-quite-ghosts and werewolves were real, then what else was? Where did it stop? Were bloodsucking demons real? Had Lily been someone with knowledge of literature, she may have conjured up images of Carmilla, and decided she wouldn't much mind if vampires were real, nor would she mind being one. Alas, Lily didn't read much.\n\n\"If not ghosts, what do you call them then?\" She wondered. Lily had made their fair share of split second decisions, and could hardly blame Ruth for acting how she had, the woman seemed to be cursed with a need to care for strangers. Had Lily been in Ruth's shoes, she'd probably have left herself to the ghosts. \"It's okay Ruth, you did what you could and look,\" She said, gesturing around. \"You got both of us out safely.\" They hoped their words would instill some confidence in Ruth. Should those things come back, Lily would need Ruth to act the same way again. She couldn't have the hunter believe that Lily had minded (which she had, albeit less so now). \"I'm sure I can wash that water out of my clothes just fine.\" They hoped so, it wouldn't do, to have to toss a perfectly good outfit because a bunch of spectral assholes decided they wanted to mess with people.\n_ _\n\nThey felt their heart sink when Ruth confessed to not knowing the way, and having to look for it. It sunk further still when the unfortunate truth of just how far she'd ventured from Briar Ridge was revealed. _Well **Fuck** Me, I guess._ They didn't much feel like walking, and their leg really was messed up. She could hardly complain at the thought of being carried again, actually. It hadn't been all that bad. \"If it's not too much trouble,\" She said, sounding hesitant. \"I think that might be best, I don't trust my leg right now, and I don't want to trip again and make it worse.\" Lily needed her legs, both of them, to be in good working order if she was going to continue earning money the way they had been. \"Do you not normally venture this far into the woods?\" She asked, taking the opportunity to see if her newly discovered detour might actually be beneficial. Somehow. Having knowledge of places few people went to never hurt, even if they were not planning on going back there again, ever."
}
] | 568 | 10,155 |
431 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "A brisk wind blew across the ridge, and Algernon Granville was grateful for the shelter the deerpath provided, clusters of trees and winding briars twisting together to effectively wall him off from the outside world. He'd stumbled upon the path quite by accident a mere hour ago, and after pulling out his compass and checking the bullets in his gun, descended into the darkness in search of a fresh catch. For all he'd heard about Briar Ridge's deer, he was yet to so much as catch a glimpse of one for himself, and he was determined to make that change today. A deer would net a healthy payment or two for the meat, and with any luck, make the citizens of this here holler a little more accepting of a newcomer. At least, that was what he hoped. Luck wasn't something that Algernon tended to rely on. Success was a case of skill, not something to leave to chance.\n\nStill, he felt he was overdue a little luck.\n\nTightening his cloak around his shoulders, he continued on, deeper into the woods on what he hoped was a path to his redemption. He was beginning to think he'd made the wrong impression on the folk that lived here, blazing into the town as he had and makin' a bloody mess of the place with his boar and his boots. There was a strong chance they thought him an uncivilised brute, and he could see just how they'd made that assumption. More fool them, because Algernon Granville wasn't a man to be passed by. He was a force to be reckoned with and god damn them all, he'd make 'em see it for themselves.\n\nMore time passed, and he was damn glad he'd made an early start, because this place was a *Maze*, and if not for the compass he'd have lost all sense of direction long ago. Save for a few nibbled leaves and a dropping or two here and there, the chance of finding a hunt today appeared to be dwindling rapidly. Wherever the deer were, it wasn't here, but he pushed on, determined that the day wouldn't be wasted. If not a deer, he'd go home with a belt laden with rabbits or squirrels if it killed him.\n\nHe'd walked what felt like miles when he came upon the tracks. \n\nUnmistakably deer, two toes sunk deep into the mud and lingering snow, dew claw present at the rear. He counted them - one print, two. Then a little further on, three, four. They might have been some of the *Largest* Tracks he'd ever seen, stamped in by a heavy build, and he couldn't deny that excited him further. Maybe there'd be enough meat on the kill to get him to that speakeasy he'd heard about by nightfall. Failing that, at least he'd have a good meal for the first time since he'd landed in the holler. \n\nThe hoofprints led him ever deeper into the undergrowth, and he shouldered the Winchester and followed. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "Emery hadn't been hunting since the last full moon. Hell, they hadn't even properly *Slept* Since the last full moon. Years of nightmares had them growing almost numb to them, but the ones that plagued their mind in these past weeks had them startling awake from restless slumber. Current reality seeming nearly as bad as what their mind could conjure up; the most reoccurring of those being maws of chomping teeth turning to a bloody bath of arms and legs at the barrel of their gun. \n\nThe events of the moon had Emery doing everything they could to keep from hunting. Digging out the last cuts of meat drying in tins of salt, brushing through hairs of unsold pelts and skins, even bartering for an already dead steer. They had stretched the shop thin and in turn themselves. Being around people, keeping up the illusion of happiness that they wore like a shield, was growing exhausting. The only places they ever felt that shield drop was in the safety of their apartment and under the cover of woods. However rare comfort from the latter was coming there was no denying it. The press of mountains, canopying trees like a blanket with their endless rows of trunks and most importantly, the sound of other life. \n\nThe birds were always the first to come back, twittering away safe in their high perches. Deer usually took a day or two to venture back near the proverbial safety of the towns surrounding woods but it seemed they stayed away longer after each moon. Which is why Emery was dragging themselves through the winding deer paths, gun heavy on their shoulder as they trudged through unmarked snow. No matter how comforting they couldn't deny the strange call the woods had, a sickening siren song that pulled them out, unanswered questions piling up each time they gave in.\n\nThey stayed on the smaller paths, intricate cuts through bushes and brambles sometimes lending more luck their way, finding stragglers of a herd or even being able to cut one off. But as it were luck was not on their side (Or was it? They secretly hoped they'd return home empty handed) and they stayed walking for a while, morning shadows having long disappeared as the sun rose higher. Their mind had even begun to wander, at this point only managing to make themselves lazily look for signs of life. The tracks of hooves cutting through the clearing in front of them almost didn't register as deer, far apart and huge as they were but it had Emery slinging their gun off their shoulder, keeping silent as they heard footsteps. \n\nThe footsteps kept along at a steady pace and Emery moved still as they could through the small clear in the bushes, tread light through the crunching snow. They weren't thinking right, if they were they would have noticed the distinct two soled gate of a human, not a deer. Certainly not one like the heavy hooves of what they could see through the clearing. As they came up to the main trails edge they readied their gun, taking a shallow breath before turning onto the trail proper, raising the old weapon to the face of whatever was walking towards them. \n\nTheir finger tensed over the trigger as they locked eyes with a man and though it was only a second before they were swiftly lowering their gun to the ground it felt like it stretched out minutes. Their eyes were wide, expression filled with confusion and almost doubt as they opened their mouth for an apology that stuck in their throat. They couldn't help but to think how alike their nightmares it was, couldn't help but to wonder if they were even awake at all. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "The tracks continued, and so did Algernon, followin' them like a bloodhound that had caught a scent it wasn't about to let go of. Hours could have passed for all he know, but it sure didn't feel like that long before he heard a sound, the familiar crunching of the kind of snow that had melted just a little before freezing over afresh. Commonplace in Briar Ridge in winter, he was sure. And he was close to the deer that had left these tracks, he could feel it, in his blood and in the still air. \n\nSo it came as somethin' of a shock when a pair of boots came into view. He looked up, eyes taking in the figure before him, until he found himself starin' down the barrel of a gun.\n\nIt was a situation he'd been in before, in a place thousands of miles and what felt like worlds away from this. It had been dark there, too, but the kind of dark that belonged to a night seemingly never-endin', soundtracked by the whistle of shells overhead and the cries of men as their blood spilled and soaked into the earth, soon to be followed by their bodies as their souls were taken from them too soon. \nBack there, the gun had belonged to a Fritz.\nNow, the person at the other end wore no helmet, nor uniform, rather a grim look on their face that twisted into surprise and then almost panic, and mercifully, the end Algernon would've much rather not had to deal with was lowered to the ground. \nMuch like before, he hadn't had the wherewithal to draw his own, but the moment was past.\n\n\"The hell was that for?\" He barked out, hoping the words wouldn't betray the sudden dryness in his mouth. \"You often go 'round pointin' your weapon at strangers, huh? Wouldn't be doin' that if I were you, bound to get yourself into trouble.\" His breath came in pants, heavy, puffs of white drifting and dissipating into the air that hung between him and the stranger, neither of them movin' so much as an inch. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "It wasn't even until the stranger began speaking, tone harsh, punctuated by plumbs of white breath, that Emery realised with certainty they were awake. It came to them slowly as they glanced over the man, adrenaline from a would-be hunt instantly seeping out of them.\n\n\"I didn't mean to- Didn't think there'd be-\" They stumble over their words, thoughts moving like molasses as they try to think of an appropriate response for almost shooting someone. \"*Sorry.*\" They blurted out.\n\n\"I- There ain't usually anybody on this trail, and I thought you was part of this...\" They trailed off as they looked down to the tracks around them, the closest set now dishevelled from Emery's earlier footsteps, and only now noticed how strange they looked. They were wide apart, wider almost than the gate of the strangers that followed right beside and he was no small man. More worryingly was the depth of them, pressing into the mud through heavy layers of snow and ice, once again a contrast to the large mans' own prints. They turned slightly as their eyes followed the tracks, eerily long strides that continued off down the path and disappeared behind a bend. \n\n\"...Herd...\" They finished weakly, voice monotone as they tried to ignore the drop in their stomach. It wasn't a herd, that was for sure. Whatever this was, was alone. And that didn't make Emery any more confident in hunting it.\n\nTheir mind filled in the empty prints from indelible memories, sickeningly familiar limbs stretching and bulging into unexplainable bodies. Bodies that farmers would bring in through the back door murmuring \"*Some kinda deer*\". Bodies their Pa and them would cut up in silence, slicing and hacking until the figure was no longer identifiable as the strange and was simply just meat. Their breath came in short measured puffs and they blinked, hard, as if that would will away the image of what could be waiting at the end. Surly, just their mind playing tricks. They turned back to the man, swinging their gun over their shoulder, thumb rubbing hard at the old leather strap as they gave him a tight smile. \n\n\"I'm sorry. Really, truly, I am.\" Surly anyone from town would know the bone deep exhaustion that came from the last few weeks. The knowledge of the unknown being so violently revealed it was dizzying. People seemed more wary as the days went on, cracks like roots forming within the small town. Emery couldn't help but to think where everyone had been that night, what they thought when they heard the news. They wondered briefly where this man had been when it occurred to them they didn't recognise him, and that not recognising someone wasn't something that happened in Briar Ridge. \n\n\"Have we...? Sorry, have we met?\" They knew they hadn't but it was a lot nicer than *Who are you?* Or *Why would you come here?* They jutted out their hand not holding tightly to the strap of their rifle in an offer to shake, \"I'm Emery. Aiken.\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "With guns for the time being forgotten, Algernon was able to puff out a hot breath into the still air between them, safe in the knowledge that he wasn't about to be shot on sight by the stranger stood before him. \"Sorry's about right. Could've killed me,\" He huffed, crossin' his arms across his chest in a way that showed that he, too, had a weapon to hand if the time for one came knockin'. \"Ain't never been mistaken for a deer before. And there ain't no herd here. Just the one set of tracks, so unless they were walkin' in a damn military formation, I was only trackin' the one.\" He rolled his eyes, evidently not quite at ease nor happy with the situation. There were only so many times you could stare down the barrel of a gun in a lifetime before your heart came to givin' out. Algernon wasn't sure just how many shocks he had left in him. But he did what he could to calm his racin' pulse, and to listen to what the other had to say. \n\n\"We ain't never met. Hardly been in town a day and you're levellin' your weapon at me, wouldn't have done that if you knew me.\" He sucked on his teeth, making a sound of disapproval. \"Name's Algernon Granville, you'll do well to remember it if I stick around. Hunter. Though if this is the kind of welcome I get when all I come to do was help out with your deer problem - damn pests that they are - then maybe I'll leave you to your own devices after all. Never known a place like this.\" Emery Aiken. Maybe he'd remember it, maybe it wouldn't need to be remembered. All depended on how the hunt turned out. \"If you'll excuse me, think I got this one under control, unless you're plannin' on takin' the rear lookout.\" He wasn't used to companionship on a hunt, it was the kind of thing you did *Alone* Unless you really trusted the person beside you. \"Looks like a big one, though. So if you do come, and you manage not to spook it, I'll cut you a good deal on the meat. Seems like nobody 'round here's in the business of buyin' from the new guy.\"\n\n|| I'm sorry this is so short! I'm happy to bring in Hyde to NPC the deer whenever you are"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "Emerys arm dropped back to their side, fingers flexing as the man crossed his arms, clearly not one for handshakes. At least, not from Emery. They couldn't blame him for his abrupt tone, they were bleary and reckless and nearly shot him, certainly not giving the best first impression. \n\nAnother hunter in town was always good news, especially for them, but if Emery wasn't so intimidated they might have laughed at the reasoning for his arrival. *Deer*? This man had come to Briar Ridge for the *Deer* Problem? Granted, they were everywhere; snatching up evergreens and winter crops, and were surely the biggest pest to farmers come spring, but of all the problems this small town had Emery would not consider one of them to be deer. \n\n\"Well, I can say we'll be glad to have you despite my welcome. Algernon?\" They questioned, still unsure of his name, \"All due respect, if you ain't been in these woods before I'm gonna stick with you. These paths here like to play tricks. Been here a while now and I'm just gettin' used to 'em.\" \n\nThey nodded back down the trail, turning their back to Algernon. They never minded company, certainly hadn't been expecting it today, but even with someone by their side and the sun still high in the sky the last thing they wanted was to get caught here after dark. \n\n\"Sorry for ruinin' your hunt, I'm sure you'd get on fine,\" Images of Algernon dead from exposure flashed in their mind as they started walking along the tracks, voice quiet in case the animal was near. A newcomer traversing the deer paths in this type of weather was practically a death sentence in itself. \n\n\"Just wouldn't do good on my conscience to let you go alone.\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "narrator .",
"message": "Two pairs of eyes on these trails sure were better'n one. Algernon and Emery, if keeping their eyes to the ground like diligent trackers, would continue to see the prints of a large deer, though in some areas the prints were curiously smooth and rounded. Surely it was just how the snowmelt had disturbed the mud. Surely there weren't *Actually* Bare human footprints dappled in between the hoofprints. \n\nThe rhythm of the prints was strange, too, as though the trail skipped a few steps every few yards. No matter. Maybe the deer was alternating its speed. Something spooked it to run, then slow. \n\nThe two hunters rounded the trunk of a large tree just in time to see a flash of wiry grey-auburn legs disappear around a small crowd of boulders. The movement of the presumed deer left one long, drooping branch of a sapling to scratch against the rocks in its wake, steady like a metronome for a few moments. The hunters would not hear scratching. The sound appealed differently to each of them. \n\nTo Algernon: the pound of a hammer on red hot steel.\nTo Emery: the soft blow of a cleaver into a butcher's block. \n\n*Clang. Clang. Clang.*\n*Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.*\n\n`Do they follow the deer?`"
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "Their *Conscience*. Well, it weren't often you found someone out in the woods with one of those, and Algernon couldn't quite hold back the derisive snort that found its way past his lips at the comment. Morals only got you so far when it came to his line of work - they weren't the sort of thing it was worth a hunter gettin' caught up in. Think too hard about the things you were doin' and the guilt'd catch up to you in a second, a blink, a heartbeat. No, it was better not to think too deep about what your *Conscience* Told you when your business was killin' for your own gain. \n\nDeath followed everywhere, somehow. \n\nHe decided to say nothin' more on the matter, but didn't protest Emery's decision to accompany him on the hunt. An extra pair of hands wouldn't go amiss, really - while he was more than capable of handlin' a damn deer on his own, if this beast was as big as its tracks promised, two bodies would get it back to town faster than one. \n\nAnd so the two of them headed down the windin' path together, practiced hunters silent but for breathin' sounds, with guns at the ready should they come upon their target. They left no trace of their presence but side by side bootprints in their wake.\n\nIt was Algernon that begrudgingly broke that silence as they rounded the corner and the hind-end of the animal caught his trained eye. \"You see that?\" He asked, though no sooner had the words left his lips did they seem unnecessary, as Emery too had turned to look at the branch waverin' in the wind. \"Stay close.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "Emery was no stranger to laughs like the one Algernon gave as they began walking. At one point in their life it bothered them, the judgement creeping under their skin and seeping into their bones like a burning itch. Making them want to run away and shrink in on themselves altogether. However the older they got the better they became at ignoring it, in one ear out the other.\n\nThey decided to instead focus on the tracks of whatever they were hunting - staying just as silent as they walked alongside him, glancing up and around for any other signs of the *Deer*. The further they walked they couldn't help but notice a strange shift in the tracks. The way in which the hoof prints changed, *Morphed*, into something all too closely resembling bare human prints had them almost asking Algernon if they were seeing things correctly. \n\nBefore they could, a chill that had nothing to do with the cold ran through them at the distinct *Thunk* Of a butcher's block, a sound that had no place being in the middle of the woods. They looked up just in time to see the leg of something definitely not a deer disappear behind the rocks and even just from that small flash they knew their suspicions were confirmed. They never wished to be wrong more in their life. \n\nThey gave a short nod in answer, eyes staying trained to the boulder it disappeared behind as they held their gun steady in front of them.\n\n\"That ain't no deer.\" They breathed, nodding at where it disappeared and keeping their voice low and steady as they could, \"We should try and get up behind it.\" They didn't know the mannerisms of these animals but the last thing they wanted was to be face to face to find out. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "narrator .",
"message": "As the two hunters continued on the trail around the tree and towards the crowd of boulders, the sound of crunching snow beneath the animal's hooves came to a stop. A hush fell over the forest, setting the stage with the quiet needed to make out a new noise that started up, then: a soft, hollow chattering, like a garland of dried bones being shaken. \n\nFrom behind the tallest boulder, which was over seven feet tall, Algernon and Emery would be able to see the highest points of a pair of antlers. Unless the deer had climbed up onto a shorter rock, it would seem to stand taller than any normal buck had any business of standin'. \n\nShould they choose to press on, seeing what they've seen, the hunters would round the outermost boulder and find their quarry. Their quarry, though, was not as they would have pictured it. \n\nIt was a deer, but somehow not at all. \n\nThe height its antlers gained above the rocks was due to its stance, up on hind hooves. Its front legs hung at its sides, its chest and belly oddly sunken inwards. Discordant lurching, shifting cracks projected from its shuffling ribs as its restless skeleton rearranged itself; the creature wore its own skin like a bad hand me down. Beyond uncanny, its face was a terror all its own: knife-edged, yellow teeth bared, and elongated eyes turned sideways. The not-deer's jaw vibrated almost imperceptibly, producing that infernal chattering: a warning that had failed to fend off the advancing humans. \n\nThe thing swayed and loomed. Its slitted eyes narrowed and widened with no discernible pattern. A fine, brown froth began to bubble from under its gray tongue. \n\nHead tilted, it spoke, simultaneously in the voices of William Granville and Luther Aiken. \n\"Turn back. You do not understand what you hunt. *Turn. Back.*\"\n_ _\n\n`Run or attack, the choice is yours!`"
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "Algernon took a half-step back as he was faced with the creature's sickening visage, almost collidin' with Emery in the process but managin' to catch himself.\nIt was like nothin' he'd ever seen before, with those damned eyes lookin' as though they were taken from the Devil himself, teeth that sure as hell didn't belong to no deer drippin' saliva as the jaw swung and it *Spoke*. Beasts weren't supposed to have voices. And their voices were decidedly not meant to be shared with a man whose furious yells still haunted some of Algernon's dreams. \n\"What-\" He began, under his breath, \"The *Fuck* Is that.\"\n\nHe didn't expect Emery to have an answer. He was sure no human on earth would have an answer for him, for what stood before them was not of this earth, or at least like nothin' he'd ever seen before, and he'd lived enough lives that until precisely this moment he'd been pretty certain there was nothin' left out there that he hadn't seen. Nothin' left to be afraid of. \n\nBut there was no denyin' that in this moment, this... Whatever it was had struck a fear like no other into his heart.\nHis gun was levelled and pointin' directly at the thing before he even took a minute to think about it. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "The first time Emery had seen one of these creatures sprawled and dangling across a butcher's block they didn't rest until pure exhaustion pulled them under; didn't eat until their stomach ached. Yet however terrifying these beasts were dead didn't hold a candle to one of them *Alive*. If this could even be counted as among the living. A part of them felt a primal fear when facing this creature, it felt ancient and bigger than them or this forest as it's bones shifted and cracked and *Rearranged* Right in front of them. Its eyes seemed to peer past their body and into their very being. They felt their thoughts confirmed as when the *Deer* Spoke they heard the voice of their Pa, distorted and gargled with another, unrecognisable. \n\nThe last time they heard his voice was all too similar to this. Deep in the woods, searching for something they almost didn't want to find. Once again his voice being used by one of these *Creatures* Like some sick sort of puppetry. The longer the thing spoke, the more a feeling nearly foreign to them began to grow and fester, overtaking their thoughts by the second; rage.\n\n*\"Turn. Back.\"* \n\nAs soon as those words left its putrid maw, Emery shot. The bullet rang out, drowning Algernons unanswerable question and piercing deep into the creature's flesh. It happened so soon after it spoke that its voice, their Pa's voice, was cut off by a bone chilling cry; indiscernible if it was pain or anger. \n\nThis may not have been the beast that took their Pa but they refused to once again tuck tail and run like the coward they were. To once again be subservient to the beasts of the woods. They stood their ground, lining up yet another shot before the beast lurched forwards and they were forced to take several steps back, just barely making it out of the way and keeping themselves upright."
},
{
"author": "narrator .",
"message": "The forest screamed. The creature screamed. The sounds were one– indistinguishable and earsplitting. Emery's bullet had found a home in the skull of the deer that was not a deer, sending bits of its blackened brain and pithy fragments of antler scattering down into the snow. With its pain, and with its mortal injury, came all the rage of the trees and earth and atmosphere. With its pain, it drew its final breaths from the bodies of those who hunted it, compressing the lungs of the one so foolish as to have fired the first shot before roaring in its final rush of revenge past the likely-now-gasping Emery towards Algernon. \n\nBy the time the creature was in hoof's reach of Algernon, it was well on its way to decaying. Maggots climbed from the hole in its head, glistening with blood, and saturated humus frothed from the open wound to compliment the red of fresh gore. Grubs and beetles awoke from their winter slumbers to borrow out across the snow, towards the future corpse. The forest was taking back its soldier, Algernon Granville, though, still held a loaded gun. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "Algernon, in his years, no, decades out in the wilderness, had seen all manner of dead and decayin' things. The natural passage of time was naught to be afraid of, and nor were the remains it left in its wake. \n\nAt least, that was usually the way things went. But there was nothin' natural about the beast that loomed before the two hunters, not when it screamed the way it did as Emery's bullet tore a gapin' hole into its skull and yet, somehow, the damned thing kept on movin'.\nInsects swarmed forth from what seemed like every orifice - its eyes, its drippin' mouth, the bullet's path of destruction that poured with bits of brain and cerebal fluid mixed into the blood - and if Algernon hadn't seen for himself the jaw stretch in some otherworldly way he woulda sworn the scream were human, rattlin' as it did with the breaths of one close to death and usin' its last moments to voice its pain. \n\nHe wanted it *Silenced*.\n\nThere was no hesitation as he squeezed the trigger, though he'd admit he coulda held his footin' stronger against the kickback. The sole of his boot couldn't seem to get a grip in the slickened snow. \nBut the slip would turn out to be a blessin', for as another hellish scream tore forth, past the chokin' and bubblin' in the beast's throat, it turned upon him and seemed to use what strength it had left to throw its full weight toward him.\n\nHad he not lost his step he'd have found himself gored right through by those great pointed antlers, no doubt pinned against the closest tree trunk to suffer through a last breath of his own.\n\nHe'd never been so grateful to the icy ground.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "narrator .",
"message": "Algernon's blow brought an end to the thing that was not a deer. The bullet opened the creature's chest with a loud, wet *Crack,* And shards of bone clattered across the wall of the boulder behind it. The thing sunk down, its joints bending all wrong as it collapsed into a pile of itself, staining the snow as it rushed to meet the insects that celebrated it. \n\nShortly following its collapse, the earth began to tremble weakly like the impact of a felled tree, sustained. Emery and Algernon would quickly realize that the massive, dirt-embedded rocks around them were waking up. The roundest of the boulders was pulled to its forward-facing surface, magnetized to the earth and by extension, to the corpse of the not-deer in its path. The rock was not discerning, though, and it just as soon would have claimed the hunters if they did not scramble away in time. \n\nTo cover its fallen child, the forest pushed over the great stone onto the quickly decomposing thing that the humans had slain. As the boulder rounded down, the crunch of bone and liquid gush of bodily fluids projected from beneath it. In a skirt of melted snow, the ground bloomed red with the creature's blood. Once the rocks ceased in their movement and the earth was still again, all that was left to prove the hunters' story was the broken tip of the not-deer's antler: just the same as any other buck to the naked eye. \n\nWith the ensuing stillness came birdsong, and the delicate rustling of squirrels against tree bark. All of the noises that had been choked out by the drama of the hunt now returned, urging the humans to forget what they had seen. Hadn't it just been a typical walk in the woods? Hadn't their quarry escaped them, and wouldn't they just need to return to the trees another day?\n_ _\n\nNarration ends here! Give me a ping if you have any lingering questions or desire for investigation. (:"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "All the anger that had filled them just moments before dissipated instantly as the shot that blew through the beast was met with a scream of the forest and the breath from their very lungs. The blackened viscera and bugs feeding on decay within the walking corpse already had them letting out a shuddering breath before every last bit of air was stolen from them. It was as if a hand had reached into their chest, squeezing their lungs in a vice tight grip that left them gasping uselessly. \n\nEverything seemed to happen in quick succession, blurred together by fear and the oxygen leaving them completely; Algernon shooting, the forest *Moving* To cover its fallen kin and their awful attempt to back away as a vile splatter of gore and rot splashed across them. The air came back to them as it did the forest, the chorus of birdsong piercing in comparison to the deathly silence it followed and Emerys heaving breaths were met with a stench worse than death. \n\nTheir head felt light and as they gasped the thick, putrid air they could feel their stomach churn, chest growing hot and throat stinging as bile threatened to rise. There was little evidence left from the hunt that couldn't be explained away but Emery continued to try and back away, out of the forest, out of their very skin. They took in stuttering gasps, needing to breathe but not wanting to, their legs had started shaking like a newborn foals and they didn't get far at all before their footing failed them. In a passing thought they realised they must have dropped their gun, as their hands attempted to reach out towards the fast approaching ground. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Algernon Granville",
"message": "If Algernon hadn't already been aware that that *Thing* Before him and Emery was somethin' not of this earth, then the forest's reaction to its death would have solidified that knowledge in him in a mere heartbeat.\nNever before had he seen the earth move like that, nor felt it shake so beneath his feet. He'd have thought he were imaginin' it if not for turnin' to Emery and seein' the look on their face, hollow and horrified, at which point he knew this was for real, though he knew not how nor why it could be takin' place. \n\nThe great rock that collapsed atop the beast's lifeless form moved faster'n anythin' of its size ever should have been able to. As it collided with the creature's body, the bones and rot appeared to put up no resistance to the weight, and with a sickening cacophony of crack and burst, it was as though nothin' had ever been there at all. Leavin' Algernon with no proof of what he'd seen 'cept the blood splatterin' the snow, and...\n\n*Emery.*\n\nIt was their gasp that broke Algernon's gaze away from the scene of the carnage, his attention whippin' round just in time to see them drop their gun. He would have dived for it, fearin' it might go off again on impact, if not for their stumblin' sendin' them pitched right for the ground, leavin' him with no choice but to leave the weapon and catch them before they could truly fall. \n\"Easy,\" He huffed, and he'd swear that that tone in his voice were frustration and not concern. Truth be told, he weren't so sure how to handle this, other than pull them back upright, spin them round to face him, and fix a look upon their face that would have shrivelled new-bloomed snowdrops. \"Breathe. Yer alright, hear me? All that... It ain't nothin'. It's over. Don't you go swoonin' like a maiden on me now.\"\n\n||"
}
] | 407 | 7,327 |
370.866667 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": " blanca ochoa cervantes ",
"message": "The morning had brought with it the sort of inescapable chill that seeped through clothing, straight into bone. By the time Blanca rode into Briar Ridge she looked thoroughly irritated with the loss of sensation in her cheeks. Her nose and mouth were covered by a massive scarf, and her eyes were narrowed against the harsh, wintry light as she scanned the main roads for signs of the lumberyard.\n\nShe was looking for Dallas, presumably the owner. How he had come to be named after a town in Texas was beyond Blanca, but it had put him prematurely into her good books, for now. The words heavy metal bear traps were like music to her ears. What she didn't understand was werewolf. What in the hell was a werewolf? Some special type of wolf they had up here? Was that what had been wreaking havoc on everybody's property? \n\nIn any case, she was here to find out. Control was delicious to Blanca, especially considering how little she actually had. As she dismounted and tied up her mare, Blanca tugged her scarf loose with the yank of an index finger. Before she did anything, spoke to anyone, she took a healthy look around the area. She was nothing if not stubborn - better to suss out which one was Dallas than to ask and be caught with a stupid question."
},
{
"author": "Alma Cooper",
"message": "The town was ***Buzzing***. Now, that wasn't a particularly *Odd* Statement so soon after a full moon, but there were two major occurrences that made this round of attacks different. \n\nOne: The rumor that Valerian Barca had a gun that could make a werewolf scream for its Mama. \nTwo: Multiple townspeople *Swore* They'd seen a bear trap dug into the leg of the werewolf that attacked Rafael Guerrero. \n\nBoth of them had Alma's interest. Try as she may to be prim and proper, she was a terrible affinity for gossip. It only took an afternoon for her to have caught wind of the second rumor and, when she spotted the notice posted about setting bear traps, Alma decided it was time to put the hunting skills Rhett had shown her to good use. *Strong* Wasn't necessarily a word she identified with, but she hoped Dallas Sinclair could overlook her weakness in light of her eagerness to learn more. After all, the cage was a trap too, and Alma hadn't spent much time with Dallas outside of his volunteerin' for The Cage. \n\nAlma arrived on foot. The brisk walk had put some color into her cheeks, but it hadn't kept the cold from leeching the feeling out of her fingers. She was eager to step inside a set of four walls when she realized there was a figure up ahead with their head on a swivel and a horse. \"Mornin'!\" She called out, not quite able to identify the figure from that distance, but she wasn't keen on spookin' 'em, either. It was a beat before Alma realized she was looking at none other than Blanca Ochoa Cervantes; a woman she had only ever heard of, but never crossed paths with. The Ochoa's had come to town with a whole cloud of rumors around them, and Alma didn't quite know what to make of her public appearance.\n\n_ _ \n\"Just an *Awful* Chill in the air today, ain't it?\" She asked to make light conversation, rubbing her gloves together briskly as she approached. \"Sure hope the sun brings a bit'a warmth with it here soon! Don't imagine you're here for Dallas, too, are ya?\" She offered up a pleasant enough grin and selfishly cozied up against the lumbermill's wall to keep the wind from cutting through her layers."
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "The man in question was inside the building, preparing for the long day ahead of him. He'd already piled in the bear traps into the wooden wagon; it would be easier to traverse the woods with it, rather than try and navigate his truck through the dense wood. The wagon sat by the front of the building's door, and when he stepped out, he seemed surprised to find two women coming up the long road. \n\nHe'd never been good at speaking, and the fairer sex had been an elusive mystery to him his entire life. The only point of reference he'd had for women was his younger sister, and she was no help. She was aggressive and snappish and spoiled, which had only grown in some ways since the baby had been born. \n\nHe knew Alma Cooper from the cage building, but she still remained a mystery. Blanca, on the other hand, was just a name on the lips of the people around town. It didn't matter, though; he just needed volunteers. \n\n\"Mornin',\" He said, clearing his throat as he shut the door behind him. \"You here for lumber?\" He asked, hands shoved in his pockets. \"Or you here for...?\" He jerked his head towards the hand cart full of bear traps, heavy as all hell. \"Could right use a hand if yer willing.\" \n\nHis eyes flickered between the two women. Alma seemed strong from what he'd seen, at least in that she knew her way around tools to a degree. Blanca, still a mystery, looked like she at least had the tenacity to get the job done, which was good enough for him. \n\n\"Any of you's needs anything here, JD's inside... Can get you whatever y' need.\" He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet, trying not to look awkward as all get out."
},
{
"author": " blanca ochoa cervantes ",
"message": "She saw the woman in her periphery and nearly did a double-take. If Blanca didn't know any better she might have wondered if the short woman in her periphery with the purposeful walk was her mother. When she fixed her shrewd gaze on the woman she was pleased to hear an extension of what she had heard referred to as 'Southern hospitality' — a kindness sometimes contrived, but useful at the very least for the smoothing-over of things.\n\nBlanca could wait out the prattling-on and pleasantries, but her smile became a genuine one once the woman explained that she, too, had come in search of Dallas; previously polite and tight in nature, her mouth stretched wide across her face.\n\n\"I am,\" She confirmed with a crisp, singular nod. \"I saw the notice in town. I am Blanca Ochoa Cervantes. What is your name?\" \n\nTo see another woman here was refreshing, and Blanca looked forward to getting to know her, whoever she was. Blanca spoke with a politician's easy confidence. In her earlier years she wore her father's charisma like an oversized hand-me-down coat; as time matured her, she had fashioned that coat into a garment all her own, dark and iridescent like a cloak of grackles' feathers. The frayed and torn areas she had yet to deal with were tucked away perhaps not so neatly as they could have been, and oft revealed themselves with the ruffling of those feathers.\n\nThe exchange was punctuated by the arrival of Dallas, his identity confirmed by the familiarity with which Alma regarded him. Blanca's smile shrank back to something polite and utilitarian, though there was an easy warmth in her eyes. Helping seemed to be the most opportune path as far as establishing her allyship with the community. Blanca's respect for Dallas dwindled a little as she watched the way he stood, as though he wasn't entirely sure of himself. Odd, for someone in charge, she thought — but perhaps there was a reason. She gave him the benefit of the doubt, for now.\n_ _\n\n\"The traps, yes,\" She confirmed, nodding. \"You are Dallas? It's nice to meet you. My name is Blanca. I saw your letter. I would like to help you. My family's *Hacienda* — the ranch — it's just south of the bridge. Plenty of space for traps.\""
},
{
"author": "Alma Cooper",
"message": "Within the span of 5 seconds, Alma decided that Blanca was intimidating. She liked it. There was a comfort to be found in a woman who could her own. Earning her smile made Alma brave enough to cross the distance between them and offer her hand to be shaken as they introduced themselves. \n\n\"Pleasure to finally meet you, Blanca,\" She drawled, tasting the woman's name in her Southern accent. \"I'm Alma Cooper. The school teacher.\" And the Mayor's daughter, but she wasn't the type to gloat about something like that. \"I saw that notice in town, too. I'll do anythin' if it involves trappin' those bastards!\" She punctuated that with a short laugh and then turned to face the movement she'd caught coming from the mill's door. \n\n\"Morning, Dallas,\" She chirped right back at him and then allowed Blanca to take the lead. She found herself nodding along to her words as she rubbed her hands together to try and bring some feeling back to her fingers before they set off. \n\n\"Neither of us are here for the lumber, I'm afraid. Looks like we're your muscle!\" She wished she felt as confident as she sounded right then. That cart did not look light. Although Alma had no way of knowing how strong Blanca was, she knew that *She* Would have to take a couple of breaks. Perhaps it would be best for her to offer assistance now before they hit the snags of roots and rocks in the forest proper. So, she stepped up to the cart's handle as prompted. Her eyes darted between the two, all too happy to allow them to choose where they were headed next."
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "The man was tall and broad but still managed to find himself intimidated by the women in front of him. Alma Cooper was the leader of the Anti-Werewolf Coalition, after all, and Blanca... Well, she looked straight through him like he wasn't much but the man providing the traps. Honest to God, he felt like he should be asking *Her* What to do in this situation. \n\n\"Glad to have the both of ya,\" He said, nodding his head towards that hand cart. He'd managed it alright last time on his own, but then again, he'd only brought so many traps last time. This time, he'd be more ready. \n\n\"Think we oughta spread up pretty far. They always seem to come through that ol' section of woods. Dunno if there's a base 'r what, but that first night, I done heard 'em nearby when I was leaving work here.\" \n\nHe cleared his throat and grasped onto the other handle. \"Figure we can spread some out in the woods and work our way down towards the ranch. Get a wide spread, maybe we'll catch 'em. Figure we could also set some up 'round the safe houses,\" He suggested. \"Them things nearly always gettin' attacked.\" \n\nHe gestured down the path. \"Maybe a few round the Ol' Davis Ruins, too. I been thinking about building some sturdy fencing around the safehouses. You think that might do somethin'?\" He asked Alma; she seemed the clear leader in all this anti-werewolf business, after all."
},
{
"author": " blanca ochoa cervantes ",
"message": "Dallas was handsome in a vulnerable sort of way, which registered him immediately in Blanca's mind as *Safe.* He seemed respectful, and besides that, his goals were aligned with her own, so he was in her good books as useful indeed.\n\nShe listened intensely as he spoke; much of what she heard was new information. The Davis ruins... She'd have to ask about those, though she was fairly certain that dilapidated old house near the hill must be the place. The idea of *Safehouses* Intrigued her, and Blanca felt the muscles in her ear twitch. Were townsfolk gathering in groups on the full moons?"
},
{
"author": "Alma Cooper",
"message": "Oh. Well. So much for enjoying not being the leader for once! When Dallas's gaze cut to her, she forced on a quick smile. \n\nJust two years ago— No, no, no. Just six months ago, she never would have found herself in a position like this. She would have just stammered something excusable as an agreement and did everything she could to melt into the background. She wouldn't have even dreamed of offering up help to do something so physical when she knew she had no talent for it, but the world had changed. *She* Had changed. She'd learned to lift heavy steel plates and hammer boards and delegate tasks. Sure, she was nowhere near as strong as Dallas or charming as Blanca's smile was already proving to be, but folks' eyes kept falling back to her for some reason. So, she swallowed hard and flickered on a smile. \n\n\"Sounds like we got a whole bunch of work to get done!\" She tried to sound upbeat about the day ahead as she hoisted up her side of the cart - *God was it heavy!* - and started towards the first patch of woods he'd mentioned. \"I'd certainly be happy to have them added 'round the ruins n' safehouses. When my place was attacked last, the thing seemed to be testin' the boards to see which window would be easiest to break through. Wouldn't be a bad idea at all to have one or two tucked into some bushes or around the corner of a house. We'd just wanna make sure folks warn their kids not to play there... \n\n\"Speakin of, are you tellin' folks where you're puttin these? Just... There's a whole lot of 'em. You ain't worried about some kids wanderin' into 'em or a hunter steppin' wrong?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "He lifted his half with ease, chugging along the path as he listened to Alma's words. She seemed a bit on edge, the forced smile didn't go unnoticed. She sure had a lot on those shoulders, he knew that much. What, with the school and the coalition... \n\n\"Don't you worry none, I've got it all figured out. Gonna go 'round and post some notices about them traps once we're done here, let people know where to be careful,\" He nodded to Alma. \"I got it under control.\" \n\nHe wanted her to know that, despite his inability to talk to many people, he was a reliable member of the party. \"Besides, I ain't gonna set no traps too close to the houses until the day of the moon. No sense in doin' it early. These is just to make sure some of them don't get too close to town if we can help it.\" \n\nDown the path and into the heavy wood, he gestured towards a clearing a little ways off the path. \"Here's a good start, ya think?\" He said, letting the cart come to a stop and casting a look back at his two companions. \"Y'all grab a few and we'll nail 'em down.\""
},
{
"author": " blanca ochoa cervantes ",
"message": "She didn't know what she'd done, but she knew she'd done something. Perennially sensitive to the emotions of those around her, the tension was hardly lost on Blanca in the moment. She should have been quicker to grab one side of the cart. Guilt flooded her, starting with her toes and lurching into her stomach where it met with the anxiety that no one here was ever going to take her seriously if she didn't look willing to participate.\n\n*Now is not the time,* She told herself for the hundredth reason, the hundredth time that week. Still, that nagging thought was there: *They're thinking about your incompetence; they think you're lazy; they think you were just waiting to see who'd help.* In another universe, maybe she might've been able to live without relentlessly endeavoring to disprove her own thoughts. \n\nShe wore an easy, confident smile, but Blanca's eyes were hard to catch. The rancher took stock of their surroundings once the trio entered the clearing, and she nodded, curt and businesslike. She took the traps as instructed, noting their weight compared to the ones her cousins used on the ranch. The solidity of the metal sent goosebumps up her arms, for more reasons than one. What the hell was going on on her ranch, if her own traps were so comparatively light?\n\nHer expression darkened a little at Alma's comment and she nodded as her mind drifted to her niece and nephews, all of whom were prone to flights of fancy and all of whom were equally likely to land themselves in a trap. She appreciated Dallas' response. \n\n\"I have been meaning to ask about the ruins,\" Blanca began, studying Alma with a careful expression. \"I would be happy to go there and help set traps. I would like to get to know the area.\" Her expression darkened a little. \n\n\"You have safehouses?\" She asked just then, glancing between the two of them. Surely in the response she'd learn the meaning of the term and not have to ask.\n_ _\n\n\"For the full moon. What do you do there?\""
},
{
"author": "Alma Cooper",
"message": "Dallas's words soothed Alma's worries and she tried to show it by smiling brighter at him, but she was quickly getting to be out of breath. All she could manage was a quick nod of acknowledgement. It was taking the better part of her focus not to let her side of the cart drop down any lower than it already had. Both of her hands were wrapped so tightly around the handle that she wasn't quite sure she'd be able to let go when the time came. \n\nBut it did, graciously, come. She tried not to let out a sigh of relief (and failed) as she set her side down a bit more forcefully than she'd intended, jostling the traps inside with an series of metallic clangs. She just smiled as an apology and ignored the immediate, shameful flush that came across her cheeks. Dallas had asked for someone *Strong*. She should've thought this through more. Her fingers were shaking and she quickly stuffed them into her coat pockets to hide them from her companions. \n\n\"That spot looks perfect to me,\" She agreed, though she hesitated at the moment of reckoning. She knew she should grab up the first one and hop to, but Blanca was providing her an excellent excuse to delay. \n\n\"Of course, Miss Ochoa. I cain't fault you none for never havin' been; they ain't much to look at yet, right Dallas?\" Her eyes cut across to him, knowing full well he'd been instrumental in both getting them the lumber they'd required and the reconstruction efforts themselves. Despite the amount of time they'd spent in each other's company, they'd hardly held a conversation. Most of that was Alma's willingness to respect his apparent desire for solitude, but now that the three of them were workin' together...\n\n_ _ \n\"You're more'n welcome to swing by anytime. The beasts sure seem to have taken a likin' to it. The more traps, the better I say.\" Speaking of, Alma glanced back down at the cart. She breathed in deep to gather her resolve and curled her fingers around the nearest one and— oh! It wasn't too heavy! She could hardly hide the shock - *And relief!* - that shot across her features before she grinned. At least *This* Was a hurdle she could overcome! \n\n\"The safehouses?\" She echoed. \"The sheriff came up with 'em. We bunker up in groups. Make sure there's at least a few armed men n' women in each house just in case somethin' comes sniffin'. Here's hopin' these traps help put an end to that.\" With that, she was off down the Dallas had gestured towards. \n\n\"Dallas, and I, and the other volunteers all stay at the Ruins, though. Has the ranch held up alright?\""
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "Lord knows, he'd spent a hell of a lot of his time working for Alma Cooper these days; the lumberyard had nearly taken a backseat to the werewolf coalition, and rightfully so. What time was there to worry about lumber when there were things to be done about town? That same lumber was now being used to fix homes ripped apart by werewolves, supplies now going directly into help repairing the ruins and building the cage up. He trusted Alma Cooper a hell of a lot more than he trusted most people, perhaps JD Monroe the only outlier in that statement. \n\n\"That's right,\" He agreed with her readily, hauling out those traps and beginning to set them; he pulled the hammer from the loop on his pants and began to drive the spikes down into the solid ground, cold from the winter air. \"Ladies, there's some spikes in that there cart to keep these things in place. I was thinking we could drive a few into the trees too, test which ones might be better at holdin' down.\"\n\nHe fell silent again, letting Alma take charge in all that coalition business. She was far more eloquent than he could've ever been, which was somewhat of a relief. God knows, he was shocked people had even shown up after that terribly written sign on the notice board; he'd never been the best speller in his class when he *Had* Been in school.\n\n\"We can always use more people who know their way around a gun... Right Miss Alma?\" He looked over at her, as if seeking some kind of approval or acceptance for the statement. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": " blanca ochoa cervantes ",
"message": "Alright. This couldn't be too hard. She was good at looking like she knew what she was doing. Mostly.\n\nBlanca strode forward and picked up a spike, tentative as she did so. She was frowning all the while, unaware that her tempestuous state of mind had manifested on her face, and she looked awfully stormy for a moment before the expression melted into surprise, then an attempt at neutrality, tinged in shame. \n\nHer attention fixed on Dallas as he mentioned guns — but his deference to Alma in spite of his expertise suggested that Alma was very much the de facto leader of whatever faction had been created here. She followed his lead and fixed her gaze on the schoolteacher-turned-steelworker.\n\n\"I don't mean to brag, but I'm a pretty good shot,\" She offered. \"And I'd like to keep my family safe — as safe as I can.\" *There's black stuff in the water,* She thought, but it was Alma's turn to speak, and Blanca was curious to hear her answer. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Alma Cooper",
"message": "*Spikes?* \n\nAlma blinked down at the trap she still cradled. Oh. Well, that certainly made sense. It would need a way to stay grounded, wouldn't it? Alma cursed herself for not having bothered to research these traps before accepting Dallas's posting. Her enthusiasm had blinded her. She tried not to let it show on her face as she ~~gingerly set~~ *Gracelessly plopped* The trap on the ground and went to fetch its spike. \n\n\"Certainly,\" She agreed with Dallas just as readily as he had. He even won himself a small smile, even if it was a nervous one. \"Every bullet we get into them is another reminder that we won't back down.\" There was something harder in her voice just then. A single thread of spite is woven into the curl of each syllable. It would be easy to miss if you weren't paying keen attention to her normally pleasant pattern.\n\n\"But, I understand if you might prefer to stay home and look after your own, Miss Ochoa,\" She spoke as she plucked up a spike and returned to the trap. \"The werewolves seem to like comin' round the safe houses, but I think stayin' in groups seems the best way. Keeps the most amount of guns possible pointed their way, but, after what happened to Miss Bigby, I... Well, I just don't know what's best no more. Word is you got an awful big family though, right? Y'all have enough guns to keep the ranch covered?\" Then, quickly, as if she'd only just remembered, \"And how's Addie, Dallas? How's her little boy doin'?\" \n_ _\n\nAlma took a moment to pull off her glove before she jammed the spike in the ground as far as it would go by hand (which wasn't very far at all) and drew up the courage to breach Dallas's personal space. \"Kin I borrow that, please?\" She held out her hand for his hammer. Her exposed palms were covered in new and half-healed blisters that looked every bit as angry and painful as they felt, but Alma looked up at him expectantly as if it was completely normal. As if there weren't dark bags growing beneath her eyes or as if she hadn't occasionally been found sleeping next to the cage curled around her pistol like a mad woman. She wasn't going to complain, though. Not when Dallas had been workin' just as hard as the rest of them. And, hopefully, Blanca could join in on the efforts soon, too."
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "He was just glad for the extra hands, no matter the level of knowledge they had on these kinds of things. Besides, he felt like the job wasn't too hard, and they seemed to be doin' just fine in planting the traps around. \n\n\"Wayne is doin' just fine,\" He told Alma, and that was the truth. He cried, certainly, and did so often. He seemed to have people he liked and didn't like - he would cry extra hard when they had to go into town, but seemed to settle right down when he was being cradled by JD's younger sister Joanna. He loved his nephew, even when he cried half the night and kept him up til the early light cast over Briar Ridge. \n\nHe paused and turned to the side, relinquishing the hammer to Alma Cooper with ease. \"Ground's hard as a block'a ice, ain't it?\" He said to her, casting his look from her to Blanca and then to the open area. They still had a long way's to go, setting these traps up. He saw how hard Alma was working. She was fighting the fight harder than the rest of them, and he knew it. \"Y' hold onna that,\" He said to her. \"I kin use my boot if I gotta.\" He assured her, eyes casting back on the ground. \"When we're done, we can gon' down.\" He pointed further along the path. \n\nThe trio worked tirelessly; little more was said between them, other than the occasional request for a spike or a hammer tossed their way. Down the ridge, into the holler proper, they worked until that big sun was setting on the horizon. As the final spike was driven into the ground, Dallas wiped the cold sweat off his brow and prayed to God that this would make some kinda difference in the end. \n\n||"
}
] | 377 | 5,563 |
438.666667 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "Things had been getting harder round the lumberyard these days— JD was strung taut about the werewolf business and everyone needed something fixed. Aside from the werewolf demolition being done on the safe houses, there were plenty of things to be done with the coming winter. Roofs to fix, leaks, squeaky doors and drafty windows... There was little rest for Dallas Sinclair these days, it seemed. \n\nHe wasn't sure he minded it too much. He rarely asked for much money, because most people didn't have much of it to come by. Who was he to say no to an elderly woman who needed her roof patched in the harsh winter? Besides that, he liked to keep busy, and when he wasn't doing construction, he was thinking up ways to help Alma with the coalition. \n\nHe'd posted up a sign on the board asking for a few helping hands around the job sites, but he wasn't sure anyone would be coming. Everyone had their own thing to be doing, anyhow, and he wouldn't blame them if they didn't wanna deal with it neither. It was laborious work, after all. \n\nHe leaned against the side of the wagon with his tools in it; lumber and hammers and nails and the like. Dallas shoved his hands deep into his pockets, eyes fixed on the gloomy, overcast sky and prayed that no rain came. \"Shit...\" He swore. It was getting past the time he wanted to head to fix this woman's door, and his help still hadn't shown up. Ah, well. Seemed like another solo trip after all."
},
{
"author": "miss m. lefevre.",
"message": "*I just need a small job done,* Her notice had said, *A quick door repair after an accident! Will pay more the quicker the sooner the job is done.* A kind man by the name of Dallas Sinclair had taken the job, and mentioned that he may have some assistance. Maeve wasn't a private woman; she'd heard of all of the work that Mr. Sinclair had done for the city in the wake of the attacks. A bit of her had felt grief at asking for help over something that wasn't werewolf related (oh, how she and the Muse had fought and fought...), but with the winter setting in, a gash in her front door was something she wanted to take care of pretty quickly.\n\nShe had met Dallas in passing with the Coalition help, but she had never quite taken the time to introduce herself to him. At most, there was a passing moment where she filled his bowl with soup or brought around coffee and he offered her a quiet thank-you in response. But, if he was the kind of man to help Alma with such trecherous work, he was a good egg in her eyes - so she didn't redact the request after he had accepted it. Honestly, she envied people like him, people who were able to handle the entirety of projects like this by himself — it was just a month or two ago that she watched Alma patchwork together the base of the cage, and how she envied Alma then, too.\n\nShe just wanted to *Help.* Of course, she knows where her skills were; she was a homemaker, a writer, someone who was soft and passive. To try to put together things like some of the other people in town... Why, she'd just be getting in the way. But if she *Knew* How to do some of these things, she might have been able to patch together her own damnable door, which would save someone like Mr. Sinclair his precious time. How much *Had* He done on his own, anyways?\n\n_ _\nStill - if Mr. Sinclair was going to be bringing help, she needed to ensure she set aside money for both him and his help. Which is what led her to be all bundled up and walking down the street, nose sunken down into her scarf. She had hoped she could reach him at the lumberyard before he make the trek all the way down to her place. Her eyes looked to the sky, wondering if it was cold enough to snow, or if it would be rain. (Or, worse; that sleety, gross mixture of both snow and rain that did nothing but slush up the sidewalks. Her boots *Crunch-crunch-crunch*Ed as she approached the lumberyard, catching the visage of a man who was filling some kind of wagon. As she grew closer and closer, the handsome-yet-stoic features of Mr. Sinclair came to her vision, and she waved her hand as she approached, trying to get his attention. \"Oh, praise God,\" She smiled, closing the gap between the two of them until she stood on the other side of the wagon. \"Mr. Dallas Sinclair, I take it? Maeve LeFevre. How nice it is to make your acquaintance!\" Her hand extended for him to shake - a dainty, gentle thing.\n\n\"I'm so glad I stopped you before you left for a job. I wanted to ask you about the help you mentioned - how many extra sets of hands are you to bring when you come to work on my door?\""
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "Dallas had been settled on the idea that he would be working this job solo. That was fine; it was just a door job, it would hardly take him a long time. If it was real bad, he might have to replace the whole thing itself, but he doubted it would be that bad. He had already rummaged around for some new hinges just in case, pulled out of the bottom of a drawer where he'd shoved them last. His disorganized chaos made perfect sense in his mind; if things were *Too neat* In his shop, he wouldn't know where nothing was no more. \n\nThe arrival of the petite woman gave him pause, hearing the crunch of her boots coming up the long drive. He was so sure he'd seen her before; he could imagine he'd seen just about everybody in town, sure, but he was certain he *Should* Be able to place a name with a face if he thought hard enough. It was embarrassing, he'd admit, and he kept quiet until, by the grace of God Himself, she spoke her name for him. *Maeve LeFevre.* She had been part of the coalition, perhaps, she must've been. He was usually so focused on the task at hand that he didn't usually notice much else about his coalition companions, but he supposed he could remember her out of the corner of his eye. \n\n\"Miss LeFevre,\" He greeted her, bowing his head a little and taking her hand in his larger, far rougher one for a handshake that was so firm, it might rattle the bones right out ya. \"Sorry 'bout that, ma'am. The only hands comin' on this job are my own.\" He cleared his throat and shrugged. \"Looks like my extra hands up and ran away on me, cuz I ain't got nobody else.\" JD was out for a little while, citing some... *Emotional distress*, which he understood completely. \"You ain't had to come all this way, I was headed right on over to yer place, Miss LeFevre.\" He felt bad she had to walk all the way here, especially in this cold."
},
{
"author": "miss m. lefevre.",
"message": "*Oof.* She rumbles around a bit with how firm the handshake was, a bit startled but easily recovering from such a thing. When Dallas admits that he's the only person coming on the job, her face drops, a hand on her own chest in shock as if she was grabbing her (this time, metaphorical) pearls. \"Oh, no, I was too late!\" She expressed, soft eyes deepening in what appeared to be genuine, unfiltered upset. \"When I'd gotten word you were bringing help, I was working out what an appropriate compensation for your assistant might have been— why, I'd gotten so frustrated at trying to work out the maths on my own that I just came down here to see what would be appropriate, but it looks like I didn't get my own head out of the dirt early enough.\"\n\nThe thing with Maeve is that the poor girl had no kind of emotional filter - whatever feeling she was feeling, it was beyond big enough to spread all across porcelain features. This time, it was big doe eyes and furrowed brows, red lips downturned in an expression of genuine concern. Was it worry that Dallas was going to have to take on another job all on his own? Was it guilt for not getting down to the lumberyard quickly enough? (Oh, she should have just gone yesterday, Maeve, you dunce-) Whatever the expression was, it was adjacent to sorrow and regret, but she thinks on it some more, quickly morphing into something not quite excitement but not quite arrogance. Perhaps confidence?\n\n_ _\n\"Well! That's their loss, unfortunately,\" Maeve says after a moment, hands clapped in front of her as if she's trying to make herself as small as possible in a foreign space. \"Since this is my door I'm asking you to help me with, is there any way I can help *You*, Mr. Sinclair? Now, mind, I've never lifted a hammer before, and, well, I'm not very strong, but if the answer is just holding things or running and fetching things out of a toolbox or from your little wagon here, I can do that! I know how hard you've been working trying to get everything-to-rights, and everyone has said just how generous you are!\"\n\n\n\n\"I mean, goodness; when you're not running around doing your little jobs, you're always at the Coalition sites! And with Mr. Monroe, erm... *Out of commission* Until further notice...\" She trails off. How horrifying a sight it was to see him blow a hole into the beast... To watch the beast turn into their beloved sheriff... \"...Well, anything I can do to make your job easier, I'd like to do! Especially since, erm... My door wasn't a werewolf problem.\""
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "He wasn't sure he'd ever come upon a person who could feel such a range of emotions in such a short amount of time, wearing them plainly on her sleeve as well. It was startling to someone like Dallas, who often barred his emotions up behind walls on the inside and refused to feel anything beyond surface level things. He didn't emote well, neither. Never had. \n\n\"Don't you worry yerself none, maam, I'm used to working most jobs solo,\" He assured her, holding up his hands to stave off her insistence. But Maeve clearly had a big heart and a stubbornness that he could understand, to a degree, and his eyebrows crinkled as the woman rambled on. \"Miss Lefevre,\" He cut in quickly. \"You ain't gotta do nothin',\" He told her. \n\n\"Yer my client, ma'am, I ain't gonna expect ya to hold my toolbox 'er run around haulin' things uh that nature...\" He did trail off a moment, scratching the back of his neck in thought. She was part of that Coalition, he'd been right. \"But maybe teachin' you the basics will help us,\" He said after a moment. \"We always need all hands on deck for the moons and the ruins and the cage...\" He eyed her a moment. \"Y' really up for the task?\" \n\nDallas glanced into his wagon to look at the supplies he'd grabbed, noting that he might have to grab a few extra things if he was teaching a full \"Class.\"\n\n\"Why don't ya step inside a minute and I'll grab some more supplies and we'll be on our way.\" He assured her and headed back towards the office proper, holding the door open for her gentlemanly and all. \"We're gonna turn this into a right lesson and you'll be swingin' a hammer and taking my job from me before you know it,\" He assured her, stocking up on nails as such."
},
{
"author": "miss m. lefevre.",
"message": "A proper gentleman! She smiles when Dallas inevitably caves, and Maeve is filled with a girlish excitement she's not had since moving to Briar Ridge. Grinning and giggling, she enters the office, warming up from the cold, and waiting for him to come inside. In some sense, this is almost like a museum trip: she's never been anywhere like this before, and the trades have always fascinated her. She's had a high respect for people who could work with their hands, as that was a skill that none of the LeFevres seemed to have. If they did, it wasn't developed, but Maeve had a high learning curve and a humility that came with doing things on the first try. She never minded to make mistakes, and seeing as how this was her own door that was getting treated rather than someone else's, she had the time to fuck up once or twice, so long as Mr. Sinclair had the patience.\n\n\"Have you been a carpenter long, Mr. Sinclair?\" She asks, looking around and smiling. \"This place looks so very established.\"\n\n_ _\nIn this moment, she feels compelled to ask about a birdhouse. A birdhouse would fit nicely in her garden, and it would be a somewhat easy build. Perhaps, if Mr. Sinclair can teach her some of the most basic skills with the hammer and nails, she might be able to put her visual imagery to real life. How hard could it be, really? (The author of this reply would like to add that building a birdhouse for someone who has fledgling carpentry skills *Is* Very difficult, and she predicts many smashed fingers in Maeve's future. It's... Probably best that she leave things like that to the professionals.) Alas, Maeve remains quiet, leaving her daydreaming of birdsong to the back of her mind for now. \n\n\"Oh!\" Maeve gasps after a moment, dainty fingertips to her lips as she turns around now, facing whatever semblance of a desk there was. \"Can I go ahead and pay you, while I'm here? I'd just feel more comfortable if you were able to take the payment while we're in the office, rather than get you to walk home with all of the money. Briar Ridge doesn't have any criminals, per se, but I've heard of a person who loves to steal things, and I'm just so worried you won't get compensated properly if we don't. If you want to wait until services are rendered, though, I won't throw a fit.\""
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "The main office was slightly detached from the proper sawmill area and the lumberyard outside; there was a door leading off to the warehouse area, which housed all the finished slabs of lumber and shingles and all the rest. Dallas, unfortunately, was still recuperating his losses after the fire incident with Rhett Sterling, but he was taking it all in stride. Wood was wood, and accidents happen, even if it does eliminate most your stock. \n\nThe main office also served as a work area for Dallas' smaller projects, as well as where he kept all his bits and bobs. It made sense in his head, of course, as he scooped up handfuls of nails from a bucket and moved on down the line. Everything had a place, even when it seemed like it didn't. The desk was stacked high with paperwork; old orders from the city, paper trails from this and that, documentation of JD's paychecks and all. He'd never know what he needed to hang onto, so... He held onto all of it. \n\n\"Been a carpenter most of my life,\" He said. \"In some way or 'nother... Took it up here when I came through after we moved house. Bought this place up, got it in workin' order again...\" Not an exceptionally exciting story, but the truth. Dallas wasn't much for talking, but he'd always been good with his hands. \n\n\"Used t' live on a farm. Did a lot of work there too, when I was a kid.\" He explained. \"So... I guess I been doin' this since I could hold a hammer.\" He stuck an extra hammer in his belt and gave a jerk of his head towards the door, but her question caught him off guard. \n\n\"...I uh... I ain't done the job yet,\" He said tentatively. He wasn't sure he'd ever been paid before a job unless it was explicitly for supplies, never the labor. But he supposed if it made her feel better... \n\n\"Alright,\" He conceded after a moment. \"I mean, I'll just have t' make sure I'm a real good teacher I s'pose,\" He mumbled and went to his desk. \"I ain't so good with numbers but y' ain't owe me much for supplies, 'n the labor ain't long at all...\""
},
{
"author": "miss m. lefevre.",
"message": "Humility was not something that Maeve was used to, but she had become more and more exposed to it the longer she had lived in Briar Ridge. It made no sense - if you know you're good at something, why not be proud of it? Why kneecap what your prices should be? Why make yourself smaller? In some ways, Pride was Maeve's mortal sin, despite her own hesitance to be proud of most things. She knew how to tote her skill with a pen, and she knew how to brag about how many books she had sold - but when it came to her kindness, which was a basic human right, and when it came to her determination, which she believed everyone had, she too rejected the compliments and the praise. Perhaps, in a way, she did understand it, but for an entire town to be such a way... \n\n\"Oh, hush,\" She dismisses his worries with a wave of her hand, \"I'm sure you're going to do just fine - I should be more worried about whether or not I'm going to be a good student! If you find me incapable of learning the task, just tell me. I don't have to be good at everything!\" Her wallet is produced from her purse, and she begins to thumb through the money within. Little does Dallas know that money is not an issue, not when her father is sending monthly paychecks and her residuals from her book. She was nowhere as well off as her mother and father by any means, but that constant income did place her within the higher bracket of Briar Ridge's economy. She was careful with her money, though - at least, she tried to be.\n\n_ _\nBecause money is not an issue, and because she expected him to have help, and because he's taking time out of his busy, busy day to teach Maeve how to use a hammer for the most basic tasks, she intends to give him the currency and a half - the amount she would have paid him, and the amount she would have paid his assistance. If his prices are as humble as his personality, it wouldn't be much extra, but she insists - those who have the means to should ensure that they distribute to those who are in need. She's appreciative of his work - and doubly appreciative of his company!\n\n\"Alright, Mr. Sinclair,\" She says, smiling, \"What's the damage?\""
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "Being watched was something Dallas wasn't quite fond of. He could handle being watched from a distance, because he could imagine they were looking at something else; perhaps a bird up in a tree or something off in the far distance. But having a woman this close, staring him down and his workshop (an extension of himself) was nerve wracking. He already had a hard time with words, often had a hard time with writing, and this only made it worse. The numbers scrambled in his head and his hand pressed down on the paper more insistently as he tried to parse out exactly how much this would be. The wood was minimal, the nails were barely anything, this job was so small he really didn't feel right charging her for a full hour, even if he *Was* Teaching her... But didn't that make it even worse? She'd basically be fixin' her own door at this rate! \n\nHe was trying not to look incredibly stressed and ended up on the side of disgruntled as he scribbled a few things down and cleared his throat. \"That'll be $5, maam,\" He told her after a moment. He didn't feel right charging her for the labor, just the supplies, and even that left a guilty feeling in him. His eyes shifted and he cleared his throat, moving around the desk to grab for the supplies he needed to put in the cart. \"I ain't feel right, chargin' ya for labor when yer doin' most the work,\" He told her. \"I ain't askin' much, specially when it's cold out.\" He insisted. \n\nIt made him feel utterly guilty to take any more than that from a sweet lady, anyhow."
},
{
"author": "miss m. lefevre.",
"message": "Maeve is an educated woman, and her emotional skills are through the roof - it's what having a wretchedly low constitution and about as strength as a wet newspaper get as a countermeasure. Five dollars for a job like this wouldn't be bad at all! Her face lights ablaze, eyes brightened and smile a-bit-too-straight when he announces the total, and she nods, working through her purse, speaking out loud as she mumbles, doing the mental math in her head. \" *Five dollars is standalone, divided by two is two dollars, fifty cents, added to the original five brings us up to... Seven dollars and fifty cents.* \" She hands over her calculated total to him, clasping her own hands around his, and she smiles.\n\n\"Please,\" She tells him, her kind expression reflected at him. \"You were supposed to have help, and you're providing me an extra service on top of that. When it comes to studying, I'm only really good at books, so you'll probably have to be really patient with me. You've done so much for our community, and I have the currency to spend. *Please,* Please, do not fight me on the extra money I'm paying you today.\" When she pulls her hands away, she places the money in his hand rather than on the counter, and she returns to her perfect-practiced stance, holding her clutch in front of her.\n\nThat smile never seems to leave her face, placated with the notion that Dallas would be fixing her house regardless, but it feels... Somehow all-too-wrong. As if there is a layer of something underneath a mask that she is wearing. A perception person could identify it was **Guilt,** As if she's trying to somehow overcompensate for the fact that she knows what put a hole in her door, and it was no werewolf; as if she was trying to say *I'm sorry for wasting your time; I promise to do my best; I promise I'll never have to bother you again.* \""
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "He knows it's far too much when she places the money in his hand. Before he could even speak in opposition, Maeve Lefevre was already off, insisting that this is what she wanted. Dallas was a gentleman, at least tried to be, and as much as he hated to take extra money... He supposed his sister could use some new clothes for winter, and now they had another mouth to feed with his little nephew in the house. He bowed his head in appreciation and tucked the money away, wordless and thankful at the same time. He'd never been too good with words, unfortunately, but he hoped that the subtle nods of his head and the way his eyes couldn't quite meet hers would lead her to know that he was humble but grateful all the same. \n\n\"Then I suppose I oughta teach you right,\" He cleared his throat, standing up straighter to grab the supplies once more and nod his head to the door. \"We oughta head on round yers,\" Dallas said, trying to assume some kind of leadership role here. He had to at least pretend to know how to do this kind of thing; like talking and teaching and not walking in complete and utter silence for the next twenty minutes. \n\n\"I don't think I ever been round your place before,\" He said to her, glancing aside as they left the office and headed outside to his pull cart, loaded up with supplies. \"I think last time, maybe... If you ever gotten anything done, it might've been JD who done it,\" Dallas scratched the back of his neck. \"He's real good, yknow, especially at little fixes here and there. Gets em done in no time.\" \n\nHe spoke fondly of his coworker, clearly, because JD was one of his only friends. \"Don't say much, but he's a good man.\" Dallas nodded. He was trying to find anything to talk about as they walked along the path, worn down by the pull cart wheels and his boots alone."
},
{
"author": "miss m. lefevre.",
"message": "When Maeve falls into step next to him, her hands fold in front of her. She is a gentle and peaceful girl, without much by way of stirring the pot in this way or that. She's a quiet, well-reserved woman, and not once does she attempt to hide that she is a city girl. She and Dallas Sinclair could not be more different, and yet here they were, making their way back to the Lefevre house to fix a hole in the door, together. \"Oh, definitely not,\" She agrees, shaking her head, \"Normally, Rhett Sterling helped me, but... He and Alma have their hands full with each other, and with the Cage, so... I didn't want to bother him. I hope sometime I can call on Mr. JD as well, so that way I can meet him and see for myself what a good man he is. I've heard nothing but kind words about you both.\"\n\nLuckily for Dallas, it was easy for the daughter of a socialite to fill the time with empty words; she'd watched her mother do it for years and in multiple instances had to do it herself when she was scaring off suitors her mother was *Adamant* She say hello to or when having to entertain her father's party guests. And as a bonus, Maeve's words to him weren't empty; instead, they were kind, gentle. Almost... Unfamiliar, in the chaos that was Briar Ridge. In many instances Maeve felt like she couldn't contribute to the overall health of the town, so she shouldered the burden of everyone she knew. She took their emotions, good and bad, and held them sickeningly in her heart until they rotted her deep, and then purged that rot elsewhere, doing some kind of good.\n\nPerhaps, it she was doing good for other people, she could pretend she was a good person, rather than the porcelain doll that was slowly losing its sense of self.\n\n_ _\n\"I suppose you could say the same for you, then,\" She laughs softly, turning to look at him, \"You don't say much either. Does that make for boring days at the lumberyard? Or is it one of those friendships that like... You don't need words to understand the other? I've always been so admiring of friendships like that, really... But I can tell that Mr. JD is a good man all on his own. How is he, after the...\" She gestures with her left hand, speaking things that couldn't be said out loud. She was referring to the death of Noah Rowe, slain by JD's own hand. She can't imagine the kind of guilt or terror he must feel; it's one thing to kill a wolf, but to kill a wolf that you knew the name of? She knew that no one in town took it easy, especially following the death of the good mayor, too. Her head shook, and she offers a quick sign of the cross even for just thinking about such a thing.\n\n\"Does he need anything? Do you know?\""
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "There was a piece of Dallas that found Maeve's presence to be sort of nice in an odd way. She seemed content to fill silence, and for every question she asked, she seemed to bulldoze through to another question, a statement, a remark or anecdote. It wasn't that she seemed disinterested in Dallas' answers, rather, she just had so much to say that it spilled from her lips like a bucket of water overflowing under a hand pump. \n\nHe waited for her to take a breath, his eyes flickering to make sure she was done, before he slowly responded in his stumbling, broken words he often spoke with. \n\n\"He's alright,\" He started with, before he realized he should probably say more. It would be rude to leave it at just that, after all. \"He ain't doin' too hot in some ways... Thinks he done murdered the sheriff. I told him it ain't like that... That it was what had t' be done for the people.\" \n\nHe felt his stomach form in knots as he recalled JD coming to his door at the crack of dawn, gripping the front of Dallas' shirt like he was terrified he would disappear into thin air. How scared JD's face had been. His hands had been shaking, pale as a ghost, like he'd start crying at any moment. \n\nHe snapped out of the memory, stuffing down the bile of seeing someone he cared about so much in such pain. \n\n\"He's been stayin' round mine with his sister. Helps him sleep. Helps him keep the nightmares down,\" He said. Maybe it was sharing a room, sharing the space and hearing one another breathe, but Dallas could admit to himself that he slept better when he could hear JD's soft breath nearby, baby Wayne's soft cooing and the shuffling of the girls through the thin walls of their home. \n\n\"He don't need nothing right now, but I'll... Let him know yer thinking of him.\" He nodded his head, relieved that he could stop talking now as they were stepping from the long path and into the residential area. Not much farther, now— he wasn't so good at being eloquent, so words didn't come easy to him."
},
{
"author": "miss m. lefevre.",
"message": "It is one thing to be an authoress, a lover of words; it is one thing a lady, to be gentle and kind with others. It doesn't quite matter to her that Dallas doesn't speak much. She's here for his company, and many, many times has she been in the company of those who care, even if they don't speak often. Her mind wanders to some of the men she's seen and known throughout her time with the anti-werewolf coalition. (Perhaps, in some way, she too is made to be quiet, to stay out of the way. To *Be good, Maeve, let the important people do their work, Maeve*.) \n\n\"Thank you,\" She says when Dallas tells her that he'll pass along her thoughts and prayers. Maeve knows there isn't much left for her to do for JD, but she makes a mental note to stop by and drop off a warm meal. She knows what it's like to grieve for something that doesn't quite belong to you, but she hopes that JD eventually gets to a place where he feels non-responsible."
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "The subject had seemed to quiet the conversation down, which he wasn't sure he was so grateful for. The lack of her run-on questions felt a bit disconcerting; the one time that Dallas might've preferred conversation than the lack thereof. He wondered if he'd said something wrong or off-color, but Maeve didn't seem angry. She just seemed... Neutral? No, that wasn't right neither. He let the matter rest, and was grateful that they'd arrived at her home just as the mood had soured. \n\nHe appraised the door in silence. It was bad. Hell, it was real bad. Dallas scratched his head and exhaled in a rush as he took a look at it. \"I could patch it up,\" He told her. \"Or I can go on and replace the door for ya.\" He turned to face her now. \"But I s'pose yer wantin' that lesson... So I ought to teach ya.\" \n\nHe turned back to the supplies he'd brought along. \"Alright, I'm gonna sand down some'a that jagged... Splintered wood,\" He told her. \"Ya know anything about that?\" He asked her. \n\nHe wasn't quite sure what skill set he was working with here. Was Maeve at all knowledgeable about any of this? \"Y'know how to hold a hammer?\" Dallas asked her."
},
{
"author": "miss m. lefevre.",
"message": "Lots of things can be said to Maeve Lefevre that wouldn't bother her - in fact, she has been told or has said much worse to her by her father's companions, or their wives, for being a girl with her head in the clouds. It rolls off of Maeve's back like the dawny feathers she might have had had she been the elegant swan of *Swan Lake,* Or the dual-faceted *Odile/Odette*. Alas — she is neither of those things, *Just Maeve*, and she follows him up to her porch, hands behind her back. He asks her many questions, and she, like a student, grows a bit red with embarrassment. She really was getting in the way, wasn't she?\n\nHer lips purse, and she shakes her head. \"No, I'm sorry, I don't think I know too much about anything like this. Oh— but I think I can hold a hammer. I know how to hold a knife just fine.\" She extends her hand for the hammer, and if/when it is placed there, she shifts her fingers to hold it properly. For a woman who has no idea how to do anything regarding the trades, she seems to know how to hold it just fine. Despite her initial claim that she might hold it like her butcher's knife, she actually holds it more like a proper hammer, implying perhaps she'd seen someone (perhaps Rhett?) hold one before.\n\n\"As for sandpaper, the only paper I'm familiar with is that of my books, I'm sorry!\" She laughs softly, as if the laughter would melt away her embarrassment, and her free hand is held to her cheek, shaking her head. \"I know of its uses, but I don't quite know how to use it. Why would we need to sand down the wood? Can't we just fit in the new wood like a puzzle piece? Or is it perhaps too splintered to do any of that?\"\n\nFor what it's worth, she's a good student."
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "For all of her embarrassment, Maeve wasn't a poor student. Dallas had never taught someone anything like this from scratch; he'd had to show JD some things, sure, but JD had worked with his hands. He knew the basics, didn't need to be taught how to hold a nail or what sandpaper was. This was new territory for Dallas himself; he didn't lack patience, at least. He wasn't so good at speaking, and teaching was mostly speaking— in this moment, he'd never admired Alma Cooper more. How she did this all the time was beyond him, honest to God. \n\n\"That's right,\" He mumbled, watching her hand shift and hold the hammer properly. He was surprised, but then again, he wasn't sure what life experiences Miss Maeve possessed. She seemed to be a woman of many books, and he was sure she could learn how to hold a hammer in one of 'em. \n\n\"See how jagged it all is?\" He asked her, pointing at the hole. \"Ain't a clean cut. I'm gonna cut the hole actually wider... Sand down the edges. Then we can replace the wood proper.\" He explained. \n\nHe removed a small hand saw from the supplies and gestured to the hole. \"That make proper sense to ya, Miss Maeve?\" He asked her, setting about to examine the damage. He began to saw into the hole, turning the jagged hole into a proper square shape. Now, he handed her the sandpaper. \"Y'just... Rub it against the edge there and make it smooth. Like one of them nail files.\" He'd seen Addie with them numerous times."
},
{
"author": "miss m. lefevre.",
"message": "When one teaches, they must be cognizant of the fact that there are going to be lapses in experience, both in the industry and within personal experiences. When one teaches, they find they must meet their student somewhere in the middle— and sure, it might be silly at the time, to equate sandpaper to nailfiling, but when Dallas makes the comparison, and Maeve remembers the texture of her metal nail file and how she must shape or smooth out her nails before painting them the deep crimson she normally keeps them, it all just *Clicks.*\n\nYou cannot work on a piece of canvas that is not prepared, and just like she can't paint her nails without filing them and shaping them first, Dallas cannot fix her door without sanding down the jagged pieces because *It would be a waste of material.* Her eyes brighten, like she's just had a particular neuron fire off at mach speed. \"That makes sense!\" She chirps, happily, content with her learning. With the sandpaper in hand, now, she gently squeezes it (not enough to fold, just enough to understand its tactile intention) to feel it under her fingers.\n\nAll of her friends in the trades — Rhett, Dallas, Wesley — have callused fingertips and rough skin of the palms, and as she holds the sandpaper, here, she seems to understand why this is. It isn't easy work at all, and she doesn't pretend to want to do this again, but she *Must* Know. She must know what it's like to work with her hands, as someone who's never had to, and in never having to, does not have the trust and love of Briar Ridge in the same way others might.\n\n_ _\nShe works the paper cautiously against the jagged edge, and when she finds she'll need a bit more pressure to actually *Do anything* With it, she sets it down, gingerly folding up her sleeves and pressing down with the sandpaper—finally, the pressure and the grit begin to smooth away the rough edges, and she smiles, content with herself. She works it for some time before it *Appears* Smooth, but surely there's a touch of spots she missed here and there that he would need to go over. She is a novice, after all.\n\n\"There,\" She nods, handing the sandpaper back to him, smiling. (A small line of sweat layers her brow.) \"How did I do?\""
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "Honestly, he was right impressed with Miss Lefevre's tenacity about the whole project. She seemed like she'd truly set her mind to it, and as she gripped the sandpaper in her hands and fumbled with the grip, he didn't move forward to help. He watched as she adjusted her hand, putting pressure on it enough to actually work, and he crossed his arms as he watched her technique. Part of teachin', he'd found, was all in letting the student figure some of it out organically. Maeve seemed to have a good brain and took to a task easy, as long as it had some sort of common sense to it. \n\n\"Lookin' good,\" He said to her, relieving her of the sandpaper. He took a step forward and gave a few cursory swipes across the edges, making sure it was fit for work right. \"Alright,\" He said, standing up proper straight. \"Now, we're gonna want t' patch it up right,\" He said, grabbing a thin piece of wood. \"We'll sand it down even and repaint it t' match yer door,\" He promised her. \"Wont be exact but it'll look just fine.\" He told her. \"Alright now, I'll hold this,\" He said. \"Yer gonna take this nail and hammer. You ever seen somebody do that before? I can go on and do the first, if y' need me to demonstrate.\" \n\nHe was patient, at least. It came from years of having a little sister, probably."
},
{
"author": "miss m. lefevre.",
"message": "She doesn't realize it until it's already happened, but Maeve is grateful that Mr. Sinclair didn't immediately try to help her. Too often was it all-too-easy to mark Maeve up to be a delicate girl with a lady's sensibilities, and while that was true, there was a drive and an ambition that came with the courtesy of being a Lefevre. It was the same drive that put her mother to work in the kitchen, hosting the best dinner parties and outperforming all of the other wives in the neighborhood; it was the same drive that put her father to work in the boardroom, pushing stocks and bonds and... Whatever the hell else he did. \n\nOnce she'd been given the seal of approval, Maeve blossomed into a big, bright grin that seemed to explode the corners of the mouth all-too-kind. Scooting over and away from the door, she smoothed down her skirts, gently nestling into the corner of her porch and away from the door. \"Oh, yes, I've seen plenty of these. Rhett Sterling was quite skilled with one, when he came to patch a hole in my wall when I first moved here. But yes, *Please* Do the first couple, if you don't mind. I'm so nervous that I'm going to miss the nail and just *Smash!* My hand like that. I'd like to see where you place your hands and with what, erm... *Gusto*— no, *Force.* Force is the word I was looking for— you use on the hammer. Everything else up until this point makes sense.\"\n\n_ _\nA couple of conclusions had been drawn, here: 1) Dallas Sinclair was a very good teacher. 2) Maeve had no interest in being a carpenter any time soon. 3) It was significantly more satisfying to pay someone to do the work for her and ensure that the job was done correctly rather than try to do this herself. She'd likely never pick up a hammer and nails again, not when she could ask someone more skilled to do it in exchange for currency and a meal, but the fact that Dallas was still willing to teach her, still gentle with her all the same was pleasing. She smiles, tender, and watches, her hands wrapped around her knees. Perhaps, if the need called for it, she could *Finally* Help the Coalition with a project—oh, or maybe she could build a birdhouse and fill it with suet cake for the little ones to eat as the springtime turned.\n\nOh, the possibilities were just *Endless!*"
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "It wasn't that Dallas saw Maeve as a child by any stretch, but he would say that she reminded him of an excitable child who was eager to learn. He wasn't too familiar with kids; even Wayne was a real small one, still too young to properly know how to learn anything yet. But Maeve reminded him of kids when he was still in school; the ones who read all kinds of books while he struggled to spell his own name. He couldn't help but think Maeve must've been real smart by that merit; he could bet she read a whole lot of books. Did she say she was a writer? If not, she looked like she could be one. \n\n\"I'll do the first few,\" He promised her. \"Then I'll show ya.\" The wood was thin but sturdy, and he placed it over the hole and held it firm. The nail and hammer were a piece of cake to him; he'd done this a thousand times over. \n\nWith a steady and sure hand, Dallas drove the nail into the wood and through the door. In a few taps, it had driven right through, stopping short of coming out the other side. \n\nHe did two more before he beckoned her over, having her squat down beside him as he handed her a nail and the hammer. \n\n\"Y'place the nail here,\" He pointed at a spot. \"And hold it here and give it a light tap with that there hammer until it's firmly in the wood. Then you can let go of the nail and give it a few more whacks.\" He explained. \"Try not t' hit your fingers.\""
}
] | 420 | 9,212 |
341.941176 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "RHETT TERLIng",
"message": "This had become a familiar sight in the past 6 months: Rhett Sterling trudging through town with his pull cart, the music of iron tools colliding with each other streaming behind him like a not-so-pied piper. Sometimes different folks came to walk with him a while as he traversed Main Street. It was a good way to pick up new jobs, and a nice means to remain within the tight weave of the community, all while on his daily commute. \n\nHe arrived at the lumberyard having secured two gigs: a bicycle repair for Miss McCaffrey and a chimney cleaning at the Estell residence, as well as a bonus bout of pleasant conversation with Lester from the hardware store about how best to prepare rabbit. \n\nThe purpose for Rhett's visit to Dallas Sinclair at his place of business was primarily just that– business, but he sought to kill a second bird with that stone: companionship. Though the two didn't know each other exceedingly well, there was a rapport between them. Being men of few words with similar calluses and a shared town of residence put them in a default friendship bracket, which could be softly labeled `COMFORTABLE ACQUAINTANCES`. \n\nBack to the business Rhett was here for: he needed 30 bundles of cedar shingles to enforce the roof of the shack for any snowfall the winter would see, and for some fortifications to Aunt Bonnie's house. He hoped he could fit all the stock in his cart, which was cleared out of most tools he usually kept in tow. \n\n\"Dallas?\" He called out, unsure where on the campus of the lumberyard he'd find Mr. Sinclair. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "Dallas wouldn't say he had a lot of friends. He would suppose he considered JD a friend, though he paid him... So he wasn't sure that counted if they mostly hung out at work. Max was his friend, definitely, but he was pretty sure it was because Maxwell felt bad for him. Everyone else he encountered, he would consider something of an acquaintance. \n\nRhett was no different. Dallas saw the man occasionally when he needed to come by and pick up supplies. They'd exchange a few words in greeting, then they'd both go their separate ways. That was just how it always had been. \n\nToday, he figured, would be no different. As Dallas stood in his workshop, he could hear the clattering of that cart, and he paused to wipe his hands off on a rag. He stepped out upon hearing Rhett's call, leaning in the doorway a moment before he tossed the rag down. \n\n\"Sterling,\" He nodded his head in greeting. His clothes were already dirty with oil and sweat was on his brow, despite the chill in the air. \"What can I get ya.\" It was posed far more like a statement than a question, with Dallas' usual brand of stoicism. He eyed the cart of tools and raised an eyebrow, taking a few steps towards the man now so he didn't have to raise his voice to be heard anymore."
},
{
"author": "RHETT TERLIng",
"message": "Rhett found comfort in Dallas' dirty clothes and hands. Any indicators of status quo were a relief these days. \n\n\"Dallas,\" He repeated, this time in greeting, paired with a curt nod. He let the handle of his cart fall, looking back briefly to clock the wagon's dimensions again, trying to decide if he had room enough for what he needed. \n\n\"I'd like about 30 bundles of cedar shingles, if ya got 'em. But I'll take whatever stock you have, if'n you think you'd need ta order more.\" Rhett looked back at Dallas, squinting in the sun. He was feeling chatty, and he continued, \"I know it's about that time a year where folks wanna make sure their roof is good 'n sturdy.\"\n\nThis was the first time Rhett'd seen Dallas since he'd noticed him heading into the mines that day. That day when Rhett had run away while all the men he'd never measure to ran towards. He wanted to ask Dallas what he'd seen, make sure he was alright. If Rhett was still shaking coal dust from his hair having just been on the outskirts of the tragedy, he couldn't imagine how black Dallas' own bathwater must be. He wondered if the other man woke up in the night smelling smoke, too. He wondered if the black footprints at the threshold of the shack every morning found their way to the Sinclair home. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "It was a similar feeling, what Dallas felt. Ever since the mines, things hadn't been the same. Of course, Dallas had yet to make mention of these peculiar happenings to anyone... Mostly for fear that they'd either think he was crazy, or those people would get one of those little bastards attached to them too. \n\n\"Thirty?\" He repeated the word gruffly. Some people found Dallas unapproachable for the fact that he was quite stoic and blunt at times, but it seemed there were other members of Briar Ridge that didn't seem to wholly mind it as much. \n\n\"I ain't... Sure, I'll have t' look.\" He jerked his head for him to follow, through the shop and out into a much larger room. Big racks of supplies, bins of bundles of wood and such. Dallas scratched his head as he walked along; none of the shelves were labeled, but it seemed he had the entire area mapped in his head as he murmured to himself. \n\nHe stopped in front of a specific bin and picked up a bundle of shingles, hefting it up and grunting. \"Yeah, I figure we prolly got enough...\" He sucked his teeth and eyeballed how many were there. \"But if yer feeling like yer gonna need more, I can prolly write in an order from the city and get the supplies to make—\" \n\nThe sound of something clattering a few rows over made him pause, as a bin of wooden pegs and dowels suddenly tipped over, the supplies going everywhere. The side of the barrel had two, large handprints scorched into the wood, and he narrowed his eyes and shook his head. \"For fucks sake.\""
},
{
"author": "RHETT TERLIng",
"message": "Obediently, Rhett followed, his eyes passing over all the stock of the lumber yard on the way, catching himself in a daydream of all the little projects he had in mind to dress up the shack: things to keep his hands busy during the winter. A book shelf for the tomes he was collecting (okay, well. So far it was just Miss Maeve's first novel and a few old encyclopedias from Aunt Bonnie. But he'd get his hands on more!), window seats for Spider on every sill, a new dresser for himself. \n\nThey reached the stockpile of shingles, and Rhett was pleased enough. Just what he'd come for. He reached to start loading the bundles as Dallas spoke, nodding along softly. He nearly dropped what he was holding at the commotion behind him, and spun fast to see the tail end of the disturbance. What lingered in the now-still air was the smell of burning wood to complement the fresh timbers of the lumberyard, and the fragile smoke trails from two smoldering silhouettes of human hands. \n\n*\"Help me, please!\"*\n\nA strained voice washed through the room, casting echo-like off the high ceilings. \n\n*\"It's getting hard to breathe.\"* \n\nRhett looked at Dallas, his eyes all panic. Months ago, he would have hidden his fear under anger and suspicion, accusing Dallas of playing some sick joke, planting someone behind the rows of shelves with a palm-shaped branding iron. Now, he'd seen enough unexplainable things to believe in most anything, even if he couldn't come close to explaining the specters and spooks that called his name at night. \n\n*\"Why are you jus' standin' there?\"* \n\nThe volume of the pleas put a splitting headache at Rhett's temples, and his hand flashed up to put aimless pressure on his throbbing skull. \n\n\"Dallas, I think we should–\" Rhett tried to get the words out, but before the word *Run,* The spirit boomed back through the air. \n\n_**\"DIG.\"**_\n\nWith that, the shingle bundle was pulled from Rhett's hands, its binding bursting as it hit the floor, sending splinters across the shop. Bo\n\nArds and half-sawn logs dislodged from their places, creating a small-scale avalanche around the men. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "The boom and crackle around them, the smell of thick smoke, the hissing words that filled their ears— it was something Dallas had unfortunately become all-too aware of. It had started with just the smell of smoke, or something falling off a shelf onto the floor. It had escalated from there— things being flung at him, or waking up with a searing pain on his side. He'd gotten cuts, scrapes, bruises, and burns where he knew he hadn't hurt himself. \n\nNow, it seemed like he wasn't the only one. \"For fuck's sake,\" He swore and shook his head as the boards and lumber corralled them in like cattle. He swore again, scowling and casting a look over his shoulder at Rhett. \"You too?\" He asked him over the loud clattering. \"Course this is the one day JD ain't at the shop,\" He shook his head, skittering back a few steps and bumping into Rhett as a few flames licked at the toe of his boots. \n\n\"Figured I was the only one dealin' with this shit.\" He grit his teeth, starting to try and push at the falling woods, hoping to find a way out of the avalanche. \"They're gonna crush us if we ain't careful!\" He warned."
},
{
"author": "RHETT TERLIng",
"message": "Rhett was taken aback by how calm Dallas was in the face of the chaos. Even though Rhett'd had his own fair share of practice responding to poltergeists in the past few weeks, these events had certainly not naturalized themselves within his psyche. Dallas' reaction seemed to be neither fight nor flight, just annoyance at the inconvenience. \n\n\"Me too?\" Rhett called, confused, clearly having chosen flight himself as he frantically pawed falling boards out of his way. As the words finally landed past his panic, he shook his head in frustration, \"Ah, yeah! I wouldn't think you'd've been followed–\" He grunted, pushing off a plank that had decently clocked him in the back of the head, \"You went down. You went into the mine.\" There was a bare moment of quiet just in time for Rhett's brief confession, \"I just ran away.\" \n\nThe crackle of flames built up at the tail end of the words and the heat broke his back out in sweat. He didn't dare look behind him, they just needed to move. \n\n*\"Help me!\"*\n*\"Please, don't leave me here!\"*\n\nThe words came in strange, shifting, overlapping echoes. Those sounds seemed somehow outside the human sphere of perception, but still they rang out clear. \n\nThe door they'd come through was just up ahead, but as they neared, a new collapse of shelving blocked off the exit. As Rhett placed his hands on the wood, he immediately pulled back at the sizzle of his palms that answered the contact. \n\n\"Fuck!\" He swore, \"It's burnin', Dallas– it don't look like it's burnin', but it... Is?\" He looked around wildly for some tool to use to move the obstacle. The heat was getting more intense by the second. If they didn't move fast, they'd be as good as matches in a tinderbox. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "In all fairness, Dallas wasn't much with expression in everyday life. He'd always needed to be reasonable, somewhat level-headed. He supposed internally, he was panicking a little, but no sense in running around like a chicken with its head cut off. \n\nHe swore as the boards and lumber shifted, those shrill wails and cries echoed around them like they were inside... A cave. *Or the mines.* \n\nThe smell of singed flesh drew his attention, and he swore under his breath. His eyes fell on a piece of metal bar that had dislodged itself, and he picked it up and swore at the heat that radiated off of it. He'd have burns on his hands, but he'd survive. He grit his teeth as he stuck it between boards, prying them away in an effort to move them. They fell, bumping into his legs and he could feel the smoldering heat through his clothing. \n\n\"Pull yer shirt up over yer nose!\" He said, the smell of smoke wafting over them. He couldn't tell if it was real or a trick of the mind, but no way in hell was he gonna risk inhaling it. He tugged his shirt up over his nose as he pushed and shoved his way through the burning inventory. His shoulder slammed against the door, getting it halfway open. Enough room for them to wiggle through, one at a time. \"Go!\" He shouted to Rhett. \"Go on, get out!\""
},
{
"author": "RHETT TERLIng",
"message": "Rhett obeyed Dallas immediately, the collar of his shirt coming up to rest on the bridge of his nose. It did cut the smoke considerably, and he silently thanked the older man's composure in chaos. When Dallas shouldered the door open, he rushed through, catching Dallas' sleeve on the way out to make sure they fled together. The door slammed shut against their backs, warm to the touch. \n\n\"What does it want from us? How do we git it to leave?\" He panted, his shirt falling back to his chest. Fearing that soon the flames would make it through to them, even as they'd reached relative safety, Rhett paced. The crackle and crash of wood succumbing to the onslaught of the blaze they'd escaped was loud and harrowing. What smoke had chased them out hovered at the ceiling, ghost-like. \n\n\"It wants me, I think. It must. I ran away from those mines, Dallas, I couldn't handle it. Not like you. It wants to punish me for bein' a coward. I cain't let it take everything from you like this, I–\" In the midst of Rhett's confessional, he noticed the smell of smoke disappear. Thinking he'd just gotten used to the stench, he stilled his nervous pacing to find that the room they'd just escaped had fallen quiet. The air was slowly cooling. \n\n\"Is that– do you hear that? S'quiet back there.\" Rhett stepped forward to press his ear to the door, not believing the nightmare was through. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "Their backs to the door, the wave of heat on the other side, he took deep breaths under the collar of his shirt to try and regain some sense of stability. He'd gotten somewhat used to the strange and rather violent things that had been happening to him, but on such a grand scale, he wasn't so sure. To know it was happening to Rhett too... It made him wonder if Mitica, his mining expedition companion, had had the same troubles. \n\nTo Rhett, he had little answer. He wasn't sure why these things had followed them— based off what Rhett said, they would've been after revenge for abandoning the mine. But Dallas didn't work the mines, and had been trying to get people *Out.* \n\nThen again, nothing in this damn town made sense anymore. He'd been halfway to telling Rhett he needed to pull himself together, when he too realized that the room was cooling. The smoke had dissipated, and everything seemed... Calm. \n\nDallas turned and faced the door, hesitating at the knob, before touching it and pulling it open once Rhett took a half step back. The room was a wreck, but the mounting flames had disappeared, leaving in its wake a charred mess, but not *Too* Much ruin in the grand scheme of things. \n\n\"...I'll be damned,\" He said. He looked over at Rhett and took a step into the room again, pushing aside charred lumber with his foot and watching it crumble. The backside of the door had scorch marks, but that was about it. \"I ain't gonna know how to explain this to JD without him thinkin' I've gone completely off my rocker.\""
},
{
"author": "RHETT TERLIng",
"message": "Rhett held his breath as Dallas went for the door. \n\n\"Dallas maybe we should–\" *Give it a second.* But the other man had already half-stepped into the room they'd flet before Rhett could get across a word of caution. He soon came to stand at Dallas' shoulder as they surveyed the damage together. A trail of coal-dusted boot prints led all the way down the floor of the stock room to where they ended just in front of the door the two men had just sheltered behind. A tiny lick of flame flickered and snuffed out at the edges of the print closest to where they stood.\n\n\"*Shit.*\" He breathed, looking up from the trail to take in the smoldering remains of the odd board or collapsed shelf. Guess he wouldn't be taking those shingles home, after all. \n\n\"With all that's been goin' on in this town, JD might believe it easier'n you think.\" Rhett ventured, knowing that he himself had changed his tune about the \"Impossible\" Since the wolves had descended on the ridge. \n\n\"I'm so sorry, Dallas.\" He offered, turning to the man, \"I kin... Well. I don't have much, but I kin pay what I've got for the damages. Help recoup summa the stock you lost. Whatever you need.\" He was entirely earnest, believing he'd been mostly at blame for the spirit that had charred the lumberyard. He couldn't imagine leaving Dallas and JD to take care of the mess on their own, even if it cost Rhett the next 6 months wages. He'd find a way to make due. He'd just have to work harder. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "\"Maybe yer right about that,\" He said. JD had a knack for believing just about anything that came out of his mouth, which made him a good friend and a gullible son of a bitch at the same time. \n\nHe looked down at those scorched boot prints and swore, shaking his head, dragging his hand through his hair. Dallas wasn't one to put the burden on somebody else. \"Bound to happen 'ventually,\" He said to him, turning to look at him and shaking his head. \"Don't worry 'bout it. Not yer problem, Rhett. You ain't done nothin' wrong here.\" \n\nHe gestured around the utterly destroyed storage room and sighed. \"Just gonna have t' start from scratch. Thankfully, got some lumber laying in the main saw room we can start workin' on...\" \n\nHe turned back to look at him. \"Sorry bout them shingles. I'll get you some soon as we can shell 'em out, though.\" For someone who'd been through something quite horrifying, Dallas seemed to be taking it surprisingly well. He'd lost more or less his entire inventory for his work... And he just shrugged a shoulder. \n\nMaybe he'd lost enough to know that a few boards and planks were nothing compared to losing a human being. That was enough to make a man cry. This? This was nothing. \n\n\"I'll get JD on overtime. Pick up a few more side projects while I'm at it...\" He scratched the back of his neck. \"I can prolly find something for shingles at home from my own stuff if yer hurtin' for em real bad.\""
},
{
"author": "RHETT TERLIng",
"message": "*'Bound to happen eventually.* Rhett refused to believe this, though he made no acknowledgement of the statement for the time being. He marveled at Dallas' composure, almost with envy. Rhett felt himself coming unraveled where he stood, and here was Dallas perfectly tensioned. \n\nAs much as Dallas assured him he'd done no wrong, a voice inside him asserted that he'd done no *Right*, either. With nowhere else to put his confusion at Dallas' calm, Rhett's mind turned to gentle suspicion. Had the other man been through something like this before? Did he know something about the source of the town's hauntings? Or did his years of age on Rhett give him the power to reason through tragedy with grace? Regardless of how gray Rhett got, he didn't think he'd ever be able to put on the face Dallas wore. \n\n\"You... I mean. You didn't do nothin' wrong, either, Dallas. You 'n JD shouldn't be made to paid for all this.\" He shook his head, considering offering his help once more, but as he thought, he realized that keeping himself on the property increased the risk of this whole event repeating itself. \n\n\"Don't worry 'bout the shingles– please. We'll be just fine.\" There were downed trees at the back of the property, and Rhett had a good sharp ax. It was the time to split shakes that he lacked, but he'd manage. \n\nHe couldn't help but broach the unspoken. Given Dallas' stoicism, the question begged:\n\"Have ya... Have ya seen somethin' like this before, Dallas? You ain't batted an eye at what this haint's done here. I just wonder... If it's familiar to ya somehow?\" \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "Dallas paused at Rhett's words, letting them slip over his skin. He had to think about the answer, seeing as there were several different ones that were all quite true. \n\n\"Yeah,\" He said after a long moment. \"If yer talkin' these ones, I been seein' em since Mitica and I went into the mines.\" He said. \"Nasty little things.\" Dallas took another pause and shifted some more ashy boards aside. \n\n\"I seen some other haints in the woods with Maxwell Morton.\" He explained. \"These ones was kids— big black eyes and soaked down to the bone.\" \n\nDallas chewed on his lip. \"Now if yer talkin' about fire... I know a thing or two about fire,\" He said, and there was something buried deep inside of him that ached. \"And I know about losing things, too. All I lost today was some lumber, nothin' that important.\" He cleared his throat. \"Coulda been worse. Coulda lost everything. I ain't too worried about some sticks and twigs.\" \n\nHe shoved his hands in his pockets and cleared his throat. \"That's why I ain't want you to worry none, Rhett. It ain't a big deal. And let me get you them shingles— least I could do.\""
},
{
"author": "RHETT TERLIng",
"message": "\"Mitica's probably been seein' 'em, too. Hope they ain't given him too much trouble.\" Rhett muttered, thinking of the other man, alone with his dog in his wagon. He'd seen Mita post up a notice in town a few days prior, and hearing his name come up again made him think back to it. Maybe he'd take him some of his grandfather's old clothes: those ones Gramma Alice kept like a decayed old shrine at the floor of her closet. Maybe he'd drop off the clothes and find a way to ask after him. Or maybe he'd lose his nerve and abandon the coats at the threshold. \n\nThe present pulled him back, Dallas' reticence catching his attention. \n\nKids with black eyes? Swimming? *Drowned?* He shuddered to think of such a sight set against the backdrop of the forest. Rhett'd probably have run away from that, too. He didn't like his own predictability. \n\nAs Dallas crept his story forward, Rhett caught himself from physically leaning into the whispers of emotion that curled into the air like smoke between them. His desire for detail was strong, but without asking, he could infer the pain and darkness that scaffolded the words from the way Dallas cleared his throat, and by all that went unsaid. The spaces between his words were nearly more important than what made it out of his mouth. Rhett was staring at him, fully infected by the silent tragedy by the time Dallas fell quiet. \n\n\"Stick an' twigs.\" He echoed, trying desperately to learn from Dallas' distance. He wanted to have the perspective his friend had. He wanted to have that cool regard for intense emotion, but instead he felt like a dumb kid, blushing and babbling in the face of anything unfamiliar. \n\n\"Thank you, Dallas. That's real good of you.\" He nodded, trying cool on for size as he struggled to keep his mouth flat and tone straight. He broke his resolve almost instantly, softening in the ensuing seconds of silence, \"You're a good man.\" \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "He shrugged his shoulder, letting out a small huff of air. A good man? Sure, he knew he wasn't a *Bad* Man, but... He wasn't sure anything he'd done in his life could laud him as being exceptionally good. He did what was expected of him, always, and just lived his life. He wasn't sure he was anyone to look up to; it was a worry for him, honestly. With his sister's baby, fresh and new in this world, he was worried about what kind of man he truly was. Would he be a good male figure in this baby's life? He wasn't so sure about it. \n\nHe cleared his throat, as if ready to wash his hands of the whole situation and move on. \"I oughta get t'... Cleanin' up. But if ya come back in a day 'er two, I should have some shingles for ya,\" He promised him. \n\nRhett was someone who remained a mystery to him. Honestly, Dallas had never been exceptional at making friends, and he wasn't sure Rhett considered them that. He supposed they were at least something like acquaintances, which Dallas would take as a positive. \n\n\"If yer really in the business 'a helpin' me, grab a broom.\" He pointed into the other room. \"Shit. Them suckers really did a number, didn't they?\" He asked, surveying the damage."
},
{
"author": "RHETT TERLIng",
"message": "Rhett was relieved at Dallas' eventual concession to being helped with the damages. He didn't know if he could have left there and not looked back, with how responsible he felt for the whole thing. It felt better to have a broom in hand, making progress to right the wrong he'd brought about– not just by showing up here and haunting Dallas with his presence, but by walking away from the disaster at the mines in the first place. Rhett wanted to be done walking away. He wanted to be more like Dallas. He wanted to set his face like stone, answering danger with a cool, unshakeable posture. \n\nThey returned the store room to an acceptable state by dinner time, setting all the charred lumber out in the yard to fuel the Sinclairs' wood stove for most of the winter months. All the while, Rhett was thinking of how to repay Dallas: what to do, what to bring him to apologize truly. In the end, though, he realized that Dallas had already forgiven him, if he'd identified any wrong Rhett'd wrought to begin with. Another inspiring quality to shape himself after. How could he train himself to have an impulse of understanding before an impulse of fear? Of anger? Maybe he'd work up the courage to ask Dallas for advice someday, but for now, a solid handshake and a spell of eye contact held too long would have to do. \n\nHe was happy to return in a few days' time for the shingles. For good measure, he left a pair of Aunt Linda's newest knitted wool gloves on the workbench for Dallas to find whenever he next settled there. \n_ _"
}
] | 337 | 5,813 |
86.666667 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "hyderation",
"message": "Welcome to Hell. \n\nIt's hot. It's muddy. It's muggy. The cicadas are screaming in your ears. The ground is so damp that your boots sink into the earth below. The mosquitoes are latching on to every spare bit of skin you've got. How are your characters coping on the trail?"
},
{
"author": "JD Monroe",
"message": "JD is walking, probably silently as per the usual for the time being, next to Dallas. He's doing pretty okay in the mud, just trying to look around and make sure nothing goes unnoticed"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "Florian is not having a good time with all the mosquitoes but is trying not to swat at them constantly so he can stay still and not make Owen's job of carrying him harder than it needs to be. He is clearly nervous, looking around and trying to see if any of the surroundings are familiar."
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "To Owen, Florian is about as light as a feather, and he doesn't mind the younger man's movements on his back. Ever so often, he glances over to JD and Dallas, brows furrowing whenever he does so."
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "If no one would mind, Ruth would be leading the procession, to take the first wave of a threat on herself, if necessary. She knew she wasn't the one who should have been deciphering the notes and the maps, yet she couldn't get the shaky drawings off her mind. At points she would stop to check if everyone was doing fine and if someone needed help or rest. Fortunately, her skin was too thick to be bothered much by mosquitoes, but the various sounds would be slightly agitating to her."
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "Dallas is alright with the mud, though he is less enthusiastic about the mosquitoes. He is even less thrilled about how humid it is. His clothes are sticking to him, and he's agitated by the shrill buzzing of cicadas and mosquitoes near his ears. He's sticking close to JD all the while, gun in his grip, because God knows he's seen shit in these woods. He's probably also sticking himself right behind Ruth in the procession if he can help it."
},
{
"author": "Narrator",
"message": "As the procession made its way through the thick underbrush, all but one missed it: a horse's lead tied 'round the trunk of a slender tree. JD spotted it. He also spotted a set of hoof prints a small way down where the earth had turned from mud to gravel now that they were closer to the falls. The whole party could hear them rumbling from where they walked just inside the tree line. The horse's hoofprint appeared to be running away from the falls. \n\nOnly a hand's width away from it it, nearly unrecognizable were it not for its claws and the fact that JD was intimately familiar with such tracks, was a wolf's print. It was massive - at least two times bigger than that of the horse's. \n\nFreddie's note had mentioned a horse. *Angel* Was her name. He'd asked that they bring her back. Said that she liked red apples and that the Esteps were fine with her havin' a few free of charge.\n\nDid they dare follow the hoofprints and wolf tracks or continue their trek towards the cave? \n\n` Please use this chance to discuss how the party will move forward! Splitting up is acceptable *At any time during this quest*, but I will make a separate thread for that action!`"
},
{
"author": "JD Monroe",
"message": "JD is trudging along when he notices the prints, both hooves and wolf, as well as the lead. He squints, just to make sure he's seeing what he's seeing. \"Hey!\" He says, and points them out. \n\n\"Horse tracks. Wolf tracks too.\" He motions to both. \"A lead too. Might help us.\""
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "Florian would suggest they take the lead with them in case they come across Angel on the way back, but wants to continue to the cave behind the waterfall. He _knows_ Freddie has been there, Angel can wait (even if he fears that she might not have made it) Freddie cannot. Freddie wouldn't have left that lead behind, meaning he must still be in that cave, they had to hurry."
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "\"I think we need to keep looking for Freddie, but I agree with Florian on taking the lead in case we find her somewhere.\"\n\nHe doesn't actually believe that Angel is still alive, the mere thought tugging harshly on his heartstrings, but Freddie is more important."
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "Ruth would vouch for staying together and following the original path. Tracking a werewolf would be a needless risk, especially when they had Florian to take care of. In addition, there was a higher chance that Freddie had abandoned his horse rather than suddenly changed his direction."
},
{
"author": "Dallas Sinclair",
"message": "Dallas would point out that Freddie was seeking out a werewolf, wasn't he? Who was to say that Freddie even made it to the cave to begin with? But he's also not one for arguing, and Florian was clearly insistent, so he's just set to follow his lead, to a degree. Though, he's gripping his gun a little tighter. Even if he knows the wolf isn't in it's form anymore, he's not about to drop his guard."
}
] | 69.5 | 1,040 |
290.666667 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "JD Monroe",
"message": "JD hated what had happened. He didn't feel good about it. He knew what he did had to be done in the moment, he knew that they were in danger and that without the shot there was a chance that more people could have died but.. \n\nA person did die, and he did not feel good about it. He felt like a murderer, whether he was one or not. He felt like he had done something that neither God nor himself would ever forgive him for. His life seemed to be filled with moments like those, things he knew were wrong and yet had taken hol of him anyway. \n\nHe had been avoding most people since then, the only other person he had really gone to see was Dallas. Dallas was different from most people, Dallas understood him but even with Dallas he wondered if deep down Dallas saw him as the murderer he was. He wondered if everyone did. He took in a deep breath as he sat, watchign the waterfall. \n\nHe had brought his fishing gear in hopes that would make him feel better, feel something outside of the weighing feeling of gult but as of now he could not even bring himslf to lift the pole, to thread the line or to bait the hook. He didn't feel as if he deserved the relaxation, but until he did, until he could muster himself up to do it, he sat, and he watched the waterfall."
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "Going back to business as usual was proving... Difficult. Emery couldn't keep their mind from slipping back to the Sheriff as they cut away through fat and bones, having to close the shop after only a few hours. They felt restless in the apartment and didn't want to be downstairs, which led them to picking up an old rod and heading out to where they heard the good finishing spot was. Perhaps they just should have taken a walk, left hunting for another day, but now they could at least tell themselves it was going towards work and not just a bad excuse to clear their mind. \n\nThe cold did them good, untainted snow crunching under their boots as they made their way towards the sounds of cascading water. They saw someone near the shore edge, only able to tell who it was as they got closer and even still not able to tell if he was coming or going, standing stock still. \n\n\"JD?\" They called his name, still standing a few paces away, not trying to scare him. Lord knows everyone in town was on edge. \n\nThey'd never properly met though Emery had seen him around town, during meetings at the Davis ruins, hearing his name when someone shouted to *\"Leave its face\"*. Emery couldn't imagine what he must be feeling. Almost everyone in town was calling him a hero for doing what he did but the man standing before them didn't look any type a proud. Not that Emery could say they'd do any different having been in his shoes. It was *Necessary*, yes, but that didn't mean what had happened was good. \n\n\"You mind if I join you?\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "JD Monroe",
"message": "JD heard the footsteps approaching behind him, and he was quick to turn and look. When he heard is name it put him at ease a bit, that at the very least the thing approaching him was a human. That was all he really needed to know. He didn't really care much about who it was, as long as they didn't have snarling teeth. But he supposed anyone could now days. \n\nHe looked over at the person who had approached and he arched a brow before nodding to the spot next to him. \"Go right ahead.\" He said as he looked back out at the waterfall. He moved his fishing gear to the other side so that the other could find a spot easier, and took in a deep breath. \n\n\"How're you doin'?\" He asked, looking over at them. \"Seems like everyone is havin' a little trouble these days..\" He said, his voice in a tone similar to a mumble. \"Not that I can blame em'..\" He trailed off as he reached for his pole, and glanced out at the water again, still moving slowly as he tried his best to get what he came for started. \n\nHe looked down at the pole and sighed, before looking out at the water. \"Doubt I'll be catchin mucha anything in this weather, huh?\""
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "\"Doin' as well as I can be.\" They answered with a smile, though their voice betrayed them. Rough from lack of sleep and unwillingness to take care of themselves. Their under eyes dark, almost puffy.\n\nEmery was, decidedly, not a fisher. They had been a few times in their life mostly out of necessity, it always seeming like the type of activity they would *Like* To like rather than one they actually did. As such, they only remembered they needed bait when nearly out the door. So when they pulled out a hastily wrapped package of bits of chicken from their pocket they feigned a confidence they didn't have in front of JD who clearly looked more equipped for the sport. \n\n\"Yeah,\" Emery chuckled, spearing some bait onto the hook, \"Didn't think much about the weather when I headed out. But, never hurts to try, does it?\"\n\nThere was a beat of silence before they were talking again, \"I'm Emery, by the way. Aiken. Don't know if we've been introduced but I've seen you round. We're in those werewolf, uh, meetin's...\" The word 'werewolf' felt vile now, wrong in their mouth and like it drew all the unseen eyes of the forest to them. \n\n\"Nice to speak to you outside all... That.\" They smiled at JD, again, trying to tamp down their own worries. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "JD Monroe",
"message": "He shook his head, \"Surely doesn't. I've caught in weather like this before, I'm sure I will again..\" He said as he looked down at the water, but nothing was really biting yet. That was fine, he had time. He wasn't expected at the lumber yard today so this was really all he had to do. \n\nAs the other spoke again to introduce themselves. \"Nice ta' meet ya.. I'm JD.. Think you know that, I know you yeah.. From the.. Meetins'..\" He said clearing his throat. \"Terrible we even gotta have those things..\" He said taking in a deep breath, and running a hand through his hair before he leaned forward to watch the water again. \n\nHe nodded as the other continued, \"Sure.. Ain't seem like there is much outside of all that now.. It's all I think bout.. Think most people feel the same.\" He said as he shrugged, \"It's hard not to, huh?\" He said letting out a deep breath. \n\n\"I ain't know how this is going to end.. But I don't think it'll be well.\" He turned t look at the other, \"You from Briar Ridge?\""
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "Emery listened as they balanced their pole against themselves, awkwardly grabbing the hook and spearing a small bit of the raw meat onto it. Their hand lingered when they did so, lost for a moment in the sickly shine of flesh before a flash of Sheriff Rowe came to mind, the morning sun shining across the blackened gore that could hardly be called a body. \n\n\"Yeah... You ain't alone in that, sure been all I been able to think of. Think you'd have to be crazy not to.\" They took the fishing pole properly, pausing for a few seconds before casting the line out across the half frozen pool of water, almost surprised it didn't end up on a chunk of ice or in the branch of a tree. \n\n\"Sure don't seem like it now...\" Their voice was quiet, strained almost as they agreed, unwilling to speak into existence the thought of this town ending drenched in blood. \n\n\"Naw, I'm from down in Chattanooga, spent most my life there 'fore wanderin' round for a while and windin' up here back in... I think it was 'round October?\" Had it really only been a few short months? They could remember every full moon since their arrival and yet the time in between seemed to stretch and morph, their fondness for this strange town running deeper with every passing day. \n\n\"Feels like I been here longer than that.\" They huffed a laugh, looking over to JD, \"And yourself? You been here long?\" \n\n||"
}
] | 288 | 1,744 |
403.047619 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Please note that this thread contains somewhat graphic descriptions of injury. \n\n\n\nA light cloud cover had laid itself over the rising moon, casting the forest in a hazy sort of glow as the hour grew late. \n\nFreddie's departure had been a quiet one, though not without the shine of unshed tears in blue eyes as he had bidden his parents goodbye and shared in one last bittersweet kiss with his lover. \n\"I'll be back before you know it, I'm tellin' ya. 'Fore the sun's even come up, I swear, I'll be back in your waitin' arms.\"\nHe had placed a folded note in Florian's hand, with the express condition that it was only to be opened should he fail to keep his promise. Within, the words detailed the route and actions he planned to take when it came to finding the whereabouts of the werewolf pack, along with the plea that, if he were to somehow fail, any Coalition member who saw fit to take action would follow in his footsteps. He had wanted to do this alone. To prove that he could do it alone. An act of vengeance to become the trial of a hero - a hero armed with silver and wolfsbane, intent upon cleansing Briar Ridge of its plague once and for all. \nOf course, that was a pipe dream. He'd be content if he could only find the wolf that had stopped Valerian's beating heart, that had clawed great deep wounds into Florian's perfect form, and kill it. It had breathed more air than it ever deserved to. \n\nAll of that stopped tonight. \n\nAngel, loyal steed that she made, huffed and groaned beneath him as he urged her on. \"Just a little farther, girl, come on now. Good, keep goin'.\" How would he ever have gotten this far without her? His sweet coal-pit pony, devoted to her rider and his cause, had become more than a horse to him. She was his friend, and his pride and joy, and when all of this was over she'd have all the apples she could ever long for, he'd already promised her all he could.\n\nHe could hear the rushing of the waterfall just up ahead. She would not be able to follow him there, and thus, when the roar grew louder, he found a good place at which to dismount, and slid from the saddle. Making sure to pet her nose one last time as he tied her to a sturdy tree by her halter, he took a moment to press his forehead to hers, to look into those wise brown eyes. \n\n\"Wish me luck, pretty lady. Wait patient. I'll be back for you.\" \n\nAngel blew out a puff of air in response, which Freddie took as her saying *Yes, I'll wait*, and he grinned. With a final pat, and a check of his pistol in its holster, he pushed his way through into the falls' clearing, and looked up to the rocks that lay ahead.\n~"
},
{
"author": "Narrator",
"message": "``` PERCEPTION CHECK ROLL: 18 ```\n\nMy, my! Ain't it just the sweetest thing when folks make promises with nothin' but dreams in their heads and love in their hearts? Maybe, if Freddie's heart had been good n' pure, he would be able to keep his promise. But it wasn't; it'd been tainted with hate the same way S&C's runoff now crept through the creeks and seeped into the soil. An illness wrought by his own hands n' it was only gettin' worse. \n\nBut I digress. \n\nAs Freddie crept towards the falls, Angel snorted in fear. She tugged at the rope that bound her, her instincts crying for her to run as the first of the howls picked up. Their voices rose and blended together in a hungry song that was half-covered by the roar of the cascades. The waterways were swollen with spring stormwater, transforming the lazy creeks into churning rapids that'd gladly sweep Freddie away if he slipped on the moss-covered boulders. Thankfully, his path was relatively clear. All he had to do was follow their song. But... Something was off. \n\nAnother round of howling sounded off but, this time, it was *Closer*. The waterfall had covered what he didn't hear the first time. There was a beast that was *Free* Out there in them woods *With him*. If he wanted a chance at surviving, he'd best prepare. He might be able to outrun the beast on Angel. Or, he could squeeze himself into the cave system behind the falls and pray that he didn't slip into the water in his mad dash. It was quite a bit of distance to cover and not so much time left. \n\nThe choice was his."
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "The howls came sooner than he'd hoped they would.\n\nIt made sense, if he took a moment to think about it, but thinking ahead had never been Freddie's forte. If he was as close to the den of wolves as April, Lord rest her sickened soul, had claimed he was, then of course he'd hear them sooner. Just because they didn't make their way to town until late on the full-moon nights didn't mean the wolves weren't *Out there*. \n\nAngel was a good horse, sturdy and reliable, but not a fast one. \n\nReally, he had no choice but to head for the cover of the caves. Perhaps their winding paths would lead him right to the beasts' metaphorical front door. \nAnd so he ran full-pelt for the raging water, and dove for the space behind its veil. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Narrator",
"message": "``` DEXTERITY CHECK ROLL: NAT 20``` \n\nFreddie was a *Natural* - just as much a product of the holler as these creatures were of the night. He flew across those boulders like his life depended on it (and it most certainly did). He dove through the waterfall and into a cavern without skidding on the water-slick stone just in time for a dark shape to slip out of the trees. Angel screamed and frothed at the mouth in a panic where he'd left her. The rushing white waters warped the creature, making it difficult to identify. All Freddie could tell was that its fur was dark and it was *Massive*. Bigger'n a black bear. It seemed to be confused, sniffing at the rocks Freddie had only just been leaping across a few moments ago. \n \nIf Freddie were to look around this cavern, he would see that it was simply a large depression in the rock face. This close to the waterfall, he could hear nothing - not even the howls of the wolves. That meant he had to be in the wrong cave. What was it April had told him? *There's a big rock in front of it.* There were *A lot* Of big rocks. And a seven foot tall monster just outside. He could prepare for an attack here, or he could tear his focus away from the beast long enough to hunt for signs of the opening. Neither option seemed particularly pleasant."
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Shaking just a little with the adrenaline of the near-miss, Freddie paused for a brief moment. Time was precious, but he needed to evaluate his surroundings, he needed to consider his options. It seemed there were few of those. But he would press on, determined to end this once and for all. Any risk he took seemed insignificant compared to the greater threat - the threat to Florian's safety. His breath puffed out long and slow from just-parted lips.\n\nHe took his gun from its holster at his hip, and clicked off the safety. Just in case.\nIf the creature's nose led it to him, he would be ready. But he didn't want to risk firing the first shot. At least, not yet. Each of those five silver bullets he had were precious, the wolfsbane-coated round most of all. He couldn't waste them.\n\nHe pressed his back against the rock-face, and decided that the best (and driest) option would be to inch along the narrow cave and search for another passage or something to climb.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Narrator",
"message": "Freddie chose to search the cavern. It was a wise move to press his back up against that far wall. With his combined years of working in the belly of the earth, he knew just what to look for. A divot. A crack. Scrapes along the cave floor. Footprints. Anything that might indicate he'd found what he needed. \n\nExcept the next time his eyes lifted to check the waterfall, the creature's silhouette was *Gone*. That was the last damn thing Freddie needed. \n\nHis search renewed, frantic. His fingers slid into a crack. It was tight. Just barely over a foot. It'd be a squeeze, but Freddie could manage it. God knew the number of times S&C had sent its men spelunking deep into the mountain through spaces that made you wish you'd never eaten lunch that day. It just might be the entrance Fred—\n\nThat smell was hair curling. \n\nIf Freddie had heard the testimonies of survivors before, he'd know the smell always comes first. A nausea-inducing mixture of rancid meat and moldy fur tainted the sweet smell of rushing water. By the time his head turned, it was already too late. \n\nHe was tackled to the ground with a sickening *Crunch* Of bones. The pain so shocking, so immediate, that it stole the breath he'd inhaled to scream with. The beast's claws ripped into his chest, raking down his abdomen. He found himself face to face with a nearly all-black beast savoring its victory. A grey crest on its chest and brown fur painting its withers. In its excitement at the feast bleeding and pinned beneath its weight, frothy drool splashed from its maw onto Freddie's exposed skin. \n\nBut Freddie was prepared.\n\nA shot rang out from his pistol. Thank the Lord he had took hold of it earlier, cause it shot true. The werewolf screamed - *Screamed!* - and scrambled back as if stunned that its prey could ever manage such an assault against nature's purest form. Great drops of black blood rained down, sizzling onto him while the beast thrashed and crashed against the cavern's walls. That wolfsbane-coated silver bullet burned and hissed and boiled in its flesh. It frantically raked its own claws through its skin, digging and gouging and *Distracted*. \n\nThis was Freddie's only chance at escape. He had to act. NOW!"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "It was as though time fell into agonising slow-motion. \n\nFrom the moment he realised the wolf's hulking shadow had vanished from view, his heart had begun to pound harder than he'd thought possible. He had done all he could to calm himself, picturing Florian's voice in the back of his head. *Be strong* It said, *Be brave*, and all Freddie had ever known how to do was be brave. Was it not bravery that had gotten him this far, courage that had brought him here to the falls to fulfil the destiny he had forged for himself? And was it not for Florian that he had been strong through all of this, since the midwinter night when the beasts had ravaged the Barca family and their home? \n\nBravery, or foolishness. Courage, or idiocy. \n\nThe air had been robbed from his lungs before he fell. Or, more accurately, was *Knocked* Backwards by the force of pound upon pound of sickened, rotting beast. \nFreddie's small stature had proven useful in the past. He could fit into cracks others could not, and find shelter in places that would be nothing to a larger man. But in the slowed-down seconds between claws tearing into his chest and his back hitting the sharp, uneven rock of the cave's floor, he found himself wishing he could have been bigger, weighed heavier, stood even a chance at absorbing the impact as it collided with him full-force. \n\nIt hurt. Of course it hurt. His vision bloomed into scattered stars as he gasped for air only to use it to cry out in agony as his skin was ripped to ribbons. If the moonlight had been bright enough to show him the blood as it saturated his shirt, perhaps he would have lost consciousness entirely in that moment. But, by some unknown blessing, the next breath brought back his sight, and with it, his wits. He was lucky, he supposed, that he had avoided hitting his head in the struggle.\n\nThe barrel of the gun pressed against the werewolf's massive black ribcage, and he squeezed the trigger with all his might. \n\nFive silver bullets became four, and the vast creature fell back with a scream not unlike Freddie's own only a moment before it. \n\nThough it felt as though every movement tore at each atom of his exposed flesh, Freddie took his chance, and rolled with all his might to the side. He pulled his knees to his gaping chest, pushed himself up first onto all fours and then, as the beast continued to hiss and shriek at the burn of the silver, dragged himself up on a rocky outcrop within the damp and unforgiving wall. \nOn his feet, unsteady as they might have been, and dripping scarlet in his wake, Freddie ran. Where he would go other than through the crevice, he wasn't sure, and what he might find deeper within the cave system didn't bear thinking about, but *This was not over*.\n\nFor as long as he could still breathe, and for as long as silver still shone within the chambers of the pistol, he would keep moving. The pain did not bear thinking about - if he allowed it to consume him, he would fall, and falling here would be to be lost to the pack and the dark and interminable night. \nHe had a lover to return to come dawn, so to give in to his injuries was, frankly, not an option.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Narrator",
"message": "Adrenaline was a beast in its own right. A normal person would've laid down ready to die after Freddie's injuries, but he most certainly did not. He should have. Those broken bones would make every inhalation painful. Nor could it possibly feel good when he would need to suck in his gut to get through that crevice he'd spotted, but he did it anyway. By the time the werewolf had ripped the silver from its torso and come back for more, all it could get through the opening in the cave was its arm. It snarled and howled its rage at him before it dashed off into the night. \n\nFreddie could hear the waterfall churning outside the room he'd squeezed himself into, but the odd angles of the walls and stalagmites made it sound as if the room was almost *Humming*. The frequency was low and steady and so strong that Freddie might even feel the vibrations through the soles of his shoes and the tips of his teeth. If only he had a magical bone in his body... He might know something more of this place. Or, he might notice that he wasn't truly alone. A haint lingered at the entrance of the crevice he'd just slipped in through, observing. It made the air in the cavern colder'n usual. That, combined with his previous splash through the waterfalls and bloodloss meant that Freddie had a deck that was already stacked like Hell against him. \n\nImportantly, there were no additional werewolf sounds. That was good. Freddie could take a moment to address his wounds and staunch the bleeding. Or, if he feared he would run out of grit if he stopped, he could explore the room to see if he might find an alternative route to the pack's whereabouts."
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "It was dark. But Freddie was used to the dark. All those hours spent down the mines, miles underground, from a tender age... Well, they had to be good for something other than making him cough and wheeze late at night as he lay in his bed. He blinked, and hoped that his eyes would adjust. They did, somewhat, but not enough. He clutched his pistol, finger never leaving the trigger, and wished that he'd had the sense to bring a lantern or candle, rather than falling into fantasy and letting himself believe a fallen tree-branch lit and held aflame would be enough. \nHe did not yet light his makeshift torch. It could wait. \n\nInstead of sight, then, he relied on touch. He began an unsteady walk around the perimeter of the room - could it be called a room, carved from rock by nature's hand and centuries of water? Or was it merely an opening, a temporary reprieve? He would not stop to think of the blood seeping from his chest wounds nor the way each step and each breath felt as though they were tearing him farther and farther open. \nPerhaps it was a benefit to him that, despite Charlie Marsh's warnings in the barn months ago, he had not truly ceased to bind his body in bandages to conceal what lay beneath. If even a few of those tight wrappings had still held steady against the tearing of claws... Why, then they were holding him together, at least partially. \nIf he felt a rib slip out of place, then he ignored it. If the cold and the bleeding made him begin to shiver, then wasn't the goal of a shiver to keep a man warm in a dangerous place?\n\nHe felt his way around the cave's walls, and hoped he might find another gap to slip through, albeit wishing for a wider one this time. Or perhaps an opening overhead, something to climb, or a shaft leading down. \n\nA miner was not afraid of the underground, after all. And he still had April's cave to find, and a promise to keep. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Narrator",
"message": "Freddie's determination was commendable. It was stubbornness like this that made men into legends. \n\nIf Freddie lived long enough to tell the tale. \n\nThis chamber was much smaller than the last, but there was no more moonlight drifting through the waterfalls to guide him. All he had was his sense of touch and a small crack of light that was quickly absorbed by the inky depths of the cavern, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. He would sometimes find himself stepping out into an adjacent room, only to re-enter the main cavity he'd found himself in. The wall took a sharp inward curve, bringing him near the center of the room. Fresh, red dripped onto the ancient floor, and the hum grew louder. \n\nA light appeared directly beside Freddie's left foot. It glowed a soft hazy blue, then spread. There were carvings etched into this floor. They swirled and curled in an ancient language that Freddie likely would never have encountered lest he enjoyed spending his free time pouring over encyclopedias detailing long-forgotten languages. Each meticulous stroke filled and swam to life, bringing the room to life. They formed a circle that took up the center of the room and, at the center, sat an altar. Freddie had unknowingly trailed his blood around half of the semicircle in a clockwise direction. There were additional carvings in the altar, but it was only half-lit. It waited. No, it *Wanted* More. It called to him. Commanding him to finish what he'd started. To abandon his quest in trade for *Knowledge*. It *Promised* It would help. He need only complete his task. \n\nNow that he was further away from the waterfall, Freddie could now make out the sound of *Howling* Nearby. Caves were known for playing tricks on the senses, but Freddie could venture deeper into the caves. Pray he found the right one and fulfilled his duty. Exterminated the pack. Make them taste his wrath. \n\n*If* He found them.\n\nBut he should stay. This thought wormed its way into his mind, imploring him to *See reason.He wouldn't possibly survive another attack. He needed to be logical about this. Let someone help him. **I'll help you. I promise. Just do me this one thing, darling.***"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Disoriented, Freddie could have sworn that he'd taken enough turns to be out of this room by now. But he couldn't see enough to know for sure, so he just kept *Going*, trailing fingertips over rough-hewn rock, allowing the walls to guide him onward - or at least he hoped it was onward. He was dizzy, feeling as though he'd done nothing but turn and turn and cough and *Drip-drip-drip* Upon the floor. \n\nAnd then - light. But not the kind of light Freddie knew. Neither moonlight nor dawn (and thank the Lord, for he'd not made half enough headway for it to be dawn just yet, the moon was barely a-shining last he remembered... But did he remember *Right*, or was the pain going to his head despite his best efforts to push onward?) and brighter than both combined, and he stopped in his tracks.\n\n*Stay.* \n\nHe could stay in this room a while, couldn't he? The werewolf couldn't fit through the tiny crack he'd wormed through. So it stood to reason that he'd be safe here, if he rested, if he just took one short moment to stand in that soft blue light. \nHe had always preferred orange to blue, but that didn't seem to matter, as he took small, unsteady steps towards the now-revealed altar.\n\nSomething compelled him to reach out and touch it. \nAnd then he spoke to it. He knew enough to know that an altar meant worship. Like the church. And if he were in a church, was the Lord listening? Was He smiling down upon Freddie Lovejoy and his mission to cleanse Briar Ridge of its lycan curse?\n\"Hello? Wh-what should I do?\"\n\nBlood wet his lips as he forced them to form the words. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Narrator",
"message": "***Hello, you sweet thing, you.*** The voice hummed in his head. No, purred. She - yes, *She* - sounded like the purr of a mama cougar. Protective and loving and wild.\n\nNow that Freddie had approached the altar, he could see what lay inside. Its outer walls were raised to catch liquid with, but only by an inch or so. Indentations had been carved out to allow liquid to flow down its sides, but it was dry. Dry as the bones that sat inside. Bones that Freddie had to squint at a bit to identify. That right there was a tibula. And that was a femur. Now that? That one was obvious. It was a dislocated jaw with the bottom row of teeth *Mostly* Attached. It cradled a partially burnt candle.\n\n***Easy! Just light my candle for me n' take it with you. You're lookin' to go deeper, right? I'll make sure that light don't go out so long as you keep hold of it. See, I can't leave this room without firelight, n' I'm just lonely's'all! If you take me with you, I'll show you all the nooks n' crannies in this whole mountainside. There's a whole world down here, n' I wouldn't want you to go n' get lost in it.***"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "A candle was made to burn, more than Freddie's now pathetic-seeming stick ever had been, and it would cast a light upon the cave walls and floor and ceiling, and take him onward. And the voice... Not God. But still a voice that brought him the same kind of warm, familiar feeling that prayer did, and she called him a *Sweet thing* And he was sweet, wasn't he? He had always tried to be good, and kind, and respectful, particularly when it came to ladies. Was the voice still a lady if it were inside his own head? He thought so. \n\n\"I'd like ta go deeper,\" He agreed, nodding his head and then stopping almost immediately, because it made things feel like they were spinning again. He squeezed his eyes shut, and then opened them again, and the blue light was still there. Not a dream, then, or a hallucination procured up by a brain lacking in proper bloodflow. \nNot that there was *Anything* Wrong with his blood, thank you very much. Besides the fact that it was staining his clothes and felt awfully warm and sticky against otherwise chilled skin. \nHis mouth tasted like metal, and he fought the urge to spit out on the pretty altar and its carvings.\n\n\"Are you gonna come with me, Miss?\" \n\nHe was already leaning over the candle, his gun returned to its holster temporarily so he could fish his matchbox from his pocket and strike one. \n\n\"I ain't mind the company. An' I don't know my way so well. I'm lookin' for a cave with a big rock afore the entrance, an' the cave's full'a werewolves. I wanna kill the one what hurt my Florian. Kin you help me find it if I take the light?\"\n\nHe lit the match after two unsuccessful tries, and held it to the withered wick. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Narrator",
"message": "***Of course, darlin'. Of course,*** The woman's voice soothed, expectant. \n\nFrom its place near the exit, the haint opened its mouth. If Freddie looked up, he'd see a man. A farmer. He was an old, leathery thing who'd spent his final days nursing his pipe. He was bone-skinny - or maybe that was the decomposition. A wild shock of a white beard still clung to his chin, which was now opened so wide that it touched his chest. His lips didn't move as a sound came howling out of him, desperate and loving all the same: \"*Violet!*\" \n\nAnd the haint was gone. \n\nFlame touched ancient wick and it sparked right to life. Orange joined the blue. And so did red. In leaning over the altar, Freddie *Drip-drip-dripped* Down onto the bones. His blood slid into the indentations. The humming noise grew louder. Now, though, it was voices humming. Something discordant and cacophonous, then a pervasive silence as the blue light began to be withdrawn from the outermost sigils. They seemed to climb onto the candle, etching their way in to its tallow until all that remained was the bright orange light of the candle. \n\nFreddie would feel something gentle envelope him as he looked at that flame. Like a mama's arms wrapping around him and piecing him back together. The cave wasn't so cold anymore. It didn't hurt to breathe quite so much. He could move his head and it didn't swim as bad. \n\n***Thank you,*** The spirit hummed. ***I cain't tell you how many years it's been. I'd love to give you company n' to help you find that cave. I don't recommend goin' in the front, though. I can help you find the back way. Help you surprise 'em. Try walkin' along that back wall there. You'll see where to climb now that I'm here. In the meantime, why don't you tell me what that wolf looks like?***\n\n```FREDDIE LOVEJOY HAS RECEIVED THE COMFORT OF FIRE PERK! HE HAS GAINED A +2 HEALTH MODIFIER FOR AS LONG AS HE IS WITHIN THE CANDLE'S RADIUS (15 FEET). HIS INJURIES ARE NOT HEALED, BUT ONLY PATCHED TEMPORARILY. HE WILL STILL REQUIRE IMMEDIATE MEDICAL ASSISTANCE ONCE THE CANDLE FLICKERS OUT!```"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Another voice broke through the humming, and Freddie paused for a moment over the match, looking up to try to locate the source of the sound. He only saw it for a second, just long enough to recognise that it was the figure of a man, and then, gone. Had it been real at all? What had he said?\n*Violet.*\n\"Little violet,\" Florian had taken to calling him lately, when they were alone at night entwined in one another's embrace. \"Goodnight, little violet,\" He'd say, and Freddie would whisper back, \"Goodnight, love.\" *Love*. The reason he was here. The reason he had to keep fighting. For Florian, to make it back to his arms by dawn, in time to sleep til late morning. \n\nThe flame caught, and the candle burst into light. With the light came an unusual amount of warmth, or perhaps that was just Freddie's fancy, cold as he'd been until that very moment. Suddenly, the wounds in his chest didn't feel quite so raw (though he still had no desire to investigate them further) and the haze that had been enshrouding his thoughts retreated, just enough to let him think. \n\nHe sighed, and let the mysterious voice soothe him, like warm water over grazed palms. He could do this. And so he did as she directed him, heading for the back wall, glad now that he could at least see where he was placing his footsteps. \nHe did his best to avoid the blood, though he could see he'd already walked his way through one or two of the worst pools. \n\n\"You're kind,\" He murmured. \"You're good. Thank you, Miss. The wolf... I ain't seen it myself, but Flor's told me all about it. It's *Huge*, so he says. Brown all over, but a real dark brown, so it mighta looked black to some folks. Horrid glowin' eyes, *Stinks* - but I think they might all stink, the one that attacked me behind the waterfall sure stunk to high heaven, mark my words.\" He paused, thinking back to the things Florian had said about the wolf.\n\n\"He stabbed it. In the belly with a silver knife. An' his brother shot it in the shoulder with a round'a silver too. So it mighta scarred it here or there.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Narrator",
"message": "Freddie's fingers wrapped around the jaw, lifting it and the candle from its place on the altar. Whoever had crafted the candle had taken the time to affix it to the center of the jaw by melting wax until it attached itself to (and through) the front-most teeth. It was more artistic than useful, but the wax would hold true so long as the wick didn't burn too low. When he removed it, the cave seemed to let out a great sigh of relief. The candle didn't waver. \n\nShe illuminated a larger rock that would be easily scalable for someone who wasn't quite so injured. He would have to set her down in nooks and crannies to reach the opening that was just barely visible over the curve of the outcropping, but he could manage it so long as he took his time. \n\n***Flor? What a sweet nickname. He must be very special to you,*** She hummed with all the patience in the world. ***Dark brown n' all scarred up? I may just know exactly the wolf you're thinking of. She's in these caves alright, but we'll have to be careful. The climb in n' out won't be easy. N' you're hurt as it is. Be careful, okay? We got all night.***"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Freddie looked up at the rock face and swallowed hard. On any other day, he'd have scaled it as easy as he would a ladder, but in the state he was in, he didn't think it'd be easy. \nHe'd make it, though. He had to.\n\nTo distract himself as he began to climb, with the candle nestled safe on an outcrop, he thought of Florian, and nodded along to the voice. \"He is... He's the most special person in the whole world, I think. You ain't gotta let my sisters know I said that, mind. Think they might get jealous.\" \n\nHe reached up, not as high as he would have liked to as the stretch tugged on his wounds, and took the first step up, then another, and another. \nHis teeth grit with the effort, and he refused to look down to see how far he'd gotten. There was no down, and there was no turning back. Only up, and onwards, to find the wolf.\n\n\"I'm always careful- agh.\" As he spoke, his foot slipped, and he had to scramble for a new hold before he fell right back to where he'd started. The impact crushed his chest against the sharp stone, knocking the air from his lungs with a grunt of pain and exertion. \"*Shit*... Shit. I'm okay, I'm okay.\" A moment's pause, breathing hard, trying to refocus on the heat of the small flame and the positioning of his body, and then he pushed himself up again.\n\nLittle by little, inch by inch, making sure he didn't leave his light too far behind to reach for. \n\n\"Doesn't have to be easy. Just has to be doable.\"\n\nAnother pause. He could see the opening. He just needed to drag himself through it, then he could lie on the floor and award himself a breather. Just for a minute or so. \n\n\"You said - you said *She*? So it's a woman, this werewolf?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Narrator",
"message": "The candle laughed at Freddie's quick joke about his sisters' jealousy. It sounded like a bubbling creek on a warm summer's day. It was the kind of noise that could soothe even the sourest of hearts, but it was broken by a gasp of alarm when he slipped. ***Are you okay, sugar?*** She called down to him, her light flickering as if she was flitting back and forth in a panic over him. \n\nHe reassured her, but her flickering persisted until he inched himself up off the ground again. \n\n***It's doable, sweetie. It's doable. I did it all the time before I got stuck down here. N' if I could do it, you can too!*** \n\nThe candle didn't goad him on or urge him forward. It waited for him to catch his breath, bathing him in her warmth. \n\n***Yes, she's a woman when the moon doesn't take her. I catch glimpses of them as they walk by. It's usually a somber thing. They don't speak to each other much in the mornings after.*** \n\nOnce Freddie pulled himself up and through this crevice, he would be grateful for the candle's light. It was pitch black in this section of the cavern. It stretched out as far as the eye could see in both directions. A wind blowed through, though, promising an opening that would lead him back out to the forest.\n\n***Take the left. It'll be a long walk from here. Mind your step and find something to cover me with. This is where the bats like to roost. Most of them should be out for the hunt, but they won't take kindly to me being here if they spot us.***"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "What a blessing it had been, to find that room with the altar and the glow and the candle. To have the kind lady's voice call out to him, and to have her keep him company on his journey. So he had had to be ripped open to make his way there, but her light would comfort him, her flame keep him warm, her voice guide his way. He couldn't have done this alone... Could he? Well, perhaps he could've, but he didn't have to, and for that he was grateful. \n\nAt the top of his seemingly endless climb, Freddie pulled himself through the space overhead, and stretched himself out across the ground until his lungs felt like they were burning less, until the sharp stabbing pains in his ribs subsided enough for him to first sit, and then stand once more. He clutched the candle in its grisly holder close, and shielded the flame as he felt the wind blow through his hair. He wouldn't let it go out. \n\n\"I wish I had a lantern for you, Miss. Somethin' ta keep the breeze at bay,\" He murmured. \"For now you'll just have ta trust that I can shield ya good an' I don't have to reach for the gun. I got more matches so if ya go out, I'll have ya back in no time, I swear.\" \n\nHe did as she directed, sticking to the left-hand path and keeping his head low. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Narrator",
"message": "Her wax was starting to melt. It *Stank*. That wasn't so odd. Tallow was nothing but animal fat after all, but this candle stank in a way that would make you want to dunk it in a bucket of ice water and wash your walls free of it. Thankfully, the wind tunnel created by the cave's mouth kept the worst of the stench at bay. \n\n***It's quite alright, dear. I cain't express my gratitude for you havin' plucked me out of that place after so long. I'll have to thank you good n' proper when you've done what you come here to do. Which reminds me, we ain't really introduce ourselves properly. What should I call you?*** \n\nAs the unlikely pair ventured deeper, the tunnel seemed like it might stretch on for years. With no way to tell the passing of time and Freddie having to creep slowly to avoid the candle flickering out or catching the attention of the bats, it was hard to tell just how much of the night was eaten in that cave. The floor slowly began to incline. Bats squabbled overhead (and were much too distracted to notice the small man skulking around the cavern below). Every now and again, the call of a hungry wolf would pick up from somewhere in the heart of the cave. Freddie was headed in the right direction. \n\nUntil he came to a cliff face. It had to be twenty or so feet high at least. The candle only barely illuminated its lip.\n\n***This is the worst of it right here. I'm awful sorry to ask you to climb that. But, once you're over this, it's another squeeze through and you'll be in!***"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "```DEXTERITY CHECK ROLLS: 5, 4, 2.```\n\nFreddie couldn't wait to take a bath. Melted tallow dripped down the bones in his hand, forming rivulets through the gaps in the teeth. Surely this cave couldn't go on much further? The flame flickered despite his best efforts to protect it - it could not burn forever. There was only a finite amount of wick and wax left, and he knew that when it was gone, he would lose his light, and whatever strength she had given to him. Would he lose her voice too? He wasn't ready to find out. \n\n\"My name's Freddie Lovejoy. Alfred if you're feelin' formal, like my father before me, but ain't nobody call me Alfred like that. Jus' Freddie's good by me.\" \n\nHe spoke slowly, breathing growing more laboured as the candle struggled in the wind. He could taste the copper in the back of his throat again, no matter how hard he swallowed against it. How long had it been? How long was there left of the night before the wolves were lost to him for another month?\n\nHad there been any colour left in his cheeks, he'd have paled at the sight of the cliff. \"I'm s'posed to climb up there?\" He asked softly. \"I... Miss, I ain't so sure I can do much more, I still got to kill her when I reach her.\" He hadn't come this far to not at least try to end this. Four silver bullets remained. One was soaked in poison and destined for that wolf's heart. He needed to keep going. \n\nThe cliff, it seemed, had other ideas. His first thought was to move fast - as fast as he could while keeping the candle close by, but it only ended in his slipping maybe three feet off the ground, landing hard and rolling an ankle on a rock in the process. He spat out a stream of curses and ignored the *-crack-* He felt. It didn't hurt any more than his ribs already did.\n\nThe second attempt, slower, was equally as unsuccessful - though he made it higher, that only meant he fell harder, and he couldn't keep upright this time, crashing gracelessly to the unforgiving ground in a way that knocked the wind out of him entirely. \nFor the third, he found that he could go no further than his hands and knees, and any pressure placed upon his left side, his writing hand, his ruined foot... Well, it had him hissing screams through gritted teeth, shaking like an acorn in a hurricane, stars blooming in his vision even as it threatened to black out on him entirely. \n\nHe squeezed his eyes shut, and rasped out a plea. \"I cain't do this, Miss. I swear I'm tryin'. It *Hurts*, I... I want my mama.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Narrator",
"message": "The spirit watched helplessly as *Freddie Lovejoy* Did everything in his power to scale that cliff. \n\n*Alfred Lovejoy* Fell the first time, his ankle rolling at a horrifying angle. \n\n*Fred Lovejoy* Fell a second time and was winded. \n\n*Freddie Lovejoy* Didn't get up after the third one. \n\nThe entire time the human struggled, the spirit savored the taste of his name. Something he'd so willingly gifted her without giving it a second thought. How simple, how single-minded this creature was. She watched all the while, her only assistance coming in the form of shining a little brighter until she could bear it no more. \n\nHe had to make it up that cliff. For both their sakes. \n\n***You can do this, Freddie. You can. I'll help you again if you want me to, but I'll need something of yours.***\n\nThe brighter she burned, the less time she had. Her light was growing dimmer. There wasn't much of the candle left. Just an inch and a half or so. Maybe another hour worth of light. So much time had already elapsed. It would be dawn soon. He wouldn't stand a chance if she were to go out here in the caves where he would be cast into total darkness. He wouldn't be found for decades to come. He'd be nothing more than a pile of bones and bloody clothes uncovered by intrepid adventurers.\n\nBut the spirit wouldn't let it come to that. Not when he could still serve her. \n\n***Give me somethin' that'll burn. Anythin'. It could be your hair. Your shirt. A book. Anything you might be willin' to part with. Then make a wish. I'll grant it. Just this once. I don't have much magic left in me like this, but I'll do this for you, my friend.***"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Freddie couldn't move. If he moved, he'd scream out again, and he didn't trust what lay ahead not to come scrambling down that rock face that had defeated him thrice over. \nDespite it all, he didn't regret coming here. Didn't regret what he'd done nor had done to him in the time he'd spent deep in these caves. It wasn't over. She would give him one more chance, he just had to find... Something. Anything. Something to burn. \n\n\"Please.\" His voice was that of a man broken, ripped right down to flesh and bone, to heart, to the core of what made him human. He had given almost all he had to the underground, but he still had a mission to complete. He would not go back to Florian hollowed and a failure. His return had to be one of triumph despite his pain, despite all that he had lost. \"I need you.\"\n\nHe had so little left to give. It felt as though the very ground upon which he knelt had sapped his strength directly from his broken bones, pieces of him spilling out with his blood through torn flesh. This cave would be forever stained with crimson, and the walls would hold within them his choked-back cries as he fumbled in his pocket. \nWhat he still had was the fire in his heart, was his love, was his determination to make it back. No matter what. He would see Florian again. \n\nPain seared up his arm and into his fingers as he pried open the matchbox. The matches spilled, but they weren't what he was looking for - no, what he sought was the paper within, a piece torn from a sketchbook, folded tight over on itself until it was small enough to have nestled among the sticks.\n\nHe unfolded it, somehow, having to use his teeth to hold it when his grip proved too weak, too unstable.\n\nIn familiar, confident charcoal strokes and the delicate shading of a purple pencil, the page bore a textbook-accurate sketch of two blooming violets, intertwined, perfect. \nBeneath the drawing, in Florian's neat handwriting, were simple words. \n\n*Until we meet again, little violet. I love you. -F*\n\nHe would understand, wouldn't he? He would draw it again. He wouldn't begrudge Freddie the sacrifice of the note if it meant his return. \n\nFreddie thrust the paper out towards the dying light. \"Here. I got this. I wish- *Fuck*, I- I wish... I wish I weren't hurt like this so I kin finish this for myself. Jus' let me be fixed enough ta have this all be o-over...\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Narrator",
"message": "*Please. I need you.*\n\nWhat delicious words to hear. Why, they sent her flame all aflutter. The candle would have grinned like a starvin' coyote if she had lips or teeth to bare. Instead, she shone a little brighter as she saw the note that Freddie fiddled with. It was a bit blood slicked now, but it'd burn just the same. \n\nShe had to try not to laugh. \n\nHe was giving her a token not just of himself, but of his lover? Something made by his lovers' own hands? That was what she had to infer by looking at. She would strike two birds with one stone with this pact. *And it had more of his blood.* It took a great deal of effort not to sound too excited. \n\n***This is perfect, Freddie, honey. A mighty fine trade, indeed. But you're real hurt. I'll go on ahead and take it, but you'll owe me a favor. Just a teensy little ask is all. But I'll get you in tip top shape.***\n\nThe flames licked at the trembling paper. The pretty violets curled and furled in on themselves as they burned to black ash. The cave was momentarily illuminated by the flames that lapped at the page until it was no more. Then, the sigils that were carved into her tallow glowed blue again. They slid from her to form a circle around Freddie. The ground beneath him hummed that same, discordant song from earlier as the earth below him grew warm. Yes, earth. Soil had replaced the harsh cold stone of the cavern's floor. Grass tickled his cheeks. Flowers bloomed in the blue light. And his body stitched itself back together. \n\n***There you are, sugar. Take your time standin' up, now. S'awful tricky replacin' lost blood. You may feel a little woozy.***\n\nThe candle didn't have much left. That magic had stolen what little remained of her tallow. Or was it tallow? It *Smelled*. It smelled like—! Freddie couldn't quite place it. It made his stomach churn now that he wasn't tasting blood anymore. His instinct told him it reeked of rot. Of bodies. Of decay. \n\nBut he needed her.\n\n_ _\n``` FREDDIE'S INJURIES HAVE BEEN HEALED! BUT AT WHAT COST? ```"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Her voice was as warm as it had ever been, even as fresh blood filled his mouth and he no longer had to gall to choke it back. He spat, wishing there was water to wash away the taste, wishing he had never had to taste it at all, but not wishing anything so hard as he wished for it all to *Stop*. \n\nAnd stop it did. \n\nSlowly, but surely, as the candle glowed brighter than ever, he felt his wounds begin to knit themselves back together. His fingers curled in the grass - and when had there been grass, instead of rock? - and he swore he could hear birdsong in the humming. The sweet smell of spring flowers mixed in his nostrils with something more sickening, burning, *Wrong*... But nothing was wrong. \nHe could move his hand again, without pain. Take in a breath without feeling as though he were being stabbed directly in his vital organs. And when she told him to stand, he could stand, albeit slowly, as dizzy as she'd warned he might be. The cliff face was there to steady him as he stumbled forward, and within a moment or two, he felt almost normal again. \n\nHe pressed a hand to his chest, making sure his breath was truly caught, and what he felt of mended flesh and new skin beneath his touch both thrilled and terrified him. He would have to investigate *That* When he was in front of a mirror again. No time now. No more time to waste.\n\nHe picked up the candle. \n\n\"Thank you, Miss,\" He whispered. \"I owe you a debt, you're right about that for sure. Saved my life, I swear.\"\n\nHe set her high, on the furthest outcrop he could reach, and this time, when he climbed, he neither lost his footing nor his grip upon the stone. \nFreddie Lovejoy climbed, and climbed, and climbed, and he did not look down even when he reached the very top. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Narrator",
"message": "```CONTENT WARNING AHEAD! DON'T BE EATIN' WHILE YOU'RE READIN', Y'ALL!``` \nThe candle didn't need to be thanked. She knew she saved his life. She knew he was in her debt. And he was bound to repay it before the morning sun rose, come Heaven or highwater. \n\n***You're welcome, Freddie dear. You saved me too! It's the least I could do for a friend.***\n\nThe cavern stretched on and deeper, but the candle told him to ***Take a right here, sugar***. And that was precisely what he did. True to her word, it was just a quick squeeze. Probably the easiest one he'd had to shimmy his way through yet (no doubt thanks to her *Miraculous* Help). There wasn't much room to walk up here, though. He found himself on top of a five foot drop, but there were plenty of easy spots for hands and feet to notch themselves into. \n\nEven though there wasn't much of her left now that she'd brought Freddie back from the cusp, she shined a little brighter. Just for him. Not that he would need it to know what room he overlooked. No, he would be able to tell from the familiar scent alone: werewolf. The sickly sweet smell of rotting flesh combined with old feces. Wait, that wasn't right. That wasn't how the last wolf had smelled. That wasn't how *Any* Wolves smelled. There was a bucket. It laid on its side, its foul contents flung violently across the back wall and coated the furthest end of the cage. \n\nSomething Freddie would be equally familiar with. Conceptually, at least. \n_ _\n\nAs promised, there was a werewolf. She was indeed the darkest of brown and covered in scars, but there were only clumps of fur left. Mange robbed much of her coat. She was awfully skinny - too skinny. She rattled and wheezed as if every lungfull ached just as bad as it had ached him just moments ago. But her sense of smell was keen. She smelled him past the stench of burning fat and began thrashing against her cage, blinded by the all-consuming hunger. There was a great scar on her chest. Another on her shoulder. Just like Freddie had told the candle. More coated her legs and back. *Slices* That were meticulous and perfectly straight. \n\nFurther in the room was a metal folding chair and a barebones desk constructed out of two-by-fours and plywood. A leatherbound journal sat in the center of it. Stacked high in the right-most corner was a pile of papers. An unlit lantern on the opposite end of the table. If he wanted any chance of keeping the candle lit, he would need to fetch it. \n\nHe would need to pass *Her*. \n\n***There she is***, the candle murmured. Her voice was oddly low and tinged with sadness. Her flame dimmed as if she couldn't bear the sight of it all."
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "A friend, she said, and Freddie smiled. He could always use more of those, and so he held her close to his chest as he followed her directions. His footing was steadier now than it had been since the wolf had first tackled him behind the waterfall. With the candle close by, melted away as she was, he was stronger than he'd ever thought he could be. The end of all this was so close he could taste it. Soon he'd be home. \n\nThen something else hit the back of his throat, acrid and sour and rotten, and it was all he could do not to freeze in place, or worse, turn and run. Every part of him screamed that what lay ahead was *Wrong*, was not what he sought, not meant for his eyes. But his friend had led him all this way. She had been kind to him, she'd *Healed* Him, what good would then leading him astray do? If she wanted him in danger, she could have let him die at the foot of the cliff, crying out for his mama, for his lover, for the starlit sky.\n\nSo, despite all his inhibitions begging him to reconsider, he kept walking, and followed the short drop down with ease, and only then did he look up. \n\nThe smell was stronger here, sickeningly so, and as soon as he laid eyes upon what beast stood before him, caged as it were, his gun was drawn. April Abrams had broken free of iron bars, damn near killed Miss Jade at the ruins, and died for it. Who was to say that this werewolf wouldn't break free too, slamming her battered body against the cage that held her? \n\nHe had been holding his breath. He didn't know how long for. \n\"It can't be her,\" He whispered to the flame. \"It's the wrong wolf... That ain't the one that got them, it was only... Four full moons ago, an' the wolf then was... Strong. This one ain't strong like that, look at the goddamned state of it.\" He still couldn't quite fathom what he was looking at, the mess of patchy fur and gouges in beastly flesh, the snarls and growls that sounded like choking. \"If it were a dog it'd have been put down months ago.\""
},
{
"author": "Narrator",
"message": "```WEREWOLF ATTACK ROLL: 2 ``` \n\n***It ain't her?*** The candle was surprised. Sad, almost. As if she regretted dragging him all this way through the bowels of the earth just for it to be the wrong wolf. ***But... Her scars?***\n\nThe candle was silent a moment as it considered the situation. \n\nThe wolf's growls were growing more desperate. It lunged at him so hard that the long bolts anchoring the cage to the cavern floor lifted an inch, but it held fast. Whoever had pieced this thing together hadn't wasted a penny. Its bars held true, even when one of the thuds ended with the crack of a broken collarbone. She howled in pain. In hunger. In rage. Then the sound petered off into that awful hacking noise of a dog's cough. \n\n***Humans,*** The candle spat with enough vitriol for her wick to spit with her, ***Kin sometimes just be the cruelest of bein's on this green earth. Ain't no creature deserve this - 'cept maybe the ones that done this to her.*** She paused, thinking. \n\n***Well, what are you gonna do? You cain't just... You cain't just leave her like this.***"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "```FREDDIE ATTACK ROLL: 17```\n\n\"I... It can't be,\" Freddie whispered, eyes still fixed on the wolf in the cage. Who had put her here? Who built this, and how had they trapped a beast here, and why didn't the Coalition know about this, and what had they done to her? \"Look at her. She ain't been roamin' the town terrorisin' *Shit*.\" \nHe bit his lip. Still the wolf flailed and crashed against the bars. He knew that if it got out somehow, he was a goner, and he couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't. \n\nIf a dog got old and sick, a kind heart would take it out back and end its misery. It wasn't fair to keep any creature like that, clinging to life for the sake of selfish human wants. \nFreddie Lovejoy, *Pitying a werewolf*. What a night this was turning out to be. \nBut it wasn't all pity that spurred him to raise his pistol, checking the chamber to ensure there was a silver bullet loaded. One less werewolf in Briar Ridge was perhaps one less life lost if it ever were to escape the caves, or if some less-equipped soul were to follow the path that Freddie had taken and stumble upon it. The only way these monsters could ever be good was if they were dead. \nWas that not the sentiment he had spat in the company of Shady Rooster that day in the cornfield?\n\n\"I ain't leavin' her like nothin'. Her sufferin' ends now.\"\n\nHe didn't hesitate another second to pull the trigger. The shot rang out deafeningly loud in the echo of the cave, but he was ready for the kickback. The smell of gunpowder joined the rancid mix of fat and feces, mingled in with the sizzle and stench of black blood that spilled forth from the bullet hole now gaping in the mange-ridden werewolf's head. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Narrator",
"message": "The candle stood as a stalwart witness to the extermination. She didn't waver. His shot rang true. The werewolf collapsed, not even a rattling wheeze escaping her as a final death chime. \n\nThe cave echoed with its violence. Freddie's ears would've rung with it. It sent the bats in the connecting cave he'd just left screaming and screeching in a panic. \n\n*\"What the hell was that? Let's go!\"*\n\nA human voice. A man's voice. Distant and only just barely audible over the bats' din. \n\n***Run!*** \n\nFreddie only had a few moments to decide what happened next."
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "The last thing Freddie expected to hear was another human voice, deeper still in the cave network. \n\nHe had to act fast. \n\nThat book - could it be the journal Shady had talked about? The book that talked about the cure? It was clear that the people who came here, whoever they were, knew about werewolves - they'd had one *Imprisoned*, for Christ's sake. So if there was even a chance that that book held the secrets he and Florian needed, then he wasn't going anywhere without it.\nThe lantern, too, would prove useful, and so he ran for it. \n\nBut the ground was uneven, and Freddie's feet could not be trusted. The night had been so long, and though he fought it, he was beginning to run out of steam. \nHe tripped on the metal chair, throwing out his hands to catch himself upon the table, forgetting momentarily that he still held the dying candle. \nThe wax slipped and spilled, and the flame fell to the tabletop. He only just managed to snatch away the journal before the papers were ablaze, and then the desk itself joined them within seconds, along with the first few layers of skin on the hand that had clutched the jawbone all the way through the caves.\n\nHe cried out - he couldn't help himself. \"No! No no *No* No no...\" \n\nWithout the candle, how was he supposed to know what to do? Where next to turn in the darkness - which was no longer so dark now that the place was well and truly on fire?\nFreddie knew fire well. And he knew caves, and tunnels. For a moment, as choking smoke billowed outward, he was back down the mine, distant voices calling out, raising the alarm. \nWas there coal in the ridge this low down? Or were the veins restricted to the higher parts of the mountains where S&C dug?\n\nHad he, perhaps, just doomed not only himself, but whoever else found themselves deep in the falls, to end in an inferno that would never truly go out? \n\nThere was only one place to go, and that was towards the shout, down the easiest path away from the flames.\nGun in hand and journal shoved inside his near-ruined shirt, Freddie bolted.\n\n||\n\n```I should have clarified...\n\nFREDDIE DEXTERITY ROLL: 4```"
},
{
"author": "Narrator",
"message": "```GUARD ATTACK ROLL: 13\nDAMAGE FREDDIE RECEIVED: 1/6 (MINOR SCRATCHES)``` \n\nFreddie's fall towards the desk had taught him a lot of things. It taught him that the night was long and his strength was waning. It taught him not to run with fire. Most importantly, it taught him that the letterhead on those papers that were engulfed in the candle's flames had an all-too-familiar logo printed at the top: `S&C Coal`. \n\nWhile Freddie panicked, the candle most certainly did not. In fact, she started laughing. It was quiet at first, like the soft pitter-patter of rain on the forest floor. As the flames licked at the papers and spread from her tallow to the makeshift desk, her laughter grew louder and louder. It was the mad sound of a woman in her last moments of life. \n\nTwo men rounded the corner and spotted Freddie. Spotted the woman forming out of firelight. Spotted the dead werewolf. \n\n*\"Holy shit!\"* One of them shouted, skidding to a halt. The other didn't bother. He hoisted the rifle that'd been slung across his shoulder and fired. The first man grabbed the second's shoulder, tugging him back violently. The jostling made the bullet just barely graze Freddie's skin.\n\n*\"Run, you idiot! We're dead! We're so dead!\"*\n\nBehind Freddie, the fire spirit had fully taken form. She blazed out of control, hair made of flame and eyes glowing embers. ***Freddie, dearest. Go the other way for me, won't you? This won't take long. I'll come find you in just a moment.***"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "***S&C Coal.***\n\nFreddie would be lying if he said his heart didn't drop to the very pit of his stomach upon reading those words before they went up in flames.\n\nValerian had said something, that day in the living room at the Barca estate. Something along the lines of the coal company knowing more about Briar Ridge than they let on.\nS&C knew about the werewolves. \nThe coal operation had not ventured this far down the mountainside. Word around town said it was that Briar Ridge didn't want them there. So why were there branded letterheads in a cave deep behind the waterfall, and how had they gotten a werewolf in here, and - \n\nHis train of thought was cut off by the firing of a gun.\nHot metal tore through his shirt sleeve and ran *Just* Over his skin. Barely a nick, but enough to frighten him. He'd never been shot at before.\n\nBut she was still here. In the flames rising from the ruined papers and the scorched desk rose the figure of a woman, towering right to the ceiling, eyes blazing, hair of gold too bright to look at forming a halo around her head. He could not see her face. \nWas this what angels looked like?\nHad he found a guardian down there at the altar, brought her with him in fire and bone and blood to where she now... Stood? Could it be called standing when instead of legs and feet, her body ended in formless fire?\n\nHe had to do as she asked. She'd done nothing but right by him. It was thanks to her that he was even still *Here* To follow her orders. \nHe didn't need to speak, only pick himself up and sprint back towards the way he'd come, scrambling up the short rock face to await.\n\nHe couldn't help but peer back to watch what she would do. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Narrator",
"message": "DAMAGE FREDDIE RECEIVED: 1/6 (MINOR SCRATCHES AND BRUISES AGAIN)``` \n\nAs soon as Freddie was up on top of that rocky outcropping, the spirit set about her dirty work. Just as Freddie's long years working the coal mines had warned him, this pocket was rich with black gold. All she had to do was set her hand on that wall. And set it she did. \n\n*BOOM!*\n\nA large explosion cracked down the mountainside, so loud that it could be heard all the way down in Briar Ridge that night. The shockwave hit Freddie head on, flinging him back against the far wall of the adjacent cave. Bats screamed and tore at his clothing in their desperation to flee as black, billowing smoke filled the cavern. The Candle - who was a mere candle no more - could still be heard laughing as the anguished screams of men burning alive rolled through the cave. Then another BOOM! And another! \n\nShe'd been set free and planned on using her last spark to enact vengeance against the bastards who did this to that wolf. Their death was *Too quick*. They deserved to suffer as she had. To starve. To be mutilated. To fall ill. To long for death the way that woman undoubtedly had. \n\nPerhaps Freddie could convince her to stop? Or was it better to run? She'd said she'd find him. Would she not keep her promise?"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "The explosion knocked him backwards, his body hitting the cave wall but, just like much earlier on with the first wolf (hours ago? How long had it been?), he narrowly avoided hitting his head and winding up with a concussion. The relief lasted only for a moment, before the beating of hundreds of small wings swarmed him, the bats clawing at fabric and skin in their desperation to escape the heat and light. Freddie covered his head with his arms and cowered, each great *-boom-* Shaking him to his very core. \n\nShe had saved him, again, but he had been right about the coal. \nIt was as though the walls themselves had begun to burn away, and his dust-ruined lungs weren't strong enough to take the smoke. He had seen men die to it, and to the toxic gases produced by underground explosions. He had buried countless little yellow birds, with matchstick markers and quiet tears for each and every one. \n\n\"Stop!\" He choked out, desperately hoping that she'd hear him. \"Stop it! It's done!\"\n\nHe couldn't be trapped here - he had to get home. If she continued to burn, there was no guarantee the ceiling wouldn't cave in, snuffing out not only her light, but Freddie's too. \n\n\"Please- please, Miss, please...\" He was coughing, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. \"You got ta stop now! It ain't safe, I- I ain't meant ta die here...\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Narrator",
"message": "Her toy was calling out to her. Was telling her he might die. How fragile humans were. She could hear him coughing. She could hear others coughing, too. There were more. So, so many more in this mountainside. She could take the life of every single wretched human in this cave system. Perhaps not the whole mountain, but a fair fraction of them. The mines themselves were further up. There were only so many pockets she could jump between before she'd be extinguished. \n\nIt would also kill every other creature in her furious path. Her toy, for one. The bats. The spiders. The bears. The werewolves hidden safely away in her belly. They would all perish too. \n\nShe would have sucked her teeth in disappointment if she had any. \n\nThe spirit had to twist and crawl her way through the same crack that had proven no problem to Freddie. She was still feeding off the residual heat from her rampage. She almost scraped the top of the cavern with her hair when she stood again, looking down at her fragile play thing with a sense of begrudging acceptance. He'd served his purpose. But there was more she could get from him yet. The bats' frenzy sent them knocking into each other as they dove around her. She knelt down to Freddie, shining her light on him to keep the small creatures at bay. Her flames were blazing hot, threatening to set his clothes on fire should he get too close. \n\n***There. I've stopped,*** She said. Smoke still billowed from the embers she left in her wake. She couldn't control that. Not in this form. He would suffocate. She lifted one great arm, pointing back the way he came. The bats ducked away from her as if she was Noah parting the sea. ***There's an exit that way. Follow the swarm. They'll take you back to the mountain side. To fresh air. To the dawn.***"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Freddie looked up to her, squinting his eyes against her light. He would so miss the warmth she'd brought him - even now, following her rampage, he still felt the safety he'd been enveloped in when he first lit her candle and picked her up. The scratches were hardly noticeable, and though no doubt he would be covered in bruises tomorrow, he didn't feel them. He only felt her presence, watched her move. When he tried to wipe at his eyes, dust and smoke stung them, but he didn't mind that, either. \n\nIf not for the precious journal tucked into his clothes, perhaps he would have been tempted to move ever closer to her, to savour that warmth for as long as he could before the smoke and fumes forced him to leave her. \n\n\"You cain't come with me?\" He asked softly. \"How am I s'posed to see my way if I ain't got you to be my light?\" He bit his lip. \"I'll be goin' blindly, hopin' that the bats know their way and I don't fall t'my death?\" \n\nAnd then her final words sunk in. \n\n\"Dawn? No- no, Miss, it ain't dawn already. I ain't been down here that long at all. I still got to find the other wolf - there's lots of 'em, all in a cave someplace else 'round these falls. I got three good bullets left on me an' I didn't come here not to use 'em. Not if it means that beast what hurt Florian still runs free...\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Narrator",
"message": "The fire was already shrinking. Dying without anything left to burn. And caves were such damp, dark places. Lord knew the last of her tallow melted when she'd first struck those men down. \n\n***No, darlin'. No, I cain't. Not like this. We run out of candle, see? I'll flicker out here soon. If'in I burn the coal in here, I'll just smother ya. I gotta stay behind so I don't catch nothin' else aflame.***\n\nShe tilted her head as she considered him. Her flames flickered in blue sympathy. \n\n***Dawn, Freddie, honey. The sun's gonna be climbin' up over that horizon in an hour or so. I know it. Time down here's easy to lose track of for the livin', but I know it well. It's the biggest n' brightest n' truest flame there ever was. *** She almost sounded reverent of the coming dawn. ***There's a whole lot of climbin' down to get back to where you started. If you rush, you might fall in the dark. N'... N' I won't be able to help you back to your feet no more.***"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "She could not come. He would be alone again. Left to himself, to face the daylight that awaited, and in it, the knowledge that he had failed. He had not found the wolf he sought, let alone raised his gun to it and put an end to its breathing. For all he knew, it had been out under the moon tonight, and had raked those claws through more innocent, undeserving flesh. \n\nShe was right, though. He could not stay here, breathing in her smoke and growing dizzier and more breathless by each minute that passed. Her flame had soothed him, healed him, saved him, and now if he didn't heed her warning, it would kill him. \nHe wished it didn't have to be so dangerous. Fire caught so easily. If it all burned, then he would burn too. There was no saving his soul from that. \n\nSo he pushed himself up to his feet, and looked up to her face - or where he thought her face might be. She glowed too bright for him to make out the details, even up this close. \n\n\"Thank you. For all you've done, I - I couldn't'a done any'a this without you. I'll tell 'em all about you, when I tell 'em everything. Have 'em know of the lady what came'n saved me when I needed her most.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Narrator",
"message": "Nearly all the bats had finished their desperate escapes and the spirit was now only a few feet taller than him. She wished she could smile at him, but this form lacked the lips and eyes she was used to. All she could do to show her affection was keep her glow bright so that he could walk off as far as possible without stumbling. She should have told him to grab the lantern. Grab himself a piece of the table. Somethin' to keep the shadows at bay. \n\nShe knew just how bad he was going ache when she was gone. \n\nJust cause he was healed up didn't mean his muscles wouldn't remember the pain of nearly dyin'. Neither her nor his fading adrenaline could keep harsh reality at bay much longer. \n\n***Would you really? I'd like that. I'd like that a lot. I been forgotten down here for so long now. It'd be nice havin' at least one person was knowin' me like that.***\n\nFrom the tunnel they'd abandoned came the agonized groan of a man. \n\nShe spoke right over it. \n\n***This ain't goodbye though, sweetie. Just cause I cain't come with you don't mean I won't find you. I'll be out there in the daylight. I'll be the rainbows in your creek and the yella-brights of a cat's eyes. Now, why don't I walk you? At least to the edge of the cliff. I want you to get a good start 'fore I go out, okay?***"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Her light was dying. He wasn't ready to see her go - he wasn't sure he'd be able to stand to watch her fade. She'd become something special to him in such a short time. A friend. \n\nShe spoke of the ways she would stay with him. The promise that she would find him again, a promise that he could cling to. And he nodded, and made his way back from where he'd come, squeezing through the gap, checking over his shoulder to see that she had followed. Using her light to guide his movements, he turned, and began manouevring himself down the rocks once more. Down was less taxing on his body than up, but it was harder when he had to feel for the placement of his feet. \n\nJust as he was about half-way down the cliffside, he remembered something, and looked up one last time. \n\"Miss? Is there somethin' I kin call you, when I tell the others about you an' what you did for me?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Narrator",
"message": "The spirit perched herself on the edge of the cliff, glowing as bright as she could now that she was only a foot or two high. And fading fast. It took a lot of work to keep flames going this tall. She wouldn't last much longer. \n\n***Oh? Me?*** She sounded surprised that he would even ask. They were friends now, weren't they? The time for learnin' had come and gone. They were bound to each other. He should have asked that in the beginning. ***I've had lots'a names over the years. You been callin me right, though. Most everyone uses Miss or Missus or Ma'am or Lady. Me? I just like sharin' the same name as the trees. It ain't Ashleigh, mind you - though that's certainly one of the prettier things I been called. N' I been called nasty things, too. Demon, witch, monster, *Thing*. My, I really don't like bein' called thing none.***\n\nShe just kept talking as if she wanted her voice to carry him down the rest of the way. She was almost as big as the candle she'd been locked away in when they first met. Now she was so deliciously close to freedom. But she so enjoyed playing with her toys.\n\n***Truth is, I ain't got a name. Like I told you: I'm the creekside and the wildcat and the crackle of thunder. You already know me. N' I known you ever since you set foot in my trees, darlin'. You n' your blood n' Angel, right? I'm awful sorry 'bout her. She was a good one, wasn't she? Well, I'll take her. I'll keep her safe n' well just as soon as I return to where I belong with the rest of me. Promise. After all, a Forest's only as good as the roots she grows.***\n\nAnd she flickered away.\n\n_ _\n\n\nFreddie's foot slipped the instant she was gone, sending him plunging down into the cavern's inky depths. Gravity coiled around him and crashed him into the stone below. The sound of broken bones filled the echoing cavern along with his screams. *Again*. But it was worse this time. So, so much worse. The light was gone and all the pain he'd experienced earlier that night came crashing back into him with a vengeance. His body became a wild thing beyond his control, writhing and convulsing on the damp floor. Each involuntary twitch dragging broken bones along with it as his poor body went into shock. \n\n\nDAMAGE ROLL: 4/6 (MODERATE/SEVERE INJURIES INCLUDING BROKEN BONES AND DEEP GASHES. NON LIFETHREATENING/NOT IMMOBILIZIED, BUT MEDICAL ATTENTION IS REQUIRED.\nTHE CURSE OF DARKNESS: FOR AS LONG AS FREDDIE IS IN TOTAL DARKNESS, ALL PHYSICAL PAIN IS AMPLIFIED TWO-FOLD. THIS EFFECT IS LONG LASTING.```\n\n```COIN FLIP RESULTS: HEADS - FREDDIE HAS PASSED OUT!```\n\nThe next time Freddie woke, he would be bathed in sunlight. There was the soft sound of birdsong. The gurgle of a nearby spring. The feeling of soft fur against his cheek. He was warm despite the water dripping off his curls, and he was safe. This place oddly felt like home, even though there was no ceiling above his head or blanket covering him whole. No, there was just the quiet rumble of a cat purring against his head. \n\nA giant cat. A really, really giant cat. A giant cat who had curled herself around him while she licked her front paws clean. All four of them. \n\nHer ears flicked, realizing that his breathing had changed. ***You're awake*** The ~~candle~~ - no, the ~~spirit~~ - no, the ~~wampus cat~~, no, the Forest rumbled as she looked down at her newest toy. ***Good. Let's get going, shall we? We have much to accomplish before the next full moon.*** \n\n✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲\n\nDown the ridge and in the heart of the holler, the citizens of Briar Ridge realized that Freddie Lovejoy wasn't coming home.\n\n\n```END OF INTERACTION```"
}
] | 382.5 | 16,928 |
404.8 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "April C. Baker",
"message": "To say that time got away from her was an understatement. The moons coming and going and the panic that ensued because of it, the sudden marriage proposal and subsequent marriage, and the moving house... It had all been a lot. \n\nApril was not usually this scatterbrained, but while her new husband was out working, she had to tend to making sure her things and the boys' were all settled up and crammed into Eli's admittedly slightly-cramped home. She didn't mind it, though. She liked that it all felt so homey already, as she put the books on the mostly-empty bookshelf. \n\nThe boys were off running around in the backyard as she was washing up the sheets and hanging them to dry on the line. She hadn't realized she hadn't been by for her rations; it was just another chore that had fallen to the wayside as she chased her sons around the yard to wipe the dirt off their faces."
},
{
"author": "CARInA VAnORA",
"message": "That untouched parcel of dry goods had been staring Carina down for three days. She knew Miss Baker had been injured, but that was months ago. Maybe something else was preventing her from coming to town? Barring death, whatever kept April busy wouldn't stop her and her boys from going hungry. The thought of delivery occurred to her, and instead of waving it away, she entertained it. The afternoon was slow, and Carina hadn't seen the town outside of Main Street for days. She was getting a cramp in her wrist from polishing the silver spoons on display, and besides, she'd better enjoy the weather before it got too cold, and these shoes she was wearing from the back of her closet still needed breaking in– a walk could be good for that!, and– \n\nHow many excuses needed to be summoned before she felt comfortable in claiming part of her motivation as simply *Being kind*? She inched closer to the package marked `BAKER-ABRAMS`. It wasn't too heavy.\n\n\"Oh, fine.\" She rolled her eyes at the groceries and took them in her arms. \n\nThe walk to the Abrams house was further than she'd realized, having only a vague recollection of its general location from chats with Eli as he stocked the ice box at the General Store with milk. She knew she'd reached the right address when she heard April's boys playing out back, the crisp air adding color to their cheeks. Soon after, she saw April out at the clothesline. \n\n\"Good afternoon, Miss Baker,\" She greeted, unthinkingly calling the woman the name she was used to, \"I brought your groceries. I'm glad to see you're well.\" Carina held out the package, though it was clear April's hands were already full from the wash. She wanted to get back to the store quickly now that she'd seen April alive and unharmed. She'd been foolish to venture so far just to ease a stupid intrusive thought (or maybe she'd been secretly hoping to stumble on some kind of tragedy?). The woman probably would have been by to pick up her rations in a few hours, anyway. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "April C. Baker",
"message": "She hadn't even heard the woman approaching the house, until the voice was on the other side of the sheet she was hanging. She was glad it was there so Carina couldn't see the way she jumped, having held in a shriek of surprise at the sudden visitor. \n\n\"Oh! Carina!\" She sucked in a breath, side-stepping her clothing as her eyes fell on the package in hand. Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment immediately. \"Oh, I'm so sorry,\" She said, quick as a whip to jump into apologies. \"Honestly, my days are getting away from me! I don't even know— frankly, I completely forgot all about picking up the groceries.\" She admitted, shoulders slumping a bit. \n\nWith a shameful look, she folded her hands. \"And I feel awful that you've had to walk all this way, too. It's quite a hike to the house...\" She looked down the path of which Carina had walked. \"Let me get you something to drink or— even something to eat, or even take back with you!\" She insisted, already turning to pick up the now-empty basket. \n\nThe shrill sounds of squealing boys came around the house, as Richie and Mickey came smacking straight into Carina's legs, only serving to make April flush even redder. \"Oops,\" Richie said, tumbling into the grass with his brother and staring up at the woman with wide, blue eyes and a missing front tooth. \"Sorry, lady.\""
},
{
"author": "CARInA VAnORA",
"message": "It was a bit of a comfort to hear April had forgotten, and that Carina hadn't trudged out here in vain. Out here in the sunlight, she could see every twitch and curve of April's expression. When she considered folks who came into the store, the light painted them in muddy midtones, allowing them to pass as vague creatures on parade for her enjoyment. Here, set against the openness of the sky and land, with light washing every contour, the shopkeeper felt like she was having an out of body experience, standing over the conversation to watch herself having a too-vivid interaction with a living breathing human. \n\nIn the shop, it was easy to keep her focus inward, well aware of her next actions and reactions. Out here, she couldn't ignore that April was *Real* And *Close* And having thoughts of her own. Carina was overwhelmed. Maybe she did need something to ease her empty stomach, at least so she could make the trip back to town. \n\n\"It's no trouble, Miss Baker. A drink would be lovely.\" Carina answered with robotic politeness, her thoughts swimming in rapid circles behind her eyes. To compound her sensory overload, the children collided with her as she turned to follow April indoors. Richie's apology was met with a reflexive grimace as she fixated on the pink, gummy gap in his smile. She straightened her skirts and said nothing to the boys, turning her head away quickly back to April. \n\n\"When will it– he– grow that tooth back?\" Carina asked, hopeful that some accident hadn't left the child disfigured and toothless forever. As little as she knew about kids, she was well aware of the concept of baby teeth, and keenly remembered losing her own. This was just her unfortunate way of making what she deemed to be well-mannered conversation. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "April C. Abrams",
"message": "\"Richie, that isn't a good apology,\" She said, feeling herself grow even more flustered by her son's behavior. \"I promise, they're well behaved, they just have so much energy.\" She said weakly. \n\nCarina's question caught her off guard. She supposed *It* Must've been a slip of the tongue, but April couldn't help the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth. \"He just lost that tooth... Oh, a few days ago, wasn't it sweetheart?\" \n\nApril was quite the doting mother, and that came to just about everything she did and everyone she interacted with. She stepped to her older son and brushed her fingers through his hair, mussy up his soft brunette hair. She licked her thumb and crouched down a moment to wipe dirt off his face, which caused the young boy to squirm and whine in defiance. \n\n\"You can go once you apologize,\" She said to him, and the boy shuffled as his mother stood up straight. \"...'m sorry, Miss C'rina,\" He said, and about as quickly as he'd said it, he was grabbing his little brother's hand and off they went. \"Be careful!\" April called after them. \"And don't go by the river!\" \n\nShe shook her head fondly and gestured for Carina to follow her into the house. \"They're a handful, that's for sure!\" She laughed and opened the screen door, walking in and beelining for the kitchen. \"What can I get you? Water? Tea? We also have plenty of milk, if you can imagine.\" She laughed; a soft, bubbling thing."
},
{
"author": "CARInA VAnORA",
"message": "To evidence how little Carina thought about motherhood: there was a distinct possibility that she had never once pictured herself as a mother until this moment. She supposed she'd connected the dots between being a woman and her biological capacity for childbirth, but seeing Richie there at her ankles gave her a vivid picture of what reproducing might actually look like, and there wasn't one aspect of it that she found agreeable. \n\nHer first instinct was to pity April. Here, a strong young woman with her freedom removed, held captive by two little beings who did nothing but take, take, *Take.* Once she saw how April's gaze softened on her boys, and the tone of voice she took with them, Carina reconsidered that pity might not be warranted. April seemed to enjoy being a mother, as outlandish as the idea felt. She was a *Good* Mother, naturally nurturing, Carina thought as she watched her clean her child's face. \n\nCarina tilted her head as Richie made another attempt at apologizing, doing her best to see the appeal of childrearing. He *Was* Kind of cute, with those watery eyes and feathery hair. She almost smiled at the way he said her name. \n\"Well that's alright, Richie. Thank you.\" She told him, her words barely out before he'd zipped away. \n\nShe followed April into the house, her eyes roaming the walls and studying the furniture. How many people lived here? It seemed tight for the family of four, though maybe it was nice to keep each other within reach like that. \n\"Mmm,\" Carina replied, her interest in the children and budding tenderness toward the concept of motherhood already waning, \"I'll take tea.\" She said, adding a quick \"Please.\" \n_ _\n\nThis delivery was turning out to be a true lesson in domesticity, Carina mused, as she watched April shift from the role of parent to hostess. She remembered her own mother receiving guests, of course only *After* The visitors had already been welcomed by the servants, shown to the parlor, and the tea service had been wheeled in. Only then would Mrs. Templeton announce herself, pouring the tea and passing out biscuits or cookies like she'd baked them herself. Things were different here. The lady of the house wore many more hats in places like Briar Ridge. It'd been a culture shock to Carina at first, but she'd learned a good bit of small town etiquette from Mrs. Bigby over the years. \n\nFinding a clear spot on the counter to set down April's grocery order, Carina then helped herself to a seat at the kitchen table, continuing to survey the house. Again, as outside, the new setting was a bit dizzying for someone who spent most of their time in the same building, day in and day out, only changing floors for new scenery. There were so many markers of love here, of life. It was overwhelming. \n\n\"Are you all moved out of your old place then, Miss Baker?\" She asked, hoping the answer was yes. She couldn't imagine that this new shared house would fit another dinner fork or pillow case before it burst at its seams. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "April C. Abrams",
"message": "In all honesty, being a mother had been April's biggest dream since she was small. It may have seemed like a small dream to some, but there were two things April had always loved— music and children. She's wanted badly to be a concert pianist, but that had never been something attainable for her. But being a mother— that was exactly what she wanted, and it was easy, too. \n\nShe would take care of doll babies and care for them like they were her own flesh and blood. And though her marriage with Jonah had been... Well, not a pleasant one, she would always be grateful for the two blessed little ones she'd been given. Richie and Mickey were her entire life; and now she'd truly been blessed to share their upbringing with someone who was as invested in them as she was. \n\nBeing a mother was something she was proud of. Her children were of her; she'd made them in her own body, and the people they were today were a direct reflection of her. Her boys were (usually) quite polite, they did well at learning their ABC's and their numbers. Mickey was silly, and loved to dance. Richie was funny, and liked to tell jokes that only a mother could love. Seeing them grow was like a painter finishing a masterpiece, or a farmer growing a prized crop. They were her most precious things in this entire world. \n\nShe poured hot water into a cup and put the tea bag in, bringing the cup to the table. It came accompanied with a plate and some fresh tea cookies she'd just made that morning. \"Oh, yes. Things have been settling really nicely. And— you don't have to call me that. It's Mrs. Abrams, but you can just call me April,\" She assured her quickly. \n\nShe turned and poured herself a cup, having a seat across from her and sipping it before wincing and adding some sugar. \"But actually, you see, Eli is working in procuring some money from his family to get us a bigger house in town. And he's working so hard, too— you know my husband, of course.\" Everyone knew Eli. He was a friendly face—\n\n—that milk man of hers. \n\n\"He's working so hard for us. He's the sweetest, most hardworking man I've ever known,\" She said, wistfully. \"I'm very lucky, at that. He's good to me. And the boys, too.\" She looked up from her cup and felt herself flush. \n\n\"But that's enough about me,\" She said quickly. \"What about you? How are things at the store?\" She asked."
},
{
"author": "CARInA VAnORA",
"message": "Carina let her posture go. There was no one to preside over, here. There was no one to prove anything to. Her shoulders curled forward slightly as April laid down the tea and cookies, her hands in her lap to warm her fingers that'd seemingly gone bloodless on the walk over. She looked up as April set her name straight. \n\n\"My apologies, Mrs. Abrams,\" She paused, \"April. Thank you.\" Carina took up the string on her tea bag and bobbed it in the steaming water, watching the water go dark. Besides the tea, an idea was brewing. \n\n\"Ah, of course. Your husband's is a welcome face in the store each week.\" She tried to smile warmly to accompany the pleasantry, but it predictably fell flat. She was stuck on the thought of April's empty home. How long would it be vacant? Was it for sale? Were there rooms enough for Mrs. Bigby to have her space and Carina to have hers? It would be so good for Mrs. Bigby to be out of town– quieter. The air was fresher. They'd have a bigger kitchen and Carina could cook their meals. They could have chickens and a few cats to keep the mice away, and–\n\nA silence had fallen, wherein Carina realized April had asked her a question. \n\"Oh– the store is just fine. It's the most secure job in town. People need their rations.\" It was a joke, but a bland one. Carina cleared her throat, trying to understand how to transition the conversation back to April's prior residence. \n\n\"Mrs. Bigby is getting on in years, though she insists on running the register some days. She's still so full of life, I do worry about her being cooped up in her apartment in town. You know what doctors say about fresh air– it's a pillar of a healthy life!\" Okay, she'd made the pitch. Now for background. \n\"She's got enough money saved to move into a bigger place. I just wonder if she hasn't come across the right one up for sale.\"\n_ _"
},
{
"author": "April C. Abrams",
"message": "Thankfully for Carina, April didn't think too much on the long pauses. Maybe she just chose not to judge too much, as the woman seemed so lost in thought. \n\nShe didn't know Carina well, despite having seen her at the general store for a few years now. She saw her regularly, smiled, made polite talk. But Carina never seemed to open up in the slightest; not like others had in town. April thought she was pretty, she was hardworking, and Mrs. Bigby was also an admirable woman. \n\n\"Well,\" She put her cup down on the saucer and broke a cookie in half, nibbling on one half thoughtfully. \"My previous house is up for sale, actually,\" She explained. \"It's a decent size, I'd say. Two bedrooms, plus a small extra room that I used to use for sewing... And a spacious basement, too, and an easily accessible attic.\" \n\nShe'd loved that house. The garden she'd worked so hard on, the beautiful kitchen... It was the place her children had been born and raised until now. But the place had had too many memories, too many awful things, for her or the boys to continue living there anymore. \n\n\"Honestly, if she liked the place, I'd sell it for barely anything at all,\" She admitted. \"I hated to move, but I really wanted to move in with my husband.\" She explained. \"And this place... It's nice. But it's small, built for a bachelor. But all the same, it's ours.\" And she was just happy about that, with little complaint. \n\n\"How old is she now? I admire her hard work, I think she's always up and doing something in the shop whenever I come by!\" She nibbled on the cookie again and set it down on the edge of her saucer."
},
{
"author": "CARInA VAnORA",
"message": "Carina sipped her tea casually, now that the seed had been planted. In her mind she'd done a fabulous job: not too subtle, not too presumptive. So confident in her groundwork was she that when April offered to sell the house, Carina's feigned surprise was perhaps a touch too aggressive. \n\n\"Oh April, you can't be serious! That's just *Too* Kind.\" Her hand splayed on her chest and her voice was pitched up from its standard octave, \"I'm positive she will have no issue paying you exactly what the property is worth.\" Carina assured, perhaps prematurely spoiling a good deal for Mrs. Bigby. The girl had a flawed sense of money. How much could the old Baker residence really be, anyway? Sure Mrs. Bigby had it in her pocket. \n\n\"Home is about the family, isn't it?\" She chimed, entirely lacking faith in the statement. It seemed appropriate for the moment and she had not had a very tight control of her tongue since the sale had become a distinct prospect.\n\n\"Mrs. Bigby just turned 80. It's been a hard few years since Mr. Bigby left us, but she's as sharp up here as I've ever known her– \" Carina tapped her temple, \"Yet, she's slowing down quite a bit, physically. There are days she takes to bed before the sun sets. I can only imagine being outside the dust of Main Street will help her im*Mense*Ly.\" She followed with another sip of tea, quite pleased with herself and the unexpected outcome of the delivery. So excited was she about the possible real estate acquisition, the issue of the recent attacks was far from her mind, though he'd written in her notes months ago about the werewolf *Inside* The Baker residence. The memory raised no flags now, however, and she happily selected a cookie from the plate. She should have followed next with a question about April, to maintain the polite volley of conversation, but Carina's tact predictably failed in her preoccupation. \n_ _\n\n\"Any other details about the house I should pass on to Mrs. Bigby before we go and look in person? I'm sure she'll fall in love with the place.\" She spoke with her mouth full. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "April C. Abrams",
"message": "April's eyebrows raised in surprise, halfway to sipping her own tea, she paused and set the cup back down to properly answer any questions Carina could throw at her. She tilted her head and furrowed her eyebrows— she wasn't sure why Mrs. Bigby would want to pay the full amount, but she supposed some people just didn't like to be seen as cheap. \n\n\"Well, I don't mind, really. Mrs. Bigby is always so nice to me and the boys and, well, she sometimes even lets the boys pick out a sweet if they use their manners. They always do,\" She assured her quickly. She'd instilled upright manners in her boys, but of course, they were still little... Mistakes could be made. \n\n\"But I agree that home is all about the family and not much to do with the house itself. I think I'd be completely happy living in a shack with Eli and the boys if it came down to it, so long as we were all happy and safe together.\" \n\nShe finally picked up her cup, taking a long sip from her cup. She contemplated on Carina's question and tilted her head in thought. \"Dallas just had the basement door redone after... Everything.\" She grimaced and gripped her cup a little tighter. \"Some of the doors squeak and the cupboard tends to stick in the winter, but that's about it,\" She admitted. \"I've managed to keep it in good shape for the past few years...\" \n\nHer voice trailed off, a bit forlorn. She'd really, really loved that house. She had envisioned growing old in that house, raising her children there. She supposed it just wasn't meant to be. And maybe that was for the best— maybe now, someone else could be happy there. \n\n\"I hope that she ends up liking the house. The backyard is beautiful in the spring,\" She said. \"The most amazing flowers grow on the bushes. And the smell of honeysuckle— to die for.\""
},
{
"author": "CARInA VAnORA",
"message": "\"Mrs. Bigby loves the little ones.\" Carina nodded, idly casting a glance out the window to see if the boys were out there before vaguely recalling that they'd run off someplace. \n\nAgain, hearing April speak of married life, content with her domesticity, it triggered something in Carina's chest as she tried to relate but couldn't quite. Having a house, sure. She could get behind that. Being in love? That was different. Carina wouldn't know love if it set fire to the General Store with her still inside. She could recall having felt lust, attraction, admiration. But love? Her subordinate, pseudo-daughterly relationship with Mrs. Bigby was the closest thing she could pin to love, and she still would be *Loathe* To share a shack with the woman. \n\nWhat would it feel like if a person — a small clutch of people, in April's case— was all you needed to feel whole? The thought made bile rise in Carina's throat. \n\n\"Completely redone?\" Carina targeted April's admission, \"He had to replace it? I had no idea your encounter was so... Violent.\" She sipped her tea with eyebrows raised, pinky out. \n\"It's so good you or the boys weren't hurt. You know I still haven't seen one of the monsters up close,\" She admitted. April had piqued her morbid side, now, and Carina had yet to collect April's testimony to record in her sordid little gossip ledger. She all but waved off the other woman's *Lovely* Comments about honeysuckle and whatnot. Carina was more interested in carnage. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "April C. Abrams",
"message": "Though the boys were out of sight, it was a mother's ear that could hear the rustling off in the distance and somehow know exactly where those little ones were. She'd been hyper vigilant as of late... But she supposed with the full moon not for a good long while, they would be fine playing in the bushes and gorging themselves on the apples that fell from nearby trees. \n\nAll talk of the werewolves made her feel sick to her stomach. That night... She hated thinking about that night. The fear that coursed through her, the cold chill that ran down her spine. \n\n\"It was an awful night,\" April said, squeezing herself tight in an attempt to self soothe. \"But, yes. The door has been completely redone. You wouldn't even be able to tell that... Something happened at all.\" She could tell Carina was wanting more than that, by the way she leaned in with curiosity. She hated to talk about it. She despised it, actually. \n\n\"The thing,\" She started. \"The... *Werewolf*... Got in through my cellar doors,\" She said. \"I'd left them open on accident. Chained them up tight when I didn't realize the beast was... Down there.\" She swallowed hard. \"It tried to come up the basement stairs. It was clawing and snarling and it almost got me a few times. I thought I was dead. I'm just so glad the boys were with a neighbor that night. I was working late and all...\" She sucked in a breath. \n\n\"Oh, it was awful, Carina,\" She said, cup set down on the saucer as her face went into her hands. \"You have no idea how terrified I was.\" She looked up, tears at the corners of her eyes. She quickly wiped them away and gave a sniff. \n\n\"I'm sorry. I shouldn't get all emotional.\" She straightened out her skirt and cleared her throat a little. \"What... What were we talking about before?\" She asked the woman, but her hands were shaking a bit as she picked up her cup again. Clearly, that attack was a little more than traumatic for the woman."
},
{
"author": "CARInA VAnORA",
"message": "Carina had begun her line of questions with her sights on blood, and April's answers did not disappoint. Though she was somewhat sympathetic to the slump of the other woman's shoulders, that would not hold her back now that she'd had a taste of the detail she craved. \n\nShe blinked after the story, a litany of follow up inquiries lining up behind her teeth. \n\n\"You didn't hear it when it broke in? But you were— wow, so: once you heard it on the stairs, you managed to chain the doors?\" Her eyebrows were sky-high, her lips forming the next words before her brain could process a logical order, \"You just... Had a chain on hand?\" She scoffed, \"Would've been nice, really, if you'd remembered to use it to hold closed the doors *Before* The thing got in!\" \n\nYes, Carina was having a great time, entertaining herself with her own detective work— until she noticed the tears in April's eyes. \n\n\"Oh—\" She caught herself, her face flashing pink, \"Don't cry, April—\" Carina panicked, \"I'm sure it was awful. It's over now, though, it's over.\" She only relaxed when April drank another sip of tea. Had she taken it too far? Maybe she'd taken it too far. April would never let Mrs. Bigby buy her old house if Carina kept on like this, making a monster of herself. Relieved when April changed the subject, it seemed the real estate deal wasn't quite canceled. Still, Carina no longer trusted herself to keep it on the table. \n\n\"I should get back to the store, Mrs. Abrams.\" She stood from her chair, \"Thank you for the tea. I'll bring Mrs. Bigby around to see your old house. You'll be hearing from us, I'm sure.\"\n_ _"
},
{
"author": "April C. Abrams",
"message": "She hadn't intended for her tears to bring Carina's line of questioning to a halt, but she was altogether happy that it did. She didn't want to recount the mistakes she'd made that night - ones that could've really ended up with someone killed, including herself. Her sons only being a few doors down, not locking the chains up tight enough... It was enough to make her want to cry out of regret. Something like nausea was bubbling up in her stomach, and she was glad for the tea in that moment to help soothe it. \n\n\"I'm sorry,\" She apologized once more, bowing her head and rising as Carina did. \"I really don't mean to get emotional. My deceased husband always said I cried too much. Sometimes, I think he might've been right.\" She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief; a small and embroidered flower on the corner.\n\n\"I hope to hear from you both soon enough,\" She told her, walking Carina to the door. It was the polite thing to do, even if she was nearly in tears all over again. \"Thank you again... For the groceries. And for stopping in and having a chat with me. Feels like I don't talk to many people, these days,\" She admitted, wiping her eyes again and trying to soothe herself properly. \"Don't be a stranger, Miss Vanora. My door is always open.\" She assured her, pushing the front door open for the woman to make her exit."
}
] | 384 | 6,072 |
279.333333 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "Abel had not seen April at church in quite some time, and then on top of that, from what he had heard, she had suddenly up and gotten married. Not in the church, no, but right to the courthouse. This was something that worried him. \n\nApril was one of the more devout members of his church, so the idea that she was being lead astray well.. It was worried to say the least. He took in a deep breath as he approached, and glanced down at the paper that held her new address on it. Just to double check he had shown up to the right place, as he had never been to Mr. Abrams home before. \n\nHe knocked on the door a couple times, before he stood up straighter and waited for an answer, hoping it would be her to answer the door. He was not opposed to meeting Mr. Abrams, no, he would love to meet whoever had the honor of marrying the devout Mrs. Baker, but.. He had hoped to get a good idea of how she was doing before he entered the place. \n\nAs she opened the door, he grinned wide and nodded. \"Hello Mrs..\" There was a pause, \"Abrams, I just wanted to come check on you, haven't seen your face in church much as of recent.\""
},
{
"author": "April C. Abrams",
"message": "April had been raised incredibly religious; she'd never skipped church, not even when she was sick. She had always turned to God when she didn't know where else to go. Through everything, she'd had him. \n\nBut with the town turned upside down, she'd strayed from that. She wasn't sure what kind of God would let this happen to good people. And with getting married and Eli not even being a Christian— she didn't know what to do about everything. It had all been so... *Much.* \n\nThe knock came and she didn't even check to see who it was before she'd opened the door. Her stomach dropped and she hoped she didn't look wholly embarrassed on her face as he began to speak to her. \n\n\"Hello,\" She said, squeezing the door until her knuckles were white. \"I'm sorry, yes, I... I've been so busy moving house, and all the business with the werewolves...\" Her eyes were on the floor, like she was a child who knew she'd done something wrong. She hadn't gotten married in the church, after all— the pastor might be angry with her."
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "Abel listened to the woman's answers, and he felt a bit of sympathy. Sure, he didn't find much reason not to come to church, and well.. For the most part, Abel found that church brought those who were in need, and helped them through their troubles but... \n\nEven still, she was one the more faithful of those in his congregation, and he knew that she would not simply miss service for no good reason. He nodded, \"Of course..\" He said as he took in a deep breath and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small folded piece of paper. \n\n\"I brought you these, it's some uh.. Notes from the last few sermons.\" He said as he ran a hand through his hair after handing it off to her. \"I must say, Mrs. Abrams, if you don't mind me saying so, that I was surprised to hear you had been married, and having heard it was all done through the courts but..\" He took a pause. \"I understand the circumstances are a bit different, since you and your husband are well.. Of different faiths.\" \n\n\nHe cleared his throat, \"I don't mean to over step.. By showing up, I was just a bit worried is all, but I understand.. Things are.. Well, they are getting worse and worse here by the day.\" He said shaking his head as he thought about the choas that had been created around there recently. \n\n\"And.. Might I also say congratulations, to you and Mr. Abrams, you two make a beautiful couple, truly.\" He said with a small smile."
},
{
"author": "April C. Abrams",
"message": "She let Abel into her home, closing the door behind him as she gestured for him to do so. Her hand folded in front of her, eyes downcast, she really did feel like a little kid again. But thankfully, he didn't seem angry at her. \n\n\"My husband... Yes, Eli, he's Jewish,\" She explained. \"I would've loved to have a wedding at the church and have it officiated properly but... There was no time,\" She admitted and moved to the table, pouring herself some tea. \n\n\"Would you like some?\" She asked, keeping her hands busy. \"Anyhow... The ceremony was beautiful anyway. It was everything I'd wanted, because I was marrying the love of my life,\" She spoke in a rush. \"And he's very good to me. You know. He's a gentleman and he's kind— he should be home from work in a little bit, maybe you'll meet him properly!\" A nervous laugh bubbled up at that. \n\n\"I'm sorry again, sir, I really do wish I could've kept coming to sermons but with everything going on...\" She sniffled. \"It's been a little hard to... To connect to God...\" She mumbled shakily."
},
{
"author": "Abel Jedidiah Hughes",
"message": "Abel nodded and gave her a smile as he made his way into her house, and looked around. It was a nice house, one he had not been in before. He nodded, \"Yes, tea.. Please, if you wouldn't mind.\" He said as he took a seat. \n\n\"I understand, things..\" He took in a deep breath. \"Everything has been so.. Terrible here, leaves little time for celebration, doesn't it?\" He asked as he shook his head. \"I would love to meet him, I trust your judgement, completely.\" He said as he took a sip of his newly prepared tea. \n\n\"After.. Jonah's unfortunate ah.. Disappearance well.. I will say I am glad that the boys have a father figure in their lives, it can be rough.. For a boy to grow up without someone to call a father, though,, I suppose somtimes it can be rough to grow up with one as well..\" He said with a chuckle as he glanced at her and shook his head. \n\nHe put a hand up, and waved it. \"Think nothing of it.. I understand.\" He said as he ran a hand through his hair. \"I worry about that.. But.. Not about you not coming, as long as your healthy and happy I have no doubt you make time for God in the home..\" He said as he leaned forward. \n\n\"What uh.. What has made it hard for you to.. Connect? Are you having doubts?\" He asked arching a brow."
},
{
"author": "April C. Abrams",
"message": "She quickly realized that she'd slipped up a bit. Admitting to her pastor that she was having a hard time with God? How stupid could she be? She squeezed the handle of her teacup and took an anxious sip, making great haste to not meet his eyes. \n\n\"I suppose it's... The attacks,\" She admitted softly. \"It's all so much. I just feel... Like God has abandoned this town altogether,\" She sniffled, having to set down her cup to pick up her handkerchief and dab at her eyes. She cried often at night; though she felt lucky that now she could retire into her husband's arms and find some semblance of solace there. But she truly had been inconsolable for many nights— kept awake, worrying and wondering what would happen next for their family. \n\n\"These beasts,\" Her voice cracked. \"They're awful. Why is this happening to us? We're a good group of people, we don't do much in the way of harm...\" Another sniffle slipped past her and she dabbed at her eyes. \"My husband is a good man. He didn't deserve to be *Mauled* Like he was.\" She hiccuped and put her hand in her lap, clutching that handkerchief tight. \"I can't imagine... If God was here with us in Briar Ridge, that He would let this happen.\""
}
] | 276 | 1,676 |
306.818182 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "Charlie isn't quite sure how they're still able to stand upright.\n\nThey'd shot out of Maldorano's like a bat out of hell, just barely able to see through the tears spilling past their waterline. It's a miracle that they're able to make it over to the butcher shop in the first place, keeping their shoulders low and arms close to their chest to hide the bleeding as they rush past shopfronts and homes alike.\n\nThe pain itself comes and goes in waves, though it seems to be building once again as they slip up the stairs. Once inside the apartment proper, Charlie collapses into one of the chairs, letting out a string of curses as the wood bumps against their injured side. Gently, they strip off their bloodied shirt and then fold it together to press against the wound. Under normal circumstances, they'd worry about Emery seeing them in such a state, not to mention being topless, but the stab wound takes priority.\n\n...God, do they even remember where Emery keeps the sewing kit? Is there one, even?\n\nCharlie's eyes screw shut as they fight back a sob- they know they need to stitch themselves up or at least clean the wound, but red-hot agony pierces their chest whenever they move. They go to stand once again, bracing their weight on the table with one hand, and simply... Stand there.\n\nThey need help, but god knows if they'll actually call out for it or not.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "*Going out. Don't wait for me to eat dinner. Be back before sunset\nCharlie*\n\nThey'd never left a note before. Plenty of times they'd snuck out and not said a word... But never a note. It left Emery restless all day, flitting from task to task anxiously as they tried to think about anything else. A fruitless endeavor.\n\nFocused solely on getting out an old stain, the harsh scrub of bristles on wood was the only noise that filled their ears until a loud creak sounded from above followed by a string of muffled curses. They stopped immediately, untying and tossing off their apron to quickly head upstairs, \n\n\"Charlie?\" They called out, halting briefly when they got to the steps to take in streaks and drops of blood leading up to the apartment.\n\n\"*Charlie?*\" Louder now, not bothering to keep the panic from their voice. \n\nThey shoot up the stairs, a strange sort of relief washing over them to see Charlie, cut off quickly by the sight of them. Their pale skin was impossibly paler, the closer Emery got they reeked of alcohol and their shirt, damn near soaked through with blood, was off and pressed against what could only be a wound. \n\nIf it had been any other instance Charlie being so exposed would have Emery turning away blushing, a twinge of jealousy flashing through them they'd try to ignore. Now, though, their only thought at the sight of them was *Oh lord I need to* **Help**. There was already a chair behind them and Emery pulled it closer, their hand light as a feather over Charlie's uninjured side to lead them down, \n\n\"What are you doin'? Sit down.\" Concern filled their now soft voice, eyes skimming over them, trying to find any other wounds. Fortunately whatever they had under their shirt seemed to be it, \"Charlie, what happened? What- what can I do?\" They ask uselessly. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "In the month or so that they've lived with Emery, Charlie's had no complaints. If anything, they've expected Emery to complain, though nothing ever comes. They're caring in a way Charlie isn't used to: continuing conversations despite short responses, generous with what little they have, and... Kind.\n\nIt's a friendship they didn't expect and aren't sure they deserve. Nevertheless, Charlie has come to care for them, though they avoid thinking about how *Much*, so it's only natural that they wince once they hear their panicked voice echoing from the stairs.\n\nDespite their current situation, Charlie huffs out a small laugh as Emery guides them to sit again; it has an odd sort of domesticity if they ignore the throbbing pain in their chest.\n\n\"I was going to see if we had a sewing kit, but I overestimated how much I'm able to do.\" They lift their soaked shirt to let Emery have a look at the wound. \"I, ah, may have gotten stabbed a little.\"\n\nThey gesture to the rest of the room with their chin. \"I can fix it, but I need your help cleaning it. A basin with some warm water would be best, and a clean cloth.\"\n\nTears still sit at their waterline, threatening to spill over, but Charlie still finds it in themselves to offer Emery a smile. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "Emery sucks in a breath through their teeth at the sight of the wound. They'd got their fair share of cuts, working with knives and a wandering mind never fared well and it was rare for their hands to be free of knicks. Only a few times had they gone deep enough for stitches but not anything nearly close to this. Luckily it didn't look too bad, all things considered. The cut was straight save for a tear of jagged skin, the blood was already starting to coagulate and there was no visible tissue or bone. \n\n\"A *Little*?\" They huffed a laugh, if only to attempt to match Charlie's supposed indifference about the situation. Emery looked back up to meet their eyes, bright amber now brimming with tears they wished to will away.\n\n\"No,\" They shook their head adamantly, \"No, I'll fix you up, you just sit here.\" Looking around the apartment and reluctant to leave their side, Emery's hand, still resting on Charlie's shoulder, gave a gentle squeeze. \"Sewin' kit... I think that's in the dresser...\" They said more to themselves before glancing back to Charlie, \"I'll be right back.\" They smiled.\n\nAs they headed toward the bedroom they stopped to move the kettle onto the stove. They had throughout the day gone up to the apartment, looking for Charlie under the guise of keeping the wood stove burning and it wouldn't be long before the water was warm. They rarely sewed but thankfully had a kit that was well stocked, grabbing it quickly and laying it on the table as they made their way to the small washroom to grab a basin and clean cloth. They set those on the table as well before exclaiming, \"Oh!\" And heading back to dig around a kitchen cabinet, pulling out a jar of moonshine. They poured some out into a glass, hardly a shot's worth, and set it down next to Charlie.\n\n\"'Shine. It'll help the pain.\" Despite the smell from Charlie, their words and movements seemed lucid enough that Emery doubted they'd actually been out drinking. Quickly crossing back to the stove they pulled the kettle off, pouring a small amount of water into the basin before pulling a chair up close to Charlies injured side, \n\n\"The stab got anythin' to do with why you smell like a speakeasy?\" Emerys voice was free of judgement, a small smile pulling on their lips as they dipped a corner of the cloth into warm water and started to dab at the viscous blood around the wound. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "The moonshine gets a suspicious scrunch of the nose from Charlie. Most of their experience with alcohol was from swiped bottles tasting little better than swill, and whatever cocktails they'd tried never seemed much better. Having to take a sip, as small as it was, wasn't ideal. \n\nThen again, neither was getting stabbed.\n\nCharlie pitches forward as soon as the cloth touches their skin, burying their hands into the fabric of Emery's shirt with a pained hiss.\n\n\"I broke a box of liquor, the expensive kind, at Maldorano's- then I got into a scuffle with the proprietor.\" Their eyes screw shut as Emery continues to clean the wound, \"Tried something stupid, learned the place is a front, he got pissed and tried to shoot me, his gal got in the middle of it, I ran, and now I'm here.\"\n\nSilence follows soon after that as Charlie lets Emery wipe the blood away. Their breathing is measured, only hitching whenever Emery grazes too close to the torn flesh. Eventually, the pain finally seems to become too much, and Charlie rests their head against Emery's shoulder. Wetness blooms against the fabric, and it soon becomes clear that Charlie is trying to fight back the shake in their body as they cry.\n\n\"It hurts a hell of a lot,\" Their muffled voice finally breaks the silence, \"But I'm not drinking that shit.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "There was a thread that had situated itself around Emerys heart soon after meeting Charlie Marsh. It was paper thin and soft, strong as the finest of silks. Winding through and caressing every artery, slowly mending together the beating mess. It tugged gently as Charlie's hands dug into their shirt, touch becoming impossibly more gentle near broken skin. At the mention of them being on the business end of a gun the metaphorical thread tugged even harder, the constricting pain it brought feeling all too real. \n\nArthur Maldorano. Emery had only seen him once or twice since they'd got to town, covered in bruises or scrapes with the smell of smoke following him like a devil. It wasn't a surprise his whole place was a front. The 'something stupid' probably didn't involve Charlie innocently finding and falling into the stash, not as beat up as they were (or could have been) and they soon went quiet, clearly not going to elaborate. Emery didn't need to know. Emery didn't *Care* So long as they were okay.\n\n\"Reckon his gal's the only reason... I'm glad he didn't... I'm just glad you're okay.\" Their voice was just above a whisper as they continued methodically cleaning around the wound and dipping the cloth into the warm water now turned red. \"Just don't you go doin' nothin' like that again.\" They mumble, letting the silence fall over them broken only by soft apologies at any sound of discomfort. \n\nEmery pauses only briefly as Charlie's head rests against them, finishing wiping the rest of the blood away nearest the wound and setting the cloth on the edge of the bowl. Anything else they could clean later and Charlie clearly needed to just... Breath. Slowly, they lifted a hand up to the head resting on them, fingers carding through unruly black locks, blunt nails scratching gently at their scalp.\n\nThey huffed a laugh at the comment, at Charlie's spitfire spirit showing through even as they were open and bleeding, even as they felt the shoulder of their shirt beginning to soak through with tears. \n\n\"I won't make you drink,\" They promised, \"But we ain't even got to the worst of it yet, darlin'.\"The nickname slips out easily, distracted as they were with trying to calm Charlie shaking in their arms and thinking of the hurt that still had to come. \n\n\"Take a few more breaths, but... Gotta get you stitched up soon.\" \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "There's an entire explanation, followed by reassurances, just on the tip of Charlie's tongue. They expect questions, admonishment, or even outright being kicked out. It'd be well deserved- hell, they even expect it. Emery deserves more, deserves *Better* Than what little they can give with their failed thievery attempts, and they'd be a fool to hold it against them.\n\nYet, it never happens. Emery continues with their gentle touch, whispering reassurances and apologies for their pains, and all it does is make their heart clench. When the 'darling' slips out, combined with their hand in their hair, Charlie almost wants to laugh. Not at Emery, of course- never at Emery- but at the thought that they could be *Darling* To someone. It's a novel idea, but Charlie almost believes it.\n\nReluctantly, they pull away from Emery's shoulder and wipe at their eyes with their wrist; their other hand remaining tangled in their shirt as they take a few deep breaths.\n\n\"You don't have to stitch me up, you know- you've already done enough.\" Their hand detaches from their shirt, eyes drifting up to Emery's. \"I don't want to be too much trouble for you.\"\n\nCharlie's mouth opens to continue, to deflect the severity of this with humor, but they simply... Stop. Their eyes are red, moisture still beading at their waterline, but they manage to swallow down their emotions for now.\n\n\"Let me do it. Please.\""
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "Emery turned towards them as they pulled away and for a brief, *Wonderful* Moment their world was nothing but dark hair and the smell of Charlie. Their hand slipped from Charlie's hair, watching as they wiped away tears and wishing they could be the one to do it. \n\nDone enough? They felt they hadn't done anything. Their eyes meet as Charlie looks up, brows knitting together as they shake their head, \"You're not any trouble.\" They state, lilt of confusion in their tone. \n\nEmerys mouth presses together at their next words. They didn't *Want* To refute Charlie's plea, they didn't want to push the walls of their boundaries more than they already felt they had. But the wound was starting to bleed again, flowing and mapping out across their damp skin like rivers. Their eyes were rimmed red with tears threatening to fall at any second, surly obscuring their vision, and the angle they would have to sew at would be awkward and most likely stretch the wound open even more. \n\nCharlie hadn't ever talked about their life before coming to town, but the helpless determination of their words, the look in their eyes, could only be held by someone who had to learn to fend for themselves. Someone who was used to patching themselves up and being wary of others' intentions lest they be deplorable. Emery wanted so desperately to show they held nothing but kindness for them. \n\n\"Just...\" They tore their gaze from Charlie's to glance to the wound, to the sewing kit, then making a decision before they could be stopped. \"Just let me thread the needle.\" \n\n*And then let me hold you together. Let me stitch you up. Let me help you.*\n\nThey opened up the tin that held an array of sewing supplies, pulling out a dark thread and scissors, cutting the thread just a few inches longer than the wound itself. There was a book of needles still holding a couple fresh ones and Emery pulled one out before threading it with only minor difficulty.\n\nTurning back to Charlie they paused, needle held between them and gaze flitting between their eyes and the wound, \n\n\"I really think... Honest, I don't mind, I think if *I*... I just think it'd be easier. Or, hurt less.\" They didn't know if it'd be either of those things, doubted it even, but they had to at least try. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "\"Why?\" The word feels dry in their mouth. \"You don't... You don't need to do this for me. It's my fault, I should- I need to fix this myself. You've done enough.\"\n\nEmery is right, of course: Charlie can feel the blood trailing down their chest once again, staining the pale skin crimson as their adrenaline slowly begins to drain away. The tears in their eyes remain unspilled, but their vision continues to worsen as time passes. Logically, they know that if they try to stitch themselves up they'll do more harm than good.\n\nIt just... Doesn't feel right. They've been too much and caused too much havoc in Emery's life to be able to justify asking for their help like this. Charlie *Shouldn't* Ask, they can't. They won't.\n\n\"I don't deserve it, Emery.\" Their voice is close to a whisper as they hold out a hand for the needle. \"Let me do it myself.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "Emery thought they'd be fine with handing the needle over, letting Charlie stitch themselves up if they really, *Really* Wanted to. Although their words sounded like they were trying to convince even themselves. It didn't seem like they wanted to do it because they thought they were more capable, or that the wound would be better for it; no, it seemed like the only reason they wanted to, is because they felt they *Had* To. Had to do this alone for reasons Emery couldn't fathom.\n\n\"I don't care if it were your fault.\" The desperation in their voice rivalled that of Charlie's, \"I... I *Want* To do this.\" If not for their own sake, then for Charlie's. \n\nTheir eyes were so full of tears it'd be a miracle if they could still see straight. It wasn't just their eyes though, every bit of them seemed wound tight, ready to burst. Maybe questions and assurances weren't what they needed, maybe what they needed was to hear a definite declaration that they were going to be helped. It was rare Emery Aiken showed defiance in their life, but they figured now was as good of time as any. \n\n\"This ain't about what you deserve, Charlie,\" Their voice was unwavering, though they kept their tone soft it felt loud compared to Charlie's whispers. \"You don't gotta do this yourself. I'm not gonna let you.\" They pulled back their hand that held the needle, \"Now... Please, just lean back so I can stitch you up. *Please*.\" \n\nThe last words were breathed out, their impossibly short capacity for confrontation already beginning to burn up. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "Tenderness was a foreign feeling to Charlie. The last times they'd experienced it was back home, curled up with their sisters, or listening to their grandfather wax poetic until their feet fell asleep. A year alone made it an unattainable and distant memory, something reserved for people better than they were, more deserving than who Charlie is or ever would be. Laughable, almost, to try and consider it something that would be *Given* To them freely.\n\nYet, here they were.\n\nTheir gaze travels from the needle, to Emery's eyes, then to their lap. It doesn't feel real, almost- Emery wanting to do this? Saying that it's not about what's deserved?\n\nThat they won't let them do this alone?\n\nThe tears brimming at their waterline spill finally, trailing down their cheeks til they drip from their chin, and Charlie leans back. Their hands clench and unclench uselessly as they are placed in their lap, unsure of... Well, all of this.\n\n\"Okay.\" They swallow, voice shaking. \"Okay.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "Letting out a breath they didn't know they were holding Emery gave Charlie a small smile, just barely pulling at the corners of their lips.\n\n\"Okay.\" \n\nTheir heart tugged dreadfully when tears finally fell, heavy and dropping off their chin. They reached over the table for a second clean cloth and gently slipped it into Charlie's fidgeting hands. Either to wring it till threadbare or dry their face, though those probably wouldn't be the last tears they'd be crying. It'd probably be good for them to have something to hold onto. \n\nThey let their hand close over Charlie's, squeezing it as they looked into their eyes, trying to fit all the apologies that were sure to come in the next moments. But waiting wouldn't help close the wound and neither would apologies. They reached up to it, trying their best to not touch the raw edges but getting as close as they could, pushing the skin down and together without making it bleed even more. They lined the needle up, angling it just slightly. \n\n\"Take a deep breath.\"\n\nEmery gave them just a moment to do so before piercing the needle in, down through layers of skin and fat and out the other side.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "Instead of wringing in their hands, or drying the tears now steaming down their face, Charlie stuffs the cloth into their mouth and bites down. Their eyes screw shut, and after taking in a deep breath through their nose, they nod for Emery to start.\n\nThe bite of the needle entering their flesh is expected, but their body reacts all the same: their hands ball into tight fists against their thighs, and their legs plant firmly against the floor. A pained shout is muffled by the fabric immediately, and the tears only continue to run.\n\nEven so, Charlie doesn't squirm away from Emery, allowing them to continue.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "Trying not to pay attention to the way Charlie's fists balled up, the way their feet pressed to the floor as if trying to sink away from their body all together, Emery continued. They tied up the first stitch, strangely thankful that it was a knife wound and at least it was straight so the skin pulled together easily enough. In lieu of apologising, which they had to bite back the urge to do every painfully slow second, Emery pressed on, wiping away a trickle of blood with their thumb just so their fingers wouldn't slip before pressing in again. \n\nIt wasn't any easier than the first time. The angle was awkward, the needle was *Too* Straight and the thread was probably thicker than what they should be using. Even coated in blood it dragged through their skin and Charlie's willingness to let Emery continue did nothing for the way their muscles tightened, making their skin all the more difficult to pierce. \n\n\"Just gotta do one more.\" Their voice was quiet, as if speaking loudly would break the small bit of resolve they had left. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "As time passes, Charlie's sounds of pain begin to lessen, and their body edges closer and closer to slumping over with every pass of the needle. Their breath hitches still, and their muscles continue to tense, but the sting only seems to exhaust them.\n\nCharlie's crack open their eyes when Emery speaks once again, and they chance a glance down to their chest. They haven't done a bad job, considering the circumstances hoisted upon them- hell, they could have the makings of a proper nurse if they wanted to with how calm they were being.\n\n...That doesn't mean that the straight needle doesn't hurt like a bitch, though; if Emery ever needed to do something like this again, Charlie needed to get *Actual* Suture needles.\n\nThey nod once, gesture to the wound on their chest with their chin, then close their eyes for the last stitch.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "For all the calm Emery was showing their thoughts were racing, everything that could go wrong flashing in split seconds. \n\n*What if I go too deep? Not deep enough? Will it heal? Get infected?* \n\nTheir breathing had turned slow, calculated in an attempt to ease their own nerves and they were so, so grateful this stitch would be the last. Charlie's cry's had diminished and they began to slump, their body no doubt having burned through every bit of adrenaline and leaving only exhaustion in its wake. They glanced up, waiting until Charlie closed their eyes before pushing in one last time. \n\n\"Alright...\" They drew out the word, voice still soft in a poor attempt to comfort as they pulled needle from skin. Wrapping and twisting the needle and thread around one another to make the final knot.\n\n\"Done. It's all done.\" They breathed, gently smiling at Charlie even though they couldn't see it before cutting the last tail end of thread. \n\nIt was no longer bleeding though there were still patches of blood smeared and dried across their skin. Nothing that serious and a problem they could deal with after a little breather. Emery looked around, standing to grab a spare blanket hanging over the back of a chair and quickly moving to drape it across Charlie's shoulders, minding the freshly stitched wound best they could. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "The last stitch doesn't net a reaction from Charlie, nor does the feeling of the blanket being draped around their shoulders. The only real sign that they're still *Alive* Is the rise and fall of their chest, and the occasional twitch of their hands. Eventually, their eyes open once again, but their gaze is unfocused.\n\n\"Thank you, Emery.\" Charlie breathes, reaching up to clutch at the blanket. \"I'm... Sorry, about all of this. I didn't want you to get mixed into my bullshit, or see me with my damn tits out, getting blood everywhere.\"\n\nThey shakily go to stand, clutching to the back of their chair like a lifeline, but they don't ask Emery for help. Charlie knows that they would without question, of course, what with their insistence on caring for them, but it still makes their skin itch. The thought of Emery getting sick with worry feels worse than that itch, but they have to at least hold themselves up.\n\nIt's... Nice, though. It's nice not having to be alone, to be cared for, to be looked at like they're worth something more than they are.\n\n*This ain't about what you deserve, Charlie.*\n\n\"I can't mess this up, Emery; knowing you is one of the only things I've done right.\" Their breaths come out shaking with emotion once again, but no tears build up. \"I need to do something more, something to help *You*, but I only know how to do things that *Hurt.*\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "Worry begins to bloom the longer Charlie just... Sits. Emery began to wonder if they'd fallen asleep with how lifeless they were, but even in their sleep they moved more than this. Having already decided they could easily carry them to the bed if need be is when Charlie spoke.\n\nThey shake their head, brows knitting together, \"Hey, that don't matter... None of it. Blood can be cleaned. Heck, I've probably tracked in more than that on the soles a my shoes.\" They huffed a laugh, as void from humour as it was. \n\nEmery had a feeling the blood, the exposure, even the fight, none of it was the real reason Charlie was so shaken. It was possible the day's events were just catching up to them, yet the exhaustion seemed to run so much deeper. They stand as Charlie does, following their movements like a moth to the flame. Their hands come out, ready to steady any fall that may come and fighting back the urge to tell them to just *Sit down*. \n\nEmerys breath catches in their throat at their words, a moment later breathing deep, as if even the thought of their feelings was exerting. \n\n*\"I can't mess this up.\"* What was *This* Even? It was well past the point of convenience, by now either one of them could have ended the arrangement or at the very least gotten another bed. Yet 'friendship' seemed far too meager a word for what lay unspoken between them. \n\n\"That just ain't true, you don't gotta *Do* Anythin'. Not for me... And you never, not *Once* Hurt me. God, I wish you knew...\" Their breath catches again, chest pooling with warmth at the words they cut off and how badly they wished to take away all Charlie's hurt.\n\n\"Just wish you could see you're not as bad as you think you are.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "\"But I'm *Not*,\" They spit, yet the anger isn't directed at Emery, \"You don't- I'm not a good person, Emery. I never have been. You should- god, you should fucking hate me, you would if you *Knew.*\"\n\nCharlie never talked about the past, and that was by design. Whenever the topic was brought up in previous towns, they'd obfuscate until the asker either grew tired or was placated enough to leave them be. Yet, Emery never asked; they'd always let Charlie go at their own pace, never asking anything of them. It was both a blessing and a curse, and it made their skin itch.\n\n\"Sometimes I wish you would. You take one look at me someday, and finally kick me out.\" Their body shakes as they cling to the chair, but they continue. \"If I don't do anything I'm just asking for all of this to be taken away.\"\n\n\"I'm so fucking scared that I'm going to loose this, and I don't even know what this *Is*, but I know that it's good. I know that you're good. Whatever we have here is *Good* And I'm *Not* And I'm so fucking terrified it's going to be gone by tomorrow-\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "\"Charlie, stop!\" Emery could recognise the spiral of thoughts, sweeping Charlie down like a current from one fallacy to the next. Their voice matched in volume but was too tinged with worry to be considered angry. \n\n\"*Please*, just, stop talking like that! This,\" Emery vaguely motioned to the space between them, the apartment that had become their home, \"*Us*, it ain't going anywhere. 'Cause you're right, this is good. *You're good, Charlie.*\" They said with finality. \"I'm not kickin' you out and I'm not gonna hate you.\"\n\nTheir voice broke on the word 'hate', as if even the thought tore at something inside them. Even if Charlie couldn't, or *Refused* To see it, in every small gesture, they were *Kind*. They were kind to Emery in the way they let them talk; not just let them talk, but actually listened. In the way they were quiet the rare mornings Emery slept in when normally having all the grace of a newborn calf.\n\nCharlie's whole body was shaking by this point and Emery took half a step closer, now less than a foot away but too afraid they'd shake themselves right to the floor. This being the best they could do at attempting to give them space. \n\n\"I don't *Need* To know nothin'.\" Emery's voice was softer now, but still held a definiteness not usually there. \"You can tell me if you want, but... I know who you are *Now.* Who it seems like you wanna be. And what I think of you ain't gonna change.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Marsh",
"message": "*You're good, Charlie.*\n\nThe words are thrust straight into and through their chest, and it takes all of Charlie's willpower not to keel over with the weight of Emery's sincerity. They don't understand, they don't know how to, but maybe they don't *Need* To.\n\nMaybe this is enough.\n\nStill trembling, they push themselves off of the chair and take a step towards Emery. For a few beats, it seems like Charlie will either run past or collapse to the floor in a heap. Instead, they all but throw themselves against Emery in as tight of a hug as they can manage, burying their face into their chest. Pain spikes in their own chest at the contact, but they can't find it in themselves to *Care*.\n\n\"Okay.\" Their voice warbles once again as tears stain Emery's shirt once again. \"Okay.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Emery Aiken",
"message": "Emery nearly staggered backwards with the force of Charlie crashing against them, their hug surely would have left them breathless if they hadn't just been *Sewn up* But it was still with more strength than they should be exerting. Emery should tell them to stop, to lay down or save their energy, but couldn't find it in themselves. Later, they would get them to bed early, have food ready when they woke and fuss over their wound until it was healed. \n\n\"Hey... You're okay.\" Their voice was just over a whisper, enveloping them as tight as they dared while Charlie cried against them.\n\nOne arm stayed steady against their back, the other moving up through their tangled hair and for the first time since meeting, Charlie seemed small. They stood a few inches shorter than Emery but their presence was always large, unafraid to take up space or speak their mind however they deemed fit. But here, in this moment, Charlie felt so *Very* Small. Fragile. As if Emery were to let go they'd fall apart completely. And so they wouldn't, they would stand until their legs gave out, holding Charlie until they were ready. \n\nThey let their head rest against Charlie's, turning their face into dark hair, \"I got you, darlin'.\" \n\n||"
}
] | 287.5 | 6,750 |
427.947368 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "It was a sunny and unassuming day in Briar Ridge. Spring has come into its own, generously scattering bright and patchy wildflowers on every tuft of grass it could find. Soft pollen tickled his nose pleasantly, the sun fell full upon his eyes; Lewis squinted, baring his teeth and covering his eyes with the back of his hand. It was the time of year when his grumpiness shriveled a little, allowing him to enjoy life a little better than usual. In general, he considered life to be a sort of a swamp: usually you are wet and uncomfortable, but if you want to find something good, you need to dive deeper. The sun made the necessary diving a little more bearable. \n\nHe dug his keys into the keyhole, the surrounding metal of which was covered in scratches from all the times he came home in a state much worse than today. Now he was whistling, kicking the door open. The door invitingly opened, revealing before him the home-sweet-home.\n\nLewis sighed loudly, running the hand through his hair. He dragged the coat off his shoulders and threw it on the hook. With hands in his pockets, he reached the entrance to the room he decided was the living room; and then he stopped.\n\nOn his dusty couch, basked in the sunlight, laid none other than Dimitra Anthea Florakis. With her luscious curly hair scattered around her like a dark halo, and her legs in boots gracefully thrown over the couch's arm, she looked carelessly precious. \n\n\"Oh me oh my,\" Lewis drawled out, his fingers climbing up the door jamb, \"Who did the cat drag in.\"\n\nWith his steps deliberately slow, swaying in his feet, he approached Dimitra, staring her down with a half-smile. If he was surprised to see her, he surely did not show it at all.\n\n\"How's the book going?\" He asked graciously, \"Finally managed to get though the first chapter?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She barely looked up from the book as the door swung open, and she only did so when Lewis approached her side at the couch. She lifted her eyes from the pages and observed him, the corner of her mouth quirking up in something similar to amusement. \n\n\"Mm.\" She made a noise in the back of her throat and dog-eared the page before closing the book with a resounding thud. \"Maybe if I hadn't left it here, I would've been finished already. Least you could've done was return it to me,\" She huffed, swinging her legs off the arm of the couch and taking a stand. \n\n\"You really should keep your windows locked. Might let all kinds of riff-raff in.\" She stuck her hand into the pocket of her skirt and withdrew a candy; it looked like it might've been a lemon sour. She popped it in her mouth and rolled it around, jamming the wax paper back into her pocket for safekeeping. \"I come here with a proposition,\" She said, and paused. \"Not *That* Kind of proposition.\" \n\nShe prodded his chest with a finger. \"You've gotten into the shine business yourself now, haven't you, Lewis? How's that going these days?\" She raised an eyebrow curiously. \"The Coopers are doing well for themselves still, despite... Everything.\" She dropped her hand. \"I was curious... Are you keeping up?\""
},
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "Return the book? Lewis almost scoffed to himself. What a joke. Why would he run around, trying to locate the owner of her possession, when she was more than capable of barging in herself?\n\n\"Who am to deprive a lady of a reason to visit me again?\" He replied nicely, \"Especially, a lady so impatient. You must have been dying,\" Lewis breathed out, \"To see me.\"\n\nRegardless of what came out of his mouth, he was always glad to see Dimitra. Her pretty face, her lack of manners, and of course, her adventurousness always brightened up his day. Lewis had women break into his room before, but none of them treated it so nonchalantly. He enjoyed that.\n\n\"*Riff-raff?*\" Lewis parodied, Dimitra's accent rolling inside of his mouth, vibrating on his tongue, just like Dimitra rolled around her little candy. Lewis withheld himself from involuntarily licking his lips, trying to forget the need to refresh the taste of lemon from his mind. Now wasn't the time. Seduction was supposed to be his weapon, not hers, \"Now-now, Dimitra, you shouldn't think of yourself this poorly. Show some self-respect.\" He smiled, the ambiguity of the sentence gleaming in his eyes. He unhastily dragged his gaze on the length of her arm, settling on the pretty finger resting on his chest. Flirty fox, always at her best when she knew how tightly Lewis was wrapped around her finger. He would go if she called, and it didn't really matter, where. \n\nThe proposition, huh. Not that kind, of course – and all Dimitra's propositions included basking on other people's couches and petting their chests. *\"Are you sure?\"* His quizzical gaze asked. A sly smile touched the corners of Lewis' slightly parted lips.\n\n\"I'd say I'm well.\" He said, the tone distracted, as if his position in the town's ecosystem wasn't something on his mind, \"You might have heard Alma brag about me here and there. Me being irreplaceable, the start of the team and all that. No big deal\".\n\nNot a chance, of course. In Lewis' opinion, Alma Cooper would rather eat her signature apron than speak to him in a tone more amiable than lukewarm.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "\"Dying to see you... Is a way to describe it,\" Dimitra said, quirking an eyebrow. \"I use *Riff-raff* With the utmost affection, sweetheart. I don't think there's a single thing wrong with being a riff-raff, a rapscallion, a nuisance...\" Dimitra danced her fingers across his arm lightly, mischief in her eyes as she turned away to plop herself down on the couch once more. She crossed one leg over the other, but her arms splayed the back of the couch - like *She* Owned the world. \n\nHer own smirk stretched and she rolled her eyes. Was she sure she wasn't making *That* Kind of proposition? Yes, she was quite sure. But... That didn't mean she couldn't still use just an ounce of her appeal to try and make a case for herself. \"I'm very sure, Lewis,\" She chuckled, uncrossing her legs to recross them in the other direction. Dimitra was also very aware that Lewis was much like a peacock; he liked the strut about, talking a *Lot* Of big game... But he usually couldn't meet up to all those high expectations, could he? \n\n\"Really now?\" Dimitra raised an eyebrow. \"Alma said all that? Last time I checked, Alma isn't usually so complimentary, but...\" She tilted her head and looked him up and down, real slow-like. \"You wouldn't lie to me, would you, Lewis?\" Her smile was a lot more cat-like now. \"I didn't come to talk about books or Alma Cooper, Lewis. I came to talk business.\" She stretched her leg out and tapped his ankle lightly. \"So get your mind out of the gutter, would you?\""
},
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "Lewis nodded rapidly, mocking praise playing out on his face. \"Good job, Dimitra! So many smart words,\" He offered, \"And you learned them all by yourself? Now you deserve my attention. What do you want?\"\n\nLewis could barely catch himself, following Dimitra's shameless movements with his eyes. Pushing him off, and then spreading her legs before him on *His* Couch. What a minx. Lewis felt his pulse quicken. He enjoyed her game, enjoyed her pushes and pulls flowing into each other with such rapid succession they made his head spin. A grin was plastered on his face. God, what a woman!\n\n\"Reading my mind again, aren't you?\" He asked with a joking and gentle chide, looking her in the face, despite his gaze threatening to slide down any moment, \"So insightful. I thought I was hiding it well\". Mocking was such a thin persistent layer on top of his words, it might as well have been pollen from the street stuck to the honey he always added to his sentences. The window was still open, and Lewis had no intention of closing it. The weather was nice, after all; and the idea of lightly defying Dimitra was even nicer.\n\nNevertheless, he couldn't deny he was genuinely curious. Jumping through his window frame wasn't out of left field for Dimitra, but a business proposal? She was good with counting money and spending it, yet earning it, as it looked for Lewis, wasn't her stronghold. Dimitra Florakis, a businesswoman? That, Lewis just had to see.\n\nHe even attempted to make himself presentable, to play his part better in whatever performance Dimitra had in her hand, dancing around his room in anticipation. Hands by his sides, as simple and honest as a meadow lamb. Almost. Close enough.\n\n\"Wouldn't lie to you,\" He agreed, looking Dimitra straight in the eyes, \"All here. All yours. I'm listening\".\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "It was the few months that Dimitra had spent in Lewis' favor, his bed, his arms— those few months had conditioned her to become quite used to Lewis' condescension. She rolled her eyes; she'd let him feel so smart, would let him croon on and on... But she was aware which of them had the control of the situation. She was smart, after all. \n\n\"Try to keep up, Lewis, I know you're easily distracted by pretty things, but pay attention.\" She dropped her arms off the back of the couch, crossing them over her chest. Her many bangles and sparkly things clattered with the movements, and she tilted her head. \n\n\"I'm buying up Maldorano's old courier shop,\" She told him. \"I've been saving up for something big. And this is it.\" Dimitra had big dreams and an even bigger attitude. She was going to make it, through sheer willpower and determination... And a wad of cash she kept hidden in her underwear drawer. \n\n\"But I'm not interested in just transporting anymore. I'm done just being a bootlegger.\" She took a stand so she could park her butt on the arm of the couch instead. \"I want to be a proper moonshiner, Lewis. Do you understand where I'm going with this?\""
},
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "Truly, this woman never failed to impress him. Whenever he let her lose, she came back with something akin to a gunshot right next to his ear.\n\n\"Abandoning Mama Cooper behind her back and striking her over the head.\" Lewis rocked his head in mock condemnation, almost sadness, \"Tsk-tsk, Dimitra. How scandalous!\" And so bold. Damn him if it wasn't bold even by her standards. It was a risk even a version of him he showed to the outside world would sincerely hesitate to take, \"But I must say, I'm curious. You should try to persuade me and see where it goes.\"\n\nLewis couldn't deny: he was flattered. This made it easier for his surprise to start (under a certain light) looking like respect. This was already on the level of planning he had never heard from Dimitra. Not only that, but she understood his worth well enough to ask for his help in something that she was willing to risk his livelihood on. He doubted that Alma would look kindly to one of her most rebellious babies leaving the nest to brew the shine elsewhere. And so, under this threat, she ran to him. Only him.\n\nOr was it \"Only\"? Of course, he would be the main course, but did Dimitra have some second choices prepared? It was a dangerous question: asking it would be exposing at least some degree of his interest, which would tilt the playing field to her side, open Lewis to her merciless revelation. There was no way she wouldn't catch up on him if he said it. And yet, the curiosity was dancing in his stomach. The thought was biting him under his tongue, like a small fish with very sharp teeth.\n\n\"Who else have you asked?\" He enquired quickly, hungrily, unable to hide the trace of anticipation in his voice.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "A bright laugh peeled past her lips and she scoffed a little, tossing her head back and letting her curls go flying with the motion. \"I'm not betraying anyone!\" She jabbed at his chest again, tilting her head. \"They've got plenty of bootleggers, they can spare me.\" Though, Dimitra was good at her trade. She was slippery, she was seductive, and she was ruthless underneath all the pretty skirts and bangles. She carried a gun on her thigh, a knife up her sleeve, and god knows what else down her shirt where very few men dared to reach without permission (for fear of losing a finger). \n\n\"Persuade you?\" Her smile stretched, and she squinted at him. \"I think you're mistaken, Lewis,\" She chuckled to herself. \"I'm not here to persuade you. Consider it... A warning.\" She said. \"Because if you don't choose to join forces with me... Well, there's only room for so many moonshiners in Briar Ridge. The Coopers... Well, they're the classics. They'll be around as long as these hills are standing. But the rest of us... It's sink or swim, Lewis. You can either roll with the tide or drown.\" \n\nShe couldn't help but laugh again, and her grin was stretched so wide now, it could almost ache. \"Aren't you nosey? I haven't asked anybody else,\" She assured him. \"So you should feel *Very* Special. Aside from Lily, but don't worry... She's a business partner from ages ago. She'll be part of my transport team.\""
},
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "There were very few sounds more beautiful in the world to Lewis' ears than the laughter coming from the mouth of a pretty woman. And even then, most of the other sounds in his list were made by women anyway. Making a joke that landed meant making a woman soften up, get her on his side, get her when he wanted her. And he was correct, seeing as Dimitra's hand went back to resting on his chest. Someone told him once, when he was younger, that women love with their ears, and after that, hearing a woman laugh was akin to hearing a metal trap close with a loud clanking. *Mine now. And you don't even know it.*\n\nDimitra was lying, of course, when she said the Coopers wouldn't miss her. If Lewis was the brains, Dimitra was the engine of their moonshine operation. The things she would get up to, in the middle of the night no less, made Lewis' skin crawl when he heard about them after. She strolled near the Guerrero cabin like it was a swing in the park. She could hide a bottle of moonshine in the eye of a needle and fight off two angry drunks with a fork. Without her, Coopers would be forced to take many fewer risks, and in a business as illegal, this meant the sales plummeting. The type of news someone low-ranking and completely unrelated to the problem would be punished for.\n\nAnd of course, it would be much harder to imagine what would they be doing without *Him*.\n\nDimitra wasn't lying when she said that there was room for so many moonshiners in Briar Ridge; but amongst them, there was only one Lewis. There was no one else who, through much elbow grease and much more coaxing, managed to at some point find his polished shoes standing on every step of the moonshining process. The only part left unavailable to him were the very tops, but outside of it, he could, - if he wanted, - be a one-man moonshine operation. He delivered, he boiled, he handled the people and the checks. He worked with the clients, and his smile worked for two.\n\nHe was paid reasonably for what he could wring from Briar Ridge; but wasn't he always meant for something more?\n\nDimitra was right. He felt very special, - he didn't feel the need to hide it, smiling openly with his head cocked, letting her know he appreciated the praise, - but he also *Was* Special, and for that, just praise wasn't enough. Special people deserved special treatment, didn't they?\n\nHis smile grew just a tad bit colder.\n\n\"Tell you what, Dimitra, this is a bold move, bold and risky.\" Lewis said, more serious, appreciative, \"But we both know, in this business, that's exactly what makes the money. You know what you're doing enough to threaten me, and you know how much I love that. You were always one of the wheels on Coopers' wagon, but on your own? That's where you need the support. And you came to me. That is the right choice.\"\n\nHe clasped his hands together, looking at her with narrowed eyes, as if he was preparing to deliver a verdict. As if he needed to come up with the words to say.\n\n\"When it comes to delivery, no one in Briar Ridge is better than Dimitra Florakis, of course.\" Lewis made his voice sound slightly humble, but not too much, as if saying it wasn't easy for him, as if it wasn't convenient, \"Everyone knows that. You aren't bad at getting deals either, when you let your clients go with all their limbs intact.\" He allowed himself a short laugh, \"But the finances, the management, the organization? Now that's just not you, Dimitra!\" He opened his arms, his smile shining the way it always did when he tried to sell something; this \"Something\" Only partially involved moonshine,\n\n\"Wouldn't you like someone more experienced in managing leading the operation? Someone you know well, of course, so the money would be shared fairly, and you always stayed relevant. Maybe even more than relevant, - of course, you're good enough for higher roles. You'd make a great right-hand woman.\" – *Just not a boss, Dimitra, oh, not the head. A hand. A hand with a knife in it. A hand for my hand.*\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "Lewis really thought himself so smart, didn't he? He thought he could spin pretty words and she'd just fall right at his feet, head nodding, pliant and easy. Clearly, Lewis was living inside a bubble; his head was in the clouds. Had he forgotten so quickly what kind of woman she was? She wasn't a woman who needed a man to open a door for her, to carry her things. She was not fragile, she was not weak, and she *Certainly* Was not *Stupid.* \n\nAs he spoke, her face darkened slightly, and she took two steps to jab his chest again, jaw set firmly, a fire in her eyes. \"You don't get to make me the *Right-hand woman* Of my own operation,\" She spat the words, a fury in her. This right here had been a key in the implosion of their relationship. He was pompous and full of himself. She was stubborn and could get hotheaded when she wanted to be; Lewis seemed to pull that from her with ease. \n\n\"I swear to hell, if you know what's good for you, Lewis Ashworth, I'd rethink the way you're speaking to me right now,\" She snapped, dropping her hand and scowling at him with a fierceness. \n\n\"I knew I should've asked someone else,\" She pinched the bridge of her nose, already shaking her head and turning to pick up the book from the couch, holding it with white knuckles from how tense she was. \"I should've known you, of all people, couldn't handle a job like this.\" Dimitra tossed her curls over one shoulder and leveled Lewis with a glare that could raise the dead. \n\n\"I'll give you ten seconds to rethink what you said, and then *Apologize*, because if you think for even one second that you get to run the business I've put my time, money, and effort into... You've got another thing coming.\" She wanted to throttle him... Just a little. But she knew physical violence wasn't about to get her anywhere."
},
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "Lewis wasn't bothered much by her threats: she could leave, and she could come back, and she could try the operation on her own, - trying to predict the whims of a woman's character was outside of his jurisdiction. Of course, Dimitra could've went and tried to find some other *Riff-raff* To help her lead the ship, which would inevitably sink (because no one within the borders of briar Ridge could have been a worthy replacement). And Lewis would have to sign loudly and roll his eyes from his comfortable, padded, sure spot within the Coopers. And he would have to see Dimitra fail. And that he didn't like at all; seeing Dimitra fail was like seeing a mouse yank and twitch in its trap, firmly impaled on the thick needle. Because she never gave up, looking at her sand castle of a goal falling apart in her hands, seeing her riled up grabbing on every single grain of sand, left the taste on the inside of his mouth so bitter Lewis couldn't scrub it off for weeks. He didn't want that.\n\nAnd yet, it was his fault that the conversation ended there, with Dimitra riling herself up more and more with a single breath she took, a single new though she came up with, each one more enraging than the next. He should've known, that Dimitra in her core was a pile of drywood, an entangled heap of golden hay: a single spark was enough to lit her ablaze. It was Lewis' responsibility to make sure not a single spark came by.\n\nHe must've went overboard with \"The right hand woman\". It slipped in involuntarily: the image was too tempting, the image of Dimitra, - in a business sense, - by his hand. The things they could've achieved if she was directly under him in the chain of command. The gossip they would've saved for each other's work breaks. The days would've rolled by as pleasantly as two lovebirds rolling in hay.\n\n\"Dimitra...\" He sighed melancholically, \"Did I upset you? Was it something I said? I only wanted to help you.\"\n\nHe took a step back from her, to give her space to cool down. It definitely was a good idea to keep the window open: maybe the wind would slightly extinguish her flame.\n\n\"Of course, I never meant to take your business from you.\" Lewis' voice was consolatory, \"I value your time and money as much as you do. You are taking so many risks with this idea, and, because you came to me, I wanted to take some of it from your shoulders. Nothing else.\"\n\nHe opened his arms, showing himself vulnerable as ever, trying to make her empathize with his perspective.\n\n\"I am putting myself at risk as well, talking to you about it. You know the Coopers love you, and are going to forgive you for this small back-stabbing much easier than they would forgive me. And yet, I am here, trying to help you build your future. Why would an action like that deserve your anger?\"\n\nHe left long, deliberate pauses between the chunks of his speech, just long enough to take deep, calming breaths. Someone certainly needed that. And his own heart was still throwing itself around like a caged bird. Walking on the knife's edge was intoxicating.\n\n\"You talked about the money.\" Lewis tried again, \"Of course, I would've added my money to yours. If you let me in, it would be our plan: I would share your risks, and I would do anything to make it succeed. Of course I would've added my coin to the pot. I have some nice savings that would help us stay afloat through the first months.\" Soothing, calming, he carefully put his hand on her shoulder, looking her in the eyes, \"I wouldn't let you out to dry. I've got you, Dimitra.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "Did he *Upset* Her? Was that even a question? Clearly she was upset, and he was being a jackass about it! She had half a mind to stick her foot up his ass, but she knew that getting bent out of shape would only go to try and prove his point. He thought she couldn't handle it— that she *Needed* Him to make this thing survive. He thought himself the secret ingredient to the recipe, but she knew better. Dimitra narrowed her eyes, sucked her teeth, and took another seat on the arm of the couch. \n\n\"I think if you weren't so pretty, you'd have gotten your ass kicked by someone by now,\" Dimitra commented, choosing to talk about something else for a brief moment, just so she could take a breath. She crossed one leg over the other and narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing him. This was like a grand game of chess. She'd never been good at chess, but she always liked playing with her brothers when she was little. When she grew bored of it, she'd flip the board over, sending pieces flying, while she darted off to find mischief. \n\nIt was time to flip the board on Lewis Ashworth. \"I don't need your money,\" She said, tilting her head. \"And besides... I've already had a long, long talk with Mama Cooper about my personal departure. She's behind me, one hundred percent.\" A smirk slid onto her face. \"So long as I act within the Coopers' best interest, she's got no problems with me.\" \n\nDimitra stood now, wandering around the living room, picking up odds and ends and fiddling with them. \"I think us being business partners would end up just about the same as us being lovers, don't you think?\" She raised an eyebrow. \"We're like a house fire, Lewis. We run hot until there's nothing left to burn up.\""
},
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "Lewis could handle Dimitra angry, and sad, and rebelling; sometimes, he would prefer her when she burned. The only thing we couldn't deal with was her being right. And right now, he had nothing to counter her swab she was saving for all that time he was twisting her around. Straight to his heart, as the poets say.\n\nWith Alma on her side, her influence in the business, the Coopers' money, and their best practice, Lewis had no pressure points to apply to her. He could not compete with the same foundation the haunted house of Briar Ridge was built on. There was nothing Dimitra could get from him that she couldn't get from Alma. Ashworth had a fleeting thought of questioning if she might be lying to him, but realized the lie would be too bold. The part of him that wanted her to be lying was the same part that couldn't accept that she outplayed him. She flipped the script on its head.\n\nIndeed, what a woman.\n\nLewis swallowed. Thoughts churned in his head like the heavy, dark green waves of the ocean. \n\n\"You're right.\" He said after a very, very long pause, \"And I mean it. It's not you who needs me. It's... The opposite.\"\n\nHe lowered his gaze, to the dusty floor he always walked with his shoes on, with the specks of sand like sugar under the sun.\n\n\"Don't say \"We\",\" Lewis' lips curled down, words flowing out softly and low, \"I know it's me. I am the one who ignites you, and when you burn me, I only get closer. You are right: we got charred to a crisp, but I never regretted it. The pain was worth knowing you. It still is.\"\n\nLewis looked at her, like a curious bird, his head tilted; except there was only acceptance and powdery ache in his eyes.\n\n\"Look at you.\" He breathed out, \"You're smarter now. I... Might be the same, but I would still never harm your livelihood. Even on our worst days, we kept it out of our work. If we try this, I cannot imagine it ending as badly as you trying to love me. And me... Being me.\"\n\nThe sharp exhale got stuck in between his teeth.\n\n\"You are my best chance at becoming something. You were it before, and I fucked it up. I won't fuck it up again.\"\n\nHe smiled quietly.\n\n\"And I'm glad you still think me pretty.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "It truly was a rare sight, to see Lewis so honest and *Vulnerable* As he was now. She bit her tongue, arms crossed, as she watched him a moment. She was still deciding if this sudden, softer stance was his way of worming his way back into her favor; Dimitra decided that Lewis Ashworth must be telling the truth, because the man was too proud to admit defeat unless it was honest. Checkmate. \n\n\"We had a good run, didn't we, Lewis?\" She said, a slight amusement in the way the corner of her mouth quirked up. \"Don't look so down about it.\" Dimitra put her hand on his arm and squeezed, trying to provide some semblance of comfort.\n\n\"Now, I think we've come to an understanding, right?\" Dimitra raised an eyebrow, lips pursed, expectant. \"If you want to work for me, help me build this business... I'm still more than willing to work with you. But I'm still the one in charge. I'll be the one calling the shots. However...\" She drawled, her pursed lips becoming a small smile, mischief hiding behind her teeth. \"I think you and I can make some beautiful moonshine together.\" \n\nShe smacked him on the shoulder, like they were two drinking friends getting along well at the bar, and flashed her signature grin. \"Of course you're pretty, Lewis, it makes up for that terrible attitude of yours!\" Dimitra laughed, tossed her head back, and turned to pick up her book from the couch. \"Think about my offer, would you?\" She raised an eyebrow."
},
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "Lewis listened patiently to Dimitra's offer. It turned out, admitting defeat led to partial winning more often than he would have imagined before. He still had a lot to learn. And he didn't mind learning in the slightest, if all his lessons came from a beautiful woman showing him his place. Life would be too boring, if he wasn't lightly shaken on his pedestal from time to time. \n\n\"Of course, my queen,\" Lewis agreed, smirking at Dimitra's shameless handouts of orders. Whatever Lewis agreed on now, he could surely slip his way out later. Despite his voice being both honey and poison, honey took the largest part. \n\nDimitra looked damn proud of herself, almost shining, and Lewis couldn't stop himself from admiring the way it suited her. The mischief that stuck between her teeth like a bird in a fox's mouth made his heart flutter. Smiling widely, Lewis scooped her and lifted her up, hands crossed tightly under the highest part of her thighs. It felt really good, to be forgiven by a person close to him, - even if he didn't think he did all that much wrong. He didn't seek out forgiveness quite often, believing \"Moving on\" To be more effortless and painless way to live his life; and yet, just this time, it felt good. It felt like the sun came out of the clouds to shine for him. \n\n\"I'll think about it,\" He dragged, wrinkling his nose, more playful than anything else. \"Yes\" Was written on his face as clearly as if it was ink. He would've looked even stupider then, although Dimitra probably wouldn't mind it. She seemed to enjoy it when he was embarrassed.\n\nHe looked up at her, admiring her face, and quirked his eyebrow. *Terrible attitude*, she said. \"Takes one to know one, Dimitra\".\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "Dimitra squealed when she was suddenly lifted up off her feet, and she whacked gently at his chest as she looked down at him. Her hands landed on his shoulder to keep herself steady and from tipping this way or that. This reminded her very much of those two months they'd spent (mostly in bed) together, and she flicked his nose gently with her middle finger. \n\n\"Who said you could pick me up?\" She laughed, and she did kick her legs a little bit, a fluttering thing, like she might lift off the ground even further and fly straight through the roof. In all fairness, if anyone in this world could up and learn how to fly on a dime, it would be Dimitra Florakis. \n\n\"You'll think about it,\" She repeated the words, rolling her eyes as her mouth stretched into a wide smile. \"I think you and I both know exactly how you'll answer. But if you must think about it, try to do it when you're not lying in bed.\" Dimitra snickered to herself and smacked him on the chest again, light, not even hard enough to sting. \"And let me down. I'm not your girl to manhandle anymore, remember? I've got a preacher waiting for me to cook dinner later.\" \n\nShe squirmed, wanting to be put down on her own two feet. \"My attitude might be bad, but yours is even worse!\" She laughed aloud."
},
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "Dimitra wasn't alone in her off-hand flight fantasies: holding her like this, this close, this tightly, for a second Lewis felt like she was an air balloon, bright and powerful, not bothered by the strong gushes of wind trying to throw her off-course; and he was the fool trying to hold the ropes to her in his arms. A deep fear, that never fully left him, resurfaced: one day Dimitra will leave Briar Ridge, fly off it in her prettiest dress and a hat with a shiny ribbon, in the company of someone who understands how much more she deserves; and never look back. And be happy outside of it with someone else. Leave before Lewis has a chance to.\n\nCould he have held her like this forever? Yes, - even if to bother her for a moment longer, to waver in her mind a little bit more. Lewis had no illusions about her: as soon as he got out of her sight, her mind followed suit with throwing him out. Dimitra was too unrepeatable to hold memories as sticky as him.\n\nBesides, his arms started getting tired. \n\nSo, with a slight hesitation, but not enough gentleness to make her think he cared, Lewis set Dimitra on the floorboards. The *\"Asking me for favors again, don't you remember how it went last time?\"* Joke was left unspoken. He always realized they had something and suddenly became uneasy about breaking it, when Dimitra was all but one foot out of his door.\n\n\"How's the preacher treating you?\" A piece of childish gossip popped up in Lewis' head, and he was giddy to bring it up, scrunching his nose up as if just having smelled something gross, \"Does he still taste like bugs when you kiss?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Dimitra Florakis",
"message": "She was grateful to be put down, and she straightened out her rumpled skirts and gave her captor a look for a moment. Lewis wasn't all bad these days - there was always good and bad with him, wasn't there? Beyond the pompous attitude and the cocky streak that ran a mile wide, he could be undeniably charming. One might even argue that Lewis could even be *Funny* On occasion. \n\n\"You stop that,\" Dimitra swatted him with her book, smacking the flat side of the cover against his arm. This time, with a little more emphasis - she meant business. \"I don't know who started that awful rumor, but my future husband doesn't eat *Spiders*.\" She laughed a little. How ridiculous could that be? \"He won't even squish a spider. He picks them up and takes them outside when he sees them.\" \n\nShe spoke with such a fondness, perhaps unseen before by Lewis. Her eyes were so warm, her smile softened to something so delicate and girlish, it was almost unlike her. Dimitra was properly in love; and she bit down on her lip as she gathered her shawl, which was draped across the back of the couch as haphazardly as she had been when he had arrived. \n\n\"He treats me like a princess.\" She said. \"He's the sweetest man. Underneath all of that... Coldness, underneath that brooding look? He loves me more than anything in this world.\" Her cheeks burned. \"And I love him just as much. Maybe even more.\" Dimitra wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and made her way to the door. \"And like I said - I've got a preacher to cook dinner for. He really works up an appetite, talking to God all day.\" She winked a little, laughing right after. \"I'll see myself out.\""
},
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "\"And no one knows what happens to the spiders once they're outside...\" Lewis mumbled, quiet enough so that Dimitra would certainly hear it, \"Or where they go\". However, he wasn't the one to argue, especially with the warning smack she gave him after the first part of the joke. If he said a thing nasty enough, Dimitra could probably gauge out his eye. \n\n\"I am so happy for you.\" He said, empathizing the fact he was not, in fact, happy, but not enough to make her upset. It was hard to not be happy at least a little when Dimitra was like this, soft and glad and dreamy. Even if Lewis firmly believed that Dimitra could do so much better, and also because the thing making her happy was a pale weirdo priest. But there were worse hobbies for sure. Some people ate bugs, for example.\n\nHis eyes silently followed Dimitra's hand with a book in it drifting away from him. Her fingers were wrapped around it pretty loosely, - now, that the threats subsided, she held it like it was an appropriate, expected thing to do. Lewis didn't agree with that. For a second, he though about snatching the book from her hands and demanding to leave it where it was, if she wasn't staying and never would stay. But of course, it was only a thought.\n\n\"Safe travels!\" He called out after Dimitra, \"Don't trip and fall over your love for God!\"\n\nAnd then Lewis shut the door."
}
] | 390 | 8,131 |
338 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Asher Laurens",
"message": "Arriving in Briar Ridge had been nothing but exciting for Asher: he was actually making friends, doing decent at his job (not to mention *Keeping* A job), and he was slowly growing accustomed to the ways of the small little town! \n\nOr... So he thought.\n\nVery occasionally, Asher would hear... Noises, and while he thought nothing of it at first, one night, those noises were much, *Much* Louder. The young man had been abruptly awoken by his father that night, and while he was too tired to understand exactly what went on, at this point, Asher knew something strange was up. \n\nAnd that was further reinforced by the fact that most of the folks in Briar Ridge seemed to be... Extremely on edge. His father was not spared from this tension, as he had grown far more irritable at the situation... And sometimes AT Asher, but that was beside the point.\n\nFor now, he had a job to keep, and he was dedicated to it. Asher was starting to memorize the way around the village, and the letter currently in his hands was addressed to the Barca residence. With haste, Asher made his way there. \n\nMaybe then, he might understand what all the hullabaloo was about.\n\n ||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "The book Florian had been reading was put down, the man sighed. Why on earth would the author make that decision? It was stupid and didn't make any sense. He put the book back on the shelf, he had hoped the story would get better but it just seemed to steadily go downhill. As he was scanning the other titles for something that sounded good, there was a knock on the door. He wheeled himself to the front door, pushing it open to see who had knocked. He hoped it might be Freddie, even though he knew that he was supposed to be in the mines at this hour.\n\n\"Oh, hello!\" \n\nThe man outside was someone he hadn't seen before, they were tall, something amplified by the fact that he was seated and thus lower to the ground than most other Briar Ridge inhabitants were. An exception was his friend Aki, who was only a little bit taller than him, which was something he found very funny. Asher was holding a letter. \n\n\"If you're lookin' for the Barca estate, you've found the place.\" He said, his tone friendly. \"If not, I'd be happy to point you in the right direction.\""
},
{
"author": "Asher Laurens",
"message": "As the door opened, Asher's gaze trailed down to meet Florian's, not really expecting someone in a wheelchair to answer him. Not wanting to keep gawking and appear rude, Asher handed Florian the letter. \"N-no, I do have a letter for Barca! Here you go!\"\n\nTipping his flat cap at the other man, Asher was about to bid him farewell, but something extremely out of the ordinary caught his eye.\n\n...A giant hole in the wall.\n\n\"U-um..??\" The sound escaped his throat without him realizing. When it processed that it was out loud, Asher quickly tried to save face. \"I-I um... Y-yeah I mean, uh... Wuh-what happened to your **Wall**...?!\" \n\nBut the curiosity was reaching an all-time high with this one as he fumbled with his words.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "There it was: that oh so familiar stare. Florian had grown used to it, most people didn't stare out of malice but simply out of curiosity. People were drawn to new things, he didn't blame them for not having seen someone independently moving about in a wheelchair. So far he was the only one in town, and even then his wheelchair was top of the line (and came with a top of the line price tag as well). \n\nHe took the letter from Asher. He recognized the handwriting and cringed. _Dorothea Barca._ He tucked it into the pouch hanging from one of his armrests, it would be a problem for later. \"Thank you. Oh, I'm Florian by the way. Florian Barca, you may have guessed that last part already.\" He held out his hand to shake Asher's. \n\n**The wall.** Yes, there was still the hole, a glaring reminder of Briar Ridge's darkest secret; covered with a tarp, but still very much there. The man before him had to be new to town. _Very_ new. Had nobody informed the poor guy of the goings-on every full moon?\n\n\"If I may ask, how long exactly have you been in town for?\" \n\nMaybe he did know, but just lacked the information on the particular attack that had caused such destruction to the Estate.\n\n\"Just so I can, uh, see how much explainin' I have to be doin'.\"\n\nHe'd never had to explain the existence of werewolves to anyone. He'd never planned to have this conversation. How does one tell a stranger that each month some of the town's inhabitants turned into bloodthirsty monsters? That one such monster had ripped that hole into the wall, that those monsters had killed two men on the floors of Florian's ancestral home. You couldn't. But he'd find a way, maybe there was still time for the postal employee to find another place to deliver letters. At the very least he deserved to know what was coming."
},
{
"author": "Asher Laurens",
"message": "Staring at the wall with a dumbfounded expression, it took Asher a few seconds to process that Florian had introduced himself and offered a handshake. When it clicked in his head, he did a double take. \"O-OH! I'm Asher Laurens. I uh...\"\n\nStaring between the wall and Florian, he bashfully added. \"I've been here for... I think a few weeks already.\"\n\nAsher took a moment to repeat the words Florian spoke in his head. Sure enough, there WAS something odd going on with this town, but what exactly? Apparently, depending on his answer, there would be some fair amount of explaining. Now the next question was... What was there that *Needed *Explaining? Asher didn't know what exactly to expect, and he didn't know what exactly to prepare for.\n\n\"....I would appreciate that, actually...\" The postman finally spoke. \"So... What all's goin' on? I heard some strange noises the other night, and everyone don't seem to be... I dunno.\" Awkwardly, he gestured with his hands. \"People ain't happy, that's all I know...\"\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "\"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Asher.\" A few weeks, he'd been here for a full moon then, and survived without even knowing of the dangers that lurked outside. \"Folks aren't happy, you've got that right.\"\n\nHe hadn't thought ahead this far. How _did_ one explain the concept of werewolves to a stranger? \"It's uh... A long story, sort of. One best told inside where it isn't cold.\" It may not be cold to Asher, but to Florian, whose body had trouble regulating its temperature, it sure was. \"Do you want to come inside?\" To his relief, Asher agreed. The two made their way into the living room of the estate, the tarp-covered hole a glaring reminder that things weren't quite how they were supposed to be. Florian gestured at the couch. \"Please sit if you wish. Can I get you anythin' to drink, coffee, tea, plain water?\" ~~'Shine.~~\n\n\"So _uh_.\" Asher had heard strange sounds and knew people were _unhappy_. That was putting it lightly. \"What I'm about to tell you might sound like I'm lyin' but trust me when I say I am not.\" He took a deep breath, _here goes nothing._ \"Those sounds you heard, I'm assumin' they happened on the night of a full moon?\" If they hadn't been, this conversation would be that much more awkward for Florian."
},
{
"author": "Asher Laurens",
"message": "Having to agreed to coming inside, Asher tried his best to follow Florian, though he couldn't help but look around the estate, his gaze eventually settling back on the tarp-covered hole. The young man's attention snapped right back to Florian when he asked him about a drink. Asher took a moment to think; now that he thought about it, he WAS thirsty. \"Um, water would be great, please!\" He had to stay hydrated after all.\n\nListening intently to Florian, Asher gave him a confused look but ultimately nodded, unsure what to expect. Then the question dropped about a full moon, and the postman paused, taking a moment to think. \n\nBashfully, he spoke. \"Uhhh... I, uh... I don't often pay attention much to the moon... But I THINK it was bright that night, yeah.\"\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "Getting Asher a glass of water involved Florian sheepishly asking the postman to grab it from the kitchen table as Florian himself couldn't transport it without it spilling. (He could, but offering a stranger a glass that had been clamped between his thighs just didn't feel right.) So much for hospitality. He took a deep breath, the worst thing that could happen was Asher not believing him. The best thing? Maybe him leaving while he still could, or at least taking precautions for the next full moon.\n\n\"There's really no proper way to explain this to you. It's goin' to sound crazy, but bear with me. The things you heard out there, I'm assumin' they were _howls_?\" He knew those howls all too well. He took a deep breath. \"_Werewolves_, Asher. It's werewolves. Honest to God, real-life monsters. They come out durin' the full moon, hungry and cravin' violence, the moon turns them from man to beast. It's them who ripped that hole in our walls, it's them who cause the hospital to fill up the mornin' after, and we're damn near helpless to stop them.\" He rubbed the callus on his palm with the opposing thumb, something he often did when he was nervous. \"They are huge beasts with large claws and teeth made for killin' people like you and me, they smell of death. They're terrifyin', no other way of describin' them. And before you go thinkin' that there might be a man somewhere inside those wolves, there is not a trace of humanity left in them, don't let the fact that they may look like people durin' the day fool you. When that moon is out, they want us dead.\" Florian's voice had gained an edge of anger, of hatred towards the wolves and towards those who would dare defend their humanity. He was terrified of the werewolves. \n_ _\n\n\"Their eyes, they have this horrible look of bloodlust in them, like a predator spottin' its prey. I pray you never have to see it.\" He saw those eyes in his nightmares. He squeezed his hand tighter, trying to force those memories away. _Focus on the now, you're safe, you're safe, you're safe._\n\nHis voice was softer now as he opened up about his own experience. \"One of them nearly killed my brother last month, and then attacked me. I thought I was goin' to die, I'm lucky I had silver on me that night. Ask anyone in town, they'll know someone who got hurt, or worse. These wolves have been terrorizin' us for months.\" _Nearly_, he'd started describing what happened to Valerian Barca as near-death instead of what it had been: a resurrection. \"One of them killed a man in this house, and they spill blood every month. If you have any sense you'll leave this town while you still can, or find a way to protect yourself before the next moon.\" If Asher didn't believe him, he'd roll up his pant leg and show the still-healing claw marks that ran all along his right leg. \"There's safehouses you can go to.\" Not that those places were truly safe, people still got attacked, people still got killed while in a safehouse. \"People open their houses to shelter together for the full moon nights. We try to protect our own as best we can, but I won't lie and tell you that there's a way to be sure of your safety, how I wish there was. Regular bullets don't faze them, you'll need silver. Rhett Sterling can set you up if you have the means.\" He'd been talking for a while, trying to get the important parts out there for Asher. \"I know it's a lot to take in.\" He gave Asher a soft apologetic smile. \"I'm sure you have many questions, I'll try my best to answer them.\"\n\n|| This is somewhat all over the place but it truly is what it is. Asher I am sorry you got an incredibly biased source of information oopsie daisy."
}
] | 253.5 | 2,704 |
473.846154 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "Ruth wasn't nervous. She wasn't nervous at all.\n\nShe knew his kind: stuck-up suit-and-tie rich people, who saw hard-working folks as below them. Their crispy white shirts, their smelly cigars, their condescending attitudes. And yet, she knew very little about Valerian Barka himself. People were talking, and a lot: in a town like Briar Ridge, a person like Mr. Barka would always muddy the waters. Some said he came here to regulate the thing with the mining company, some – that he came here to bury them all. It was hard to believe anybody. It seemed like no one actually knew who the man was. It seemed like that was intentional.\n\nBut Ruth wasn't nervous. A tad curious, maybe, that's all, but not nervous. She could tell exactly how the meeting was going to go. She was going to dress into her cleanest clothes – she already did, - that for him would still look filthy. He was going to laugh at her if she was going to open her mouth; amused, as if she was a circus animal. She was going to show him the pelts. He was going to try and run her dry. She was going to force herself to bargain, as much as she could; she would get tired and give up. They were going to exchange the money for goods. He would bark out the joke that she wouldn't laugh at. He would look at her like she offended him by not laughing. She would bow, leave, and he would get her out of his mind. Because there was nothing for him to get out of her. She was a simple working woman, no more and no less.\n\nThe snow crunched under the feet of her cleaned-up boots. She carried a big heavy sack with the pelts he requested, all clean-up and pretty: you wouldn't even know a couple moons back that thing could run around and squeak. It was warmer than she had anticipated: sweat gathered behind her ears and on the back under her coat. The snow was wet and sticky: it was like nature was sweating too. \n\nThe Barka Estate, in all its silly triangular form that made it look like something from a child's book, grew before her very eyes. Its famous wild vegetation was hidden under the snow. Ruth threw the bag off her shoulder and wiped the sweat from her forehead with a sleeve. Her lips felt dry. She approached the door, grabbed the knocker, and made two solid knocks.\n\nShe should have been expected.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "She was. If she could mind the damnable gore that *Beaux fucking LeBlanc* Put on his porch again, he would be happy to not acknowledge it. Still, there was so much about his home that he wished for control of again - who and what barreled through its doorway was one of them. Stepping gingerly around some of the items that Mr. Whitaker needed to continue his repairs, Valerian went for the front door, smiling demurely as he is approached.\n\n\"Mrs. Hansen,\" He says, complacent and kind, as too many of his interactions began, \"Please, come in. I have coffee prepared, if you drink some. Feel free to lay the pelts out anywhere - I'd like to hear a bit about them before I decide which ones I'd like to purchase. Please, mind the mess. This damnable cycle seemed to be beneficial for anyone but me.\" \n\nGrowing up in Briar Ridge, Valerian was very much so aware of the Hansens, and Jack's passing during the war. How quiet a sin that must be - dying for a war you didn't believe in? The death of the eldest Barca saved Valerian from that fate, as planning for the funeral, being the head of the household, and caring for his brother marked him safe from the draft. A piece of him is guilty for such a thing; another part of him knows he, too, would have died.\n\nA cup of coffee is set down on the living room table for her, like presenting a treat before a hound, and he puts his hands in his pockets, already admiring that which she'd brought. A draft of wistfulness crosses over his eyes, remembering the times he and his father would go hunting, but it's swallowed down like the sip he's taking from his mug. \"Beautiful,\" He nods in agreement, smiling softly, \"Might I ask your expert opinion on something, Mrs. Hansen?\""
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "What a mess it was.\n\nHer tired eyes skipped over the puddle on the porch, mistaking it for some dirt; a realization settled in only after she decided to take a step, and her foot *Slid*. She looked down, and an unreleased gasp got stuck in her throat. She was standing in a sizable pool of blood. \n\nThe porch looked battered, thick claw marks traced in the soft wood. Mechanically, Ruth scratched her own scar.\n\nAnd that was the time Mr. Barca decided to indulge in trade?\n\nShe looked behind Valerian's shoulder, preparing herself for the worst; but the estate inside looked... Normal. It seemed like whatever happened, happened just barely outside. The curiosity tugged at her tongue, yet she kept quiet. She'll learn what happened in due time. Right now, she wasn't there as a guest, but as a merchant.\n\nValerian asked her if she drank coffee. She didn't. But she didn't respond, because that was a question that didn't require an answer. Leaving bloody footprints on the estate floors, feeling more and more guilty with each step, Ruth followed Valerian inside. Mr. Barca wasn't going to crouch, scrubbing off the blood for hours off the wooden floors; yet whoever would be, she just added a lot of work onto their plate. At the point they'll get to it, all the blood would be dried, too. Even harder to wash off. \n\nRuth took a seat offered and dropped the bag at Mr. Barca's feet, letting him rummage through it. She accepted the cup of coffee and took a small, careful sip. A bitter, chocolatey tingling was welcome on her tongue. So far, the owner of the state has been treating her well. But that was, of course, how they got you.\n\nShe didn't quite believe his compliment, but the question sparked her curiosity yet again. Valerian stroked her as a person who expected everyone else to ask *Him* Questions, and then marvel at the sharp intelligence of his response. So, Ruth didn't make him wait.\n\n\"Of course,\" She replied calmly.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "Ruth Hansen didn't speak much; in that way, she was a perfect fit to hold conversation with the ever-verbose Valerian Barca. Unfortunately, Mr. Barca wasn't in too much of a speaking mood these days, after a handful of things had come to pass. The porch. The werewolves. *The sheriff.* And now, there was that damnable emergency meeting he felt compelled to go to. But *This-* No, this was normalcy. This *Had* To happen, else he might lose his mind. See, Valerian was a man of control; he *Had* To exert his will over something in order to be able to survive, to keep his composure. He was not so much a fool as to think he was above failure, but its repeat evidence was a tapeworm forming in his gut, bleeding him dry of anything he might have tried to consume.\n\n\"I am purchasing these furs as a gift,\" He explains, talking with his hands nervously. \"For a girl I am, frankly, quite sweet on. She's a master craftsman, very talented, and I was hoping she might want to make *Herself* Something out of one of these fine things.\" Now, there was a point to be made here - Valerian wasn't trying to exert control over another person, but instead, himself. If he had a touch of normalcy among the wreckage; if he could do something normal, like buy furs for a woman he admired and respected, perhaps he would then might be able to have a normal relationship with someone in the tumultous dynamics Briar Ridge threw at him.\n\n_ _\nImagine: the Judas of a coal man, nervous that he would fuck up a present.\n\n\"She's... Ambitious, and kind, and determined. Very intelligent, and beautiful, mind, but... I, sheepishly, have never purchased a present for a woman who was not my sister, and the kinds of gifts I'd buy my sister and the kinds of gifts I'd like to buy this woman are *Very* Different.\" He looks to her, a polite expression on his face; something not unlike a mask. Something that seemed to hide the complex nausea he was experiencing in the wake of his own inadequacy. \"Which of these would you recommend as a gift?\""
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "Nothing in Ruth gave away the interest with which she was listening to Mr Barca explain himself. She closely followed the nervous fidgeting of his hands, the slight shake of his fingers, the embarrassed twitch of his lips. Like a forest rabbit, he was, at that moment: jumpily awaiting for something to strike him. There was something endearing about Valerian letting out the words that resisted him. A fight with his mind, a fight so brave.\n\nShe knew how it felt: wanting to speak out when the words were clawing at the sides of her throat desperately, refusing to leave it. Ruth, in these cases, always let the words win; she swallowed the need and kept silent. Mr Barca fought back. Maybe that was where the void between them started: a woman trampled by her own emotions and a man that refusing to let his wants take control.\n\n\"Hard to say. – she responded, - Do you know which furs she works with? Or has experience working with? 'Cause if not, instead of a good material, you risk giving her a headache.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "`CW: Description of the death of an animal.`\n\nOh, God. What furs *Did* Hazel work with? Would this even be worth his time? His upper teeth catch over his lower lip as he looks over all of the pieces before him, unwilling to let the anxiety take over his form. No, no— he was educated in culture, and the intention of this wasn't for her to make anything functional - it was to make something pretty. Hazel was talented, beyond so, but if she'd never worked with a material like this before, perhaps it may be more of a nuisance than a thoughtful gift. He runs his fingers over one of the fox pelts, looking at it curiously. To be honest, he hoped she would wear it like a shawl, perhaps lining the inside with silk to make it look more presentable.\n\nDeath was such a curious thing- everyone died, even animals, to further the existence of others. The fox pelt that was laid out for him was once an animal of tender mischief, but now the fur is used for a pelt, the meat used for sustenance. He thinks now of the coal miners, some of whom died on the job, others who died of complications in the safety of their home. They, too, were like the foxess - dying, so that others (he) might thrive. He flattens his lips into a straight line, point down at the fur. \"This one, I think. It's foxfur, yes? I think it may be smarter to work with smaller pieces, so that she might make anything she wants to with it. I'll take them both.\"\n\nHe reapproaches the table where his checkbook lays. Instead of writing the check, however, he reaches even further towards his wallet, beginning to thumb through the open leather. He keeps it somewhat hidden, tucked against his chest, but a master of perception would find that his hands feel awkward around the leather, as if his fingers, long and skinny, struggle briefly to take what he wants from the wallet.\n\n\"How much will this set me back?\" He asks, turning to her now and smiling."
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "The touch of Valerian's hands to the fox fur was gentle and trembling. The pelt was intentionally kept complete: the muzzle and paws of the delicate animal could still be seen hanging from its luscious fur body. It was so easy to imagine for a second a still-living fox nuzzled into Mr Barca's hand, trying to find protection from something that already happened to it. Maybe that's where his sudden compassion came from.\n\nWho was this man, mourning the death of a fox, a simple animal, and yet – ruling over the coal mines, this entrance to hell before death, poisoning the very air around it, crippling the capable men, making them age painfully before their time? Maybe the death of the humans wasn't as real to Mr. Barca, who probably never went down the mines himself. He never had the remains of the miners, corroded by the hellish work, sprayed in his lap, just like the fox was. If he had, would his silver heart tremble, just like his hands did now?\n\nThe question of price didn't come as a surprise for Ruth. She has been selling the pelts for quite some time, sending them out to the big city with the help of the Riar Bridge car owners. She didn't have anything to compare it to, so she didn't know if her prices were good; but people were buying, and the money put food on the table, so Ruth had no complaints.\n\n\"100 for one, 200 for both,\" She replied methodically, but then the curiosity got the best of her. Mr. Barca has been very open with her so far, and the story of a woman, before whom the famous dandy of Briar Ridge became as charmed as a deer, could not *Not* Draw her attention.\n\n\"If I may ask... If you want to give the girl a present, why are you so insistent on giving her more work? Why won't you make something out of these pelts yourself and let her enjoy the result with no hassle? Then you won't have to wonder if she'll use it.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "Valerian's eyes gouge at the price - which for the sake of this narrative has been translated into 1920s dollars - but he inhales and exhales briefly at such a thing. So long as Hazel never knows of the price, surely she wouldn't complain about receiving lovely furs - though, somehow, if she does find out the price, she may beat him upside the head with some kind of embroidery wheel. (It's a risk he's willing to take.) \n\n\"Mm,\" Valerian chuckles, \"I was afraid you'd ask something like that.\" He takes the money out of his wallet, beginning to count it out in a combination of bills and coins; dipping briefly into his savings to collect this luxury. It'll make a good first gift; that one has to be impactful. \"I could get her fineries, like a cloak or a coat or cosmetics or what have you, but the girl I'm buying this for... Well, she's *Very* Forthright. The kind of woman to be gentle in one moment and then shoot your brains out the next; I've seen her plunge weapon after weapon into wolves' fur. She is nothing if not opinionated, nothing if not... Raw.\"\n\n_ _ \nHe tilts his head to the side, handing her the money and lifting up the furs he was now the owner of. A beautiful color, he can already imagine it being complemented with something Hazel owned, beaming with opportunity. \"And to be honest with you, I think that if I purchased her a finery, she wouldn't accept it. She barely accepted the first gift I gave her, and the only reason she did was because she was missing the item I was replacing. But if I get her *Furs,* Something raw and beautiful, I am putting the control of the gift back into her hands. It's not... Work, not really, so long as she gets to make something for herself.\"\n\nHe looks up at Ruth now. Perhaps one might expect Valerian Barca to speak of women as if they are objects that he would like to own; instead, he speaks of this woman - Hazel - like she is a dream, something just outside of his reach. And perhaps she is. It would be fitting that the man who could have everything fails to have the one thing - person - he wants. But he is nothing if not a stubborn man, so he will keep moving... Pursuing... Chasing. \"So, I suppose the answer to your question is your question in reverse: giving her a completed project will make me wonder if she'll ever use it, ever have somewhere to go to wear it. But giving her the furs means that even if she makes something practical with them, she'll still be using my gift. And selfishly, I hope that means she thinks of me when she wears it.\""
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "Listening to Mr Barca speak, Ruth felt her heart soften. She had heard so much about his man, she felt like she had his image completed inside of her head; and yet, Valerian Barca before her, - tender, gentle, caressing the fur, dreaming aloud, - was nothing like the heartless ruler of the mines. He went through the most picky and complex wishes of the unknown woman as someone would sort through their precious collection of jewelry; and, despite herself, she felt herself drawn to his descriptions, felt what he was describing close to her heart. She understood the rush of a loving, beating heart to gift an object of your affection a moon, yes, a moon, with all the stars and the bow on top; when the only thing stopping you is that the wonderful person won't probably know what to do with the moon. She felt a slow, sharp pinch of jealousy, like a needle dragging through her skin. How lucky must a person be to experience feelings this strong, this cathartic, when every moment of your life is felt with meaning, just because a special person is still here somewhere. The coffee in the cup she was holding went lukewarm and stale, but it was hard to care about it, even a little bit. She took a drink, to try and stuff this feeling of softness for the man who probably didn't quite deserve it, just because she found herself relating to his feelings, his thoughts. However, suddenly, a much more important and dangerous thing slipped through Valerian's words, and now was fully invading Ruth's head, like a dark creature haunting the murky waters.\n\n\"She shot a werewolf?\" Ruth repeated, carefully placing the cup on the table, \"When? How?\" Her head was a mess, struggling to make sense of what she just heard. Briar Ridge had werewolves? Someone was hunting the werewolves? Someone who wasn't *Her*?\n\nOnly a couple of seconds later regret started to seep in. Why would Valerian Barca talk to her about werewolves? Maybe it was a saying. A common metaphor to describe someone's bravery. Oh Lord, she always found herself as helpless as a newborn kitten, when it came to allusions and parables.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "He looks up, confused when Ruth asks the question. Had she not heard of the repeat damage of the Barca Estate? Of Oswald Katz? He says nothing, instead pointing to the giant hole in the wall that comedically stood behind them. \"I wouldn't say *Shot,*\" Valerian expressed, shrugging, \"But she used her fabric scissors - a silver hatpin - other weapons that stab. When the beasts threw themselves through my home, there were several of us holed up here, and Hazel and I were some of the only ones to do some damage in return to the beasts. Poor Oswald... Died in my living room, and I have been left to clean up the mess, unfortunately.\" He gestures, again, to the giant hole in the wall, looking at the ruin as if it was the beast itself. Alas, he turns to put the furs down, to keep them out of the way of their conversation.\n\n\"I should offer, then,\" He begins, leaning against the table. \"If, during the full moon, you ever find yourself in need of comradery as we weather the storm, you're welcome to join us here in the estate. There's plenty of room, and my siblings are usually around - good kids, the both of them, really. We're one of the more northern points in town, so sometimes we can get away without seeing the beasts... Here as of late, though, we've been repeat victims. I'm just blessed no one else has died on my property.\" A pregnant pause. \"*Yet.*\""
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "\"And, God willing, no one will,\" Ruth responded quietly but sincerely, after the man went silent.\n\nWhen Valerian started talking, the confusion on his face prickled Ruth's heart; but the more she heard, the more that sharp pain of shame transformed into dreary helplessness. The woman he was describing was so brave, so selfless, - just to think, standing up to a werewolf armed with a hat pin! And Valerian himself opened up his home to keep others safe; he might not have been selfless in his motives, but he was definitely being kind. She wanted to pray for these poor people, and she probably would; but that would be not useful *Enough*. Tomorrow, she was going to find the first person responsible for fighting those creatures, and she was going to join the volunteers. She had a weapon that wasn't a damned pair of scissors. She had a responsibility before the people of her town. She wanted to fight.\n\nShe wanted to thank Valerian for telling her the news, but the words got stuck in her throat. Should she thank him? Should those even be classified as news? Thinking back to the pool of blood on his front porch, Ruth concluded that yes, the events he had described were very recent. Should she tell him she's sorry? Should she ask to mourn with him? Should she ask about the repeat victims Valerian had mentioned, or is it better to keep silent, until Valerian brings them up himself? Should she keep talking at all? Ruth was always so bad at determining whether a person wanted to talk to her, or they didn't, so she always defaulted to \"No\". But Valerian, for good or bad reason, was different. He wasn't trying to charm or attract her, but he was direct and polite, and this felt like enough for Ruth. She felt like she could talk with Valerian: not *Open up before him*, not *Share her feelings with him*, but talk. And this was still more than usual for Ruth.\n\n\"Tell me more about your siblings\", she decided to ask, lowering her shoulders and folding her hands in her lap."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "His siblings. He could talk about his siblings - it's better than the werewolves, it's better than the pain of reliving the fact that they took a chunk out of his house, that they killed a piece of the memory of his father. He steps to the side, taking a photograph off of a sidetable and turning it to show her. In the photograph are two people: a young man with dark hair in a wheelchair, holding some kind of half-finished sketch in his hands, and a young woman, also with dark hair, hands on the back of the wheelchair, bent over, grinning as brightly as the sun. Both of these people shared some semblance of relation to Valerian - they all had his high cheekbones, his dark eyes, his smile.\n\n\"Olivia,\" He gestures to the girl in the photo, then moving his finger to the boy. \"And Florian. They are my pride and joy, really. Everything I do is so that they can have warm, comfortable lives.\" It's a silent admission of acknowledgement. He knew everything he had done was done in bad taste. Many people have died so that Valerian and the Barcas might have survived. In some ways, the pride on his face as he looked them over is not that of an older brother, but of a de facto father, a de facto mother, a guardian who protected and brought them up when no one else was able to do such a thing. \n\nHe's not trying to convince her is he a good man: he's not even going so far as to convince her that he is a man who deserves kindness. He knows who he is, what he is, what he has become. He knows that he is the devil in a suit and tie. He knows what he is, and he knows he would do the exact same things over and over again if it meant he kept this house, kept his siblings, kept his pride. His jaw sets. Valerian Barca, despite his tenderness in regards to the woman he cares deeply about, the woman he's trying to *Court,* The woman he's yearning for something fierce, is a cruel and cold man. Hazel simply is the exception.\n\n_ _ \n\"Florian is a painter, Olivia is unemployed, but she keeps the house just fine. She's trying to find herself after a cold man broke her heart, but I don't doubt that she'll follow in Alma Cooper's footsteps and be some kind of teacher, soon. She loves the kids, here— wants one of her own, if only she could find someone who didn't take advantage of her. And Florian... He's one of the most talented artists you'll ever meet. I send his paintings to colleagues in Richmond, see if they're interested. Sometimes they buy them, and I give the money back to Florian. Other times, they send the paintings back, and I try again. Same thing with Ohio - I send the paintings to Mother in hopes that her friends might be interested. Same thing applies.\"\n\nSome might expect the other Barcas to be as cold, cruel, and unusual as the disingenuous patriarch of the family - but how *Real* They sound when Valerian speaks of them. How cool, calm, charismatic. How Briar Ridge *Loves* Them, despite its acidic hatred for their older brother. Yet another burden on self-flagellating shoulders. *If they were alright,* Valerian's expression read, *Then I would do whatever it takes to keep them that way.\""
},
{
"author": "Ruth Hansen",
"message": "The faces in the picture looked so related, it was as if someone had created them as a perfect porcelain family, together, as a set. Olivia's lively smile bursting through the stillness of the image, Florian's dreamy face of a true poet, and Valerian, between them, the one looking most out of place. She listened to his voice as it trembled lightly, while he pressed his fingertips into the glass. Florian's kept paintings, Olivia's waisted love. Valerian's hands, holding their each and every action so tight Ruth could imagine it to be suffocating. She listened to him talk about trying to sell Florian's paintings as if it was the main thing Valerian did for him, and the sudden wave of deprecation washed over Ruth so hard it made her teeth clench and hurt.\n\n*Is that really*, she wanted to say, *Is that really so?* Was there no other way to support your dearest siblings than to make other people's brothers, other people's husbands, other people's loved ones rot in the mines?\n\nSuddenly, the air itself around them seemed to taste bitter. She felt equal parts disgust and pity for the man standing before her, his arms crossed, - as if he needed protection. Who was going to clean the blood splatter from the porch? Who was going to clean the blood off his hands? And who was going to clean up the bloody handprints Valerian Barca left on his brother and sister he cherished so much and held so tightly? Did he think they didn't know? Did he think they didn't care where the money came from? Did his talented brother want to get his paint, and his canvases, and his brushes; and did his sister want to get her kind words washed in other people's blood?\n\n*Valerian Barca*, she wanted to say, *You are a mess.*\n\nRuth wasn't close with her siblings; Ruth could not understand. And that was right, she couldn't, - only for a completely separate reason. She loved her sisters. She would've fought for them. She would've left if they wanted. She would've come back if they asked her to. But, - *This*? The torture? The gouging, to squeeze out the last possible drop of income from a living human body? You wouldn't do that to an animal. You shouldn't do it to a man.\n\nWas it worth it? For him, - Ruth looked at his pose, his broad shoulders, and his hands clenching one another, - definitely. But for them? Were the sacrifices worth it?\n\nBarely feeling her legs, Ruth stood up.\n\n\"Thank you for the warm welcome.\" She said, her voice hollow, \"And for your stories. I hope to meet Olivia and Florian someday\". And then she cut herself off. *I hope to. I hope to look them in the eyes, and I hope to God there would not be this metallic, immovable, confident, bloodthirsty dull glare in them that I see in yours. Because the only thing that could save you, Valerian Barca, is your love. I hope you pray to it.*\n\n||"
}
] | 448 | 6,160 |
403.5625 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "Sometimes, Owen didn't understand his family.\n\nHe loved them, of course- that was never in question. They'd cross heaven or hell for him, and he'd easily do the same, twice if needed. Still, some of their requests... Confused him.\n\nTake today, for example; Owen had been asked by his eldest sister, Dorothy, to pick up a painting from an artist right in their own Briar Ridge, wanting to bring some 'color' to her walls. He hadn't even known there was a painter in town, much less one who advertised his craft. When he'd asked *Who* The painter was, his sister had waved her hand, saying something about a Barca boy.\n\nHis sister's apathy aside, Owen knew of the Barcas but didn't exactly *Know* Them. He knew of the way Dorothy's husband would curl his lip at the mention of S&C, the whispering gossip of the eldest returning home, and more recently, his stint in the hospital. Aside from those tidbits of information, and whatever malice his brother-in-law held for the coal company, Owen simply... Didn't think about them, nor did he care. There were different things to be concerned with in his life than a corrupt man and his machinations.\n\nStood in front of the Barca estate now, though, he wished he had. The entire place screamed refinement, and it didn't help settle his nerves when he spotted the family's Model T. He felt spectacularly underdressed, and his hand shook as he brought it up to knock on the front door.\n\n\"Excuse me,\" He rasped, \"I'm here to pick up a painting for Dorothy Barnes?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "Blooming flowers in shades of yellow, purple, and blue contrasted the green of the grassy field, a blue sky dabbled with white clouds rose above snow-covered mountains; Florian looked at the painting before him with a satisfied smile. He had done a fine job indeed. The soft textures of the flowers stood out against the harsh angled lines of the mountain, and it all came together well. He'd signed his name in the right-hand corner in ink. After everything had fully dried, something he made sure to triple-check ever since that fateful day when he had ruined a particularly slow-drying piece with his impatience, he'd varnished the painting. This was his favorite step in the process. Adding the protective layer made the colors pop even more. It was also a process he was banned from carrying out inside the house, on account of the offensive smell and the accompanying coughs it brought on in those inhaling it. \n\nHe hoped the commissioner, Miss Barnes, liked it as much as he did. He'd been most grateful for her patronage. Handing over a painting always felt like he was baring a piece of himself, of his soul, to whoever had been kind enough to pay him for his work. It was a little nerve-wracking each time. Someone was supposed to come pick up the piece in the afternoon so he was confined to the house until that exchange had taken place. He'd gone by Valerian in the morning, still on bed rest under the watchful eye of nurses, but alive at least.\n\nHe turned to a book to keep his mind occupied from the hint of nerves he felt about Valerian's situation and the painting pick-up later that day. A knock on the door pulled him out of the story. \"I'll be right there!\" He called out, placing the book on the small table next to the seat in their living room, and wheeling his way to the door. The painting had been placed on the living room table, a roll of paper ready to be wrapped around it should his creation receive the mark of approval that he hoped it would.\n_ _\n\nHe swung the door open, he'd expected Miss Barnes to be the one to collect it, but a male voice had accompanied the knock on the door. The name Owen popped up in his mind upon seeing the man. \"Good afternoon sir, please, come in. I have the painting ready in the living room for you.\" He said, rolling backward to allow space for the man to enter the house. \"I like to have those who buy from me see the finished result before I wrap it up for you to take home. Just to make sure that you are fully happy with what I have made.\" Valerian helped him ship paintings to his and their mother's contacts, paintings that would occasionally return, meaning no payment for Florian. He understood that that came as a risk with something as subjective as art, but it had made him want to make absolutely sure that the paintings he sold locally were of the quality and look that the buyer expected. The last thing he wanted was for people to start demanding refunds, especially now that Valerian, who earned the vast majority of the income for the household, was unable to work. He didn't blame his brother, but Florian would sure blame himself if he was the cause of monetary loss. Him selling this painting was extra important now that the S&C money would not be coming in anymore. It was partially through Valerian that he was able to make money from his art at all, he'd have to tell him about the sale next time he went by. His brother would be proud.\n\n\"Miss Barnes requested something colorful, she seemed happy with the sketches I made of the scene, I hope the final result is similarly to her liking.\" The painting depicted wildflowers, some local, some decidedly not local, together in harmony."
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "It became clear rather quickly that being inside the Barca estate worsened Owen's nerves. Everything felt worth ten times anything he could make in a year, and god forbid he tracked mud anywhere. Instead, he slowly shuffled after Florian and kept his head low- lest the house itself somehow became aware of his presence.\n\nOwen hadn't been sure what to expect in the painting, really; Dorothy had only said she requested something colorful, and that she trusted the artist with its final execution. Somehow, she'd been both secure in Florian's talent, but still dismissive of the importance of the whole affair. It should have been a major event, no? To have enough money to be able to afford something decadent?\n\nStill, nothing could have prepared him for the actual piece. Owen's eyes widened as the painting came into view, and his breath left him in a heavy rush of air.\n\n\"That's... I...\" He whispered, barely able to form the words. \"It's beautiful. How did you- gosh.\"\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "The blonde seemed uncomfortable inside the Barca estate. Florian was acutely aware that most of the fellow citizens of Briar Ridge were not accustomed to the luxury he knew. Even with the hole in the side of the house, haphazardly covered with a tarp, the Barca home was one of grandeur compared to the simple houses that lined most of the streets and footpaths of the town. \n\nOwen seemed genuinely impressed, a fact which warmed Florian's heart. Not everyone could appreciate his art, or art in general. On top of that, many deemed it a waste of money, which Florian understood. Which is why he charged more for the rich socialite contacts than he did for the inhabitants of Briar Ridge, a decision he saw as some kind of economic justice. \"You're most kind, thank you.\" Owen asked _how_ and Florian smiled brightly. He would take any opportunity to share his process and ideas. \"Not bein' able to walk comes with a lot of time bein' trapped indoors. This is my way of bringin' the outdoors inside, I am glad to be able to share that with others.\" He said, looking at the painting now. \"I wanted it to feel both foreign and like home, recognizable and new.\" He pointed at some of the local flowers he'd depicted. \"You've probably seen these before, growin' in the fields.\" Both the native and non-native flowers had been added for specific reasons, in line with the meaning of the flowers. \"These purple ones are allium, they represent unity and collective strength.\" He pointed at a few purple-blue flowers. \"And these are irises, they're supposed to represent hope, I think we could all use some of that these days.\" The quiet of the house felt heavier than it had before. _Hope_ Sometimes it felt like that was all he had left. The moment he lost that he knew all would be lost. \n_ _\n\nHis mind wandered to the attacks again, to the bloodshed and pain that Briar Ridge had grown accustomed to. \"I am sorry, I didn't mean to bring the mood down like that.\" No doubt Owen had been hurt by the recent attacks, be it directly or indirectly. Florian's own leg was still healing from the claws that had found their way into his flesh. And he suspected that the news of Valerian's death and subsequent return to life had likely spread throughout town as well. \"I suppose I should've added more flowers for gratitude, both for your sister's commission and for our continued survival throughout all of this.\" Florian knew he was ought to feel grateful, but he couldn't help but feel guilt instead. Guilt that he'd made it out mostly unharmed when others didn't. Guilt that he hadn't even felt any real pain during the attack while others endured agony. Guilt that it had been his brother who died and not him. He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help it."
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "Owen understood, in a way: he'd spent the majority of his time bedridden during the beginning of his recovery, flitting between dreamless sleep and bouts of agony. People would visit, and some would bring flowers, much like those in the painting, but Owen took most of a year to heal enough to feel the breeze on his skin without pain. He remembered how little Otto shuffled at his side while he fought off atrophy, the days that Jessie stole into his room with a firefly cupped in hand, the nights when Josephine would smooth back his hair while a sister held his hand-\n\nHe blinked once, returning back to the present.\n\n\"I think you did a wonderful job, Mister Barca- and you don't need to apologize.\" He offered the younger man a small smile, \"I think we ought to focus on hope- everybody's grateful for still being here, but we have to keep living.\"\n\nOwen turned his gaze back to the painting, his brow furrowing. \"God only knows that I can't be the one to tell you how to feel, and I won't... Bring all of that business up, if you don't want to talk about it. We can, if you want.\"\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "\"Thank you, and please, call me Florian.\" Mister Barca was far too formal, especially when said by a man 4 years his senior. Mister Barca was Valerian or his father. Technically he too was Mister Barca, but he didn't quite feel worthy of that title yet. Or old enough for that matter. _We have to keep living._ Owen was right, they had to cling on to hope. Briar Ridge would pull through this. Her inhabitants would pull through, they were a crafty and hardy bunch. _Focus on hope._\n\nHe'd talked about the attacks with Freddie, but Freddie, _thank God_, hadn't been in close contact with those werewolves yet. Freddie had not survived an attack while others either had not or barely did. Florian hoped Freddie would never be in that situation. He held Freddie close to his heart, and he did not want those closest to him to know about this aspect of him. He didn't want them to know that he continued to blame himself. Part of him knew that his siblings must know that he felt this way, and that they in turn held similar emotions. Nevertheless, it was easier to talk about the guilt that came with surviving when talking to someone whom one was not super close to. And he did want to talk about it, he was grateful for Owen's offer.\n\n\"I feel guilty.\" He looked at Owen. \"I know it's stupid, but I do. I feel guilty that I made it out with an injury that I can't even feel while my brother had to crawl his way back from actual death.\" Valerian was, _no_, **Is** Strong, he would be okay. He will be alright. \"I wish I could take his pain.\" All of it, he wanted to take all of it away from those he loved. Somehow he felt like he deserved it. He was a big part of the reason Valerian had come back after all. \"All those people in the hospital injured, they don't deserve that. It isn't fair.\""
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "\"Your feelings aren't stupid, Florian, and you're right- none of this is fair.\" Owen's face pinched, lips turning downwards into a frown. \"The things we go through here, I don't think there's any right way to feel. People get hurt, and they're going to keep on getting hurt until we find a way to fix all of this. Until then, we just... Have to keep going.\"\n\nA ragged sigh escaped his lips. \"Sometimes I wish I could just lay down and sleep through all of it like this is some... Big nightmare. Seeing so many people get hurt is exhausting, but we got to lean on each other in times like this.\"\n\n\"I wish I could do more, help more people- heal those gashes and bites, but I can't. So... I try to find what I can do, even if it's something small; even if it's just holding my baby nieces when they have nightmares, even if it's boarding up another person's house. There's something we can all do.\"\n\nHe gestured to the painting. \"You're already doing something, Florian.\"\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "Owen had a point, all they could do was keep going. No matter what the woods threw at them. Giving up meant dying. But going on felt hard too. It wouldn't feel so hard if he knew the outcome, if he could be certain that there would be an end to all of it. But he didn't. This wasn't a neatly scripted book, none of them had a way of knowing when, or if, the next person they held dear was going to get hurt or die. That was exactly what made it so hard and so unfair; that uncertainty. The fact that any of their neighbors could be responsible had planted the seeds of distrust when they should be harvesting trust in one another. \"You and me both, sleepin' through this mess sounds like a great option right about now.\"\n\nHe smiled at the other man when he described how he'd been helping, how he'd been creating hope. He followed Owen's gesture, eyes landing on his painting. _There is something we all can do._ \"I mean no disrespect, but what good is a paintin' goin' to do against a damn werewolf Owen?\" He sounded angry. He wasn't angry at Owen, he was angry at himself and at the world and at that werewolf for what it had done to his brother and him. He inhaled shakily then exhaled, looking down, shame creeping and spreading through his mind. \"I'm so sorry, that was incredibly unprofessional. I apologize.\" Maybe today had not been the best day for a painting pick-up. How did Valerian do it? Keep a level head when there was turmoil going on inside him. \n\n\"How do you do it?\" He looked up again. \"How do you lean on others when any could be one of _them_?\" Them. He knew the people who turned to beasts were part of their community, were friends, family and neighbors. But he couldn't help seeing a wall between them, a wall stained with red that seperated the werewolves from the rest of Briar Ridge."
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "\"You're giving *Hope*, Florian. Those wolves will do whatever they can to us, whether it's an actual wound or not. Living through all of this is draining, and you're bringing a little more light with your paintings- that's something.\"\n\nIt struck him, then, how *Young* Florian seemed. He couldn't be much younger than Owen himself, mind, but his anger reminded him of his own. He'd been furious only a few short years ago, submerged in his grief over the losses his family experienced: his family's home, his father, his sister, and her husband- all gone in only one night, and he all he could do was weep in his recovery bed.\n\nHe remembered asking god, any god, *Why*. Why his family, his father, *Him?* What was the point of it all?\n\n\"I don't think they mean the harm they're doing.\" Owen's voice had grown soft. \"Whatever's turning them into what they are, it makes them blind. God only knows how they feel when the moon is down, and they have to face what they've done or tried to do.\"\n\n\"I won't lie to you and say it doesn't tear me up inside, or that I'm not terrified. I won't say it's easy, either, but how can I blame people who can't even control something that changes their nature?\""
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "His paintings brought hope. If only Florian could appreciate how much that truly meant. Light wasn't enough anymore. He wished that the hope he brought people could be turned into something tangible. Something that could be used. He wanted to do more than bring hope, hope alone made him feel helpless. Hope wasn't going to cure or get rid of the werewolves. \n\nAnger came to the young Barca as a second nature. His default was joy, but where joy failed anger quickly took its place. The anger had overtaken his rational and caring side, the side of him that knew that the wolves were as much a victim of circumstance as the rest of them were. But he did not see that side anymore. That side had been ripped from him the moment he found out the wolves had ripped his brother's life from him. It was a selfish realization, when it had not been those he held most dear he had wanted a cure. Only when Valerian died and came back miraculously had he wanted death for the beasts. \n\nIt was not the wolves who had to hunker in safehouses unfit for defending. It was not the wolves who had spent hours desperately trying to scrub the combination of hot black and cold red blood from their hands. It was not the wolves who feared for their lives, who felt teeth and claws sink into their bodies. He could not see those beasts as victims. It was the wolves who caused the terror, who ripped families apart. It was the wolves that Florian wanted revenge on. And if it was up to him, it was the dark brown wolf that would pay first. \n_ _\n\n\"Can we be sure of that? That they don't know what they're doin'? That they are totally helpless in their situation?\" _Keep calm Florian. It is not Owen's fault. He didn't do this._ Florian had no sympathy left for the werewolves. They chose to stay in town. They chose to stay in hiding. The mayor and sheriff had both been wolves, for all Florian knew they had been covering up the blood-stained paw prints of their fellow monsters. _Hold it in, hold it in._ \"They have a funny way of showin' that remorse then, seein' as none of them have come forward. None of them have told us _anythin'_ that could protect us from them when they go on their monthly rampages.\" All they had was silver, and Briar Ridge had learned of silver from S&C of all people. \"How are they are able to continue livin' like normal knowin' what they've done? What they _will_ do. Mayor Cooper and the sheriff got to continue pretendin' that they were _protectin'_ us when they knew. They _knew_ that they weren't. How is that fair? How am I supposed to feel pity for them when they could kill me with ease? Someone out there already _tried_ to. When a wolf attacks me I cannot run away like the rest of you can, Owen!\" All he had was violence, he couldn't retreat. There it was, the real reason why Florian was so angry. He was terrified. He knew he was one of the easiest targets in Briar Ridge, and he feared that the wolves knew too. His legs were paralysed, when that beast had broken into the house, Florian was effectively a sitting duck. And the werewolves were excellent hunters of fowl. \"Someone out there woke up with both Valerian's and my blood on their hands. They got away with it. They will keep gettin' away with it until we're all dead or monsters.\" This would end one of three ways, Briar Ridge could find a cure, Briar Ridge could be eaten or Briar Ridge could be a town of wolves.\n\nIs the mouse supposed to feel pity for the nature of the owl? _How could he blame them?_ With ease, with horrifying ease."
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "Owen's face slowly crumpled as he listened to Florian, that all-too-familiar ache returning to his chest. The young man had every right to be angry, to hold onto his rage and fear and let them course through his body- to remind him he was *Alive* And still *Here*, that he was worth more than the horror that afflicted this town. Who would Owen be to tell him to let go of that, to trust the very people that tore into his flesh not so long ago?\n\nHe wouldn't, he *Couldn't*, but Florian's rage still brought tears to his eyes.\n\n\"I know it's not fair, and I won't sit here and tell you that you can't feel the way you do, or that it doesn't make sense. I just-\" His voice cracked. \"What if it was me? I wouldn't be able to tell anyone: not my mama, not my sisters, no one. I'd be so alone, and so afraid of everyone and even myself.\"\n\nHe looked down to the floor, shaking his head as tears finally spilled down his cheeks. \"All I feel is sorry.\""
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "_What if it was me?_ The question boomed in his mind, shattering the shield he'd crafted from his rage, shards impaling themselves in the locks of the haphazard jail cells his anger had built to store away his kind and loving nature. Some of it escaped. It screamed at him: **What are you doing Florian, this isn't you, you aren't a killer.**\n\nAnd then Owen started crying. _Look what you've done Florian, you selfish asshole_ the tears said _you and your damned anger. You and your damned quest for vengeance. You'll burn those around you, even those on your side if you aren't careful._ His fire burned indiscriminately, and if he would pay close attention he might be able to see the embers flickering on his own person, threatening to burn him along with the rest. If he continued down this path he would find himself irreparably scorched.\n\n_ _\nHe felt sorry too, sorry for what he knew he had to do. There they were, two sides of the same coin, one representing compassion forged from a malleable gold, the other representing hatred forged from unforgiving titanium. Florian had once been gold, but now the silvery gray crept ever closer to his core. If only there was more of Owen in those closest to Florian. If only Florian's kindness had been as strong as Owen's. If only this world was fair.\n_ _\n\nHe might not agree with Owen but nobody deserved to feel how the other man did now. The other man was one of 'us', and Briar Ridge looked after its own. \"It's not your fault Owen, and it _isn't_ you.\" His voice was soft again, the tears he saw had washed away his anger. He felt ashamed for losing control like that, again. There was a question in the last statement: It isn't you, right?\n\n\"You didn't start this, you didn't ask for this. None of us did.\" Everyone wanted it to be over. \"We're all just tryin' to survive, there's no right choices here.\" He paused for a few seconds before continuing again, voice still gentle. \"If I was one of them I'd rather get shot and injured than go unharmed knowin' I hurt someone.\" He could feel the black gore on his hands again, how his knife had sliced that monster. How Miss Marianne and him had made it run away back into the night. \n\n\"Nobody is fightin' back because they enjoy hurtin' their neighbors. They're fightin' back because we _have_ to. At least until there is a cure. You don't have to feel sorry for wantin' to live, Owen. You deserve to live.\" \n\nMaybe it wasn't too late to turn back yet, maybe Florian didn't have to go down a path he'd come to regret. Maybe. But he wouldn't, he wouldn't turn back. He was too far in for that already, one of those werewolves had to die, one specific, pitch dark brown wolf. But he looked at Owen with immense respect for being able to see the humanity behind all the beasts."
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "Owen had never been an angry person, even when he was young. While his siblings would snap or even taunt those who caught their ire, Owen kept his head low, letting other's comments roll off of his back as easily as water would a duck's. *Soft,* His mother had said to him once, *Soft and sweet as a newborn lamb.*\n\nDid lambs weep for the wolves as their teeth clamped around their throat?\n\n\"Don't all of us?\" He finally replied, voice thick with tears. \"None of us asked for this curse, none of us asked for all this blood and misery, but we're still hurting each other all the same. We're still going after each other with guns and knives and-\"\n\n*-the pitchfork had slid easily into the beast, with far less resistance than he had initially thought. It howled in pain as it scrabbled against the tines embedded in its chest, black blood seeping into its white fur-*\n\nOwen shook his head and hung his head even lower.\n\n\"...I wish it wasn't like this.\""
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "They were all hurting each other. Briar Ridge was tearing itself apart from the inside out. And none of them had a way to stop it. Not yet.\n\nHe wished it wasn't like this either, but wishing didn't make it so. Wishing for peace didn't call down that proverbial dove. Wishing for peace wasn't going to do anything but make him feel hopeless. No, Florian needed action. He needed to do something, anything, he couldn't sit idly by. God knows the wolves wouldn't sit quietly, willing or unwilling. The end result was still the same. People would get hurt, whether they wished for peace or not. Werewolves didn't care where you stood on injuring them. They didn't discriminate between pacifist and fighter.\n_ _\n\nHis voice remained gentle, not wanting his anger to further hurt Owen. \"Everyone shares that wish. But you can't let that stop you from defendin' yourself.\" He'd caught word that Owen had used a pitchfork of all things to defend himself. He'd also heard he'd been more than just a little bit successful in wielding it. \"Owen, if you hadn't done what you did, you might've been killed. You didn't do it out of malice, you did it to survive.\" He knew it was easy for him to say it, he didn't feel remorse for what he'd done to the monster in Miss Wilburn's house. Owen clearly did. He wished there were words enough to tell Owen that he shouldn't feel guilty, that whatever harm he'd caused had been a necessary evil. That it was either harm or be killed. He wished he knew how to comfort Owen.\n\n\"You tried to hide, right? Maybe even tried to run? But the-\" Beast, monster, predator drive? \"-curse, it makes them _want_ to hurt us.\" He remembered the eyes of the wolf, void of any hint of humanity. \n\n\"The curse doesn't take pity on any of us, human or wolf. But throwin' up your hands in surrender isn't going to stop the wolves from maimin' you. When the moon's full they don't feel pity like you do. If they did, they wouldn't be attackin' us.\" Maybe outside the moon they did. They had a funny way of showing it, not moving away from the holler they terrorized each month.\n\n\"I understand not wantin' to hurt them, and I certainly can't tell you how you should be feelin'. But you don't deserve to die, especially not for a werewolf who wouldn't think twice about eatin' you.\""
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "\"I know. It doesn't make any of this any easier, though. If we can find a way not to hurt them, or some sort of way to hold them back, that's what I want.\"\n\nHis back straightened, and Owen wiped at his eyes. \"I'm... Sorry for this. All I came to do was pick up the painting, and here I am crying.\"\n\nThe redirection was clear, as clumsily as Owen went about it; the conversation went in circles, with Florian insistent on self-defense without the sting of guilt, but his words only seemed to glean off of Owen. Everything Florian had said was correct, a part of him knew that, but grief always wormed its way into Owen's heart, and dragged him toward doubt.\n\n\"I'll just take it and go- my sister paid already, yeah?\""
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "A sinking feeling settled in the artist's stomach. He'd failed to bring any semblance of comfort to Owen, he'd pushed his own views on someone who clearly didn't share them. _Florian you selfish asshole._ \"The cage, yeah, I agree, that would be ideal.\" He mumbled. \n\n\"I-\" _I'm sorry._ He stopped his sentence, he'd ruined it already. He was sorry for how he acted, how he'd made Owen feel. But he wasn't sorry for his views. \"Yeah, yeah she did.\" He sounded defeated.\n\nWhen Owen had left the youngest Barca remained in the now empty living room, head in hands. How was this ever going to be resolved? Even if they did find a cure, blood had been spilled. On both sides. Could those cursed and those unaffected ever truly look each other in the eyes as equals? Would the resentment and blame ever truly leave Briar Ridge, or had they passed the point of no return? He feared they had. He knew _he_ was about to pass firmly across that threshold. Owen's words remained in his head, he'd been right, but Florian was blinded by hatred and fear."
}
] | 316.5 | 6,457 |
560.4 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "He had frequent competition for the best window spots now, but he didn't mind sharing at all. Miss Calhoun's presence was a most welcome one. It was good to have someone in the house who wasn't a Barca. ~~Not yet anyways.~~ And Valerian could use all the support he could get. Freddie swung by nearly every day to spend time with Florian, but only in the evenings, which left the days themselves empty of distractions in the form of people. Hazel had started to be around more and more. Each time she'd have some kind of work with her, her hands kept ever-busy. It was something he was very familiar with as well, he couldn't keep still, he needed to always be doing _something._ The two sat in the living room, both working on their own projects. Florian enjoyed the quiet company, as well as the conversations that did pop up from time to time. \n\nThe current project he was working on was a pencil sketch, but he just couldn't get the proportions quite right. He'd wiped away parts a few times already, a sign that it was time to move on to something else. He sighed, he knew when it was time to take a break from working. If he continued now he would just end up making it worse, creating unfixable mistakes in his work. He turned to look at Hazel, who was embroidering something. How she had the patience to do work so small, precise, and above all **Slow**, he'd never understand. He was continuously impressed by it. He'd been wanting to ask her something. Now was as good a time as any. Valerian had fallen asleep about a quarter of an hour ago, meaning he wouldn't need to be asked to stop getting up and trying to do things that would slow his recovery, at least for a little bit. Florian knew better by now, everyone in the estate did. At one point they'd inevitably have to gently remind him (again) of the meaning of 'taking things slow'. \n_ _\n\nHe understood it though, he'd wanted nothing more than to get up out of bed when he'd been recovering. Not that he could, paralysis of the lower body makes that quite hard, but the drive to get moving again had been very present. He didn't blame Valerian for being impatient. Florian placed his pencil and the sketchbook in the pouch hanging from one of his armrests and wheeled over to Hazel.\n\n\"I hope I'm not interruptin' something mighty important here Hazel, do tell me if I am.\" He smiled. \"I had a question I've been meanin' to ask you. You see, I was wonderin' if you might be able to help tailor some pants that would properly fit me? Of course I'd pay you for your work.\" He wouldn't dare ask her to work for free. \"Currently I, uh, struggle even gettin' them on on my own.\" It was something he felt shame for, the fact that he shared that with Hazel was a sign that he trusted her."
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "There was comfort in repetition, in the ritualistic nature of piercing fabric and pulling through the needle, leaving a train of thread in its wake. To call her work something of a *Coping mechanism* Might have been an understatement in that this art form seemed to be an intrinsic part of Hazel's personality. In the face of her greatest tribulations, and even simply in moments clouded by emotional torment, there was always the needle and thread, always a pattern to be followed. A mathematical sort of beauty guaranteed the outcome of a given project before she even began, to say nothing of the way her projects seemed to take on lives of their own.\n\nIt was no surprise, then, that Hazel had wound up here at the bay window. A large wooden frame was spread across her lap, holding taut a panel of fabric. At her side in her chair lay her opened tin of sewing supplies. It appeared at first glance that the panel had been haphazardly divided into quadrants. Hazel never did anything haphazardly when it counted; to a familiar but uneducated face, it could be assumed that she was, effectively, 'doodling'. \n\nThe sound of Florian's voice was a welcome reminder that she was not in an isolated chamber. When too absorbed into the flow of her work, Hazel sometimes felt as though she were sitting cross-legged at the bottom of a pond while she stitched. The lurch back into the world of the living prompted her to shake her head, just once, and she looked up with a genuine smile, if a weary one.\n\n\"Not botherin' me a whit, Flor,\" She answered, setting her panel down onto the carpet. \"I'm just tryin' out a few designs before I pick one to put on a dress.\" It appeared that the Hazel who existed on the grounds of the Barca estate was a decidedly softer Hazel than the one who'd been fending for herself up in her little shop. When she wasn't so worried about her physical needs, she was a genuinely pleasant person. Even Hazel had grown surprised at her own capacity for socialization. \n_ _\n\nAs Florian spoke, she could feel her face fall a little. She was nodding in silence before he even finished speaking. If generosity weren't enough of a motivator – and in all honesty, she wasn't sure she trusted her personal growth enough for that – then surely the presentation of a challenge was more than enough to whet her appetite. Admittedly, she was surprised that he'd shared this with her at all. Florian was more than polite, and always warm, but he had not yet extended this kind of trust to her. Her stomach fluttered at the idea that he could view her as being worthy of that closeness, and before she knew it her heart was reaching out to meet him in the middle. \n\n\"Oh, shoot,\" She said, initially a little guilty that she'd never considered this issue but all the more motivated to be the one to remedy it. \"Oh, of course I can do that! Well, I can try! Gonna have to do some experimentin', but the answer's yes. We can get you right. You let me know when you want me to take your measurements. Reckon we have about forty-five minutes 'fore we have to rustle up some lunch for you-know-who.\" \n\nShe referenced Valerian with such fondness that it was almost embarrassing. Hazel, never before seen in such a state, looked happily across at Florian from her own chair. Generosity was easier, it seemed, when one had less to be bitter about."
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "The artist was very familiar with the kind of flow-state Hazel had seemingly been in. Getting so absorbed into one's work that the outside world all but vanishes from your perception, it was something he did too. There had been quite a few times where the waving hand of Olivia, placed between his face and the canvas, had been required to pull him out of his focus. It was followed by his sister telling him that she'd been trying to talk to him, and he'd been ignoring her. At this point she knew he didn't do it on purpose, but continued to jokingly insist that he did.\n\nThe shame he'd felt for the question melted like snow upon hearing Hazel's answer. Seeing her face fall had made him think ever so briefly that it had been a mistake, but the words quickly removed that doubt. \"I am all for experimentin'. I'll be the first to admit I don't have much knowledge on garment construction, but I had some ideas if you'd want to hear?\" One being the removal of pockets on the backside, he couldn't use those anyway, why have them there? \n\nThe act of getting his measurements taken was fairly new to him. He had no need for custom suits, he had no place to wear them. Sure, Florian owned nicer clothing, reserved for celebratory events and church on the occasion that he went, which had been a while, but outside that his clothing was seemingly unassuming. It remained well made and of high quality, but nothing you'd describe as fancy. A hidden part of him didn't think he deserved clothes that could be described that way. Tailored suits were for men who stood straight-backed and demanded attention just by entering a room, and that wasn't him. Tailored suits were for men with actual jobs, who provided for their families, not artists who barely made sales. But pants? Pants he could justify. Maybe one day he could justify owning a suit too. Maybe one day he'd be able to afford it.\n_ _\n\nHe smiled when Hazel mentioned his brother, avoiding his name, as if the mere act of speaking it would rouse him from his slumber. \"Oh, yes, sure, I uh, well I'm free now if you are?\" He didn't want to fully interrupt her work unless she agreed to it. Florian could wait if Hazel couldn't. \"If you have what you need, that is.\""
},
{
"author": "miss hazel.",
"message": "\"Oh, I'll wanna hear all your ideas,\" Replied Hazel, yanking out her notepad and an old, well-worn pencil she was too stubborn to replace. As genuine and kind as her intentions were, the tone with which she spoke was reminiscent of the one a surgeon might use when speaking to a diagnostic team. \n\n\"I'm not the one with any expertise sittin' in that thing all day. Clothes are the way they are 'cause people *Live* In 'em, so it's important that you can *Live* In your clothes. S'why I don't really wear tight sleeves. I'm always movin' my arms, so I make my shirts with more room. Things like that only come from experience, so if I'm gonna make you some damned good trousers, I'm gonna need to hear about your experience.\" As she finished speaking, she was writing *Florian's Cut* At the top of the page and underlining it. \n\n\"And...\" Hazel paused, huffing out a little sigh. \"Thanks for comin' to me about it. Everybody ought to have somethin' custom made at least once, I think. And all you Barcas ought to have somethin' of mine.\" (One thing to start with, anyway.) \"Val has his cardigan, and Olivia has that blue blouse – actually, Val bought that from my shop the first day I met him.\" \n\nShe was still so surprised at her newfound capacity for such open tenderness – vulnerability? – and Hazel looked a little embarrassed as she rummaged around in her bag, then after a moment, pulled out her brand new measuring tape – so painfully obviously a gift from their aforementioned mutual loved one.\n\n\"I always have what I need,\" She answered, grinning at him. \"Can't help myself, unfortunately. You wanna do it now, or should we wait 'til later on?\"\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "Images of a reporter were conjured to his mind when Hazel whipped out a notepad and very beaten-up looking pencil. He smiled, he recognized the need for moving one's arms freely. \"I do the same, in a way. Sleeves get in the way when pushin' my wheels, so I always wear them rolled up. Doin' so helps with not gettin' charcoal or paint on them too.\" He'd never thought about clothing in the way Hazel described, but now he could see just how right she was. He had always looked at them as purely functional, as a necessity, but they truly were a part of one's life.\n\n\"Liv loves that blouse, I didn't know you made that.\" It didn't surprise him that it was one of Hazel's, nor did it surprise him when Hazel pulled out a brand new measuring tape. He smiled, having a sneaking suspicion as to its origin. Valerian's wealth was a hard-earned one, the fruits of which he seemed to enjoy sharing with those closest to him in the form of gifts. Florian remembered the furs his brother had gotten Hazel earlier, luxurious-looking things they had been. He remembered the paints he'd received, he knew those had to have been expensive as well. They were some of his favorite paints. \"Thank you for wantin' to help me with this, Hazel. I'm very glad it's you and not some stranger.\" He wouldn't trust someone he didn't know with the current request. He wondered where Hazel had learned such skills, he'd ask her later.\n_ _\n\n\"Nothin' unfortunate about bein' prepared for emergency garment production.\" He said jokingly. \"Let's do it now.\" He had created a mental list of things he'd noticed in his pants that didn't work well for him. \"The main thing I've noticed is that the fabric in the front gets all bunched up, goes up too high, and then it doesn't reach high enough in the back. I don't know if this is even possible but maybe havin' it be lower in the front but higher in the back could counter that?\" He didn't know how patterning worked, but he imagined if you made pants with a sloping angle that would fix that problem. His second issue concerned the act of getting into his clothes, he knew it was never going to be as easy as it used to be before paralysis, but there ought to be ways to make it better than it was now. \"Maybe they could have somewhat wider pant legs?\" He often found himself struggling to push his legs through the more narrow-fitting garments. \"To make it easier to get them on.\""
}
] | 548 | 2,802 |
815.588235 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "When it rained in Briar Ridge, it poured. \nAnd poured, and poured, and poured.\nThe rain would be good for the cornfields, beginning to take root after the frosts of another harsh winter. It would melt the last of the snow, and the river and the creek would flow deep and fast once more. Barren tree branches could sprout new leaves and the apple blossom in the orchard could bloom anew. The insects would return, bees and butterflies alike. Rainfall was a positive omen for the holler. \n\nIt was not, however, all that great for one Freddie Lovejoy, returning from the mouth of the S&C Company coal mine beneath the last of the evening light when the clouds rolled in before his very eyes and he soon heard the telltale pitter-patter of waterdrops on the uppermost layers of the forest canopy. He urged Angel on, one hand curled in her reins and the other in her bedraggled mane, *Come on, girl, it's alright, get us home* But it would prove to be no use as the weather turned further and soon, he and his brave little steed were both soaked to the skin.\n\nIt was fine for Angel. Her coat, though scruffy, repelled water a whole lot better than Freddie's clothes and skin and hair. She wouldn't mind a little rain. He imagined it probably felt good to her, after a long day of work far below the surface. And he couldn't deny it felt good to him too, as cold water rolled off him in rivulets and took with it the worst of the dust and the sweat, to feel as though the springtime could make him pure and clean again. \n\nHis mama was going to *Kill* Him if he came home drenched in it. She'd been waxing the floors at the crack of dawn and he would drip all over them in this state.\n\nIt was an excuse, then, to take the reins and guide Angel down a path which, while far from the quickest way home, had been one they took more and more often as of late - one which ran by the house of one certain artist that had wriggled his way firmly into a cavity of Freddie's heart and made a home for himself there, one that Freddie was not likely to let go of. He'd seen Florian more than ever lately. Had even sent him a gift on the morning of the day dedicated to one Saint Valentine. And he'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious as to whether the flowers had made their way to Florian's window-sill, or if they'd already been pressed for display somewhere else in his room. Or if (and Lord he hoped this wasn't the case) they'd been laughed over and tossed back out into the yard.\n\nHe needed to know. And so he urged the pony on through the rain until the Barca estate came into view, lamplight bright in the windows. There was a post to tie Angel to where she could be at least somewhat sheltered from the downpour, and he slipped her an apple from his pocket as an apology for leaving her out in it at all, before patting her on her neck and all but running up to the front door.\n\nHe knocked, a little fast and sharp, but he was sure the occupants would understand when they saw just how soaked he was that he was keen to get somewhere dry sooner rather than later. He bounced on the balls of his feet, impatient, hoping, until there was the sound of deadbolts being drawn back and the door swung open, revealing none other than Olivia, who all but fell about herself with poorly-suppressed laughter at the sight of him. He laughed, too, sure he looked a real mess with hair all a-sticking to his face and his shirt wet through and hanging limply from his shoulders like a dead thing. \n\n\"Hiya.\" He grinned. \"I got a little, uh, caught out by the weather. Flor's home, right? Can I say hi?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "A notebook lay opened on the desk in Florian's room, various pencils of different hardnesses sprawled across the wooden surface. The rain had, as it often did, arrived suddenly and with great force. The sound of big round drops plummeting onto the roof of the Barca estate was a relaxing one to Florian, who was sketching where it was warm and dry; his room. The current sketch was of one Freddie Lovejoy, whose face was burned into his mind until eternity, a face he would never forget. A face he would never grow bored of looking at.\n\nHe'd not seen Freddie since the 14th, since the man had dropped the purple violets off on the porch of his house. In the days between the moon and then, the two had spent almost every other evening together. He no longer shied away from the other's touch, something wonderful had come to bloom there, the seeds having been planted over the course of months. Freddie still had to return to that blasted mine to work during the week, and Florian found himself hating those mines more and more for them getting to spend more time with Freddie than he did. He didn't know what he'd do without Freddie. The Lovejoy man was his rock. He hoped he could be Freddie's in return. A rock upon which to bask in the sun together, not a rock that dragged him down. \n\nThe flowers sat in Florian's windowsill, a few of them lay pressed between paper and some of his heaviest books to preserve them. The knowledge of their meaning sat in his heart, filling it with a warmth he'd never known so purely before. \n_ _\n\nA knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. He heard Olivia's almost suppressed laughter followed by one of his favorite sounds in the world: Freddie's laugh. Hasty footsteps made their way to his door, it swung open and rapidly closed again. And there he was, Freddie. And he was... \"Oh you poor thing.\" His voice was soft and loving. He couldn't help but chuckle at the vision before him. Completely soaked, as if he'd jumped into the river, a most ill-advised action in Briar Ridge. And somehow Freddie still managed to be the most beautiful man he'd had the pleasure of laying his eyes on. How he did that was beyond Florian. _I love him. I love him, I love him._\n\nFlorian had told himself the next time he saw Freddie he was going to mention the flowers, mention their meaning and tell him he felt the same. Tell him how much he meant to him, how much he thought of him, how he thought, _no_, knew he loved him. He'd been thinking about kissing the other man, a thought that was occupying his mind in the current moment as well. But that could wait a few minutes, even if he could barely contain the words. _Can I kiss you?_ He couldn't have Freddie dripping the way he was now. He was going to catch a cold. Freddie was probably very uncomfortable in those clothes. He pushed on his wheels, pulling open a drawer and taking out a warm sweater. \"It might be a bit big on you, but anythin' is better than your current-\" He gestured at Freddie, who conjured images of a drowned cat to his mind. \"-situation.\""
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Olivia beckoned him inside without so much as a second thought - he would've been more surprised if she'd said no, honestly, because where would Florian be, in rainfall like this? It was a well-known fact that the youngest Barca despised being cold, and no doubt wet too, so Freddie imagined him happily tucked away in his room with his drawings and a lamp, safe and dry. And indeed that was where Olivia ushered him to, with a smile all too knowing for his liking, leaving him to slip into the familiar, comforting surroundings and allow Florian's sweet face to fall upon the state he was in. \n\nFlorian laughed at him, too, but it wasn't unkind. Quite the opposite, in fact - his words were tender, and he smiled so warmly that Freddie swore he felt true heat from it, blossoming in his chest right where his heart beat between his ribs. He'd been getting that kind of glowing feeling ever since the very first day they'd met, the day said heart had made its choice and decided that Florian Barca would be someone he fell for - hook, line and sinker. He hadn't tried so hard to stop it, in the end. The truth was that he'd leaned into it, accepted that drowning in those brown eyes might be his doom, and though it had been less of a leap of faith and more of a tightrope walk, Florian had never once pushed him back, and he hadn't felt the fear of it in a long, long time.\n\nThey saw each other almost constantly. Ever since that awful day after January's bloody full moon, their relationship could only truly be described as inseparable. Hesitating to hold Florian's hand as he'd cried felt like a memory from a lifetime ago, despite only a few weeks having passed. Now Freddie didn't have to think twice about greeting the other man however took his fancy on any given day - today, though he was soaked through and Florian was talking, he was preoccupied with wrapping his arms around him from behind (albeit carefully, so as not to get him too damp) and dropping a fond, playful kiss right to the top of his head, nose briefly buried in those soft chocolatey curls. \n\n\"God, I missed you,\" He murmured, as though it had been *Weeks* Instead of a few days since the last time he got to lay eyes upon him, since he'd breathed in the scent of woodsmoke and oil paint. \"Hi.\" Thoughts of Florian had him somewhat distracted from his work multiple times each day, whether it were a blissful vision of the creases beside his eyes or simply imagining the touch of callused fingertips on his wrists, Freddie relished in each and every one no matter how inopportune the moment it came to him. Often those fancies were the only thing getting him through the long days in the darkness. When the coal dust caught in his throat and he choked upon it, he pictured Florian beside him, a hand on his back to comfort and soothe him through the coughing. It always tugged at his heart to remember that the touch wasn't real, that he was entirely alone down there with only Angel and the distant sounds of pickaxes and shouts through the tunnels to keep him true company.\n\nBut Florian was always here on his way home. \n\nHe'd offered him something.\nA sweater. \n\nAny normal man as love-sickened as Freddie would have been powerless to accept in a heartbeat, and would have no reason *Not* To take the opportunity to change. He was, after all, dripping in a rather uncivilised way all over the floor. And the chance to wear an item of clothing belonging to the subject of his affections should have been a happy, even joyous thing to take. \nFreddie, though, bit his tongue and stood up, shaking his head. He couldn't. *He was no normal man.* There were secrets beneath his clothes that no soul could discover (with the exception of sweet Charlie Marsh, but in his defence, they'd figured it out for themselves without so much as even a hint) and he was *Not* About to reveal those to Florian. Not at this pivotal point in their relationship, when he had almost everything he wanted, and risked losing it all if Florian were to find out the truth.\n\n\"I'm alright, Flor. Really. I'm not even that wet.\" A lie, and a blatant one at that. He was soaked. His shirt was sticking to him all over and as he ran a hand through his hair, he was rewarded with a cold trickle right down his sleeve, making him shiver as it made its way down his arm. Ugh. \"I'll dry in a little time.\"\n\nHe wasn't sure he sounded so convincing - he wanted that sweater more than anything, too-large size be damned, because he wanted to know if it was as warm and soft as it looked, if it came even close to the way it felt when Florian hugged him tight and held on for so long that each time Freddie wondered if he'd ever let go (and prayed and prayed that he wouldn't, that he'd hold him forever, that they'd never have to be apart, that he could whisper *I love you, Florian* Into the space just over his collarbone where his lips always seemed to come to rest, close enough to feel his heartbeat through his cheek - through his very soul). \n\nHe wanted. But he couldn't *Have*. For what would Florian think, if he were to undress right there in the middle of the room? If the bandages wound around his chest were to be on show, and then of course, they were wet too, so they'd have to come off if he didn't want to get the beautiful and no doubt far too expensive sweater wet and potentially ruined. \n\nNobody had seen him without those bandages since he was twelve. Almost a decade ago. And he wasn't sure he was ready for that to change, or to face Florian when he realised that any love blossomed between them had, at least in part, been planted in a bed of lies. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "He felt arms wrap around him from behind and his own moved up to hold them. He held the damp forearms and rubbed his thumb across the fabric. He laughed. \"You're goin' to get me wet too!\" He didn't mind getting wet if it meant having Freddie's arms around him. He held onto them just a second longer when he felt the other man shifting his weight. _Don't let go just yet, I don't care that you're getting rain water on me._\n\nAnd then Freddie kissed the top of his head. The action screamed a definitive confirmation to a question he'd already been almost certain of. _He felt the same._ Warmth spread through his body and as it reached his face he smiled. It was a goofy smile, feelings he'd had for weeks now all coming out into that one grin. He was liked, maybe even loved. And he loved in return. Florian lacked the terminology to describe _how_ he fell in love. All he knew is that his love had to be built upon an existing friendship, and that when he fell, he fell deep, fully and with every fiber of his being. He loved just like he experienced most of his emotions; with great force. \n_ _\n\n_He missed him._ \"I missed you too Freddie. Those mines get to have you for far too long.\" How he wanted to pull him out from their dark depths. How he wished he could provide enough income so Freddie never had to worry about coal ever again. How he wished that he could become the home to which Freddie returned to after work. In a sense he already was, if just in his own tiny way, at least he hoped so. The young miner swinging by atop Angel had become a part of a much loved routine. He had been spending his days in the living room as usual, doing what he could to take care of Valerian. But when the sun started creeping towards the horizon, when the blue sky started to be streaked with orange, he'd find himself gazing out the window more and more. Hoping to spot the familiar rider coming up the path from the mines to the estate. How his heart would leap at anyone traveling that path, and how it would be disappointed when it was anyone other than Freddie. \n\nEyebrows furrowed in blatant confusion when Freddie turned down the sweater. A trickle of water hit the wooden floor of his room, further illustrating how _odd_ the refusal was. \"Freddie, you can convince me of many things, trust me. But my dear you are _soaked_. You're shiverin', what kind of-\" Friend? No, they'd been tiptoeing that line for far too long to be just friends. Their feet had started venturing into the land beyond that line, unsure of their footing. But then what were they? \"-person would I be if I left you to dry up over time. You're goin' to catch a cold. I can't have you gettin' ill Fred.\"\n_ _\n\nThere was something else going on here, but Florian couldn't pinpoint it. There was something Freddie wasn't telling him. He didn't mind secrets, everyone had some, but this seemed to be a big one. One with major repercussions if it were brought to light. Freddie had wanted to take the sweater, at least he thought he did, but there was something stopping him. And Florian didn't know how to navigate it. He didn't even know what it was, how was he supposed to help Freddie here? He wanted to ask what was going on, but what if there was truly nothing? He opened his mouth to ask, and then closed it again. His face was a mix of confusion and concern for the other man's well-being. The question hung in the air, unspoken and unanswered. _What is it my dear, you can tell me._"
},
{
"author": "crow0951",
"message": "[content warning: gender dysphoria, descriptions of unsafe chest binding]"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Freddie stood up slowly, not wanting Florian to feel any sort of rejection as he broke their sweet embrace. Had he had his way he'd have stayed right where he was for hours and ignored the awkward way the position curved his spine, for all he wanted in the moment was more of Florian's touch - more of the way his fingers stroked over soaked sleeves with such ease, of the tight grip with which he clung on and said, wordlessly, that he didn't want to be let go of yet. Freddie was learning with each passing day that they met how to read into the things Florian didn't like to say out loud, and he couldn't say he hadn't grown fond of the things they could tell one another with actions in place of words. He knew when Florian wanted him closer, and when he needed some space. And in turn, Florian knew when the day had been just long enough that all Freddie wanted was to feel his touch, and somehow he also knew about the times when touch was *Too much* And simply remaining side by side or sharing space in the room was enough.\n\nThe former had been much more common as of late. Freddie was beginning to wonder (to hope) that one day there would be a definitive moment in which they both decided to simply never let go of one another again, one from which point onwards there would never be a goodbye, only a \"See you soon\". \n\nNow, though, he gently detached himself from the other man, and crossed his arms across his chest, letting a deep breath he'd been holding whistle its way past his lips. There was no use in denying too much, for Florian had already shot down his insistence that he wasn't wet enough to need the sweater. Any fool could have seen that he was in dire need of dry clothing, but the problem lay deeper for Freddie, as it lay in what was wrapped in the bandages concealed for the time being by his soaked shirt. \n\n\"Really, Flo, it's only a bit'a water,\" He protested softly. \"I'll be jus' fine.\" The words would have had more of the desired effect had a fierce shudder not run through him at the precise moment he finished his sentence. He felt the wet bindings somehow *Tighten* As it happened, bringing forth another of those pained coughs that had plagued him as of late. There was no blaming the coal-dust here, as far from the mines as they were and with the rain having washed from his skin any that might have lingered. It was Florian's arm that he reached for as he lost his breath, and he might have fallen entirely had the other man not been there for him to lean on. Still clutching the damned sweater, it took him a long moment to regain even half of his previous composure. \n\nHe wished Charlie's words wouldn't echo so in his head.\n\n*I'd say you're risking a broken rib, maybe more. If it goes on for much longer, you could risk warping the bones themselves.*\nHe had been trying so hard to be careful. Wrapping his chest looser on the days that he dared to, covering anything unsightly with layers of less tightly-fitting clothing. Taking the things off as soon as he got to his bedroom away from any prying eyes. On the rare days that he didn't leave the house (and they truly were rare, for he loved nothing more than being outdoors and around town and with *Florian*) he didn't wear them at all. \nToday had been long. It had been an early start down in the tunnels, and the carts had seemed heavier than ever, and the trip back to Briar Ridge on Angel's back had been longer than usual thanks to the dreadful weather. Getting too cold was never kind to his chest either. It was really no wonder his ribcage and the organs within were screaming at him for relief. \n\nAll of that combined with the way Florian was looking at him was almost too much to bear. His lips had parted and closed again without bringing forth the question that would have explained the curious light in his eyes.\n\nThis was the risk you ran when allowing someone to know you so wholeheartedly, he realised. To open yourself like a book to a companion would lead to their learning how to read the secrets within the pages.\n\nFlorian discovering all of this was inevitable. \nHow he would react was still yet to be seen.\nAnd Freddie would be *Damned* If he allowed anything else to happen without his permission. He would forge his future - their future, if there was to still be a future with Florian in the aftermath - under his own terms, and he would not fall to pieces in this bedroom, in the precious evening light which they had come to share as their own private piece of perhaps the only heaven they'd ever know. \n\nHe lifted his head to meet Florian's worried gaze - *You did that*, said a small voice in the back of his head, bitter and accusatory, *You made him feel that way*. The wetness in the corners of his eyes could perhaps be passed off as simply the result of the coughing that had wracked his thin frame, if not for the fact that it promptly spilled over both cheeks and was followed up by a watery gulp against the lump in the back of his throat. \n\n\"I- I got somethin' I ain't been all the way honest with ya 'about, Flor,\" He whispered. \"Somethin' I shoulda told, o-or I guess shown, you... Before. I ain't never thought I'd have ta... I never thought there'd ever come a time I needed to. So... So I gotta show you now. An' I promise... When you see... You don't gotta go worryin'. I ain't hurt and- and I jus' hope it don't change too much between us. Hope you ain't too mad I been lyin', 'cause it ain't just you I been lyin' to, it's... Everyone.\"\n\nHe squeezed Florian's forearm firmly, left the sweater hung over the armrest of his wheelchair, and took a step back from him as his hands came up to the buttons on his shirt. It was more difficult than it should've been to undo them with shaking fingers, and he could hardly stand the silence that stretched out as he struggled to do it. When the first four were done, that was enough for him to take the shirt by the hem and lift it up over his head rather than undoing the rest. He dropped it quite by accident, but left it where it landed in a heap. There was no use in hesitating if he were to do this, or he'd never do it all the way.\n\nThe knot put up even more of a fight than the buttons had, awkwardly placed as it was to one side. His ribs put up bitter protest as he twisted to untie it - he was cold, *So* Cold, and almost everything in him wanted to turn stiff and curl into a ball and shield himself from the world in its entirety.\n\nThe small part that didn't insist on hiding alone wished to bury itself in Florian's chest and his arms and his warmth and remain there for a lifetime instead.\n\nSomething slipped, and the bandages fell.\n\nAnd then, there he stood, illuminated in lamplight and the last rays of the setting sun outside the westward-facing window, every hideous curve and bruise on full display, though he was far from proud of them. Upon catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror that rested in one corner of the room, seeing protruding ribs and sharp hipbones and slender waist, he squeezed his eyes shut tight, and turned away, and kept them shut as they were as he found his voice again. \n\n\"I weren't born a boy like you and the other men were, Flo. I been pretendin' my whole life that I was but... We ain't the same like you thought we were.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "Worry flooded his mind when Freddie started coughing. He grabbed hold of the other man, steadying him as he regained control over his breathing. He was going to get him out of those mines, some day, somehow. Before they swallowed his lungs whole. There were tears rolling down Freddie's cheeks and Florian found himself looking damn near horrified. \"...Freddie?\" The other man started speaking again, talking of secrets and lies. \n\nHe wasn't hurt, he had something he _had_ to show- was he a werewolf? Was he about to reveal bite marks? No, no nono, no he couldn't be. The world could not be that cruel. But there was something weighing heavily upon the young Lovejoy's soul, and Florian couldn't think of anything that would warrant the clear fear Freddie was experiencing now. \n\nFreddie took a step back and Florian wanted to pull him back to himself, to tell him that whatever it was it could be shown while they were close, where he could hold him up if his lungs started burning again. That he'd always be there to hold him up, no matter what secret was crushing him. ~~And to put on the damn sweater, you're going to get cold.~~\n_ _\n\nFreddie's hands were shaking. The shirt dropped to the floor with a wet thud. He revealed his torso, chest wrapped in bandages that were similarly soaked. The bandages slipped and- _Oh_ Oh Freddie...\n\n\n\nHe saw pain in Freddie's eyes before the man turned away and closed them. Florian looked where he had pointed his gaze, a mirror. Florian quickly placed himself between Freddie and it; he may not be tall enough to fully cover it from view, but he hoped it might do something at least.\n_ _\n\n\"Hey.\" His voice was soft, gentle and full of love. \"You aren't lyin', Freddie.\" He reached out to hold the other's hand, it was a careful movement, giving Freddie space should he not want to be touched. \"You _are_ a man, no pretendin' about it.\" He wanted nothing more than to take Freddie in his arms, to shield him from the pain, to find out who or what made him feel like this and rip it from this world. \"This changes nothin' Freddie. I don't care how you were born, I care how you are now.\" Freddie was still shivering and Florian couldn't hold back any longer. He closed the remaining distance between them, wrapping his arms around Freddie and pulling him against his chest. His thumbs rubbing circles against the other's skin. What he wouldn't give to be able to stand and hold him properly. Should Freddie not feel comfortable he would have let go immediately. His voice remained gentle, all he wanted was to reassure the other that everything was fine, that there was no judgment, no resentment, no feeling of betrayal or anything of the sort. \"You're still the same man to me, the same man that brought us that gift basket, the same man who taught me how to fold paper birds, the same man who brought me those wonderful shiny rocks, and violets.\" He sounded almost like he laughed when he mentioned the flowers. _Violets._ \"You're the same man who was there for me when I needed you most.\" _The same man who I am falling so deeply for._ \"Freddie Lovejoy, you _are_ a man, don't let nobody tell you otherwise, you hear me?\" \n\nHe loved Freddie, every bit of him, the parts that were whole and strong and the parts that were broken and bruised, all were loved by Florian. All would be cared for by him if he were allowed. Every curve and angle and twist that made up Freddie, be they good or bad, he'd hold them in his heart and protect them for as long as he was allowed. For as long as he would have the privilege to know him and be known by him.\n_ _\n\nIf all he could do now was hold Freddie in his arms as he cried, then that's what he would do. If Freddie asked for more he'd give it to him, no questions asked. He'd stay with him for as long as he needed him."
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Instead of the bitter rejection he'd been so sure he was about to receive, Freddie's miserable confession was met with... Understanding? Acceptance? Whatever it was, Florian had never seemed more sincere in it, and though Freddie was truly too caught up in his own head to bury into the intricacies of what it all meant, what mattered was that he had not been pushed away, nor forced to redress and quickly ushered from the room. Instead, Florian - darling, sweet Florian - had appeared to take the shock right into his metaphorical stride, and instead of choosing anger at being betrayed, had risen to comfort. *This changes nothin'*, he said, and Freddie was powerless to do anything but believe it, to believe every word that fell softly from the other's lips like honey, charming him into the belief that perhaps, despite all that lay before them, things might really be alright.\n\nWhen Florian's arms came around him, Freddie sank into them, hesitating for only half of a second before he allowed himself to be pulled into the other man's lap, though he was careful of the parts that had been torn into by wolf-claws. Though he knew Florian would no doubt insist that he couldn't feel it and therefore couldn't be hurt by it, Freddie knew better than to risk even causing an inch of harm to the man he so adored. Still he found himself wrapped in a firm embrace, and he could no longer fight the urge to press his face into Florian's chest, curl fists in the fabric of his clothing, and hold tight.\n\nHere, the tears passed as quickly as they'd sprung to his eyes, for how could he cry so fiercely when he felt so safe? When once again, Florian's bedroom had become a sanctuary in which he could protect his deepest secrets, and now one in which he could lay his heart upon the floor and rest assured in the knowledge that it would not come to further ruin? \n\nHe was soon calmed enough to breathe evenly, perhaps better than he ever had in the presence of the other man now that the bindings had fallen away. When he regained enough of his composure to feel as though he could lift his head, he moved only far enough to sit up and pull the sweater that Florian had given him on. It was significantly too large, of course, made for Florian's broader shoulders and taller frame, but Freddie found he liked the way it hung off of him, enough to conceal what lay beneath. Even the sleeves fell far past his wrists - past his fingertips, even, when he extended his arms. The sight of it made him giggle, watery as it were. There was still joy to find here, through the haze of things that hurt, and if Freddie Lovejoy was good at one thing, it was finding that silver lining in even the darkest of clouds. \n\nThe sweater was warm, and Florian's body was warm too, and they were close enough together that Freddie could feel another heartbeat slipping into synchronicity with his own.\n\nAnd to hell with ever letting that heartbeat go, for it belonged to someone far more important to him than he'd ever though anyone could be. \n\nThere weren't words to describe the gratitude he felt towards Florian in that moment. It would have been so easy for all things to have been spoiled, soured, *Ruined* By his actions, by his lies, but something deep within him told him that neither man wanted that to happen. That they had come this far since the fall turned to winter and they had tumbled headlong into one another's lives. They were so deeply entwined in shared daily routines and habits, in memories of hours spent together. \nFreddie Lovejoy and Florian Barca were not inclined to be divided in the face of misfortune nor misery. That awful January night had placed that possibility before them, and now, it was cemented as fact. Though Freddie would not challenge fate to come between them, he had every faith that should she try, she would not succeed, and would instead only bring them closer. \n\nHe found Florian's hand at his waist, took it in his and squeezed tight. There were so many things he could have said, and yet none of them seemed to stand up to the gravity of the situation. And he had no desire to cut through the quiet air of peace that had settled upon them the moment Florian drew him into his arms.\n\nIn the end, he decided all it merited, in the moment, was a soft \"Thank you\", as he leaned up to press a sweet, chaste kiss to Florian's temple, not dissimilar to the one he'd planted upon him the minute he walked in the door. *You mean the world to me,* The kiss implied, *I don't ever wish to let you go.*\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "As the other man clung onto him, he gently whispered to him. \"It's okay, you're safe here.\" He gave Freddie time to release whatever fear, sadness, or other lingering negativity he'd been clinging to, not letting go until the other man wanted to move. It was Florian's turn to be the rock, it was his turn to provide safety, something he would do however many times Freddie needed him to. The other man shifted and Florian lessened his hold, allowing him to freely move.\n\nHis sweater was too big on Freddie. The sleeves hid his hands even with his arms stretched out. Freddie giggled and warmth grew in Florian's chest. It was a sound he would never grow tired of: Freddie's joy, even if tears stained the sound. Florian chuckled with him, there was something about the sight of Freddie in his clothes that he thoroughly enjoyed. Florian might have to let Freddie steal that sweater more often, he didn't dare say it out loud but the miner looked adorable.\n\nThe walls of Florian's room had seen so much; when the office was turned into his bedroom they had seen him crying tears of frustration when his legs refused to move despite him trying harder than he'd ever tried anything before, they had seen him throw his shoes across the room when he couldn't get them on without help, they had seen him breaking down _I had a whole life ahead of me, what did I do to deserve this. I don't want to live like this._\n_ _\n\nThey had seen him slowly figure out how to navigate the space on wheels as he bumped into walls and furniture. The walls had seen him decorate the room with art and dried flowers, they had seen him slowly begin to accept his new normal. They had seen him crumple up letters to his siblings, letters which were never sent. The walls had seen him cry in Freddie's arms. The walls had seen them grow closer and closer. They had seen the two sitting side by side, playing cards, folding paper birds, and sharing memories. His room had grown into a space outside of all the horrors that lurked outside, a place where they couldn't be touched by anything or anyone. A space where they were safe, just the two of them, the rest of the world faded away.\n\nNow the walls bore witness to love blooming between the two men, a love that neither of them ever expected to be on the receiving end of. A love that Florian felt unworthy of, but he shoved that feeling down with force. _No._ He was allowed this. He was worth loving. He was not lesser than. Freddie saw him as worthy, not as broken. At least he hoped he did. In that moment Florian chose to believe Freddie did. Maybe it was foolish, but what was love for if not to lose one's mind a little bit?\n\nFreddie kissed his temple and Florian's heart started racing. He'd told himself he was going to confess, he'd put all the puzzle pieces together and they formed a picture that might as well be screaming at him that this would be the least risky bet he would ever place. Still it scared him, what if there was something he missed? What if he just waited a bit longer just to be sure? If he just stayed in this moment forever, Freddie in his arms, holding his hand-\n\n_No._\n\nNo, it couldn't wait. He couldn't wait. He couldn't hold it in any longer. \"I know this is possibly the worst moment for me to be askin' this of you but-\" _fuck it, to hell with it all._ He loved this boy. Fallen for him like he'd never fallen for anyone.\n\nHe wasn't very familiar with romantic love, it grew slowly in him. But there were few things he was more certain of than the fact that it was love he felt for the man whose beautiful blue eyes he now looked into. Few things felt more natural than holding his hand. Few things felt more natural than being near him, talking to him, bearing secrets he'd told precious few others and secrets he hadn't told anyone else. If this was wrong then he didn't care about being right.\n\n\"Freddie Lovejoy, can I kiss you?\""
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Freddie's heart leapt into his throat at the words. \n\nAt first he was sure he must have misheard something, but in truth there was no way he could have, not when he was pressed so close to Florian's chest that he could feel the rumble of his words through flesh and bone as he spoke them. There was no room for doubt, no space to spiral into questioning whether or not the other man had truly asked him, of all questions, *That*. \n\nAnd... Could he? Was the moment right, or at least as right as it would ever be for men like Freddie and Florian, whose lives were shrouded in such uncertainty? Freddie knew so little of love stories, and those he did know weren't set in such cursed hollers as Briar Ridge. The lovers in the old books weren't facing up to unknown horrors at the rise of each full moon and they didn't live their nights in well-founded fear that dawn might bring their loves torn away from them as they lay powerless to stop it. \nThat was what would seal it, for Freddie. Memories of fresh blood and howls, of bitter tears and the bleach scent of the hospital floors. Though he were loathe to admit to it, this town was in danger, and there was no telling what the next attacks might bring. There was a chance that the werewolf that had come for Florian would return, and a chance that this time it would be stronger or smarter this time. All that they had could be stolen away in the time it took one to draw a breath. \n\nAnd Freddie would not let Florian die to a beast's claws and teeth.\n\nHe himself would not die without discovering once and for all if Florian's lips tasted as sweet as his honeyed words, if they were as warm as his charcoal-dusted hands, as soft as the lamplight reflected in his irises and sparkling as he blinked. \n\nSitting as upright as he could, perched upon Florian's lap with no real desire to move away from him, Freddie brought a hand to cup the other's cheek, gentle, but firm enough to ensure it could not be mistaken for anything but the simple want to touch him, to be close to him, to maintain a physical connection strong enough to mimic the call between their two hearts - a manifestation of some invisible string binding them to one another, spun from fate and fortune on the very first day they met. He pictured it, shimmering in the evening's glow, wrapping around the two of them over and over again and ensuring that no matter how far they were apart, it would always bring them together again. It had been there for months now, its constant tugging sensation always leading Freddie back down the path to the front door, whether that be on horseback or simply by way of his own two feet. The pulling was as much a part of his heart as its steady beat. \nHis touch traced over Florian's cheek. He was well aware that the moment since the question had been asked had already stretched out too long, but his lungs had forgotten how to exhale, until his instincts took over and the breath rushed out of him in the same moment that the pad of his thumb softly brushed the other man's lower lip. \n\n\"Can you- *Florian*.\"\nHis voice was as shaky as the rest of him felt, but whispering the name of the man he loved felt like some kind of charm. \n\"'Course you can. *Please* Kiss me. Call me a fool but I been wantin' ta kiss you for a fair while now. I didn't- I- I weren't sure you felt the same, an' I... I got too scared to be the one askin' for it.\" \nThe moment hadn't ever been right before. \nBut hell if it wasn't right *Now*.\n\n\"I ain't never done this before, mind. Don't you go laughin' at me now.\"\n\nHe'd talked enough. All there was left to do was lean in, to close the small space between their lips and let a shy, sweet kiss say all that remained unsaid. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "The looming threat of all that lurked out there in the night was ever on Florian's mind. How many more chances like these would they get? A wolf could come by the next moon, ripping lovers from life and from one another. He knew that the time they had was uncertain, that every moment together should be held dear and that none of it should be taken for granted. But in that moment time seemed to have stopped its rushing push forward. In that moment Time had frozen, it looked upon the two men with gentle eyes, Fate standing beside it, watching quietly as the strings it had spun finally saw where the matching end had nestled. One end in Florian's heart, the other in Freddie's. Time spoke again _I'll wait just for you two, I'll pause so you can exist without haste_ And so Time did. It stopped and all there was in that moment was just Florian and Freddie. Nothing else mattered. There were no wolves. There were no man-eating deer. There were no hands on the river bank and no coal mines threatening to swallow the man Florian loved. There was only them.\n\nFreddie's hand upon his cheek, a perfect fit. His finger traced Florian's lip and the artist could almost feel his heart leap out of his chest. His eyes studied the miner's face, the lines, the traces of rain and coal, the way the last rays of sun lit up his beautiful blue eyes. His lips.\n\n\"I could never laugh at you, love.\" He'd imagined it before, many times. How his lips would feel pressed up against the other's. How his fingers would feel intertwined in that blonde hair. How it would feel to love Freddie openly, and have that love returned. It had seemed like a dream, but this was real, it was real. They loved, they loved each other, nothing was more real than that. \"I feel the same, I do. I've felt the same since January.\" He brushed the hair that had fallen over Freddie's eyes to the side, running his fingers through his hair, gently placing a hand on the back of Freddie's head.\n\n\"And we're both fools.\"\n\nHe closed the distance between them. Nothing had ever felt as right as kissing Freddie Lovejoy felt. There had been seeds, which had sprouted in January, grown buds when Freddie had given him those flowers. When their lips met those buds opened and revealed the most beautiful petals. Their love bloomed and grew into flowers Florian could only ever dream of painting. The colors required hadn't been invented yet, and might never be. Florian was gentle, even if he'd been wishing for this moment for weeks he couldn't rush this, he didn't want to rush this. It was with Freddie that he could still be gentle. The world outside their sanctuary, outside the walls of his bedroom, had robbed him of that gentleness but here with Freddie it still existed. It was a small flickering flame, shielded from the wind by both their hands. Florian was full of fires, the brightest of which was his love for Freddie."
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Though Freddie had hoped and dreamed of the day he might finally kiss Florian countless times, no fancy could compare to the reality of it. \nTheir lips met, and all that had been uncertain fell perfectly into place. \nIt was soft, and clumsy, and beautiful, and Freddie smiled into it - how could he not? \nSeconds stretched into minutes, even hours, and as far as Freddie was concerned they could have become days, and he wouldn't have minded, because he was right where he wanted, *Needed* To be, wrapped in the arms of a man he might be lucky enough to call 'lover' if he did all of this right. Bathed in sunsets and enrobed in the sort of hope that he had feared he might have to give up on, for a moment, all was right within the world. \n\nHe was going to hold Florian Barca close for the rest of their lives. \n\nThe kiss broke naturally in the end, and though he longed for it to go on forever, when they parted, he was beaming, catching his breath. He rested his forehead against Florian's, and when he looked up, the sight of brown eyes shining into blue was one he wanted to commit to memory for all time. \n\"That was... Okay, right?\" He asked quietly, words glimmering with hope. It had been more than okay for him - *Okay* Didn't even begin to cover it - but he just felt he had to make sure, for Florian's sake, and if it were somehow not-okay then he'd do better next time...\n\nBut Florian's smile told him all he needed to know, and he buried himself promptly against the other man's chest, hugging him tightly, nose pressed to the hollow between his collarbone and his neck.\nHe could feel his pulse thrumming there, hard and fast just like Freddie's own, and a sweet little thrill ran through him at the thought that he were responsible. That he could make Florian's heart race like that whenever he wanted to, through the simple act of lips upon lips.\n\nHe wanted to kiss him forever, the outside world be damned, for it would never cease to amaze him that all he'd longed for suddenly felt like *His*.\n\n\"Hope you know it ain't the last time I'm gonna do that. Waited a long time - we got some catchin' up to do, Flor.\" \nHe giggled, wishing he could press further into the other man, wrap his arms around him and learn how it truly felt to hold him close and forget, for a while, that they could be touched by the outside world at all. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "It was wonderful and messy and loving, and somehow it was all Florian had dreamt of and more. It was so much more than just _okay_. He nodded and smiled before wrapping his arms around his love again. He planted a kiss on top of Freddie's head. His heart was still racing, its rhythmic thumping a call to its other half; the heart residing in Freddie's chest. Both hearts had finally been allowed to speak their truths, to let the love stored in them be seen in the dimming sunlight. \"It better not be the last time Freddie. I'm sorry for makin' you wait so long.\" He hoped it had been worth the wait.\n\n\"You're goin' to slip, hold on.\" He tried to wheel the two of them towards his bed but couldn't get much further than a foot or two before almost launching Freddie. He quickly let go of the pushrims and wrapped his arms around the other. He laughed. \"I'm afraid we're stuck. We're stranded here now.\" \n\n\"Could you maybe-\" He bit the inside of his lip nervously. He'd never shown Freddie this particular part of him, never asked him to help with it. Freddie may have seen glimpses of Olivia helping him, but she was Florian's sister and she'd held the role of caretaker for a while, that was different. \"Could you help me get onto the bed? It'll be more comfortable for both of us.\" His bed was lower than most, making it easier for him to transfer in and out of it. He still needed someone to either lift him or hold his wheelchair back so it didn't roll away as he shifted in and out. Freddie loved Florian, and Florian would have to learn to let Freddie see the parts of him that he deemed unattractive and undesirable, he'd have to learn to let Freddie see his imperfections and hope that he didn't mind them. Just as he wouldn't mind any of Freddie's potential imperfections.\n_ _\n\nHe explained to Freddie how he could help him, where to support him, where to lift. \"Hold me by my waist, I'll try to help out with my arms, and then just lower me onto the bed.\" Florian trusted very few people to hold him the way Freddie was. It was only now that Freddie was helping him move that they could truly appreciate that Florian was a good half foot taller than Freddie. For those few seconds he was the closest to how he was supposed to be: at the perfect height to kiss the top of Freddie's head. Which is exactly what he did, before the two got settled atop his bed. They'd been on the bed before, plenty of times, but this time it felt different. There was no pretending to be _just friends_ this time around. Everything felt lighter.\n\n\"Did you know what those flowers you left me mean, Freddie?\" He is reminded of the day they arrived. \"_Love_, Freddie. They mean love. Valerian damn near laughed at me when I told him I wasn't sure you liked me back.\" He smiled, his brother had been right.\n\n|| I just needed a little bit of them <3"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Stranded with Florian didn't seem like too awful of a fate, really. For a brief moment, Freddie imagined them as pirates, marooned upon an island with nothing but one another's company until the end of their days. And he found he didn't really mind the fantasy. Florian was all he needed to be content, so it was with some reluctance that he climbed off his lap, though he quickly tuned back in when it came to helping him move from his wheelchair to his bed. \n\nHe'd seen Olivia do this once or twice before, so it wasn't entirely unknown to him, but to be trusted with the responsibility, with the weight of Florian's body in his arms and pressed to his chest? It felt special. He felt not only wanted, but needed, *Useful*, and to feel useful was a feeling Freddie Lovejoy was always chasing, but it was more than that, too. It was the faith that Florian put in him, knowing that he was safe and that Freddie would rather die than let him fall. To anyone on the outside, it might look as though they'd been practising this for years, the fluidity of it all, the familiarity, down to the way that Florian draped his arms around his shoulders and kissed him on top of his head.\n\nFreddie thought he might quite like to be the one taking Florian to bed every night, for every one of his remaining years.\n\nOnce he was sure the other man was settled, he climbed up onto the blankets to join him there. He had grown to love nothing more than he loved spending the evenings here with Florian, whiling away the hours with talk and touch. And now he knew for sure that Florian not only accepted the touch, but wanted and welcomed it just as Freddie did, and that made him brave, allowing him to find a comfortable position with his arms wrapped around the man he loved, the two of them propped up against hastily-arranged pillows, closing every gap he could between their bodies and pressing in, as though making up for weeks, if not months, of lost time. \n\nHe kissed Florian's lips sweetly, and stilled as he began to speak again. \n\n\"Love?\" He repeated softly, and his cheeks coloured pink and warm. He looked down to where Florian's hands were, and took one, playing with his fingers, entwining and parting their hands over and over again. \"I ain't the type to be knowin' about flowers, Flor. Tell you the truth I ain't even know a flower could mean somethin' until this moment.\" He laughed at himself, shaking his head. \"Sounds as if I picked jus' the right kind, though. I only thought they were pretty an' you'd like the colour of 'em for brightenin' the place up some. Poor Val - sure he thought I was comin' on pretty strong, if everybody but me knows about the meanin'. I weren't even so sure they were violets at first, but my mama told me. She ain't tell me nothin' about no love though!\"\n\nIn retrospect, Elizabeth had surely known, but she had said nothing, only helped her son choose the prettiest of the handfuls of flowers he'd come home with, arranged them neatly in a jar of water and tied them with a ribbon. Perhaps she had seen right through him, despite the fact he'd never spoken of his feelings for Florian with her. For what it was worth, he had only neglected to inform her in case things didn't work out so well - it wouldn't have done to get her hopes up.\nJoy would no doubt light up the kitchen of the Lovejoys' cabin when he did find the words to tell her everything. \n\nAs the rain pitter-pattered against the window of Florian's bedroom, Freddie was quiet only for a moment before he spoke again. \n\n\"I ain't leave 'em for you without a thought at all, though. I know what date it was the mornin' I came by to put 'em there, an' I... I meant 'em. The love part. Even if I ain't know at the time what they were to say to you... I guess I wanted ta give you the message somehow. Perhaps the Lord put those flowers there on my way home knowin' I'd find a way to get some to you.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "Being held up by someone was somewhat terrifying every time, but Florian found that his trust in Freddie far outweighed any fear he might have about being dropped. He hadn't expected Freddie's smaller frame to support him as well as he did, nor did he expect the motions to feel so familiar and practiced already. And yet it didn't come as a surprise that it all felt natural.\n\nButterflies fluttered in his stomach when Freddie kissed him again, it was a sensation he wanted to continue experiencing for the rest of his days, may the Lord grant them both the gift of a long life. Florian wanted an infinite number of nights just like this one, pressed close to his love, the sound of rain hitting their windows, safe and sound in whatever sanctuary they would end up building together.\n\nFlorian was sure both Valerian and Olivia had known long before he had. Liv had a way with these things and Valerian was intelligent in his own right. He wouldn't even be surprised if the two had a running bet on how long it would take Freddie and Florian to finally figure out what had grown between them. Florian had never been known to pick up on romantic interest towards him, his first kiss had relied on the girl initiating and even then Florian had not expected it at all. Florian would come to realize it was because he'd only looked at Mary as a best friend and nothing more. A boy and a girl couldn't possibly be that close without being something more, so he'd told himself he must have been in love and the sadness he felt upon her moving away had to have been heartbreak. He now saw it wasn't, he now knew what love really was, how love felt when it took hold of a person's heart. \n_ _\n\nLove felt like the rays of the summer sun warming your skin, love felt like making eye contact with someone, and your body instinctively reacting with a smile, it felt like a warm cup of hot cocoa after a snowball fight in the freezing cold. Love sounded like that first snort before a fit of laughter that had previously been barely contained, it sounded like hoofbeats on compacted dirt beating in sync with one's heart, love sounded like hushed words shared between two souls. Love smelled like wildflowers and freshly baked pie and smoke and the forest after rainfall.\n\nLove appeared different to all; in looks, in sound, in feeling and in timing, but it had finally revealed itself in full to Florian.\n\nLove looked like hair weaved from sunlight, it looked like the flow of a pristine river captured in someone's eyes, love looked like strength hidden where one might not expect to find it.\n\nLove looked just like Freddie did.\n\nFreddie hadn't even known that the flowers he picked held meaning. Florian laughed. \"You're tellin' me you didn't know?\" It had been fate, then. That red string had guided Freddie's hands to pick those specific flowers. \"Oh I reckon Val already knew before the flowers, it seems it was just us two fools who were stumblin' around blindly,\" He smiled at the reddening of Freddie's cheeks. \"I wouldn't worry too much about him. He's got a protective streak towards me, but he said he'd be kind to you.\" Florian suspected that Valerian had already decided that Freddie was good enough for his little brother, whatever that may mean.\n_ _\n\n\"I can teach you, if you want. Might just have to be me bringin' you flowers next time though,\" He said, before planting a kiss on Freddie's cheek. If God was real then He had shaped Freddie and Florian from the same clay. Their very particles had called out to each other and sang in stunning harmonies now that they had finally met in earnest, now that their truth had finally been allowed to flourish. \"Come spring, we could go out into the fields, just you an' me. I'll show you the flowers and tell you their meanings.\" None of the sights would be as beautiful as Freddie.\n\nHe knew that Freddie felt the same way as he did and yet his heart still raced at the words he spoke next. \"So... How would you feel if I were ta describe us as, well as _lovers_? Would, would that be alright with you?\" He looked at Freddie nervously before hastily adding: \"It's okay if that's too fast for you, I ain't forcin' you into nothin' you don't want to of course.\"\n\n|| You saying they're soulmates made me go insane in an incredibly positive way, I hope enjoy my rambling <3"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "\"I ain't know a bit. I ain't know a lotta things, Flor. But I look forward to you teachin' me all of 'em.\" \n\nThe flowers having a meaning were just one of many things Freddie had yet to learn, he suspected. His education had been a basic one, and he had left schooling behind to follow his father into the mines at far too young an age, in retrospect. Perhaps if he had studied harder or taken more interest in these things, he would have known that placing violets of all things upon the Barcas' doorstep had been a by far grander declaration of his affections than he'd intended it to be. But no matter; it seemed that all had worked out in his favour. \n\nHe thought back to the wintertime, when he had wanted nothing more than to call Florian his. And now, he could call him that and more. Because Florian wanted this too - wanted to take him by the hand and show him all that the world had to offer. The fields and the flowers and all the secrets they held within their close-knit petals. Who would he be to refuse it? Why would he ever want to?\n\nHe was drifting, just a little. Intoxicated by the deep rumble of Florian's voice as it poured from one body into another, as he pressed impossibly closer to his chest.\n\nBy the feeling of his heartbeat, the smell of his skin, the way his lips touched cheeks like butterfly wings. He didn't think he'd ever tire of simply lying here, wrapped in an embrace that was more than mere touch, more than physical, a warmth that had nothing to do with sweaters and racing pulses, and everything to do with what they felt for one another, what had to be kept secret no more. \n\nAnd then Florian said *Lovers*, and Freddie's pounding heart sure skipped several beats in a row.\n\nIt was fast, of course it was. But Freddie didn't mind that a bit. The months since falling for Florian had dragged out endlessly - it felt as though they'd known one another forever, though it had scarcely been half a year since Freddie's feet had first touched Briar Ridge soil. He was of the opinion that they had moved slowly enough, and now all he wanted to do was run, and run, and run, with Florian's hand held in his, pulling him along beside him as far as he'd like to go. Never before had he experienced these feelings for anyone, and now he'd tasted love like no other, tenderness he was sure he'd done nothing to earn, thrill that trickled through him like static every time he felt the touch of Florian's lips. \n\n\"An' if I told you I'd be honoured ta call you *Lover*?\" He whispered, letting his gaze drift up to meet those soft, sweet brown eyes, eyes that reflected the hope that hung in his own blue ones, the excitement at the possibilities ahead, at a relationship unknown and new and shining like the smooth stones he'd picked up from the belly of the mines and the bank of the river and brought to Florian only in the hope that he might like them as much as Freddie did.\n\n\"If I told you that's all I want in the world? That... That *You're* All I want in this world, Florian Barca. An' that havin' the chance ta call you mine'd only make me the happiest man in all'a Briar Ridge - in all the world, I'm sure? I already told you I- I ain't know a whole lot. I ain't ever pretend to be a smart man... Sure there's some out there that'd call me naught but a fool. But if there's one thing I'm sure of it's that I want you, an' I- I love you. I'll love you as long as you'll let me an' I ain't want nobody else to try love you the same. 'Cause they ain't know you like I know you... Like I wanna know ya always.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "Nothing else mattered then, it was just the two of them and whatever went on outside went unnoticed. Florian could ignore all the bad that had come to pass, he could wash the fear from his mind and anchor himself against Freddie. The Lovejoy man was a harbor, a lighthouse calling the ship that was Florian out from the sea and into a safe haven. Florian suspected Freddie would always call out to something inside him, that his compass would always point towards him. True North for Florian Barca was found in Freddie Lovejoy. He would always find a way back to him, fate's red string had brought them together and would do so time and time again. Some might call Florian foolish for those feelings, some would call his emotions too big or too large, but he didn't care. Maybe he was a fool, maybe he lost all sense when it came to Freddie. He was fine with that, more than fine; he was happy, truly and deeply filled with joy. The anxiety he'd felt about the conversation ebbed away, leaving nothing but love in its wake.\n\nThe man blushed at Freddie's words. They were honest and rapid and toppled over one another like a bubbling creek, and they were all he ever dreamed of hearing and more. Florian had long feared he would never fall in love. Freddie had proved him wrong. Florian looked at his body as broken and unworthy of love, and once again, Freddie had proved him wrong. His lover, _his lover_, had taken hold of his hands and without so many words had told him that his body and soul were worthy of love. \n_ _\n\nFlorian had long feared something was broken within him, and that fear remained in him still, but his love for Freddie far outweighed any stress he felt. The fear could wait. He wouldn't trample upon their freshly grown bed of flowers, he wouldn't crush the blooming purple, not as it just burst forth beneath the sun. Besides, something told him that Freddie would accept him, even if Florian maybe didn't feel things that others did, even if he didn't look at people the way that books said you were supposed to. None of that mattered. \n\n\"I love you too, Freddie,\" And oh my Lord did it feel good saying it out loud. \"I couldn't love anyone else the way I love you, and I ain't wantin' to love anyone else but you either.\" Maybe it was fast, maybe it was crazy, but his heart was telling him it had found part of itself in Freddie's. \"I reckon that makes us both fools then,\" He said, repeating the sentiment again, a grin on his face. \"Nobody else I'd rather be a fool with than you. For as long as the Lord grants us time, I'll be yours and you'll be mine. You'd make me the happiest man in Briar Ridge right alongside ya.\""
}
] | 832 | 13,865 |
1,012 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "crow0951",
"message": "𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍\n𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐\n𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚎'𝚟𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝\n𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚠𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍\n𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚛\n𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "It had been three hours and twenty-seven minutes since Freddie Lovejoy had arrived at the building that served as Briar Ridge's hospital, if you could call it such a thing. \nEarly evening was creeping in at the windows, as if sensing that the townspeople had had a long day - one that they'd rather have be over as soon as it had begun - and the sun's low rays cast orange and shadows through the crack in the curtains that hung at Florian's bedroom window. \nThe youngest of the Barca siblings lay quiet in his bed, his back turned to Freddie, who sat vigil on the rug, cross-legged and still, having just closed his journal and placed it safely to one side. \nThe house had settled into a numb sort of silence not long after three souls had crossed the threshold, the weight of one missing set of footprints in the snow a heavy burden in each beating heart. \nValerian Barca would not return home tonight. \n\nFreddie had run to the hospital as soon as he heard of what had transpired in the night. News, though it often travelled fast in the holler, could only reach so far when those who were left to spread it found themselves otherwise engaged. There had been wounded and dying to attend to, blood to scrub from floors and wash from skin and hair, all things which took precedence over the usual spread of gossip and whispers, and had prevented word of the misfortune that had befallen the coal man from reaching the Lovejoys' doorstep until what felt like much too late. \n*Valerian Barca has been wounded*, the messenger had said - a message meant for Alfred Lovejoy Sr, on account of the position the patriarch had once held at the company, no doubt, and not for his son, who had only happened to be in earshot, and who had dropped the chipped china cup of tea intended for his mother upon hearing the words. \n\nFreddie's blood had run cold in his veins.\n\nFlorian. \n*Where is he*, he had demanded, *Where is Valerian* And *Where is his family* And *Are they alright?* \n\nThe man at the door had had so little information to give beyond *The doctor* That Freddie had felt he had no choice but to find the rest out for himself. Barely taking the time to lace his boots, and forgoing his coat entirely, he had bid his parents a hurried goodbye and rushed out into the streets.\n\nHe had found them in the ward. \n\nOlivia's sweet face had been streaked with the ghosts of tears. Florian, wearing ill-fitting borrowed clothes and an expression unlike any Freddie had ever seen his face bear, had had to be coaxed to leave by not one, but two gentle-natured nurses, his sister, and Freddie himself, for though it seemed Valerian had been heavily medicated into slumber, he had not taken kindly to the suggestion that it may be time to leave him to rest. In the end, it had been Olivia, who had taken her younger brother by the hands and all but *Begged* Him to go home, at which point Freddie had felt an intruder on a private affair, and gone to help Miss Lorelai fold sheets until the point that the two emerged. \nOlivia had been pushing Florian's chair, and before she could ask, Freddie had offered to escort them back to the house.\n\nWhich brought them to here and now, in the bedroom, the door clicked shut with a rolled blanket at its base to prevent the draft. \n\nFew words had been shared between Florian and Freddie, besides the necessary ones. Freddie had done the decent thing and turned his back while Florian took off what he'd been given by Miss Marianne and changed into nightclothes, but the bandages wrapped from hip to knee around his injured leg were bulky, and Freddie had been careful of them as he drew the blankets up to his shoulders. Olivia had brought water, but Florian hadn't touched it. *Stay with him?* She'd whispered, and Freddie would have done so even without being asked.\n\nFlorian had had a werewolf sink its claws into helpless flesh, and he hadn't so much as whimpered in complaint.\n\nHe'd never known the man so quiet. So still, looking for all the world like he were asleep, but he didn't breathe as though he were at peace. \nThe two had been growing closer for enough time now that Freddie was beginning to think he could read Florian's body language as easy as a children's book from the library, a story laid out in pictures on pages. He knew when he was frustrated by the way he held his charcoal in a vice-grip, could tell when he hadn't slept by the furrow of his brow, sensed when he was cold or otherwise uncomfortable from the simple curve of his shoulders.\nMotionless beneath the covers, Florian now gave away nothing.\n\nSo all Freddie could do was sit where he was, watching, listening for the moment when Florian would decide to say something, if he chose to at all.\n\nThe time that passed could have been minutes or hours. The sun slipped low and the slant of light on the wall decorated with wildflower illustrations grew long. Florian's steady hands had sketched and shaded every single piece. Freddie could have traced each from memory, though he'd never have the artistic ability to truly reproduce one.\n\nFreddie stayed close, leaning against the side of the mattress, and wished he had the strength to reach out, to touch, to offer a comfort that words couldn't. But could anything, in a time like this?\nFlorian and Valerian had the kind of inseparable bond he had with his sister Catherine - the oldest child and the youngest, a bond stronger than mere blood. Freddie couldn't imagine the state he'd be in had he come so close to losing Cath. \n\nStill, it came unexpectedly, when Florian's quiet, even breathing shifted. A hitch and a soft exhale, and Freddie watched the man's curled fist raise to his mouth as a shudder ran through his shoulders. \nHe wasn't sleeping, Freddie doubted he ever had been. \n\nFlorian had begun to cry, and the realisation damn near wrenched Freddie's heart right out of his chest. \nHow could he do anything but reach for him?\n\n\"Flor? Y'okay, darlin'?\"\n\nHis hand found Florian's hip, his forearm, then his hand, as he pushed himself up onto his knees to be closer to the man he'd been sweet on since the day they met. \n\n\"Hey... Hey. C'mere. It's alright. I gotcha.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "It had taken the combined effort of four people to get Florian to leave his brother's side. Two of which were his sister and Freddie Lovejoy, the man he considered his closest friend out of all the souls on this wretched planet. The man he wished to call something more intimate than just friends. The man who, over the past three months had started appearing more and more in his sketchbook, a clear sign that he had been occupying more and more of his thoughts as well. In the end, it had been Olivia who was able to convince him to go home, to get some rest, to let Valerian be taken care of by the staff. Florian didn't want to leave, he knew Val was in the hands of those best equipped to handle this, but it still felt wrong, it felt like he was abandoning his brother. What if he left and this would be the last time he would see his brother alive? He told himself to stay strong, to not cry again, Olivia and more importantly Freddie didn't need to see that\n\nHis heart sang when Freddie offered to walk the remaining two Barcas home, it swelled more still when the other man remained in his room, going so far as to help him get situated in his bed. The gentle act of pulling up the blankets made his heart flutter. He found himself briefly wondering what it would be like to pull him into the bed with him, to be held in his arms, for Freddie to not feel the need to turn around when Florian struggled to get out of his clothes, for Freddie and him to joke about that struggle. _No_ he would not ruin their friendship with those ideas. Freddie sat on the floor, he had told Florian he liked sitting on the floor, a strange habit the boy had. One of many no doubt, and Florian wanted so badly to learn about all of Freddie's weird and wonderful habits.\n_ _\n\nFlorian sank into his thoughts then, fell into them and like a strong current they pulled him out into the sea, he tried to fight them, tried to reach for a hand. For Freddie's hand, but fear held him back. He had been fighting that current from the moment he left Valerian's bedside. A battle he was losing. _Red stains on their kitchen floor._ Just breathe, this will pass. _Valerian had died._ Don't cry, don't cry. _His brother's body, frail and broken._ Keep it together Florian..._Miss Marianne's screams._ You cannot cry in front of Freddie. _The sound of shattering glass_ I have to be strong. _The smell of blood, both man and beast._ no. No. Nonono. His breath caught, a shuttering inhale, a soft exhale to try and stop himself. A failed attempt. He brought a fist to his mouth in a last-ditch effort to stifle the sound, but Freddie, ever perceptive as he was, had noticed. If only he also noticed how Florian felt towards him.\n\n_Flor? Y'okay, darlin'?_ He was not, in fact he was the furthest from fine he had ever been. _Hey... Hey. C'mere. It's alright. I gotcha._ Was it alright though? Was it really? He almost snapped at Freddie. Of course he wasn't okay. And it was not alright. None of it was.\n\nHe shook his head, indicating that no, he was not doing okay. \"I am so sorry you have to see me like this.\" Freddie's hand met his and Florian held onto it tightly. \"Can you h-\" _hug me, hold me? I just want to feel safe and your arms feel like safety, but I don't want to ask you in case it makes you hate me. I don't want you to hate me, please don't hate me for having these thoughts._\n_ _\n\nFreddie had called him darlin', darling, a term of affection, of _love_. Could it be? No. A man like Freddie could never be with a man like Florian, the miner deserved more, deserved better. Besides, Florian didn't know if Freddie was even interested in men to begin with. He hoped he was, but Florian knew that hoping for something did not mean it would come to be. They were friends, just very good friends. Very good friends where one was maybe falling for the other. For his smile, the way his hair fell, the way he sounded when he laughed, the color of his eyes, his weird habits, the way he spoke, his kindness, all of it.\n\nThe tears started coming in earnest, he'd lost the battle, dragged out into sea, Freddie's hand still proving to be a lifeline. His unsteady breathing was threatening to tip over into sobs. _weak weak weak_ \"I'm sorry I-\" He didn't even know what he was sorry for. He squeezed Freddie's hand, drawing comfort from the physical touch. \"Please stay? I don't want to be alone.\" I don't want to be alone with my thoughts."
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "To Freddie's utmost relief, Florian didn't bite back at the words, and nor did he push away the touch. Instead, he clung to it, desperate fingers entwining with Freddie's own, holding on and squeezing tight, and so Freddie held tight too, taking it as an invitation to move closer. To leave the floor and close some of the gap between them. He sat on the edge of the bed, hesitated for only a moment, and then brought himself in to Florian's side, reaching for whatever parts of him he dared to touch. \nFirst the one hand, then the other. His wrists, his forearms - strong from years of pushing, strong because he'd had to be. His shoulders, his chest, as he helped him turn until their eyes could lock. And his face - his beautiful face, streaked as it were with hot tears rolling down his cheeks that Freddie couldn't resist trying to brush away even as new ones replaced them. It was a hopeless endeavour, first with fingers and then with a crisp handkerchief pulled from his shirt-pocket (and thank the Lord, Elizabeth Lovejoy would *Never* Let any of her children leave the house without a neat and fresh-pressed handkerchief, rain or shine), but still, Freddie tried. He could hardly bear to see Florian cry, as much as he could tell it was needed. His words scratched like nettle-stings, direct to the heart. \n\n\"Hey. Shh, I ain't havin' none a' those apologies,\" Freddie murmured. \"You done more than enough today to merit a whole wash-basin fulla' tears. I'm here. I got you, and I'm not goin' nowhere 'til you decide it's time to say our goodbyes.\" How many evenings had he sat on Florian's bedroom floor and hoped, even prayed, that the other man might ask him to stay? How often had he lain in his own bed across town and wished he'd had it in him to have said *Hey, the night don't have to end just yet*?\n\nAnd now, Florian was holding tight to his hand like he might float right away into the air if he let go, asking - no, pleading - for him to stay, saying he was sorry. What the hell he had to be sorry for, Freddie wasn't sure, and so he shh-ed him again, but soft, soothing, still trying with all his might to keep tears from rolling down to soak the pillow. He'd had his fair share of nights spent sobbing into bedsheets, knew how it felt to try to sleep when salt-water had turned cold against your cheek. He wouldn't put Florian through that if he could help it. \n\n\"You got no reason to go sayin' sorry. Trust me,\" He whispered. \"And even if you did, you'd've been forgiven the first time you said it. So just take a deep breath for me, we're gonna slow this right back down. Livvy'll slit my throat if she thinks for half a second I've got you cryin'. Nice and easy... You're doin' so good, Flo. Ain't never gotta be alone again while I'm around.\"\n\nFlorian didn't deserve any of this. \nFrom the moment Freddie's gaze had landed on those sweet brown eyes, on that day back in November when their hands had touched and his heart and whole world had been promptly set on fire, he'd known that this was a place that didn't deserve men like him.\n\nAnd yet, here they were.\n\n\"I'm gonna stay right here,\" He continued on, voice soft. \"I'll be stayin' as long as you'll have me. As close as you'll have me, too.\" For he couldn't deny that despite it all, he wanted *Closer*. He wanted to wrap himself up in all Florian had to offer and give up all he had in exchange, share touch and breath in equal measures until there were no tears left to cry and no hurt left to heal. He ached to wind his arms around Florian's waist and bury his nose in his curls and press kisses there as though a kiss could do anything to take away the pain. As it were, he didn't dare move without further permission, aware of the possibility that he'd already crossed a boundary in climbing up onto the bed and feeling the heat of the other's skin under his palms, in touching his face in his desire to relieve him of his tears. \n\n\"You just tell me what you need, and I swear, if I got it I'll give it to you. If you're hurtin' and if it's somethin' I can do, it's yours, and if you want it, I'm here. If you want me.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "Freddie helped turn Florian onto his back, his eyes met the other's. Freddie was looking down on him, his hand gently cradling his cheek, the other still firmly in Florian's grasp. He gently wiped at the tears even as new ones formed. _pull yourself together Florian, you're embarrassing yourself_ He didn't want to cry, he wanted to be strong, why couldn't he just be strong for once?\n\nAnd there Freddie was, sweet as ever, void of judgement, what did he do to have deserved such a friend? He didn't want to say goodbye to Freddie, he wanted him to stay, he'd found himself thinking about that more and more often recently. _He was forgiven._ So much of his life seemed to revolve around that, around forgiveness, blame and guilt. Maybe one day he'd believe that he truly was absolved of guilt. He leaned into the other man's hand, into its warmth, into the comfort being close to Freddie brought him. His breathing began to steady slowly, Freddie's words of comfort were working. In that moment it was just he and him, and he was safe. _He was safe._\n\nHe laughed at Freddie's comment about his sister's hypothetical murder attempt. The image of Olivia chasing Freddie around like he was a cat who had gotten into the good sausage briefly appeared in his mind. He smiled through his tears. \"You're right.\" He said, taking a few deep breaths. \"Wouldn't want her to start chasin' you out of the house.\" She wouldn't, she got along with Freddie well, a fact that made Florian happy. He took another deep breath, trying to organize his thoughts. It was hard doing that, he was having quite a lot of thoughts at the moment, some very bad, some very good. ~~Like how natural it felt to hold hands with Freddie, how their fingers fit together perfectly.~~\n_ _\n\nThe full realisation regarding their current position dawned on him. Him laying there, Freddie looking down at him, holding his hand, caressing his cheek. He pushed himself up, letting go of Freddie's hand and scooting himself backwards on his bed so his back was against the bed frame and he was sitting up straight. Laying in his bed with Freddie there had felt intimate, much too intimate. That didn't mean he didn't want him there, quite the contrary in fact. His face felt warm, he was blushing, _great_. Could anyone blame him though? Anyone in their right mind would be blushing if they had seen Freddie Lovejoy looking down at them the way he had. Now Florian felt bad about moving into a sitting position. He felt like he'd just rejected Freddie without even meaning to. Maybe he'd just been imagining that there was something there. He wasn't good at this. These feelings towards another man were quite new to him. Especially when added on top of the fact that he'd been through a whirlwind of emotions in the past few hours, it was all very confusing to him at the moment, all a bit much. He hoped that the fact that he had been crying would at least mask the growing redness of his cheeks. He feared he had just ruined something, something that he wasn't sure existed beyond his imagination. Did he want to hold hands again? Was it okay for him to want that? It had felt nice, even if it had been out of desperation. He gestured at Freddie to come sit next to him, patting the mattress, a universally recognizable invitation. _Please accept, please don't think that I don't want you near me like that again._ Florian thought that he did want Freddie looking down at him like that again, to see Freddie's eyes meet his own so gently, to hold his hand... Yes, _yes_ he did, just without the need for Florian to cry to make it happen. He just hoped that next time they would be in such a position, _please let there be a next time_, he wouldn't flee like a coward.\n_ _\n\n\"I keep _seein'_ it in my head, hearin' the doc say those words _retract time of death, Mr.Barca is alive_, Valerian in that hospital bed. That wolf breakin' through the window, its claws in me. And I could _feel it_ somehow-\" He looked at his legs, he hadn't felt them in about 8 years now. \"-and I can't feel my legs Freddie, you could poke at 'em right now and I wouldn't even notice.\" He looked at Freddie and smiled, exhaling a soft laugh, and then that smile dropped again. \"I can't stop repeatin' it, over and over again. I fear I'm losin' control of my mind a little bit.\" He wiped away his tears, the steady stream had since stopped, that familiar numbness slowly returned. It helped to voice what was going on, it helped calm him down, things didn't seem so overwhelming once spoken. \"I know Valerian is safe and in good hands, and that those wolves won't be comin' back until next full moon and I know I'm safe with you. But just now it, well it felt like I was right there again, in Miss Marianne's house and in the hospital right after, I don't know how to describe it. But thank you, for pullin' me out of there.\" \n\n_I'm here, if you want me._ Of course he wanted Freddie. He thought of him nearly every day, looked forward to him briefly swinging by after returning from the mines, stumbling into town atop his pony. A shabby looking creature it was, Angel, but he seemed to like that horse very much. Florian had found out that he was not very good at sketching horses, never got the proportions quite right on them. He'd have to ask Angel to model for him next time Freddie and her came by. \n_ _\n\nWhat did he need? A distraction. He wanted to find something other than werewolves to think about. \"Could you tell me about your family, your parents and your sisters?\" He'd heard of them before of course, Freddie loved them very much and his parents lived with him. \"What was it like growing up with them?\" Florian had grown up without much of his parents around, his father had died when he was six, his mother abandoned them soon after that. \"I've not really been outside Briar Ridge myself.\""
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Florian sat up, and Freddie moved with him, not wanting to move away entirely, but making sure his friend could get as much space as he needed. He did his best to help, though he wasn't sure how much help he could really be, rearranging the pillows to support Florian's back and pulling the blanket up to cover him. He hoped his hands weren't shaking - what had he been thinking, rushing in like that, touching Florian all soft and sweet like he had the right to do that? Stupid, stupid and impulsive, and if Flo hadn't been so receptive to the touch he'd have felt like even more of an idiot. He could've ruined every morsel of trust they'd built up together in the months that had passed by, all over his helpless desire to hold the hand of the prettiest boy he'd ever met. He needed to get himself in check, goddammit, and remind himself that no matter what he and his lovesick heart wanted, he couldn't have what Florian didn't want to give. \nWhether Florian wanted to give anything at all remained to be seen. \n\nBut then his friend patted the spot beside him on the bed, and managed a smile through watery eyes, and it was all Freddie could do not to jump at the chance. He moved to sit closer, and if his arm found its way around Florian's shoulders and squeezed and stayed there, it was nobody's business but theirs. If the top of his head came to rest against Florian's cheek for a brief, tender moment, then so be it.\n\nFlorian was *Safe*. Hurt, sure, beyond the deep gashes in his thigh, but safe, and home, and breathing, and if Freddie had anything to do with it he was going to stay that way. \n\nThe blond was quiet as he listened, wanting to understand exactly what was going on in the other's head, what it was that had made him snap and cry like a babe in arms. And while he couldn't fix it, couldn't take away the memories, he could at least comfort him through it, and be the distraction it seemed was so desperately needed for tonight. \n\n\"Sure thing, darlin'. You know I'll talk all the night away if ya let me,\" He murmured. \"Anythin' for you.\"\n\nWhen everything else failed him, Freddie had always been one to turn to his words. He'd learned to tell stories from his sisters even before he could talk, sitting at Rebecca's feet begging her to read her school books to him even though they didn't have pictures on the pages, and lying in the grassy field behind the old house with Marjorie and her encyclopedia, pointing at the illustrations and asking what they were and what they meant. As he'd gotten older, he'd made up stories of his own. \nBut there was no need to make things up when Florian asked about his family. They were all he'd ever had, and he'd never wanted for more. Decades of love and light had left him with a whole world to wax lyrical over. \n\n\"Alright. You stop me if I go into details you've heard before.\"\n\nHe sighed softly. \n\n\"So there's four of us. Me and my sisters - they're all off and married now, 'course. Cath wrote a letter last week tellin' me what her girls have been up to. Seems like yesterday they were babies and now they're off to school learnin' to read and write. Cath, she's the one that taught me readin' too, kept all the paper scraps we used to get me knowin' how to write my name.\"\n\nOf course, there was no need for those papers now. They bore a name that wasn't his any more.\n\n\"Catherine, she's the oldest, then Marjorie, then Rebecca was the youngest, 'til I came along, and even she's expectin' now. The town we grew up in didn't even have a name 'til last year. All the men worked the mines there my whole life. Never thought goin' with 'em would be what brought me here.\"\n\n*Brought me to you*, he wanted to add, but didn't. \n\n\"Wasn't an easy growin' up, but we were happy. Mama used to sew, the men kept her busy with their pants comin' in all torn up and dirty. She'd pride herself on her stitches, she always wanted to give the clothes back lookin' as though they'd never needed the fixin' in the first place. We were proud of her, too. She taught us all to sew a little. I never took to it. My hands ain't good at the delicate bits, I'd snap the thread if I wasn't careful and most of the time I couldn't ever be careful enough. Think she was almost relieved when the company took me on, even if we had to lie about my bein' of age to get me there... Don't tell Valerian? Think they all still think I'm twenty-three.\"\nIt was one of those things that hadn't felt like it mattered at the time. The Lovejoys had needed money and Freddie had finished up his education and wanted to work, and if the foreman had asked for a birth certificate there would've been more conflict than a simple discrepancy in years. Women couldn't work underground.\n\n\"Anyways. You didn't ask about all that. You wanted to know about the family.\" Freddie smiled, shifting his position to turn slightly towards Florian. He wanted to be able to see his face, just to be sure he wasn't being too boring, going on and on to fill the heavy silence. It was harder to keep an arm around him like this, so instead he took one of Florian's hands again, in both of his, and those joined hands came to rest on the artist's uninjured leg. Freddie squeezed softly. He hated how much he liked holding onto him like that. \n\n\"You'd like the girls, I think. And I just know they'd love you. Marjorie likes her flowers, same as you do. Catherine's house is full of all kinds of paintings, I'm sure she'd love knowin' you're an artist. And Rebecca's a teacher, just like she always wanted to be. It's how she met her husband - he knows all kinds of history and she used to stop by his classes and just listen to how he talked.\"\n\nFreddie went on for a while, grasping at straws just to come up with as much information as he could, looking around his memories for stories he hadn't told Florian before, from early childhood all the way through his teenage years. To give Florian his due, he seemed to be listening to every word.\n\nAnd he wasn't crying any more. That had to be a good thing. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "Freddie still wanted to be near him, to sit with him, to touch him even. Part of Florian hoped deep down that this was not just how Freddie was, that the other man reserved this kind of affection for a select group of people. Freddie's head rested on his shoulder and his arm around Florian's shoulders. It was the closest thing to a hug that either of them felt comfortable with in that moment. He could feel the warmth of the other seeping into his very bones. He chuckled softly, he wouldn't be stopping Freddie even if he did wind up repeating himself. He liked listening to the sound of his voice. Florian listened attentively, grateful for Freddie and his ability to just start speaking without a need for preparation or pauses.\n\n_ _\n\"My lips are sealed, your secret is safe with me Freddie.\" Florian would never try to sabotage the other's job, he knew how much Freddie needed it. Still, it felt strange that his brother was technically Freddie's boss. Valerian did not involve Florian in coal business, and truth be told, Florian tried to keep himself out of coal business wherever he could. There was a reason the town had little love for S&C and in turn for his brother. If Florian was completely honest with himself, honest to a level he was currently unable to reach, he knew deep, _deep_ down that he didn't pay close attention to Valerian's actions for S&C because he did not want to know the full extent of those actions. He wanted to hold on to the idea that his brother was a good and honest man who had done no wrong. Looking too closely might reveal some ugly truths that Florian would be unwilling and unable to face. Better to stay ignorant than to have to reconcile with the fact that Valerian Barca may have blood on his hands. He believed that the deaths in those mines were not Valerian's fault, that S&C was to blame, Valerian was merely a pawn. Florian shared the town's dislike of S&C, but he firmly opposed their dislike of his brother, his mind subconsciously twisted and turned any evidence to suggest otherwise so it aligned with his feelings. Repairing cognitive dissonance was second nature to him. The fact that the mines had not bothered to confirm Freddie's age, that a child was allowed to work in such a dangerous environment, it didn't sit right with him. But the blame was shifted, _Val wouldn't do that, would he?_\n_ _\n\nHis hand came to rest between Freddie's again and he didn't pull back this time. A gentle smile crept onto Florian's features as he watched his friend talk of his family. Freddie was the youngest son, just like Florian was. Both had unbreakable bonds with their siblings, yet Florian was raised in relative luxury and had never truly needed to work a day in his life, a stark contrast to Freddie. The other man had nieces, he could sew, hypothetically speaking, he wondered what other aspects of Freddie he would learn about in the future. \"I would love to meet your sisters one day, they sound great. I am glad you all grew up together and get along so well.\" One day, when it is safe here, should that day ever come. The notebook that was found seemed to hint at immunity, but would they truly be so lucky? \"I am sure they're proud of you for providin' for your folks too.\" Florian wished Freddie didn't have to provide, but such was the harsh reality of their world. \"Maybe we could work together to make them something, a small painting for each of them, to remind them of you whenever they see it?\" It was how Florian gave gifts, by making them for his loved ones, a piece of him went into every gift he gave. \"Free of charge of course, they would be gifts and I could never charge you for my art. Just an idea.\" \n\nFlorian continued to listen to every word Freddie spoke, sinking deeper into the mattress as he grew more and more comfortable. It felt good to just _be_. There were no expectations here, no roles or reputations to uphold, no judgments or biases to disprove. It was just the two of them, sharing stories. The world almost felt normal then.\n_ _\n\n\"I used to sneak in there as a child, those mines, before an illness took my legs away from me.\" He said, reminiscing. \"I had all kinds of silly adventures back then, I'd go into the woods and the fields to collect flowers and climb in trees. It was so peaceful in those woods, just the sounds of the forest and nobody else around. It was mighty foolish of me to do that, the adults would tell me not to go in there all the time. They said that kids have gone missin' in there before. But I believed I was an exception and that they were just stories so I wouldn't go in too deep and get myself lost. I suppose I have a guardian angel watchin' over me, now that we know that there are things in those woods that are not natural.\" Florian wished that angel would look over someone else instead; Freddie or Valerian for instance, who were in danger much more often than he was these days. \"I would come home with dirt all over my clothes and Liv and Val would just sigh and shake their heads and try to remind me that I had a reputation and good name to uphold. And of course make me wash my own clothes, I'd gotten 'em dirty myself after all.\" He laughed. \"At least I was bright enough to not go adventurin' in my Sunday best, I fear they would've killed me if I had.\""
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Truth be told, there was nothing in the world that could've made Freddie move away from Florian now. People didn't place enough value on just being able to *Talk* To someone, to feel as though you were utterly and entirely understood in a moment, in the displaced peace shared between two bodies and minds. All that had happened since the full moon's rising could be forgotten, if only for a little while, because Freddie had Flo, and they could just *Be* Here, where there was nothing needed of them, no onlookers with their preconceptions of what boys ought to do and say and be, no wolves howling in the distance nor scratching at the door.\nThe feeling of safety in his presence was one of the things that drew Freddie back to Florian Barca, time and time again. While the world was cruel and full of hurt, the man's bedroom was a sanctuary. When people were cold and unkind, the man himself kept an open heart and his callused artist's hands. And Freddie privately yearned to call all of that his own, to lay claim to what he could not, to reach and take and hold and give all he could in return. \n\nSometimes he longed so hard it left an ache in his chest, a pain entirely separate from the tightness of the wrappings, steps apart from the crushing weight of others' expectations. \n\n\"I'm no artist, Flor. Like I said, never been good at the finer details with my hands. Sure I'd snap your pencils in two without even meanin' ta. Or I'd have all the lines smudged and the paint dripped over the paper all by accident.\" Freddie sighed softly.\n\nHe could be gentle. \nHe could be good and soft, but he could not be clean. Even as he looked down at their joined hands, there was coal dust in the grooves of his knuckles and staining his fingernails in a way no amount of scrubbing could get out. His hands weren't hands he could rely on - though they were hands that worked to the bone to provide, they were also hands that dropped things (he grieved for each lost china cup), and damaged them (the ragged stems of the flowers he tried so desperately to pick neatly), and dirtied them without even trying (his white dress shirt, stained beyond rescue at the Christmas soiree with the spilled dregs of Miss Marianne's last glass of red wine). \nHe worried for a moment, as he looked at Florian's hand, all wrapped up in both his own. Worried that he would damage, or break, or dirty him too. That this fragile trust they'd built could be crumbled by a mistake like a ruined castle set upon by a storm. \n\"I'm sure the girls would love your paintings, though. They all got birthdays to think about. I'll check back in 'round the right time.\" \n\nFlorian went on, which he was grateful for - he needed to think about something else, and imagining a young version of his friend was something he hadn't done before. To picture him running through the woods, scrambling his way through the mines, climbing trees, was a sweet kind of fantasy. He could only guess that young Florian had been a wild thing, judging by the way he described his antics and his dirtied clothes, and he smiled as he listened, letting his gaze drift up to the man's face and tilting his head to the side in thought.\n\n\"We'd have made great friends then,\" He decided. \"I was always gettin' myself into scrapes in the streets. Coming home all scratched-up and bleedin' with no idea how I'd gotten that way. Never hurt 'til Mama came to clean me up and then I'd kick and scream as though she was murderin' me.\" He laughed. \"She'd pour alcohol on my skinned knees and act as though it weren't mean to sting, then she always promised that the hot cocoa that came after was as good a medicine as any from the doctor.\"\n\nHe could taste the chocolate as he spoke of it - always not quite sweet, sugar was a luxury that they couldn't always afford, and the powdered cocoa was bitter even with it, but it was warm, and it brought comfort. He'd have to see if the store here sold anything that came even close, for the nights he longed for what had been left behind. He'd make Florian a cup, and bring it up here to his bedroom, and hope it brought him the relief it had brought to cut-up knees and a child's tired eyes in the twilight hours. \nWould it taste the same, when not made by a loving mother's arthritic hand? When home wasn't the home it had been and when the world outside the kitchen door was no longer a world he knew and felt safe in? \n\n\"I don't know how much I believe in angels any more, doll. But I can make a promise to ya. A couple promises, actually, if you'll take 'em from me.\"\n\nFreddie squeezed Florian's hand again, just as soft as before. \n*He would not break anything, this time.*\nNot a promise, not a heart, not the faith he could only hope the other man would someday have in him. \n\"I'll take you out to the woods, when the weather gets warmer. As deep as you feel like goin' for as little or as long as you like. Just because you don't got your legs to carry you there no more don't mean you should miss out on the bluebells and the birdsongs.\"\nHe bit his lip. \n\"And I won't let anythin' that's out there get to ya. I should've been there last night, and I wasn't. But next time that moon rises full, I will be.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "_I'm no artist Flor._ That was true. Maybe it had been wistful thinking. Florian had imagined holding Freddie's hand, helping to guide it across a page or canvas, laughing at the mess they would undoubtedly create together. But they weren't a 'we' after all. ~~Not yet...~~ It was beginning to dawn on Florian just how much he wanted that. For Freddie and him to become 'us' and 'we'. To be not just individuals but two parts of something more, something deeper and more meaningful. Freddie felt safe, being around him felt comfortable and natural. He did not have to pretend with him.\n\nFlorian made a wincing sound at the mention of alcohol straight to wounds. An incredibly unpleasant sensation he too had experienced. \"One of the benefits of not havin' control over my legs, cleanin' them didn't hurt one bit.\" He laughed. Florian created a mental note to get his hands on some cocoa so he could make hot cocoa for Freddie next time he visited.\n_ _\n\n\"I will gladly take that promise.\" Going back into nature was a dream he had already partially given up on. His wheelchair was not really made for traversing woodland and fields. Nevertheless, it warmed his heart that Freddie offered. \"I would love that Freddie.\" He could imagine it, he'd bring a basket of food and they'd find a spot in a field to sit. Bask in the sun's rays, eachothers company and listen to the birds sing. \"As long as we go out there durin' the day and get back well before nightfall. As much as I would love to show you where I spent my childhood, I would rather not introduce you to the not-deer. Or whatever else lurks in there.\" He yawned, looking at the other man. \"I can't wait for you to see the fields when the wildflowers are bloomin'. The green of the grass and the bright spots of color, it's quite somethin'. I would love to show you.\" \n_ _\n\n\"I am glad you weren't there.\" His tone was gentle and non-accusatory. It wasn't said because he didn't believe Freddie to be capable. \"I couldn't live with myself if you got hurt by those beasts because of me.\" There it was, that familiar feeling of guilt. He hated nothing more than others getting hurt because he was unable to defend himself. He similarly hated when others expressed wanting to protect him. A protection he often perceived to be handed out because of prejudice. Florian had spent the last seven years being treated like he was in constant need of help. He knew he _did_ need help for quite a large number of actions that others deemed trivial, but by God was he stubborn. His own drive for independence clouded the view of offered aid for the young Barca. But with Freddie it felt different. Freddie didn't seem to want to protect Florian because he looked at him as helpless. There was something else there, something that made Florian feel loved and cherished. Florian found himself almost _enjoying_ Freddie's protective streak. As for Florian's perception of Freddie, he supposed he saw Freddie as somewhat reckless. But didn't know about the firearm that Freddie owned. He didn't know that the young Lovejoy might actually stand a chance if given a silver bullet. \"I hope you never have to see those wolves Freddie. However, when next full moon comes around perhaps I could ask if you and yours would be welcome to take shelter here. You don't know how to shoot, do you?\""
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Florian approved of at least one of the promises, and that was good enough for Freddie, who took the soft words as a comfort, and settled himself a little closer to Florian again. If his head found its way back to his friend's shoulder, then who was he to prevent it? Florian was tired - yawning and all. Freddie couldn't deny that the day was beginning to catch up to him too, but he wouldn't allow himself to fall asleep here. Not yet - that would be too forward, too fast, altogether too much, and the last thing he wanted to do was be too much of anything when it came to the tentative bond he held with Florian. \"I'll take you out there and you can show me as much as we can squeeze into daylight hours,\" He murmured. \"I swear I'll have you back *Long* Before dark comes for us. I ain't got no desire to be seein' werewolves, or... Not-deers? Or anythin' else that lurks out there. I'll stay indoors where there's lamps an' locked doors at night.\" He grinned. Trust the artist to be thinking of the colours in the fields like paint splashed on canvas. He'd seen Florian's depictions of those very fields. If the real things were half so beautiful as the paintings then they'd be breathtaking beyond description. He only hoped it wouldn't be too long before he got to take Florian to see them.\nSpring would come and bring with it new hope, after all. Freddie clung to that thought almost as tightly as he clung to Florian's hand. \n\n\"You don't know that I'd be hurt. I coulda been there and been fine just like Miss Marianne,\" He pointed out gently, tracing over the lines on the other's knuckles, trying all he could to offer some kind of comfort as the conversation toed the lines of that which no doubt Florian would rather forget. \"But I won't say no to takin' shelter together. If you and your family'll have me - and if that damned window's all patched up by the time it rolls around.\"\n\nHe couldn't say he hadn't thought of Florian as he lay in bed the last full moon, wished he was there and close enough to reach out and touch and comfort, though he'd never have been able to imagine touch like they shared now, entwined fingers and pressed-together sides. He had wondered if the man he held so dear was safe, if he was sleeping soundly or sitting awake, afraid, listening to the howls beyond the tree line. If they were together, there would be no need to wonder, for they could talk about their worries and fears 'til dawn if the need arose, and Freddie would be the first to know, this time, if Florian needed him. \n\"If it's not... If the house ain't ready, or if Valerian's not happy with you and Livvy bein' here after all that's gone on in these walls... You can come home with me, you know. Now the house is ready for ya to come right on in.\"\n\nIt would be a greater step, introducing Florian to his parents when they'd only heard his name thus far. They knew he was the reason for the new installation at the front door, and for Freddie's late comings-home some nights when his journey back from the mines took him past the Barca estate and, more often than not, up onto the porch and into the house for a precious few minutes of talk. But they hadn't an inkling of the way Florian made Freddie *Feel*, the way it was his smile that melted the boy's heart like the springtime sun on the final frost, and they had no notion of the way Freddie could be taken apart by a mere few words in that familiar, soft voice after a long day. They didn't know how Angel liked Florian, and would reach with all her might up to nose at his bedroom window when she was tied to the oak in the yard.\n\nThey would never know how Freddie ached to spend every waking hour in his company, nor how he wished with all his might that their time together might one day never end. \n\nIt was Florian's last question that earned a soft, derisive but not unkind snort from Freddie. \"Do I know how to *Shoot*? Flo. *Flo*, darlin', I been knowin' how to shoot since my hands were big enough to hold my father's pistol,\" He assured him, turning Florian's hand palm-up in his so he could stroke blunt nails over the inside of his forearm, his wrist. \"You don't got nothin' to worry about when it comes to me protectin' myself. Been hearin' Mister Sterling's workin' on some fancy silver bullets for when the next moon comes, so I saved here an' there an' I'm gonna get one. Two if I can afford 'em. Any wolf comes barrellin' towards us ain't leavin' without bein' burned.\""
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "His eyelids were growing heavier with every passing second. He knew he really should sleep, but if he slept then he wouldn't be able to talk with Freddie. That just felt like a bad deal and he wasn't a particularly big fan of those. He was fighting against the combination of the warmth of the bed and Freddie and all of what had happened. Freddie's head had found its way onto his shoulder again, Florian rested his on top of it in turn. Oh, how his head fit so perfectly where it lay. \"Not-deer.\" He repeated the word as if saying it again would explain what they were. \"Look like deer, but ain't. They stand on their hind legs, got a taste for human meat. No good.\" No good at all. \"Just like them hands in the river bank...\" He could only hope Freddie would understand half of what he was saying at this point.\n\n\"That's true.\" It might not have gone after Freddie. Valerian and him had put two and two together in the hospital. How the wolf had seemed _injured_. How it had been covered in something that looked suspiciously like human blood. Blood he now knew flowed similarly in his own veins. \"It didn't try to go for anyone else. I suppose I just looked like the easiest target.\" He huffed a humourless laugh. After it had grabbed Valerian by the throat and brutally dragged him to the gates of Heaven (or Hell) it had turned tail and ran halfway across Briar Ridge. \"The one that got Val also came for me. Maybe it just hates us...\" Tears threatened to form again, he forcibly blinked them away, he had none left. He was too tired to cry again. \"I want it *Dead*.\" He knew there was a person in there, but he still wanted death for it. Like it had done to Val. A piece of his normally kind soul had hardened as a result of the full moon. Shrivelled up and dried out in order to protect him from all he'd experienced, from all he would experience still. A crumbling layer protecting him from accessing the full extend of his emotions in one go, haphazardly sectioning them into manageable bits.\n\nHad it been looking for more Barca blood? Had it been pure coincidence? Was it something else entirely? Did werewolves even have the capacity of choice when it came to their victims? Florian did not know. Florian did not know if he wanted to know. What would that imply? If the person in there could choose, or if they couldn't. Did the werewolves remember the carnage they contributed to each moon? Were they helpless to their urges or could they fight back? Did they wake up covered in red, the taste of blood lingering on their tongues and staining their hands? Did they regret it, or did part of them enjoy it? \"Ah yes, wall's still gone... Hafta fix that soon. Blasted window pane hasn't come in yet...\"\n_ _\nHe could come home with Freddie. Now that sounded lovely. And he could come right in, Freddie had built a ramp. Florian's heart swelled. \"You're too kind Freddie.\" His friend had one of the biggest hearts out there. He hoped to one day be let into that heart fully, just as he hoped to let Freddie into his wholly and entirely. Florian just hoped that Freddie's kindness wouldn't be taken advantage of. This world was not always good to those with tender hearts, as he'd come to find out himself. He wanted to shelter the other from all harm that could befall him. But he knew that that wasn't possible. He knew Freddie was more than capable of defending himself, but the urge to shield remained present in him. If that werewolf came back for seconds and decided Freddie was the better target, he would never forgive himself. Even armed with silver bullets as they both would be when that time came. \n_ _\n\n\"My sincerest apologies Mr. Lovejoy.\" His voice was soft, half asleep as he was the undertones of laughter and friendly teasing were clearly woven into his mumbled words. \"I did not know I was in the presence of a master marksman.\" He pictured Freddie as a gunslinger, not an unpleasant image. \"Mhm, he has been, molded from Val's. Silver works like a charm. That's why I took that fancy butter knife with me. Burned that thing real good it did. Maybe I can get you a fork to melt into one of them bullets. 'S cheaper.\" He could still feel the echo of the hot, disgusting blood on his skin. He briefly wondered where that knife was now, he hadn't taken it with him when he left Marianne's house. He was too tired to give it much proper thought. \"Knife must still be at Miss Marianne's place...\" He yawned again, sleep was close to taking him. \"Hope she's okay...\" His eyes closed once more. \"We'll get those bastards. We have to.\" If we don't get them, they'll get us. Two options. Two outcomes. Only one he was willing to accept.\n||"
},
{
"author": "Freddie Lovejoy",
"message": "Florian's words were slurred with exhaustion behind his laughter and smiles, and how Freddie ached to tuck him under the blankets once more, to stay beside him and run his fingers through those curls and soothe him into sleep. Though he couldn't imagine the night would go by without restless dreams, at least it *Would* Pass, and close by Freddie would remain until he had to leave for the mine come morning light. He would savour each moment, every passing second until he was forced to disappear. \nHe almost hoped Florian would sleep through his leaving, for fear of a goodbye that tugged on his heart too hard to allow him to hold his tongue over his feelings. \n\n\"If it comes for you again - either of you - we'll be ready for it,\" He promised quietly. Though he was far from understanding the wolf's motives, if it truly had a vendetta against the Barcas, then it held a vendetta against that which Freddie held dear, and he would hold that grudge in turn, and act upon it without mercy. Violence did not come easily to him, but the beast had caused irreparable harm to the family, and that was something that did not merit easy forgiveness. \"We'll get the house protected real good. All of us with guns at the doors, just in case. But it won't come to that. If it comes lookin' for you a second time it's a damn fool for thinkin' we're not ready to kill it for tryin'.\" He bit his lip. \"It'll be alright. I swear it'll be alright. We don't gotta talk about it any more for tonight, but you jus' know that nothin's gonna happen to you and Val next moon.\"\n\nHe squeezed Florian's hand tightly, fought the urge to bring it to his lips and kiss his knuckles to seal his promise. Too much, Lovejoy, too fast. *He doesn't want you like that, remember. You're the fool for thinkin' it.*\n\n\"You should get some rest, y'know.\"\n\nHe was loathe to say it, knowing that once Florian fell asleep, their conversation would of course end, and he never wanted to stop hearing his voice. But all good things, it was said, must come to an end, and he wasn't about to keep the wounded man awake against his will, nor did he fancy his chances against Florian's heavy eyes and sleepy voice. \n\"I ain't goin' anywhere unless you want me to. I gotta go in the mornin', obviously, but I'll go quiet, and I swear I'll be back to see you tomorrow if you're wantin' to see me. Can meet you at the doctor, bring you home, do the evenin' all over again if you need the company. I won't be too late, I promise. An' - it'd be good to know how your brother's holdin' up. You'd never believe how the news carries down that mine, Flo. It's like the secrets get bundled in with the coal carts and stick to ya like the dust. The men'll want to know he's alright.\" It wouldn't be out of compassion, mind. The miners held a special kind of distaste for those up above their heads in the company.\n\nAs he spoke, he'd gently taken hold of Florian's shoulders, and helped him ease his way back to lying down. It wouldn't do him any good to fall asleep where he sat - he needed real rest for the gashes in his leg to heal quick and well - and no doubt he'd wake with an awful crick in his neck if his head were left unsupported. Freddie rearranged the pillows, and drew up the blankets, and if his fingers brushed Florian's cheek as he tucked the fabric under his chin, well, nobody had to know. \n\"Close your eyes, darlin'. I'll be right here.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "If the wolf came back again. _If._ So far the attacks on the Barca estate had been a when rather than an if. But ready they'd be. \"We'll be ready.\" He echoed Freddie's words softly. He was a Barca and Barcas didn't go down without a fight. Barcas were stupidly stubborn. Above all, Barcas were survivors, it seemed so were Lovejoys. Freddie told him nothing was going to happen to Valerian or him next full moon. A promise Valerian had made him as well. One of three promises made. One of three promises broken. \"Mm, can't be sure Freddie. But we'll give it hell if it tries.\" \n\n_The men will want to know if he's alright._ Florian was fairly certain that most miners did not have necessarily have Valerian's best interest at heart. He was too tired to point out to Freddie that the young Lovejoy, who genuinely cared for Valerian, was likely not part of the majority. That a good number of miners unfortunately saw his brother as _being_ S&C, instead of being _used by_ S&C just as the miners were. \"You'll have to tell me some of that coal covered news sometime.\"\n_ _\nFlorian wasn't sure if he was still awake or dreaming. It seemed Freddie was helping him get settled, readjusting pillows and drawing blankets up. He was an adult, he could get settled for sleep himself. But this wasn't an act done out of the believe that he couldn't. This was an act done with ~~love~~ kindness, out of care for him. That made all the difference. _Close your eyes darlin', I'll be right here._ \"Mm, you get rest too Freddie.\" He failed to consider the fact that the only place Freddie possibly could get rest was in his bed, on the floor or at his own place. His eyes closed again and this time sleep took him in fully. \n_ _\nFlorian slept, if he had nightmares he didn't remember them when he woke up. Maybe his mind knew he was safe, maybe it had sensed Freddie's presence. Just as it noticed that presence slowly, quietly getting up, getting ready to leave. His eyes opened.\n\n_ _\n\"Freddie\" He reached out, grabbed Freddie's hand and gently squeezed it. \"_Thank you._\" He let go, watching Freddie leave, hoping they'd meet again soon. His heart called out to the one in the miner's chest. If only his ears could hear how Freddie's heart answered it loud and clear."
}
] | 1,043 | 13,156 |
387.777778 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "grompit",
"message": "It was a crisp early morning when Liam Whitaker made the trek on up to the Barca property. \n\nHe had a pair of denim overalls on and over a white cotton workshirt. In a moment of reason, he'd thrown a coat on as well. In hindsight, he was damn glad he did. Every year brought a cold that crawled up under your skin and wrapped around your bones till you forgot what being warm was like if you weren't good and ready for it.\n\nHis toolbox gently bumped against his thigh with every step as an unnecessary reminder that he was on the job.\n\nThe Barcas were local, according to what Uncle Eddie used to say. Richer than most folks and not so generous with it. Eddie said that Aunt Rosie brought them a few caseroles when the old Barca patriarch died. It was the Christian, neighborly thing to do, of course. Aunt Rosie was the closest thing these hills had seen to a saint, if his uncle was to be believed.\n\nHe rounded the last bend in the dirt road leading to the Barca property. Liam took a moment to marvel at one of the few two-storied buildings in the holler before approaching."
},
{
"author": "V.E. BARCA.",
"message": "Anyone could tell you that Valerian Barca was not an easy man to get along with. He was overprotective, frugal, bitter, and selfish - all of these spurned from some primal association with power and survival, of course, but that was irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. If this was the case, why not offer kindness to your companions? Why sell your soul to the wretched and predatory company that has taken livelihoods, family members away? Valerian didn't have an answer, but it was in moments like these that perhaps he wished he had been kinder - so that others could have been kinder to him.\n\nIt isn't beneath him, however, to ask for help - especially with all of the ways that his siblings have been complaining about the cold. As his back had grown tighter sleeping on the couch in his living room, the spirits of his still fucking haunted house (and it is, he doesn't care what the people at the tabernacle might think - whatever is going on in his house is of the devil. He supposes he might deserve it.) terrorize him.\n\nAll that to say, Valerian Barca hasn't been getting much sleep. The effects of his appearance with the Anti-Werewolf Coalition - of which, was he now a member? God only knows. - have darkened once-bright eyes, hollowed handsome cheeks. It, and the nightmares of Oswald Katz's death are enough to push him to post on the board. And Liam Whitaker, Valerian thinks, is a gift sent from God. Because, frankly, with all that has been said and done over the last few weeks, and the growing threat of another full moon...\n\nValerian will still stand here with what is left of his family name. His siblings, however, will not. He won't let them die in the same way that so many in this town have. (A letter to S&C demanding a meeting with a company representative higher than his station sits, half-penned.) \n\nWhen Liam arrives, Valerian sees him coming through the window, and meets him at the door halfway. A tired smile meets his features, yet here he is - pristined and polished in his nice grey suit. (Didn't Hazel do such a phenomenal job?) \"Mr. Whitaker,\" He greets him, a hand extended. The damage to the front of the house *Is* Evident. \"Thank you for accepting on such short notice. As you can see, I'm asking... Ah... Quite a bit.\""
},
{
"author": "Liam N. Whitaker",
"message": "Liam Whitaker only paused a moment at the sight of a slick suit that had the man sticking out like a nail waiting for the hammer to fall. Men in suits usually meant the coal companies - usually the company settling up with whatever poor family wouldn't be having their son or daddy home for dinner ever again. Coal had brought more money than most had ever seen into these hollers, but only a fool would call it honest work. That money was soaked through with blood and misery.\n\nLiam reckoned Old Scratch wore a suit like Mr. Barca's.\n\nRegardless of the devil's preferred dress, the Good Book said do unto others. Well, Liam didn't think Mr. Barca would ever patch a hole in his house but he'd seen stranger things. Even a rich man didn't deserve to freeze to death - his parents raised him better than that. Besides, the suit was the only thing polished about the man.\n\nThe Carpenter touched the brim of his hat. \"Mr. Barca,\" He greeted as he neared the house. \"How've you been? How's the family farin'?\" Liam adjusted his grip on the plain steel toolbox and offered Barca a friendly smile. He grasped the man's hand and shook it twice. The carpenter's hand was like a leather glove despite his youth.\n\n\"Well, you seemed ruffled. Besides, wouldn't be neighborly to just leave you in the cold.\" He shrugged with a small laugh. \"I gotta take a look an' get an idea of what needs to be done. Try and get this done for you 'fore the weather turns sour on us.\" He thumbed his nose, looking around for where he'd be working. \"Now you mentioned it was a hole in the house or somethin'?\""
},
{
"author": "V.E. BARCA.",
"message": "People like Liam Whitaker were, to Valerian, such a common thing. His own father had never been a tradesman in such a way, but he's sure that his grandfather or his grandfather before him had to have been. Hardworking men made nothing but money and fine reputations for themselves - especially in little holes like Briar Ridge. In some way, having Mr. Whitaker in his home flooded it with nostalgia, but Valerian would never speak of such a thing.\n\n\"My siblings are as well as they could be,\" He answers politely, chuckling, \"If you account for a total of three half-finished paintings and the fact that my sister's hobby of the month is *Opera.*\" When he smiles, his deep-set smile lines press into pale flesh, the corners of his eyes crinkling like a man who was older than the body that had been put in front of him. It is a practiced song-and-dance, polite small talk done often in boardroom happenings and around the corners. Too often would he lean on the desks of the secretary girls and ask about their days or their husbands, and he'd be sure to compliment the partners on the way out the door. The devil wore a suit and tie. Still — there's something like wearing an old leather jacket that comes with shaking Liam's hand, that comes with listening to him speak. Gentle is the accent that comes from his lips, the same one hidden behind Valerian's well-educated, polished smile, as if he is ashamed of this place, even living within its borders again.\n\nHe pulls back the tarp in the front of the house to reveal the majority of the damage - where the wolf had come barreling through, where Oswald had bled all over the carpet... He sighs again, recounting the scream and the tear of sinew from flesh and bone. How shameful he had been then, unable to do more than fire a grazing shot at him. His lips turn up into a wicked little smile for a brief second, though, recounting how after the next moon, the silver had made werewolf flesh singe and burn.\n\nNever again would Valerian Barca have a fool made out of him in his own goddamn home.\n\nSplintered wood and broken glass left the front of the Barca estate in a state of disarray, and had it not been for the expert masonry that came before, the front of the house easily would have come down around it. There's a defined line where the wood would need to be repaired, the house boarded and the wall stained. No matter - if there was a task Mr. Whitaker couldn't do, he could hire someone else. Money talks.\n\n\"One of those damnable creatures killed a man in my home, Mr. Whitaker,\" He gestures to the catastrophic damage, \"I must have this at least fortified before the next moon. My brother is in a wheelchair, and not many homes are equipped to protect him as well as mine.\""
},
{
"author": "Liam N. Whitaker",
"message": "Liam sniffed as the man discussed his siblings hobbies, going over the Carpenter's head. The hell was opera, anyhow? Hardly seemed like useful hobbies to him, but it wasn't his business. The Barcas were a queer sort, managing to walk the line between the familiar and the alien.\n\n\"Sounds like they keep busy,\" He responded, lacking any real knowledge on painting and the like. He was an expert with the awl, the plane, and the saw, as well as the matters of the land. \"Glad to hear they're hale an' whole.\" He didn't see them at church too often. You had to wonder about such things.\n\nMr. Barca pulled the tarp like a magician showing off the fact he made a whole damn wall disappear. Liam emitted a low whistle as he set his toolbox down. \"Well, shit. Weren't kiddin' 'bout that hole,\" He muttered. He took a knee to retrieve his tape measure and a pad of paper. His eyes flicked over to the splintered boards at the base of the wall. He duck walked over to the wall and began taking measurements. Each movement had a well-practiced air to it. Liam had been measuring boards for his uncle since he was 13, after all.\n\nThere were a host of creatures in the hills. Boohags and haints, ghost lights and stranger beasts still. It was why he kept a silver mirror near the door and a broom over the entrance. The fact folk died to them along with regular things didn't bother Liam too much. Meeting death out here wasn't exactly an uncommon occurrence. \"I'll get it squared,\" He assured."
},
{
"author": "V.E. BARCA.",
"message": "\"God bless,\" Valerian said, a hand on his heart. Too often was it that there were complications, but Liam's willingness to at least *Try* Was more than Valerian was expecting of him. It's probably off-color for him to expect so little of those who might want to enter his home, but he's found that it's easier to put himself at the bottom of the barrel and expect very little so that he might be pleasantly surprised than to keep his hopes up and then fall shorts on his wants and needs. It seems to have worked in his favor this time, but he's not so sure that it'll happen again.\n\n\"By way of materials, I'll fund the cost outright - please just make a list of the things you might need and where I can obtain them, and I'll have them delivered to the house.\" Valerian seems to change here; his shoulders are loosened, his body relaxed. He still wears his suit like a suit of armor, as if it is set up to protect him rather than make him look nice, but any formalities he may have had before are suspended in favor of polite professionalism. He is, of course, a southern gentleman tried and true. \"As for labor... What do you think you'll charge per day to get this done, and what sort of timeline are you foreseeing for this project? I know it's *Quite* The mess, frankly.\"\n\nTo be honest, Valerian wouldn't be comfortable with any timeline that Liam set, given the race against the full moon. Still, anything that could be done before the glow of the unbitten sky hung overhead would be a blessing. He prayed and prayed, silently, that the werewolves wouldn't target *His home* This month - but perhaps, oh, just perhaps they might so that they do not attack wherever he may send Olivia and Florian for their safety. Worry flashes over his face like lightning, but he shakes it off somewhat quickly as he prepares his financials in a neat book on the table on the other side of the room, happy to make room in the monthly budget for Liam's costs and needs."
},
{
"author": "Liam N. Whitaker",
"message": "Liam shrugged at Mr. Barca's outright gratitude. \"It's my livelihood,\" He reminded him. Besides, his mammy had raised him to be a good neighbor.\n\n\"I reckon maybe two quarters an hour's fair.\" He'd heard carpenters up in Richmond made double that, so it felt fair enough in a sleepy little town like Briar's Ridge. \"I got most of what's needed, materials-wise. I like to stock up and treat it 'fore the cold weather makes it hard. Doesn't look like any of the load bearin' walls're damaged so you can put that in yer prayers tonight,\" He said with a soft chuckle. \"I'm figurin' on usin' oak. Sturdy enough for the weather an' the like. I'm afraid replacing the glass in the window is beyond my capabilities at the time being, but I can fix up some solid shutters for you. I'll have to go see about gettin' more nails made. I'll keep track'a the number of boards and I can invoice you in the spring when I get more, if that satisfies.\"\n\n\"I got Mr. Olander's roof to patch but that won't take more'n a day, then we'll start in on this after the Sabbath if that's quite alright with you, Mr. Barca?\" The carpenter finished off his measurements and reviewed them one last time. They were neatly organized, although his handwriting left a lot to be desired. It was a near indescipherable chicken scratch, mostly numbers than anything else."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "He is so pleasantly refreshed at the sound of a man who knows how to do some semblance of business. He begins to estimate and budget some numbers in his book, nodding. \"An invoice would be perfect, thank you. Whatever you need, add it to the bill - money isn't an issue when it comes to the state of my house. My father's father built this home, you see, and my father added onto it. I don't quite have the skills he would, so I trust you to put it back together for me. Now, about the glass - is that out of your skillset completely, or is that something that could be done, perhaps, when the weather gets warmer?\"\n\nHe looks up from his book, and in a strange way, he also looks... Human. With a smile, he's curious as to Liam's current capabilities, yet doesn't press out of fear of wounding his pride. The last thing he's interested in doing is irritating the man who is supposed to be securing the structural integrity of his house. And Valerian, unfortunately, has a little habit of pissing people off just by existing.\n\n\"After the Sabbath is fine with me. It's unrealistic to expect this done before the full moon, but whatever we can get done before then will be pleasantly appreciated. I don't host too many guests, these days, so I'm not very worried about the mess, so long as there is a clean space from the front door to the hallway at all times. My little brother is in need of a wheelchair, you see, and so I have to ensure that he's able to get around his own home. My sister will likely be in and out as well, but you can pay her no mind. She's a social butterfly, so she'll never be in your way except to offer you a sandwich or two.\""
},
{
"author": "Liam N. Whitaker",
"message": "Liam clicked his tongue, looking at where he'd imagine the window to have once sat. \"Well, I can see what I might kick up but it'd be a spell 'fore you'd see it. Hence the shutter an' all. It's the sorta thing you jus' gotta order outta the holler an' the snow's comin' soon, mark my word.\" He was pretty sure he had a cousin who worked for Louie Glass, so he might be able to order on the cheap there.\n\nMr. Whitaker stood, steady as an oak. Despite his youth, there was a confidence in the way he conducted his measuring. He'd been a carpenter in some way or another for the past twelve years of his life. Mr. Barca could stick to his numbers and Liam'd stick to the mysteries of woodworking.\n\nHe nodded in agreement. \"When I'm doing the inside paneling and insulation, there might be some clutter just as a fair warning.\" There wasn't much he could do about that but he'd see what could be done to mitigate it. Tidiness was right there next to godliness, after all. \"I'll be sure to stay out of their way,\" He assured."
}
] | 366 | 3,490 |
656.066667 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "Winter is deathly silent when there's snow on the ground. The only sounds to narrate Hazel's journey are those of her huffed-out breaths and the crunch of frost beneath her boots. It's a horribly dreary day, and rather unseasonable in the context of the reason she's hauled out here today. Loathe as she is to admit it, though, there is some small comfort in how few people are out today. Briar Ridge is, after all, woefully small. \n\nShe's heading out from her little row of commercial buildings and making her way north. In truth, Hazel doesn't really know which house is the Barcas'. It strikes her that Valerian's car may not be there as a visual cue. *He* Might not even be there, after all, maybe having been spirited away to the other side of the mountain or something.\n\nNo matter. If he's not there to help her she can figure something out on her own. The events of the last full moon lit a fire under her ass. She cannot help but replay over and over her own inadequacy. A hatpin? It hadn't been a totally stupid idea. Except, yes it had. Sure, she'd managed to find purchase in the beast's muscle, but if no one else had been there to fire a few rounds into it, Hazel might have met the same fate as Oswald Katz did in October. \n\nShe knew why she'd done it, of course, at the time. No one would have questioned a woman for having a nonweapon – a woman's weapon. The desire to *Be* Unassuming had dwarfed the need to merely appear so. Hazel didn't like it. Her lack of control over any aspect of this situation has left her backsliding into a version of herself she'd attempted to leave in Roanoke. Unsuccessful, she's elected to honor it. The girl who'd left Roanoke isn't the same young woman who runs her own business here in Briar Ridge, but in the same breath, she hasn't really changed at all, only gotten better at softening herself. Marginally, anyway.\n_ _\n\nUnder her thick coat she can feel heat generating on her back. It reminds her of the moment that Valerian's gunshot split the air. That sensation hadn't been from a wool coat, though, it'd been a button-down shirt and a pair of arms, the encircling feeling of which she was doing her best not to center in her idle moments. \n\nHazel's face is uncharacteristically clouded when she arrives on the doorstep of the house she *Hopes* Is the right one. She knocks so quietly that she almost wonders if she's trying to give herself an excuse to say that no one is home. Her prepared speech dances on the tip of her tongue, and she prepares herself to force it out – unless, of course, one of Mr. Barca's siblings answers the door, or, God forbid, the nurse he'd mentioned offhand."
},
{
"author": "V.E. BARCA.",
"message": "Had he not been sleeping in the living room, blanket haphazardly thrown over his body in an attempt to catch twenty minutes of sleep as his house and his life and everything falls apart, he may not have heard her knock. But alas - his terrors and his fits and his nightmares have kept him here, a silent watchdog for Liam Whitaker's things as the handyman was slowly piecing back together some of the life that the Barca estate once had. Quiet, he sits forward, wiping the crust from the corners of his mouth and grabbing his glasses.\n\nWhat a mess he has made of himself - in looking at himself in the living room mirror, he sees his faults. He sees his failures. The dark, violet circles under his eyes, the pallid color of his skin. Perhaps this is divine retribution; perhaps every sinner does end up punished in the order of the ferocity of their sin. Was Valerian Barca not a good man? Had he not protected enough people in his selfishness? Why did it matter who he chose to protect and who he didn't?\n\n\"*Just a moment!*\" He calls out, but perhaps Hazel might be able to see him through the window, see the way he smooths down his shirt and collects his jacket and slides it on - how protected he has to be right now, as if to say *Look, I'm fine.* Everything is always fine - it must be, when you are a Barca. When you are *Valerian Barca.* \n\nHe makes his way to the door, now, opening it up - expecting someone from the Anti-Werewolf Coalition, face alighting in shock when it's Hazel in front of him. \"Haz- Miss Calhoun,\" He says, his voice a bit soft, a bit relieved. \"Please, come in - mind the state of the house. Mr. Whitaker is working on it currently.\""
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "It's hard not to peek through the window. Hazel doesn't know what she'd expect to see there anyway – more than likely it's an attempt to see who is answering the door. At this she has to laugh at herself a little. In every avenue, no matter how small, she's wired to find a means of leveraging control. (What an exhausting quirk.) When the door swings open she's relieved to see Valerian himself standing in the threshold rather than someone to whom she might have had to further explain herself. \n\n\"I'm sorry for bargin' in,\" She continues. \"I just didn't know if I'd see you before the full moon, and I... Oh, wow.\" \n\nBefore Hazel can arrive at the reason she's dropped by unannounced, she feels the sudden pricking-up of goosebumps on her arms, the back of her neck. Valerian is tall, and the doorway is dark; the house is darker still behind him, decidedly unwelcoming. There's a familiar fluttering in her gut as her instincts tell her not to enter. She enters anyway when she sees the shadows under his eyes. Empathy softens her face as she takes stock of the state of him, but in the face of the dread the house inspires, that softness mutes itself in favor of something harder and blunter. Under a thick scarf and layers of clothing, the weight of her crucifix is cold against her skin.\n\nHazel knows of the Whitakers only tangentially, but she knows enough to know they are another family on a long list of those who have had holes blown into their family tree courtesy of the Company. How and why Mr. Whitaker has come to find himself in Valerian's employ is a matter of intrigue. Hazel can't keep the mild surprise off of her face in the half-second it takes to register this information. There is a part of her that is grateful to know it, though. That there is at least one other person in Briar Ridge who is treating him with kindness. The guilt associated with that feeling is sticky and unwelcome on the soles of her shoes.\n_ _\n\n\"Well, I came to ask a favor,\" She begins again, \"But lookin' at you now, maybe it's me who should do somethin' for you,\" She thinks aloud, glancing nervously around as though some shadowed hand might reach out from a nearby wardrobe and yank her inside to be devoured. \n\n\"And Hazel's fine, actually. Um, is Mr. Whitaker plannin' on blessin' the place?\" She asks dryly. It's a facetious enough comment, but when she stops to find Valerian again her face is laden with genuine concern. She's aware of it in the sort of way a public speaker might be aware that they were visibly sweating – it's displeasing to know, but try as she might there doesn't seem to be much she can do about the reflex."
},
{
"author": "V.E. BARCA.",
"message": "Valerian knows what he is, what his home has become. He is unsurprised by her reaction, if a bit despondent as a result. Still, she is here - which means is strange bravery hadn't *Quite* Ran her off. What, with the speakeasy and then with the werewolf attack. (He still feels the embers of her body heat against him as he fired that silver bullet into that mutt-like thing. How cold he has been since.) A smile leaves him at that— that he is able to make a mistake and recover from it. He is not just being given a chance, but a second one. Maybe, if he must press his luck, a third.\n\n\"No,\" He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck with a chuckle. His laugh is warm and meaningful, like the embers of the fireplace that he refuses to put out. Like despite the pain, despite the punishment, he is a good man - a man who knows how to laugh and be bashful in the presence of something he considers embarrassing. He is like the other men of high repute in this town; something staining his personage cannot stay for long, else it will chew him up like a spider and spit him back out into a web carefully crafted by a weaver more skilled than he.\n\nHis eyes look now to Hazel.\n\n\"It appears I'll have to put a notice on the board to have my house cleaned *And* Cleansed. Regardless — please. Doing a favor for you gives me welcome company and a good distraction.\" There is a letter on the table; if keen eyes peered at it, it would be revealed to be a strongly worded letter to S&C regarding a demand for a meeting with a company representative, *Vitriol* In the words and in his demand. How shocking it is that such stern lettering comes from a man who looks at her so kindly. Without saying much, he beckons her into the kitchen proper - pours her a cup of coffee, something warm to soothe the soul. Heavens know he's had enough of it already.\n\n\"So,\" He says, sipping his own, black. \"What can I do for you, Hazel?\""
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "She wonders what he's written on the page there, but only for a moment. It's true that there is some comfort in not knowing what's actually on the page. Besides, her literacy is a skill in progress; the day is still far away when Hazel will be able to glance at a page for a half-second and glean everything she needs to know. Valerian is both more interesting and a more intimidating figure on which to train her eyes, but she does it with sheepishness adorning her face.\n\nThere's a twinkle in her eye as he hands her a cup of coffee. A gracious smile blooms on her face for a moment, but melts away into a matter-of-fact expression as the cup pours life back into her fingers – she hates the loss of dexterity that winter gloves cause, and shoves her hands into her pockets when she can help it. \n\n\"I was hopin' you would teach me to shoot,\" She begins, looking a great deal more confident than she sounds. \"I want a gun this time.\" There are a few reasons why she feels so strongly about it, but she's rehearsed this moment several times on the walk over here and come to the conclusion that it's best to let those explanations pop up organically.\n\nHazel is naive, but she's aware to at least some extent that Valerian sees a sweetness in her that she doesn't see in herself. Inevitably he'll see the jagged edge. Hazel's agency is among the most important things in her life. She's had it longer than anything else. To lose it every full moon has been making her feel powerless in a way she can't stand. She loses it again for a moment when she hears the way he says her name. She looks down at his hands on his coffee cup and lingers there, momentarily captivated by the curvature of a knuckle.\n\n\"And I trust you,\" She adds, because it feels like it matters. \"Or I wouldn't have come.\"\n\nThere is some convincing of the self here, mostly because he's a man and she's a woman and Hazel is nothing if not prim and a little stunted. She's doing her best, though."
},
{
"author": "V.E. BARCA.",
"message": "Is it that perhaps he does not already see the jagged edge, see how it forms against his own, as if they are two pieces of a poorly-made puzzle meant to slot against one-another as they are right now? He listens to her as if he is a preacher and the mouthpiece of some God who has long since turned his back on people like Valerian Barca and Hazel Calhoun. He watches her speak, eyes trained on her lips and how they curve around each syllable. Had he been any more tired, he may have been transfixed on the slope of her lips rather than the words he was saying, but he does not. Instead, he listens, nodding. It is well within her right to want a more powerful weapon.\n\n\"I'll teach you,\" He agrees, and perhaps he may have needed some convincing had it been anyone else, but this is Hazel. Hazel, who despite his frustrations and his... *Valerian-ness*, has returned to the Barca estate every time. Hazel, who despite seeming complacent with everything that Briar Ridge has given her, shares a sparkle that exists in his own eye, a drive for something more. He wonders what in particular has pushed her to this point, and yet... He feels like he already knows. *Control.* To be in control of one's own life despite the circumstances, to be practiced and poised and... Authentic. To know that there is some aspect of your creation not puppeteered by another force.\n\n_ _\nHis eyes look back at the letter on the table.\n\n\"I'll be keeping the pistol,\" He says matter of factly. He doesn't know what S&C may have planned for this pistol, and for anything that may come of it, but if there is any foul play, Valerian knows he cannot let Hazel be caught in the crossfire. This is his cross to bear. \"But I have a hunting rifle. My father taught me how to shoot on it. It's quite the nice gun - unless you're fumbling through trying to reload it while someone else is sticking a pair of scissors into a beast's shoulder.\"\n\nA tilt of his head. In another life, he's Briar Ridge's friendly accountant.\n\n\"When would you like to get started?\""
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "She hadn't expected it to be quite so easy. Hazel's surprise registers only in the momentary stilling of her cup as she brings it to her mouth. She'd been almost certain there would be some pushback. She almost wishes there had been, as though selfishly she wanted to be told that she was too *Something* To be taught, something womanly and delicate and gentle. In spite of her ribbon and muslin and penchant for neutrals, she is hardly so delicate as she makes herself out to be. \n\nThen again... She's only come to Valerian because she *Knew* He wouldn't refuse her. And he hasn't. He must know on some level, then, and see that she's tough. It's silly to think otherwise – he has, after all, seen her twice launch herself right at the beast. The first time, he'd replaced her scissors when she'd ruined them. The second time, he'd grabbed her and yanked her out of proximity. She recalls the moment and suddenly it feels a little improper to have come over here by herself. Hazel has no desire to explore whether she has actually flushed or if it's just warm in here under her layers. His question yanks her out of that fluttering feeling – calling it *Dread* Doesn't feel right, but there is the sensation of standing on a precipice. \n\n\"Now,\" She answers quickly. \"If you have the time. I know you weren't expectin' me for another week.\" Hazel wears an apology on her face when she looks up at him. He looks so *Tired.* It doesn't feel quite so brazen to be seen acknowledging this, now that she knows a little more about what he sees in her. Perhaps it isn't quite so humiliating to be seen as she's been anticipating. \n_ _\n\n\"If you're up to it now. I can come back. Just didn't want to leave it much longer,\" She explains, feeling thoroughly embarrassed to have caught him in a state of metaphorical undress, despite not really minding a wrinkle or a shadowed eye. These last few months she doesn't think she's seen a day without either. She knows enough about Valerian, though, to know that this is not the way he would want to present himself to her. As if to acknowledge this, she averts her eyes for a moment."
},
{
"author": "V.E. BARCA.",
"message": "The way that Valerian Barca views Hazel Calhoun is like a kaleidoscope. He knows she is brave and ruthless - she must be to be a Briar Ridge woman, to be everything and nothing whenever she wanted to be. He knows she plays him like a fiddle, works her way into his ribcage like a thorny rosebush and plucks at his heart until he gives her whatever she wants. And yet - oh, and yet, he does not mind the sting. If he bleeds for her, at least he has purpose - at least then, he is finding some semblance of repentance in a graveyard filled with bodies he put there.\n\n\"I always have time for you,\" He tells her, and if she were to search deeper for any semblance of a lie, there would not be one. Loyalty breeds loyalty - and if she can give him clientele, company, good conversation, he can give her the resources she needs to feel safe. That is the duty of a man, isn't it? That's what he's been fighting for all this time? That's what he's betrayed all of Briar Ridge for, isn't it? Safety? \"Come along to the back of the house with me. The rifle is with the car in the shed.\" \n\nA distraction - yes, he thinks he could do with one of those. A tender little thing to nurse an otherwise hemmoraging wound. It will not be like this forever, of this he knows, and yet ... Why does it feel like this will be his state of mind for eternity? He has to just survive the next full moon. Once he does this, he knows he'll be safe. He knows he will have defended himself appropriately from the powers that be. Once that is done, and he knows there is peace, he knows he will be safe. He knows that everything he's bled for over the last few weeks will have meant something.\n\n_ _\n\n\n\"Have you ever fired a gun before, Hazel?\" He asks as they step outside, the aforementioned shed in the distance."
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "Because of who she is, she does search deeper in that statement. It catches her by surprise to hear expressed aloud the idea that her faith in him wouldn't have been ill-placed, even for something so relatively small as a day of shooting lessons. Hazel studies him carefully and with unabashed eyes. She can all but smell his surety. \n\nIt's a funny thing, to find oneself reliant on another person when one has only ever relied on oneself. It is both much tricker and much easier than she might have expected. Valerian is a smooth talker. He is, as it happens, just the sort of man she wouldn't dare trust if she'd met him somewhere else. In the context of this new world, this warped and crumbling limbo, it doesn't really matter whether he has been the devil in anyone's book. To Hazel, for whom tenderness exists almost chiefly in concept, his hand has only ever been gentle and generous. \n\n*'The rifle is with the car in the shed.'* At this Hazel nods, feeling newly assured. Obediently she follows, analyzing the size of the kitchen as they pass through it. *Not too hard to clean,* Her brain chirps on autopilot. Someone she recognizes as *My brother Florian* Says a hello she's not meant to stop and indulge, but Hazel stops for a half a second anyway, mouth set into a tiny *O* Before she continues. The idea that she's been a topic of conversation under this roof is newly flustering, and Hazel is grateful for the wintry air as they step outside. She tugs her scarf looser, and the flush on her neck begins to recede.\n\nIt strikes her that she will not know why he'd been talking about her unless she asks. She won't ask, of course. He tacks her name onto the end of his question and he might as well need to repeat the whole thing.\n\n\"Well. No,\" She begins, \"But it can't be much harder than it looks, can it?\"\n\nIt probably can. Unused to having to practice a skill from the position of a true beginner, she's doing her best to wrestle her pride."
},
{
"author": "V.E. BARCA.",
"message": "\"Not really,\" He laughs, \"At least, once you get past the recoil.\"\n\nHe admires her surety, her pride in picking up a new talent. They are cut from the same cloth, dug from the same earth, despite not knowing one-another before now. Valerian is many things, including a liar, but he does not lie to Hazel as they enter the shed, where Valerian's used-yet-well-maintained Model T sits underneath one of many, many tarps that have become a fixture at the Barca Estate, and the shooting rifle hangs on the wall, accompanied by the ammunition it shoots and a pair of antlers. There is proof, here, that Valerian was a boy once - that perhaps this had been the haven that he and his father took up when the world was all but too loud, long before Valerian's abscond from Briar Ridge turned him into the monster that rivaled the wolves.\n\nThere is proof, here, as Valerian picks up one of the tall benches with ease, bringing it out into the yard and pointing it away from the house, that he was once a young man who, had his father not died, may have ended up one of many blue collar men with callused hands that knew how to gently touch a wife and children at the end of a long day. Perhaps, in some ways, in other lives, Valerian may have worked the same mines he rules over now - but as he turns back to Hazel, and warms his bare hands in adherence to the cold, there is evidence that perhaps Valerian Barca may have ended up a banker, an accountant. Someone that the people of Briar Ridge could trust with their money. Someone who, educated, could stand up and bite back against S&C and anyone else who may encroach on the style of living his home had.\n\nBut these are not those lives. And Valerian Barca, like it or not, is a slave to S&C in exchange for his safety. For his siblings' safety.\n\nHe sets up the cans on boxes, the bench just high enough for it to be good practice for Hazel - if a bit short for himself. Alas, this isn't about him, and there is divinity in selflessness as he returns, claiming the rifle off of the wall. It's a standard practice hunting rifle, but in the wall of the butt of the gun, there is a small metal plate affixed to the side, engraving on it in an uneducated but determined hand: *Happy birthday, Valerian. - Dad\"*\n\n\"This is a Savage 1920 bolt action rifle,\" He says, educated on the topic as he looks it over, \"A very nice hunting rifle, mainly used for hunting deer, but in the right hands, it serves well against the wolves because it can hold multiple bullets before needing to reload.\" Sitting now against the bench, he lays the gun in his lap, beginning to load the bolt-action chamber with .300 Savage ammunition. Nine rounds was all one had before needing the critical time to reload - he would know. He fired several shots into the wolf before needing to reload; that mistake cost them time, a pair of scissors, and Oswald Katz. His current handgun only takes six bullets - but he only needs to fire one shot. \"Every nine times you pull the trigger, you'll need to reload. So make them count.\" \n\nHe rises, gesturing to the several cans-and-crates he's let out, and brings Hazel back a bit, handing her the rifle. \"May I touch you?\" He asks, ever the gentleman. \"To help show you how to hold it, of course.\""
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "*The recoil?* It's a word she's heard used tangentially in relation to guns, only ever in passing. She doesn't know a thing about what it might mean. Valerian can't know this, and so she smiles like she gets the joke. \n\nHazel listens obediently as he explains the gun's mechanics. *Nine bullets. Nine bullets. Nine bullets,* She thinks, committing it to memory and all the while reflecting on the ease with which he recalled the information. *Hazel! Nine bullets.*\n\nShe feels herself still as he places the gun in her hands. It's unexpectedly solid, and heavier than it looks. The wood and metal are cold against the palms of her hands. The knowledge settles into Hazel that a weapon like this rarely allows its wielder to forget what they are holding. Shame flutters in her belly as she notices that she's not uncomfortable with the weapon itself, it's the fact that it's such an intentional choice. Fire is such an easy way to destroy something in that it only takes a moment of ill-timed contact for an entire house to go up in flames. A gun is decisive, exacting. A gun in the wielder's hand is an assumption of intent. Woe become her, it's thrilling.\n\nNow that the gun is hers to hold, Hazel is afraid to take her eyes off of it, like it's going to discharge and splatter her insides across the side of the garage. \n\nHe asks to touch her. The question takes her by surprise; even paired with its fairly innocuous explanation, Hazel is unused to touch. When she doles it out there is significance attached. When she allows it, there is more still. She knows she can put her trust into Valerian Barca because she sees in him the same duality which torments her. Valerian, labeled as ill-intentioned in spite of his honor and written off as selfish in spite of his generosity. Hazel sees these things. Because she does not want to be another person to dismiss his goodness, and because she would want someone to see her own, she nods her consent. \n_ _\n\n\"Uh-huh. Am I holdin' it right?\" She asks, finding suddenly that the barrel of the rifle is infinitely more interesting to look at than anything else."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "With permission now, Valerian leans in to adjust her. His hands are cold against her covered flesh, but not terribly so - this is instead just the gentle touch of someone who naturally runs cool for one reason or another. He pulls her shoulders straight, settling the rifle in her right arm properly. \"Right arm holds the grip,\" He tells her, speaking quietly now that they are closer together. He touches her like she's fragile, like she'll break, if he gets too close. He adjusts her wrist so that the grip doesn't hurt in her hand, and now he turns her elbow out to give it a rest to settle in, \"Elbow out, but not overtly so. When you fire the rifle, you'll get some pushback - recoil - so having the gun here keeps you from dropping it. Or worse, it hurts you. Be sure this is snug.\"\n\nAnd now, he moves behind her, his head next to hers as his arms wrap around her, guiding her to settle in, showing her how to distribute her weight by distributing his own. \"It may be tempting to close one eye to shoot the rifle, but don't - it only will make you miss. Both eyes open, straight ahead, and only put your finger on the trigger when you're ready to fire. I'll stand behind you the first time so that the recoil doesn't knock you off your feet.\"\n\nHe chuckles - being so close, his laugh feels warm, real, like the embers of a fireplace ready to roar with something he's not so sure he can put a name to yet. He smiles, here, and settles in behind her. \"When I was a boy, my father thought it would be funny not to tell me about the recoil. I ended up covered in mud. Stumbled backwards into a creekbank, if you can imagine.\" He doesn't meet her gaze, here, but instead focuses down the cans in front of her. \"I won't let you fall, though. Whenever you're ready, point the tip of the gun towards one of the cans, and pull the trigger. It's easier than you think.\""
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "At seven years old, Hazel entered the workforce and from then on, physical contact was a rarity. When it did happen it was usually brief and unwarranted, or meant to correct. The first gentle touch she could remember (whose face she could remember) was Mr. Bergman, her mentor, whose wrinkled hands were dotted with liver spots and whose most violent act was likely the repeated impalement of his favorite pincushion. The last gentle touch she could remember had come from Mrs. Bigby, who upon meeting Hazel on her first day in Briar Ridge, had patted her hands and wished her very good luck. The elderly, it seemed, had a soft spot for her. Fat lot of good it had done her back then.\n\nIt just isn't something she knows how to approach. Hazel craves touch, in theory. In practice it seems an entirely daunting task, a sentiment which proves correct in the ensuing moments. There's nothing improper whatsoever about the way Valerian touches her. She still feels like she's misstepping, somehow. He moves behind her and she starts to kick herself inwardly. Her brow furrows as she focuses in, hard, on the targets in front of her. In the same awkward moment he's doing the same thing. There's something human about that that leaves her feeling grateful, but the moment passes into mild dread at his story about falling into the mud. \n\n\nShe digs her heels into the ground and braces herself as best she can. She's banking hard on beginner's luck not to send her hurtling backwards, mostly because she has no idea what the strength of this recoil actually is and the idea that she may really be knocked over is genuinely disconcerting. That, and if she *Does* Get yoinked backwards, it's only going to overwhelm her. The embarrassment she knows would follow is just a little too much for her to handle right now, and it's certainly not why she came here today.\n_ _\n\nThe weight of the gun is a cold, steely reminder of why she's come here, and Hazel takes her time lining up her shot. Her first target is a short, stout can, mostly because a square seems easier to hit than a rectangle.\n\nSlowly, her finger hooks its way around the trigger and rests there, feather-light. When she thinks she's got it, she fires. The bullet disappears. Almost immediately it's evident that it's made a home in the bark of the oak tree behind the fence, too far for Hazel's preference but too close for her to grant herself any sympathy. In the same moment, she jerks backwards. The butt of the gun manages to slip just enough out of her grip to bump her diaphragm, hard. It knocks the wind out of her and she gasps. Embarrassed, she sets her mouth into a line. \n\n\"Bullshit.\" It's probably the first time she's sworn in front of him. \"Again. What did I do wrong?\" She asks, squinting straight ahead as though she can will him out of being able to see her."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "She misses - it's to be expected - and yet Valerian smiles empathetically at such a thing. He pulls away, the embers of her body heat warming him better than his winter coat. \"Everyone misses their first time,\" He chuckles, laughing at how taken aback he was by her cursing. Certainly, she's got the aptitude for it, but for some reason to him, it was unexpected. As if sometimes he forgets Hazel is equal parts lady and woman, and the terms can be conflated if he needed them to. \"Don't beat yourself up over it. Now that you're used to the recoil, try it again. Try aiming for a bigger target - one of the taller cans, for example. The bigger the surface area, the easier to hit. You can do it, Hazel.\"\n\nHer name fits so weirdly in his mouth, like he's taken too big of a bite of something and can't swallow it down. He doesn't know what his problem is, or why he feels compelled to tack her name on to the end of the sentences, but perhaps it's like stretching a muscle. Maybe it's working some automatic reflex, like saying *Hazel* Will be as easy as saying *Miss Calhoun,* Or perhaps he's practicing to have it next to other names, to add it to a roster - *Valerian and Hazel and Olivia and Florian.*\n\nHe shakes his head, and he stands a reasonable distance away so as to not fall victim to acrid gunpowder being splattered against his winter coat, but he watches from behind her, staring down one of the taller cans in tandem with her, as if more eyes on the same target will create a higher chance to hit. Unfortunately, the world didn't work that way, and instead, Valerian finds himself in the ghost steps of someone who came before him. *You can do it, Val.* A hand reaches to the back of his neck, as if looking for hair that he had grown out as a teenager and cut off when interviewing for jobs. Finding none of it here, he explores again the idea that someone else exists in this body. He shakes his head.\n\nHe closes his eyes when Hazel pulls the trigger."
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "Hazel could really give less of a shit that everyone misses their first time. *She* Doesn't like to mess up. More specifically, there is a pathway in her brain far too embedded to reroute which is wired not to make mistakes, not to do things wrong. There's a reason why Hazel is neat as a pin, and why she panics when she's in danger of missing a deadline. \n\nYeah, yeah. Bigger is easier. She knows this, of course, but hadn't even considered it until she'd heard it spoken aloud, which is further embarrassing. Hazel's neck flushes red. Her brow furrows into a frown as she stares hard ahead of her.\n\nHer attempt to refocus is temporarily thwarted by the realization that she doesn't mind the circumstances, and then the thought that even though it's only a first name, *Hazel* Is really as close as he can get to the real thing. There is no Miss Calhoun, really. Or there is, but she lives in Chattanooga, probably married to some financier-type. Miss Calhoun has never taken tobacco or scrubbed a floor. She's most *Definitely* Never fired a gun. It's the first time in a long while that the differences between Hazel and Miss Calhoun inspire any feeling in her besides hame. At this moment, she's grateful for her own grit.\n\nThere's a little tinge of embarrassment when she realizes no one is coming back up behind her. Hazel relaxes a little – one new thing at a time is more than enough for now. Christ alive. Why is it so distracting to know she's being watched? She knows, logically, that she's not being judged. When she decided to hold his opinion of her in such high value is as much of a revelation as it is a mystery. Hazel inhales deeply and lets the air sit in her lungs for a good few moments before she exhales in a *Whoosh,* Ice crystals streaming out in front of her.\n_ _\n\nWhen the fog of her breath clears away, she lines up her shot. She takes a hearty moment to make sure she feels good about it. *Don't shut your eyes. Don't shut your eyes.* She's pinned the remainder of her confidence on this shot – \n\n*Bang!*\n\n– And it lands. There's a high, metallic *Zwing!* Noise as the bullet pierces the empty can and it goes flying somewhere. Hazel's not looking where. There's a thrill in hitting her target that she's never experienced before, and when she turns around to look at Valerian, she's grinning like a madman. \n\n\"Va-*Ler*-ian,\" She whispers, eyes wide. \"Oh, this is *Fun.*\""
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "When Valerian was younger, he had been a bit of a bookworm; that much was evident from the way he carried himself. His hands were callused from housework and yardwork and all of the little things he had broken over the years, but the rough skin at the tips of his fingers was due to the many papercuts obtained from turning page after page - history, of course, had been his favorite subject, as it had been with many young men like him. In his studies, he had learned of the Opium Wars — and he laughed and he laughed over such a thing, taunting the losing party, curious as to how anyone would give up their livelihoods for something that got them *High.*\n\nBut, God, if he didn't understand now, with the way Hazel Calhoun says his name. Valerian. Va-*Ler*-ian. Va-le-ri-an. It's as if she took every syllable and wrapped it in a neat bow, nice and tight with skiled tailor's hands. His eyes scan her face in the instance she looks at him, and his own smile blooms to match her own. Enraptured in this moment by her eyes, her smile - (*Saymynameagainsaymynameagainsaymynameagain-*) he can't help but chuckle, enthusiastic, and return to be behind her, warm hands squeezing her shoulders encouragingly.\n\n_ _\n\"Attagirl,\" He tells her, pleased, his own smile blooming into mania as he is swept away by the beauty of her face, the harmony of her voice. He keeps it together quite well, despite the overabundance of something disgustingly saccharine in his stomach. He swallows it down, maintaining a cool excitement - he remembers asking her to dinner. Coming on too strong. He can't make that mistake again; Hazel Calhoun must trust him. He's distracted, however, by something reaching up into his ribcage, tightening around hollow bones... What, dare he ask, is this feeling? *Pride?* In another person?\n\nNo - it was more than that. Pride in a woman, an ambitious woman, a woman who knows what she wants and will stop at nothing to get it. *Pride* In a *Friend,* Someone he trusts and cares about - pride in someone that he so desperately wants to be closer to, wants to celebrate all of the achievements of. *Pride,* *Pride!* He can't bring himself to let go of her, just yet, that warm squeeze sustained like a *Fermata.* \"Now, go get that can that showed you up before.\" He lets go of her, the unwilling conductor. \"You can do it.\""
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "*Boy,* Is it pathetic how easily Hazel melts at praise. She preens every time, regardless of its source; even coming from Kinsley King at their very first meeting, she'd been inspired to offer the ink-covered woman a discount, in no small part thanks to the woman's doling out of flattery. When Valerian does it there's something genuinely arresting about it. She's grateful for having been out in the cold; the wintry air ruddies her skin enough to keep her from total humiliation. \n\n\n\nHazel relocates her nemesis, the can who betrays her imperfection. It's shorter and squatter and decidedly harder to hit, but it's personal now. Before she fires, though, she takes her eyes off of the can, glances back in her periphery at Valerian.\n\n\n\nRather than wait for an answer, she sets her sights back on her can and tries her best to replicate the feeling she had last time. She's mostly successful – when the gun goes off the can certainly flies off of the fence, but the bullet has only just grazed the top rim and the can spirals through the air at an absurd speed before it lands in the snow. It's a victory she'll take. \n_ _\n\n\"Suppose that's not bad,\" She admits begrudgingly. \"Real target's a helluva lot bigger.\" Without waiting, she aims again at the next can on the fence, just to the right. When it falls, she can tell it's another lucky hit; the hole, visible from here, is decidedly on the lefthand side of the cylinder. *You did fine. You did good,* She tells herself. *You hit it. That's all you were supposed to do. You've never done this before.* It's less fun now that she has an eye for her mistakes."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "*Where did you get those bullets?*\n\nValerian has a moment of pause, and he has to make a choice. He can either lie to Hazel, and the foundation of their relationship can be built on a lie, or he can tell her the truth and pray, *Pray* To a God he barely believed in that she wouldn't put him on the stake to burn. He watches her shoot the can; he does not flinch. This time, both eyes are open, hiding behind his glasses, and he smiles, nodding approvingly at the display. It doesn't matter that it was a lucky shot from an inexperienced shooter - a win is a win, no matter the cost. *A win is a win,* He reminds himself, *No matter the cost.*\n\nHis hands burn black with coal dust. \n\n\"Exactly,\" He says, obvious in the way he is intending to delay the conversation even further by praising her. That's what she wants, isn't it? To be praised, rightfully so, for all the things she can do? Valerian reads her like an open book in the way he reads himself staring at the mirror. He wants to be praised, to be known, to be in power, in control. The Barcas aren't just people - they're legends in the making, and if Valerian just works a bit harder, fights a bit stronger, screams a bit louder, he will not be without himself or anyone else. (He hopes Hazel comes with him in his ascent.) \"Besides, these are your first shots with a weapon, ever. If this is the baseline, you'll only get better. Which would be appreciated and welcomed, given the fact that the pack seems to have a penchant for puttin' themselves through my front door.\" \n\nAnother crack in the armor - in the syllables that follow, Valerian's accent slips out, and he burns slightly red at it. Hiding this accent has taken years of training, unintentionally or otherwise, and to have it just *On display* In front of Hazel embarrasses him. It seems they've both had their moment of weakness today, if only borne of frustration or fatigue. \n\nHe takes a breath in; he seems to fail to let it out. \"Hazel, can you keep a secret?\""
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "Hazel doesn't know what to do with the gun, and so just bears its weight awkwardly, a house cat who didn't really intend to catch the mouse in its jaws but got too caught up in the chase. She turns around like that and there's something missing from her face when she turns around. She doesn't like way he says *Exactly.* Valerian is a terrific charm, in part because it's in his job description, but they've spoken enough now that she can smell the syrup on his words when he applies it versus when he doesn't. She puts a pin in that and watches him with an unabashedly intense expression. Recalling their chance meeting at the speakeasy, she remembers that when he wants to get to the point, Valerian is entirely capable. \n\nShe's already bracing herself for whatever he's going to say when, as is his nature, he disarms her without meaning to do it. She's indulging in the honey-slow sound of his vowels in the same moment that he suddenly blushes – faintly, but he blushes – and of its own accord her mouth opens in surprise, the corners quirking up almost imperceptibly in an expression of astonished amusement. It's gentle and brief; she regains control of her face, nevermind the nervous butterflies in her stomach.\n\nCan she keep a secret? Of course she can; she's a vise with information. It's not a matter of whether she *Can* Keep a secret, it's whether she *Will:* Hazel is as trustworthy as they come, and she trusts Valerian in kind, but there's still that nagging thought at the back of her mind. He's a coalman, after all, and not the kind who works for the mines. The same gut instinct which has likely saved her life countless times under other circumstances works now to keep her from learning something she's not sure she wants to know.\n\nShe doesn't stop to think about why she's willing to burden herself with that knowledge, or why the decision takes so little time to make. She only nods. \n_ _\n\n\"I can,\" She says, slowly, evenly. Dread pricks at the soles of her feet and oozes up onto her calves."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "He trusts her; he takes the plunge. \n\nHis body hurts in all the worst ways when he composes himself, as if he is but a child retreating behind the long legs of his father, but this time he has no spine to hide behind. He closes his eyes and sighs, shaking his head as if he's disappointed in himself - but not for telling her, no, not for telling her. Perhaps in some way he's trying to protect her from the skeletons that S&C has in his closet and how quickly they are to put them there. Perhaps there is silence like a hangman's noose; perhaps there is silence like a cemetery road. Either way, Valerian Barca exposes himself and his sin to Hazel Calhoun, and it feels, in some way, like confessional.\n\n\"My... Employer sent me that weapon,\" He says, earnestly, \"I don't know how they know about the happenings of this town - I didn't tell them, and I don't believe my predecessors would have, either. I don't know why they sent it now, instead of telling me what my home had become. I don't know... I don't know whether or not I should trust them at present. I've penned a letter demanding an in-person explanation... And I can't bring myself to send it just yet. Every time I turn around, I feel like I need to write a new draft, and none of them feel right.\"\n\n_ _\nEvery draft he has written is too poised, too polished, too bootlicking, as if Valerian Barca, who can go before the people he knew and loved once and say *I am the devil now* Is afraid of angering the beast that signs his checks. Regardless, he moves his lips in a way that makes it look like he's taken a single chew, as if trying to get a bad taste out of his mouth, and he pockets his hands. In time, he will come to find his final draft is angry, and passionate, and in defense of his friends and family - but there is so much about himself that he's yet to come to terms with. It will unlock, in time, but for now, it sits with that little boy who shot the gun Hazel was holding twenty years ago.\n\nGently, he takes the rifle from her - not pulling, but guiding it out of her hand and into his. He sets it onto his shoulder with practiced precision, and in a matter of moments, he is back in his house, fumbling through reloading the lever-action cartridge, while Hazel jabs her scissors into a beast's shoulder. A beast that killed a man on his property.\n\nWhy does Oswald Katz's death affect him so?\n\nSilent, he pulls the trigger. The bullet just barely misses. He sets the rifle down."
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "For a moment, pain pulls taut the muscles in his face. Hazel doesn't know what it is exactly that's changed between the two of them over the last handful of weeks, but it's certainly occupied her mind as much as the pages of her diary. It has taken her some time to really understand that the side of Valerian to which she's typically exposed is decidedly gentler and more genuine than the face he presents to the rest of the world. With this in mind, she knows she's right to feel dread.\n\nShe realizes that she all but knows what he's going to say before he says it, but to have verbal confirmation is a little like the moments after receiving a less-than-optimal medical prognosis. He keeps talking and, equal parts intrigued and incredulous, Hazel gleans every detail. *'I don't know whether or not I should trust them,* He says, and it takes the lion's share of her willpower not to interrupt him to tell him no. His hands are in his pockets. He looks small – she wants to reach out but her hands are full.\n\nAll of a sudden Hazel is making a heavy decision, the weight of which inspires a wave of nausea. On an empty stomach there's no real danger here, but Hazel still feels like she might topple if she speaks too quickly. As if he can see this, Valerian moves to unburden her of the gun. Hazel's own hands come together almost immediately, clasped tightly with her fingers interlocked.\n\nDespite expecting the sound of gunfire as he shoots, Hazel still jumps a little. Were she not watching his face, she might have seen his finger squeeze the trigger.\n\n\"They know about the wolves, they know how to *Hurt* Them, and they *Still* Sent you here,\" Hazel repeats, adopting an expression of bemused urgency. \"And you don't know if you can trust 'em? You *Know* You can't.\" \n_ _\n\nShe doesn't mean to get so frustrated. She wants to protect him, something she learns for the first time as she thinks it. It gives her pause, an awkward punctuation where she didn't want one. Hazel is the less educated of the two of them, and less eloquent with her words. It's been a source of insecurity since their first meeting. \n\nShe had a boss once that she thought she could trust. If she could have, she would never have had to haul it up these hills and into this holler anyway. That's the tip of the iceberg, really, but there is no room in her mind or her heart to talk about Roanoke today. To her surprise, the sole focus of her concern has a gun on his shoulder and sleep-mussed hair. She notices only as he places the gun down that he's missed his shot; she was watching his jawline. The realization colors her cheeks. She can't help it; there is some distance in his eyes, there, but it's gone the next moment.\n\nWhen it's safe, the gun decidedly *Away* From him, Hazel wants to reach out and lay a hand on his shoulder. She doesn't quite know how to do it without looking ungainly or awkward. The gesture seems important: Valerian, whose father taught him to do this probably twenty-odd years ago, has missed his shot. It's not lost on Hazel that he must be more off-kilter than even she can see.\n\nShe takes a few tentative steps forward. \n\n\"I shouldn't've come this morning,\" She begins, voice gentle and from a place she doesn't recognize. \"I should've asked. You're so tired.\" The sigh Hazel lets out is a soft one, but it betrays her worry nonetheless. \n\n\"Can we take a break and go inside?\" She asks, in a tone which suggests that she's not really asking on her own behalf. Hazel reaches out with one arm; halfway through the gesture, she gets nervous and pulls away. Her fingers graze the edge of his coat sleeve and snag the material there for a half-second."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "In his failures, he pushes her away - makes her feel like she is a burden, a problem. But she isn't, no - he can handle it, anything he asks of her. He's not sure why, perhaps compelled by the first ounce of kindness he's received in three years, or perhaps the ambition in the corners of his lips that are attuned to her own - when she succeeds, he succeeds. He knows it is not the other way around, for his success comes at the cost of others, other's lives, livelihoods, families, and deaths. His mind drifts to Charlie Cooper, here - who once was a good friend, now an enemy, the line between them drawn in Charlie's flesh in coal dust.\n\n\"No,\" He whispers, shaking his head, \"Please. I'm... Glad you came. It's nice to have company that isn't either of my siblings. Your presence here, invited or otherwise, is always welcomed.\" He can't let her distance herself from him, not like this, but he's not so frail as to miss the worry in her voice. She... Worries for him? That's new - hidden behind her perfectionism and practiced procedures. He worries for her, too- perhaps that's why he held her to his chest and cupped the back of her head, so that she didn't have to see the gore as he shot the wolf with the silver bullet. So that she didn't have to be haunted by the smell of burning flesh as he did.\n\n_ _\nShe says something, but he's too transfixed on the idea that she might touch him, too (out of choice rather than her profession), to listen to her words instead of only hearing them. He watches her, enraptured like one might look at a painting at a museum in Richmond, and when she only gently graces him with a wisp of her presence, he smiles. It's enough for him - for now. He's a hungry beast, reminiscent of the wolves in his own way, and Hazel Calhoun, against her will, is the lamb that sits in his maw. He wonders, in some selfish way, if she put herself there on purpose, or if she refuses to wiggle out because she cares for him.\n\n\"Good idea,\" He tells her, and he nods, stepping briefly away to put the gun away, a mental note to clean it later so it was anything other than accurate for Hazel on the night of the full moon. \"It's around lunchtime, if you'd like something to eat. We have the fixin's - \" (There it is again. He doesn't seem to burn as red here, her touch cracking the walls he's putting up.) \" - for sandwiches, or I could put together a soup. If you're hungry, I mean.\""
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "As her arm falls, Hazel dares to catch Valerian's eye, hoping to find some further truths etched there. What she finds instead is something as gentle as it is urgent, as apprehensive as it is affectionate. To anyone watching, it's probably obvious, but to someone who's never seen that sort of adoration on anyone's face, it's another on a long list of confusing instances.\n\nIt isn't easy for Hazel to be selfless. Shortly after arriving in Briar Ridge, she came to the realization that had she had another, softer life, she might have been quite the generous person. And she is, still, in little ways – but all that which she's unlearned has come back to rear its ugly head in the months since the attacks have begun. When Hazel lacks security, lacks *Peace,* She defaults to self-preservation. To dole out acts of selfless kindness starts to feel like an unnecessary risk. There are very few people for whom she might still do it. \n\nAlright, maybe just the one. She isn't sure what it is about Valerian Barca that inspires empathy. Perhaps it's tucked away in those little moments wherein the coal dust clears and the man peeks through, or perhaps it's the way he seems to see more of her personhood than she has the energy to explain. Hazel is getting tired again and when she gets tired, she fends for herself, but at some point, she has decided without realizing it that she cannot abandon Valerian. \n_ _\n\nHe wouldn't do it to her. She knows that, too. He is like her, ambitious and shrewd and a quick study of people. His willingness to achieve the ends regardless of the means is reflected in the gleam of his spectacles, the taut stitching and fresh fabric of his suit and his coat. In spite of all of it, he's chosen to protect her. She's never entrusted that job to anyone before. She wouldn't have, if he hadn't taken it upon himself, held her tight, snatched her back out of the way. He sees her strength but does not expect it from her. He sees her fragility but does not reduce her to it.\n\nTo be seen is a frightening thing and terribly new. \n\n*'I could put together a soup.'* He can cook? \n\nThe truth is, the living area above Hazel's shop has a sorry excuse for a kitchen. The stove is small and sparingly used. She eats a lot of easily prepared, easily preserved things – breads and cheeses and miscellaneous apple dishes – and patronizes the diner when she can. The idea of a real, substantial lunch sounds great, but also like something a little mountainous. \n\n\"You're probably hungry,\" She comments boldly. \"Since you were lyin' down when I came up.\" She knows he isn't upset about that. She knows that he's being genuine when he says her presence is welcomed. It's just the first time she's heard that from anyone other than the elderly man who taught her to hem a skirt. It carries different weight – she's not so naive as to miss this – but it's not a weight that *She* Has ever carried before. Ungainly, awkward and suddenly a little too aware of her circumstances, she struggles to find her next words. \n\nSoup takes time. How will they occupy it? Is he suggesting that he doesn't mind how long she stays? \n_ _\n\nIt seems there's an opportunity here for another one of her litmus tests. Without other experiences to interpolate here, she relies on what she can learn from basic deduction.\n\n\"I can help you with the soup,\" She continues, tentative, visibly shy and also visibly indignant about it."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "He's never been a fisherman, not really, but he knows how to, for the most part. He's aware of the shiny baubles and the delectable treats that go on the end of the hook, and he's aware that some fish still bite even in their absence - he is failing to find the litmus test that she is giving him. He doesn't mind how long she stays; there's room for her to stay the night, but he knows she won't. He's fine with that - her reputation, too, is important to him. He knows what and who she wants to be - a right proper lady, someone who deserves to be far away from this place. Now that he's back, he doesn't know if he wants to leave again, but he would follow her anywhere. She could say to go into the woods with him, and he would, even if she split him open to showcase the raw, shriveled heart he had between his ribcage where she has placed her roots.\n\n\"I'd like that,\" He smiles, earnest, \"I have a bit of vegetables - a nice warm broth would deal with the cold just fine.\" *Stay,* He says without saying it, *Let me protect you.*\n\nThey make their way into the kitchen, and Valerian opens the door for her. By now, Florian is out of the kitchen, scooting away to find some sort of muse somewhere, and Valerian is grateful. He doesn't have to mask in front of his brother tonight - the coal dust settles on his shoulders, shrouding the man only about halfway.\n\n_ _\nHe retrieves the vegetables, the stock - setting them down on the counter, he prepares the cutting board, the knife, giving her her space at his de facto battle station. He washes his hands with soap and water, brought in from the well by Olivia this morning, and sighs, rolling the sleeves of his dress shirt to his elbows.\n\n\"...I don't know if I *Should* Trust them.\" He says, beginning to put wood in the stove, grabbing the flint and tinder from above it. When he stands, he selfishly stands in front of the stove for a bit, warming his hands and legs to combat the cold. A pause, and then he sighs. \"I dodged your question earlier. I don't know if I *Should* Trust them, but I have thrown everything I have loved away for this. It's the highest paying job I'll have, and I have family to care for. This... Glamorous lifestyle, sure, it's quite nice, but I don't think anyone truly understands what it's like to sin for survival. All they know is the coal man - and *No,* I'm not a good person. I spit on my father's grave when I took this job, I abandoned my siblings for rapport, and I work as an overseer for men who risk their lives, and die, so that I might line my pockets.\"\n\n_ _\nFor all intents and purposes, Valerian Barca is the Lucifer of this town - having enjoyed a life in ignorant bliss, unaware of the evil that hurt his father, that slaughtered his peers, that kept him away from the deep, dark coal mines that howled into the night sky. (He keeps feeling compelled to go down there, to be the aforementioned canary, to *See* If there is something down there that would take all of this away. So that he could survive.) He is *Satanas,* Fallen from grace, landed, burning like lit coals onto the Richmond populace, now returning to the place where it all began - and for what? *Atonement?* Or because Briar Ridge was easy to manipulate, with the impoverished and uneducated?\n\nA shake of his head. He goes to grab the dutch oven, setting it on the top of the stove. \"I don't regret any moment of it,\" He replies, adjusting his glasses. \"And if I had to, I would do it all over again. But this... Betrayal? It doesn't seem too right a word, *Betrayal.* From my peers and supervisors... I don't know. I have this sick feeling in my stomach that they're *Involved,* Somehow. That my house has been destroyed, that people have died, and at the root of it is my employer. Is *Me.*\"\n\nHe looks at his warbled reflection in the soup stock he's filled the iron pot with. \"I'm a lot of things. But not someone who could stand by and let someone get away with this plague on our town.\""
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "This is where shared experience ends and empathy begins: in the exposure of motivations. Hazel is shrewd, and the art of balancing keen listening with busywork is like flexing an old muscle. \n\n*'I have thrown everything I have loved away for this,'* He says, and the line is drawn. Hazel has never loved anything enough for it to really hurt when she lost it. She is contemplating what this kind of sacrifice might feel like when he says, *'I don't think anyone truly understands what it's like to sin for survival,'* And in spite of herself, she exhales sharply through her nose. Of course she knows what it's like. She cannot fault him for not knowing something she'd be insane to bring up in casual conversation. But Hazel never intended to have blood on her hands. The more she gets to know the man, the more visible his stains become; they are deeper and more permanent than even coal dust, and Hazel isn't sure she bears those stains herself. \n\nShe's ambitious, sure, but not like that. It's probably because she's not a local that Hazel has only recently come to understand the impact of S&C on Briar Ridge. By now, she's sold too many burial suits for boys no more than sixteen – when there was enough of them left to bury. Maybe it's because she doesn't have her family anymore (she has *A* Family, about this she is adamant), but she cannot imagine the volume of that sacrifice. Even moreso, she cannot imagine having all of that blood on her hands and still being willing to do it again. It's enough to still her hand and get her to look at him, really look. She has the good sense to still her face while she watches him, in spite of the way something in her stomach has twisted and not for the better.\n\nShe's silent for a long time. Eventually, she starts to shake her head.\n_ _\n\n\"I don't know, Valerian,\" She says finally. \"I don't know how you can stand there'n act surprised when the evil people you work for turn out to be evil. I mean – did you think you were the exception?\" She asks, at once incredulous and very sad. \"Don't you know little people are *Never* Special?\"\n\nIf it sounds meaner than she intended, that's only because she's talking to herself, too. But how could he be so foolish? He has a nicer cage and enjoys delicious perks, but he's chattel all the same. The only difference is that his contract has an end date. This plague on their town? He might as well have tracked it in on his shoes, and to take care of his family, he had done so willingly. Why? What could have made a person feel so strongly that they would take such a job? Betray their entire community? What is stronger, the human's empathy or the animal's survival instinct? \n\nUpon first having heard his words, her first reaction was one of concern. *Disgust* Is a strong word – but then, she's just taken aback. Is it fair, though, to pass judgment on him? When she herself is guilty? Does it matter if a person has taken one life or a hundred? Does intent have any merit here?\n\nIn the next moment she decides that maybe it doesn't matter. Hazel is weary with the weight of her own secrets. She's weary with the weight of so many other things. Without knowing anything about where she's come from or what she has done, Valerian seems to see past what is otherwise a very carefully constructed, lacy veneer of embroidery and innocence. In spite of having no context provided to him, he seems to have caught and recognized in her eyes a glowing ambition, the same one she sees mirrored in his own face.\n_ _\n\nShe'd always thought of the light in her eyes as something reflective – the glint of some faraway planet where she might find respite. Maybe Valerian, made of ash and stained black with coal dust, is the sulfur in the belly of the mine, and maybe this whole time Hazel herself has been pyrite, glittering beneath the earth and waiting all the while to react. Maybe the warmth of the fire they create when they ignite one another is worth the risk involved.\n\nAnd, with so much suffering behind her and more still guaranteed to come, would it be so terrible to have someone with whom she can be... What is the word? Gentle? Vulnerable? Just human, maybe? And in God's eyes, isn't she just as doomed as he is, anyway? Aren't they sinners in equal measure, selfish and ambitious and horribly tender underneath it all?\n\nOf course S&C is involved here. The more he says, the more obvious it becomes, but Hazel has neither the patience nor the eloquence to dwell on that right now; her opinion is already clear, anyway. She's focused on how she wants to approach her next words, tip-toeing over them as she goes.\n\n\"I came up the holler from Roanoke,\" She begins. \"I was a fugitive. I don't know what the laws are for that kinda thing, so maybe I'm still a fugitive. Anyway, I burnt down the house where I was livin', and workin', because... Because I had to. And I didn't know it at the time, but my boss's wife, she was home.\" If this is painful for Hazel to recall, it doesn't manifest on her face, mostly because she's preoccupied with trying to surmount her own anxiety surrounding saying any of this aloud. \n_ _\n\n\"She died, n' that was my fault. But I knew what I was doin' when I did all that. And if I hadn't done it, she'd still be alive, and I'd still be somebody's scullery maid.\" Hazel stops what she's doing. She's kept on her winter coat this entire time, and between thawing in front of the stove and her own charged emotions, she has to pause to remove it; it lays gingerly over the back of the nearest chair.\n\nHazel doesn't commit to things unless they benefit her. It's why she has trouble making friends, and why she's got a natural aptitude for business. She can commit to this, though. If what she gets in return is empathy and understanding, she can give them out in kind. If what she gets in return is a soft place to land, she can provide one, too. He will hear about her dreams for her life, she realizes, because he might be the only person in the world who will care about them. Not today, but he will hear about her dreams.\n\n\"I'm just sayin' I understand,\" She continues. \"About sinning for survival. You're not the only man in the world who's had to do it.\" *So how could I ever pass judgment on you?*\n\nShe softens for him. She has been unconsciously softening for him in a hundred little ways every time he sees through her, but she softens for him here of her own accord because she knows that if she expects the same from him, she must deliver it. \n\n\"We'll come out the other side of this,\" She intones. \"Have you been going to those meetings?\"\n\nShe means the Coalition meetings, of course, but she's only read the word, not heard it spelled aloud; her own awareness about why she refrains from pronouncing it sends a pink tinge over her cheeks and nose."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "*I AM THE EXCEPTION!* He wants to scream at her, just as he has screamed at himself in the mirror — he cannot remember the boy in the photos he's taken down, hair down to his shoulders and glasses much rounder and strumming through a guitar with the sweetest voice anyone had ever known. There are calluses on his hands from playing, but they too are hidden under the shell he has created for him. *I am the exception,* He wants to tell her, voice desperate, because he knows he has signed a contract with the devil. He knows he know is Death, Destroyer of Worlds — he knows that he is the rot that Briar Ridge isn't trying to spray out because they're too busy tending to the wolves.\n\nHis contract does have an end date; it shares it with his death certificate. As soon as they solve the werewolf problem, Valerian Barca returns to his station as the rot of Briar Ridge — and who's to say they will not be inspired by the mania of their hunts and their cages? Who's to say he is not next?\n\nHis features are hardened, the silhouette of a wolf on the door — he is not lycan, no; instead, he is the reaper, the hungry maw, the blind hunter who has known hunger. He who has felt his stomach gnaw and gnaw and has decided that he will never know such things about it. He knows he is a *Bad man,* But he still believes is the exception. The Judas Iscariot, who can kiss the teeth and tongue of the city he once loved and apologize for crucifying it.\n\nBetter to live a villain than die forgotten.\n\nHazel starts speaking again — he knows, because his face softens when she does so. He puts that hunting dog away to turn and face the lamb, with her gentle fleece. People do not hurt lambs; they instead shear them, peel them down to their basics, and then let them regrow. People shoot down wolves. Perhaps that is where the difference is.\n\nHis eyes follow her silhouette as she takes off her coat.\n\n_ _\nHazel talks, and Valerian listens, the chopping of his knife in tandem with the beating of his heart— an archaic metronome that suits well to the way she weaves her story, the way she bares herself to him so easily. The way these confessionals have tilted each other back and forth — an eye for an eye, a secret for a secret. \n\nThey cannot walk away from this anymore, or from each other.\n\n*How can you pass judgement on me?* He thinks, but his lips are a smile. *How can anyone pass judgement on me, when we are a town of sinners and murderers and corrupt lawmen?*\n\n\" ... Thank you, for sharing your story. I won't pry — if there were any more details, you'd have told me — but the thought that you trust me enough to tell me ... Well, that means a great deal to me, Hazel. I trust you all the same.\" \n\nHe finishes the carrot, biting off the head and chewing the part where the greens would have grown, all too bitter yet never soliciting a look of discomfort from eating the worst parts of a meal — as if he was used to that, as if he'd done so for years, as if he gave away the better parts of meals to younger siblings.\n\n_ _\n\n\"Mm,\" He nods, mouth full. Once he swallows, he puts whatever is left in the stockpot, watching it float around for a moment before heating up the frozen broth alongside it. \"The Coalition meetings. I'm not welcome at them, I guarantee, but... I have intentions of making myself known. Silver bullets can kill werewolves — the people of this town need to know they die faster this way. Not that anyone in this bloody town can afford silver — I think the only people who can would be Mr. Estep and Miss Lefevre.\" Curious, how he doesn't affix his name to the list. \"Short answer — no, but I plan to. Please, stay home that night, so I know that you're alright if anything boils over.\"\n\nHe rolls his neck. There is an audible pop. Quietly, he takes her coat from the chair, and hangs it next to his on the coat rack in the living room — so that when she is ready to leave, she doesn't have to trek backwards into the house. It looks quite nice up there next to his own.\n\n\"Yes,\" He nods, as if he'd been chewing on her words for some time. He smiles at her — this one has the thespian's mask removed; this one is right, and bright, and genuine. In a way, it's almost ... Optimistic. \"I think we will come out of this alright, you and I.\""
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "Hazel has always been one to tighten the reins on herself when she feels she can't live up to the moment. The way she navigates emotion becomes more obviously self-taught as she ages. As such, when recounting her story, it hadn't occurred to her that its telling was an indication of trust. It's so silly in hindsight – but then, the trusting him feels so natural that maybe it doesn't register so easily as new. There's something almost dizzying about the rate at which she and the world around her are both changing.\n\nShe glances at him from the corner of her eye and is immediately transfixed. There is, in the purest sense, something voyeuristic about watching him chew a raw carrot. He looks more earthy and at home here than perhaps she has ever seen him. Contrasted by the polished way with which he usually presents himself, it's almost like seeing him naked. Something liquefies in Hazel's chest. It is not lost on her that she has been collecting these little moments in a basket at the back of her mind. At night, when sleep evades her, she takes them out one by one to examine, wondering all the while why those moments have become precious to her. \n\nValerian occupies a different category in her mind from the other friends she's made since moving here, but at the same time there seems to be no other place to put him. He exists in the ether – maybe this is why she's become so fascinated by him. It's just like Hazel to have her interest piqued by mystery. She simply hadn't expected to identify so much with what she found.\n_ _\n\nShe internalizes the way he pronounces *Coalition* So that she can sound more intelligent the next time it comes up. What he says next really catches her attention. Hazel had a silver butter knife, but used it during the last full moon. The wind had been so thoroughly knocked out of her when she hit the ground that in her gasping, she hadn't thought to check whether it'd dropped to the ground or found permanent purchase in the beast's muscle. (It's the first time any memory has really inspired a visceral response. Discomfort crosses her face and disappears as quickly as it comes.) \n\n*If anything boils over.* Right – another reminder of the unfortunate truth. He is not the villain of the story right now, but to many folk he is a villain in his own right. Exhausted, stressed out and highly defensive of their own, it would be understandable for folk to get up in arms at the mere idea of Valerian's involvement. Still, the response this elicits is sour enough that Hazel's brow quirks downward as she considers this. There is a tugging in her chest she does *Not* Know what to do with. \n\nIt's probably an overdramatic prediction. Still, folk are tight-knit in these hills. Hazel is hard pressed to think of many folk who'd stand with him against their neighbors n' kin. If they turn, they'll all turn, and he won't stand a chance. Valerian takes her coat and she stares at the back of him until he turns enough to see her. She pretends to look for the first time when he speaks as if gently calling her to turn her face in his direction. The light in his smile is unfiltered. Where have the curtains gone? More importantly, why does her stomach flip when he says *You and I?* Why do those three words sound like one when he strings them together in a drawl he's no longer concerned with hiding?\n_ _\n\n*I want to hold your hand,* She thinks suddenly, but that is far too daunting. She smiles back instead. The moment seems to stretch on. She's glad she came early in the day, with so many hours before it would have been improper to stay any longer. Behind her, there's a gentle fizzling sound as the frost melts away from the thawing broth. Feeling a little overwhelmed for her liking, Hazel uses the sound as an excuse to turn away and check the stove. \n\n\"I'll make you a deal,\" She counters when she turns back around. \"I'll stay home if you stop by afterwards. That way I don't have to go to the meetin' and you can stop puttin' off your last fitting.\" It's a lighthearted reminder and really only a deflective reference, meant only to keep her from betraying her own neediness. It's unlike Hazel to demand more of someone's time."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "If anything important had been said to him before the moment that Hazel Calhoun turned to look at him, it would have been lost to him. She turns so gracefully, even if she doesn't think she does, that Valerian might have mistaken her for the doll on top of a music box, if only a bit more real than the picturesque girls that end up on things like that. He quite likes that about her, though - that she is rough around the edges, that she wants to shoot guns, that she has a penchant for striking those damnable wolves. Her turning to look at him is as if he, the moon, is graced with the presence of her, the sun. How intimate the moment is, in the way her light brightens his features, casting shadows behind him as a place to put away his malignant self, the self that does not seem to care, that self that would rip and tear and cave in the coal mines if it meant that he and Olivia and Florian - *And Hazel* Were alright.\n\n_ _\n\n\nHe's impressed by the move she makes, even if he doesn't know that she's making it, or that he's impressed. Too laden with the way his heart is arrhythmic, too heavy in his throat, he nods. \"Deal. I'll appraise you of everything that goes on - for your own knowledge, of course. It isn't that I don't think you shouldn't be around them - you can do anything you put your mind to - but I worry for you. And your proximity to me. You are a beloved member of their community, yet I'm unsure if whether or not they'll hang you out to dry alongside me. They've yet to do so with my siblings, so I suppose there is some modicum of charity among them.\"\n\nHe straightens his back, joining her by the soup pot, watching the frozen stock begin to melt, and melt, and melt, as if the ice melting is representation of all of the things they could be if they stopped being so damnable rigid. *I want to kiss you,* He thinks, but his mind is immediately pulled back to his invitation at the speakeasy, and how strong he came on, fueled by liquid courage. He's taking this slow on purpose; he needs to know she's safe before he puts her back into danger by being in closer proximity to him than he could even imagine.\n\n_ _ \n\"I'll even bring a gift,\" He smiles - one of his sly, guarded smiles -, pushing away from the stove and collecting the rest of the vegetables, pouring them in and adding to the quickly-melting stock. His hand covers, just briefly, over the flame of the stove, and he shivers a bit at the winter. Valerian has always run cold - he envies those who run warm, but he's not about to wear a coat in his own damn house, and he cannot wear one of his comfortable yet unfashionable sweaters around Hazel. He likes his suits, his dress shirts, his pants - they invoke authority. The sweaters invoke a feeling of youth, as if he would be thirteen years old again and watching his mother board the train. \"I purchased something quite nice for you for Christmas, yet I never had the time to deliver it. You'll have to forgive my lack of punctuality; we happened to have... What's the sayin'?\" He thinks for a moment, pointing as if he remembered, \"We happened to have bigger fish to fry at the time.\"\n\nTime. How it sounds like *T-ah-me* With his voice."
},
{
"author": "miss calhoun.",
"message": "When he rejoins her at the stove, Hazel wonders if this is the first time she notices that his presence beside her has a real weight. It's as though she'd know who was behind her if he'd only just come in and she'd been standing here alone. That familiarity is so new in this context that she isn't quite sure how to react. It's nice that he views her as a *Beloved member of the community,* But *Necessary* Feels like a better word. She knows folk're happy she's here, but Valerian is the first person who she can tell is happy that *She* Is here. It's silly to be surprised that she cares about him. Moreover, it seems that in the time it's taken him to become important to her, she's managed to endear herself to him in kind. \n\nIn truth, Hazel has only paused to consider her association with Valerian as far as their first meeting. After that it was as though the concern vanished from her mind's eye. To have it brought back up now is an almost embarrassing reminder of a pretty massive oversight: towns as small as Briar Ridge are run on connections, and Hazel is making soup with the coalman while they make eyes back and forth at each other. It's a fair enough point. Hazel prioritizes her own safety, and that safety lies in her financial independence, which in turn lies in the success of her business. She appreciates knowing that Valerian has considered this. This is the first time, though, that it really sours her stomach to acknowledge it. \n_ _\n\nHazel's often cold in her little apartment above the tailor's. It's warm enough in here for her by comparison, what with the stove being a respectable size, but she sees Valerian shiver. She's opening her mouth to ask why he doesn't put on a sweater when he mentions that he's gotten her a gift. A *Christmas* Gift. She's never gotten a Christmas gift before. Mr. Bergman was Jewish, and judging by the off-handed remarks he'd make from time to time about the arrangement of Hazel's features and what it suggested about her own ancestry, he wasn't about to celebrate a holiday which he believed applied to neither of them. The look on her face is somewhere between surprise and embarrassment, like she's been caught with her hand in the cookie jar and taken too much of him, like somehow she's manipulated her way into getting a present. Hazel bites the inside of her cheek. So many emotional firsts have occurred in the last few months, and the lion's share of them have occurred in front of Valerian. \n\n\"You got me a gift,\" She repeats, in spite of it being doubly reinforced. \"Thank you,\" She breathes, surprise evident in the way the words ghost out of her mouth. Hazel is aware of the look on her face but wouldn't have been able to do anything about it if she tried. She lets the smile form there that she's been holding back. It's not the first present she's gotten – actually, it's the second (the first was also from Valerian) – but it's a *Holiday* Present, and there is an unexpectedly delicious uncertainty about the connotation that it might carry. Even without the addition of nuance it's still a gift, and it's not because she's lost something in a monster's shoulder or because she's made him a perfect suit. Even Hazel can spot the affection there, call it like it is in spite of her disbelief.\n_ _\n\nThey still have bigger fish to fry, but Hazel finds she's willing to spare an hour or two for Valerian Barca. Given the enormity of his workload since the winter began, it's just about all the time he has. The idea that he is choosing to spend it with her sends Hazel into a flurry of nervous thoughts, all of them underscored by a sweet, selfish glee. \n\n\"When's the meeting?\" She asks, having managed to mildly fluster herself. He is standing so close, and Hazel has never felt quite this much like her heart is operating at the top of her stomach. \"Do I have time to finish your gift or were you plannin' on springin' this on me?\" (How fast can she knit a sweater if she closes the shop for a few hours every day and stays up late? She already has his measurements, after all. Estimates can be made for a slouchy sweater.) She doesn't know exactly how, but she knows she's some kind of fucked when she's excited to lose business. \n\nChristmas and a gift exchange. She doesn't even mind that it's January – it's almost better that way. There are so many new things here, hanging in the air. Better to usher them in with the new year. Hazel does her best not to hide her face as she smiles.\n\n\"Big fish ain't goin' anywhere, but I think we can get away with an hour,\" She murmurs."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "He sees the expression on her cheeks, something warm and innocent and tender - and he has a selfish glee that he is the one who put it there, that he's gotten to claim Hazel Calhoun's heart before anyone else could - that gives off the egotistical impression, mind, that she looks at him the way he looks at her. The way he's looking at her right now - soft and uncomfortable and malleable, with eyes gentle behind his glasses and lips pulled up in a happy, closed-lip smile. He finds himself feeling something worrying; a lack of discipline. As if he would continue to put off work so long as she stayed standing here in his kitchen. As if he would put away the dishes later. As if he would pen papers and order supplies and read reports so long as she was here. Being around Hazel Calhoun is dangerous - it takes him out of the mindset that he is a hopeless slave to the machine, a perpetrator who thinks he can wear the skin of a victim and get away with it.\n\nBeing next to Hazel Calhoun makes him... Regret. Makes him regret the things he's done with S&C, makes him regret leaving Florian behind. Makes him regret everything he's tried to dismiss under the pretense of it being *Okay* Because he is the exception. She challenged him, there: *You cannot trust them; they are bad people; you are not the exception.* And yet, here he was, still of the belief he might have been the exception. Because if he is the exception, he is not a bad man - but why does being a bad man bother him now, when he has spent months doling out the consequence of Briar Ridge's natural geography? Why does being a bad man affect him now; is it because he thinks the idea of being with Hazel Calhoun and being a bad man are mutually exclusive?\n\nThey are both murderers, after all.\n\n_ _\n\"They have them periodically. I believe the next one is in a few weeks. You don't have to get me anything, Hazel; I insist.\" Still, it's a sentence placed under no context - he knows that even if he refutes it, she will still get him something, and he will accept it with open arms and treasure it unlike any gift he's ever received, if only because it came from *Her.* \"Besides, what I have for you is... Well, it's nothing much. So *Please,*\" He says with a charmingly-exasperated smile on his face, \"Do not go out of your way to do something for me.\"\n\n*I can get away with an hour,* She says, and he selfishly wishes she had said two, or three, but she is a woman of repute - being over at his home for too long will stain her reputation with his coal dust, and he knows it. But gods, how he wishes he could keep her here, keep her safe, keep her away from people who do not deserve her. Because *Valerian Barca* Deserves her. He could be good to her, this he knows- meals and a warm bed, a kitchen with standards, a home where there are always people, a *Well-paid* ~~partner? Boyfriend? Husband?~~ companion where she would not have to worry about keeping the tailor shop open to make ends meet.\n\nHe knows he is in trouble when he considers giving everything up yet again - he considers briefly, losing his stability for a girl who has pulled on his ribs until his lungs burst, because that must be the only explanation for his shortness of breath when she's around. They stand over the soup pot, like they are two precarious hawks watching a field mouse go trotting through the grass. Like its ears and tail, the vegetables bob up and down in the broth, and he steals one last glance at Hazel, committing every detail of her smile to memory. Refusing to not see it, whenever they are in proximity.\n\nDoes he want to give up his stability, or does he want to bring her into it?\n\n_ _\nHis hand moves, gently, fingertips almost hovering over the small of her back with how gentle, how small, how tender this touch might be. It isn't the hand hold that she wants, nor is it the kiss that he wants, but it is enough for their social graces - it is the same kind of touch one would give another if they were trying to get past them. Perhaps Valerian Barca is trying to get past this moment, if only he could move on to the next one, the one where he gets to bring her into his arms and kiss her silly because of how beautiful she looks in the clothing she made with the materials he bought for her. Alas - it is a pipe dream, for now, and he has to swallow down his ambition, his drive, his desire. She is not a contract to be had or an item to be owned. She is but the lamb and he, the wolf, and she has exposed the tender meaty flesh of her throat to him. There is intimacy in that.\n\nGently, his thumb moves over the clothed small of her back.\n\nHis voice is a whisper. \"*An hour sounds perfect.*\""
}
] | 574.5 | 19,682 |
763.454545 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "*And my brother's always gonna be six years wiser / i keep on getting older / and the bar keeps getting higher / my exes and friends all just seem so successful / i'm not sure six years will be enough.*\n\nHis shoulders drop as he returns from the outside world - his complexion has paled since winter started, and his grief - his frustration - is all too great. To have the weight of the world on your shoulders, to have the entirety of the community looking at you like you are an outsider ... He knows what he has done. He would do it all over again, if only it meant that his family was safe. He thinks back to when he was thirteen, as he removes his wool coat, hangs it up on the rack - a cyclical routine that feels more like ritual these days, as if doing all of these things in this order ensured his safety for another day, and in failing, he would expect punishment from the powers that be. His briefcase is set down on the coffee table, polished wood seeming to sheen all-too-perfectly.\n\nAnd yet, there was a hole in the wall. During the daytime, it wasn't too bad - so long as the fire was going and everyone was bundled up. With all of the thermal long-johns he's got under his clothes, he looks like he's put on a couple of pounds, and in the interim imagines what it would be like to be soft. To be domesticated.\n\nHe doesn't know why he's hung up on these feelings, but he knows it has something to do with the incoming interview with the S&C representative. Valerian Barca is not a man of instinct but instead strategy - so why, instead of placating the powers that are, did he speak from the heart? He rubs his hand down his face, pushing his glasses up onto his head for a moment to rub at his eyes. Regret seems to trickle around the surface of his mouth, and against his better judgement, he leaves the suitcase - and the contraband inside - on the couch in favor of going into the kitchen to prepare something small to eat.\n\n_ _\nHe'll feel better once he's had a bath - he'll need water from the well - and some food, and a brief indulgence of the suspicious substances in his suitcase. A nightcap, so to speak - he may even sleep in his own bed tonight, depending. It was nowhere near the full moon, so there was time. There was time to prepare. \n\nHe has one silver bullet left, and he doesn't know if he needs to make it count, or if he needs to pause until Rhett Sterling returns the other. Do they have any silver? Did their mother keep jewelry? He can't remember - or, more importantly, he doesn't care. He did his due diligence in telling them what he knows, if only so they can protect his family in his absence, and so he doesn't care about the rest of it. If they make silver bullets, fine; if they find themselves unable to do such a thing, also fine. There is nothing and no one he cannot best - he just needs the tools to do it.\n\nHe goes to find the oil lamp of the kitchen already lit, a brow arched as he comes around the corner to see his brother sitting at the table, sketching something on his notepad. \"Ah,\" Valerian speaks. (He stands a little taller, a little stiffer, like he's got something to prove. Shouldn't he have the most walls down around his family? Why is he trying so hard?) \"Burning the midnight oil, then, 'Rian?\" A chuckle - he moves to the ice box, shuffing the ice around until he finds the buried bottle of scotch. He pours himself a glass, and then grabs a plate of the ham and vegetables Olivia must have cooked tonight. He peers over his brother's shoulder, looking with interest as to what masterpiece was being created. He sits down at the dining room table not long after, sipping the alcohol.\n\n\"You shouldn't be up so late,\" Valerian notes - it isn't a chide so much as a piece of advice. \"I don't feel like any of us are morning people, really.\""
},
{
"author": "rowanfarlow",
"message": "It's absolutely 100% alright, I shall reply ASAP, probably in a day or so!!"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "Florian looked up from his sketchbook when he heard the door open. He's positioned himself in the kitchen, around the corner so the draft from that blasted hole won't bother him. A smile creeps on his face when he hears Valerian step into the kitchen. \"Indeed, indeed.\" He says, responding to the midnight oil comment. \"I couldn't sleep, so I thought I might as well wait up for you.\" _I wanted to know for sure that you were safe._ \n\nHis notebook was lay open, revealing a page on which Florian had started sketching some ways of incorporating the hole into the rest of the Barca estate decor. One of the designs featured a roster of metal overtaken by vines, the one below simply had a tiny door wedged between the broken planks. The last version saw two clawed hands prying at the planks, jagged cuts made to the as of now intact walls. He tried to cover up this version with his arm. \"Home decorating does not seem to be my calling.\" He said, gently closing the notebook and sliding the pencil in the accompanying holder as Valerian took a seat at the table.\n\nFlorian used art as a means of organizing his thoughts. Emotions, feelings, memories, dreams, both those crushed and those still afloat, it could feel so overwhelming. Allowing his hands to take some of the mental load of his heart and head helped. If one were to flip through the pages they'd find drawings of his siblings, portraits of them smiling, portraits they had never posed for. One would see the view from his bedroom window, the forest during all of its seasons, of concepts of improvement to his chair. They'd see how spiders weaved their webs on the shrubs near their house during fall, smiling faces he saw on gentle summer eves, of himself at times running, but more often than not, seated in his chair. Scribbled in handwriting detailed dates and other things he found worthy of noting. It was in this book that he allowed himself to just *Do*, it didn't need to be perfect, it didn't need to be pretty and it didn't need to make sense to anyone but him. \n\n\"You could say that.\" He smiled, God protect anyone who gets between Olivia and her much earned rest. \"The sun simply sleeps too early in winter. I can't wait for it to be spring again.\" He eyes the scotch. \"Long day at work, I take it?\""
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "Valerian is lost to the idea that Florian is waiting up to make sure he's safe. Instead, Valerian is the one who should be ensuring the family's safety, and so he takes the almost-lie at face value. \"Say what you want, they're really not that bad.\" Around his brother, there is no such thing as his 'work voice'. His drawl is loud and long, taking seconds to sound out some syllables and milliseconds to sound out others. Normally, he'd speak quickly in tandem with the accent, but he's too tired to keep his mouth up with his mind. \"There's sort of, like, a lattice number going on over there— ah, don't put your arm on that, you'll get charcoal everywhere.\" That, however, *Is* A chide. It's not that Valerian cares what's underneath it or not (he wouldn't be surprised if Florian depicted explicit imagery once or twice, most artists did), but instead more of that he wants Florian to appear somewhat put together.\n\nHe lifts the glass of scotch, taking a sip. Sure, it's illegal everywhere but here, but Briar Ridge keeps alcohol as it's worst-kept secret. So long as it doesn't leave the borders of the town, he knows no one will be getting in trouble. ~~Deputy~~ Sheriff Guerrero only ever tagged someone if they were belligerent or disturbing the peace, and Valerian is exclusively using this as a nightcap. \"More than you know,\" He sighs, resting his elbow on the table (bad manners!) and his cheek in his hand. \"I've gone and gotten myself in trouble, I think.\"\n\n_ _\nA pause, a sip, and Valerian continues to explain:\n\n\"It's no secret anymore that the coal company sent me that gun. The pistol. So, in some ways, they know about the hullabaloo goin' on down here. And not only that, but they *Gave me this assignment-* (Incorrect. He fought for the assignment. Spat and gnawed through inferior coworkers to be assigned here, to be the case manager, to be the account manager, to be the minor god of Briar Ridge.) \"-without so much as tellin' me what was goin' on. That's going to be a problem from here on out, especially if those *Things* Are going to keep trying to blow a hole in the wall. Papa built that wall. Hell, he built most of the extensions. I don't want any more of this place broken down.\"\n\nRambling, Val. \"Anyways, my letter to them wasn't very nice. Lots of demands, lots of stern words. If I get what I want, one of my supervisors will come down here at some point to talk to me about all of this. I have half a mind to make sure they get a good look at the collapsed mines and the *Goddamn scorch marks* From those haints. I'm just glad they're gone.\"\n\nHe sighs, leaning his head back. So tired. (No matter, the package in his bag is going to fix that problem. He can keep going - he won't sputter out. His hand moves now to be under his glasses, rubbing at his eyes to pair with a yawn. \"Not enough time in the day, not really. 'Liv asleep?\""
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "His brother sounded so different at home when nobody who was not kin was there to hear him. It was like there was a second version inhabiting his brother, a persona that he could summon when needed, one that spoke words with purpose and force, that stood up straight and proud, that knew exactly how to weave sentences that ensnared those who heard. It had brought him far, selfishly Florian cared most about the fact that it had brought Valerian back to Briar Ridge. Perhaps that was why he did not dare look into that persona deep enough to see the trail of damage it left in its wake. Or maybe it was because he had looked so deeply into it that he failed to look beyond it, his field of vision barred by the pedestal he had hoisted his brother onto. There were times where cracks threatened to shatter that pedestal, hell, at times great holes had been blown into it, but they always seemed to fill back up again. Maybe one day the forces of time would see it crumble, but for now, it stood firm, an unchanging marble block carved just for Valerian, an invisible force only visible to Florian. \n\nA mumbled apology fell from his lips, graphite stained less, but he was not in the mood to argue about technicalities of art supplies. An eyebrow rose when Valerian admitted he might have stumbled his way into trouble. \"Oh do tell, Val.\" He said, gently teasing his brother. The trouble turned out to be no teasing matter and he instantly regretted his words. Florian had been wondering why they had yet to call upon the services of a carpenter to patch up the damned hole, it seemed he had just found a hint of the reason why. \n\nHis mind fixated on those next words, 'I'm just glad they're gone.' Were they? Were they truly gone? Or had they simply migrated out of the mines and into town? As much as he wanted Valerian's words to make it so, he feared that this town may not have seen the last of those ghoulish things quite yet.\n\n\"She is, poor woman had to push me through snow today, after which I apologised deeply of course. But, to get back to-\" He made a vague circling hand gesture, his voice picked up in pace and some of the anger and helplessness he had bottled up inside started slipping through. \"-all of that. They knew? They knew enough to have discovered a pretty major weakness of that beast, and they still sent you here entirely unaware and underprepared?\" What would have happened if someone who cared less about Briar Ridge had taken on the assignment, he wondered, maybe that was exactly why Val had been given the job. He had ties to the town and would be more willing to endure its monsters if it meant he could stay. \"What else aren't they telling you? Can they be made to pay for damages, can they not send more of those bullets so we can protect ourselves? This can't be-\" He paused himself, he knew too little about actual jobs and companies to be making such claims and demands. It was not like Valerian had created the situation they currently found themselves in. \"I'm sorry, I got ahead of myself there.\" He took a deep breath to steady himself, as he continued, his voice was softer, approaching a delicate matter. \"Is that why the hole is still there, so you have evidence? As much as I appreciate the additional fresh air, I would be lying if I said I haven't had the urge to find myself a hammer and some nails to attempt to patch it up myself.\" He sighed. \"I miss the times that scary stories were just stories, do you think they'll come back?\" He already knew the answer, he wasn't sure why he even asked. Maybe he wanted to talk about it, to show someone just how terrified he had been that night. But he couldn't quite get himself to admit that."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "Valerian Barca is not a stupid man. He has more education than most, and enough on-the-job trainign to keep him not only afloat but treading water. When Florian's temper begins to seep through his words, Valerian knows he's made a mistake in telling Florian the truth. Unfortunately, the anger that has blossomed inside of Florian is Valerian's doing - and if he is ignorant to the source (himself), then he cannot quieten it, cannot tamper it, cannot put itself away from the flame like an ever-suicidal moth. \n\nHe has to change the topic of conversation first, and when he does so, he exhales, taking another sip of the bourbon. It's swished around in his mouth for a moment first, as if he was tasting a fine wine. (As if they were cultured enough to have tried wine; Valerian thinks it tastes like someone's mixed vinegar and rotten grape juice together. Sue him.) \"Well, the wall is an unexpected side effect. Mr. Whitaker is working as quickly as he can to repair the wall, but he has to wait on materials, and then there's the labor, and he *Still* Doesn't have the glass for the window. I don't think he ever will, so I need to find someone who can install a window.\" He explains this casually, as if they were discussing the steps that he would need to take in order to make dinner. Valerian agrees with him, though - he doesn't *Love* The hole, either. He misses his bed, the warmth of the mattress and the cover of the pillows. He misses not freezing half-to-death due to the missing glass, and it's fucking unsightly at best, ugly at worst.\n\n_ _\nAlas - he has run out of filler text, so he must address the topic of Florian's anger: his employer's atrocious behavior, the failures of the company, and most importantly - the betrayal of Valerian Barca. He rolls his neck, here, reaching for his shoulder, letting his fingers work through a knot that has formed between his shoulderblade and the meat of his bicep, obviously created through the stress of his occupation and his employer. *They knew? They knew enough to have discovered a pretty major weakness of that beast, and still they sent you here unaware and unprepared? What else aren't they telling you?* He can hear Hazel's voice in his head echoing in tandem with Florian's: *Did you think you were the exception?*\n\n*I am the exception,* He thinks, still; *But I don't know why they sent me here in this state.*\n\nHe rubs his hands together, putting down the glass and letting the friction of his palms create a state of grounding. \"There must be an explanation,\" He says, rather than *I trust their judgement.* Florian doesn't need to know that Valerian stood in that office in front of his supervisor and asked - demanded - damn near *Begged* To take the infamous Briar Ridge account. He's surely not egotistical enough (yet) to think that they convinced him of his own free will. He had an employee file - surely they knew that Briar Ridge was his home, that he has siblings here, and that that was the reason Valerian was so desperate to claim the usually-unclaimable account. Perhaps sending him without a weapon, without answers, was punishment: a check to the ego, a check to the brazenness, as if to say *Do not challenge us again. Do not be so bold again.* \"I intend to get one. The letter I sent was... Rather scathin'. If they don't give me an answer, they'll give me a pink slip. To be honest with you, either ending is fine with me at this point.\"\n\n_ _\nHe tilts his head to the side; it's evident now that Valerian has a contingency plan of sorts. If Mayor Cooper was otherwise predisposed in the town jail, there would be need for a politician. He could vy for the role of a politician, so long as he can convince the people of Briar Ridge that being in this position would make him a servant, not a leader - earning back their inevitable trust once S&C cut ties with him. He also has a penchant for organization and numbers - this would make him a good banker, a good advisor. In his education, others could call on him to ensure that they are not being swindled. The idea of the latter makes him smirk; if S&C ditched him for his insubordinance, for his brazen nature, he could make sure every person in Briar Ridge knew what their rights were, what the contracts said. They could never take anymore land- Valerian would kneecap them and remind them that no one - not even the influential, near-immortal coal companies that had him under their thumb.\n\nWhen Florian asks him if they'll come back, Valerian's eyes darken. There is an exhale, a sigh - \"Yes,\" He says, finally. \"I do think they'll come back this month, and every month after. Just because one was killed don't mean there aren't others. They move in packs, I'm sure, like real wolves. That's why, Florian, I want you at someone else's safehouse this month, you and Olivia both. I can't trust the estate to uphold proper protections until that wall is fixed, and if we have another incident like *Beaux-fucking-Leblanc* Luring that beast over here, you cannot be here. You *Cannot *Be involved. I only have one silver bullet left. If I fire it, and it doesn't fell the beast, there's a high chance you could be hurt, or killed. I cannot - *I cannot* - let that happen.\"\n\nIf one listened closely, he might sound... Desperate."
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "Brown eyes moved to the artist's hands, he rubbed his right middle finger against the callous on the opposing palm, resting between the thumb and index finger, right where his pushrims met his hands. The movement helped calm him. He guessed it made sense, no materials for repairs meant the hole was here to stay for now. But it wasn't the hole he was really emotional about, the hole was just a symptom, an easy, physical, target at which to aim his anger and fear. A much more convenient target than the true culprit, which were his own insecurities and inability to be of much use when it came to fighting off werewolves.\n\nHe nodded, more waiting. But this time for the coal company. He hoped they'd have answers. Surely there had to be a reasonable explanation for why his brother hadn't been informed. Doubt still lingered inside Florian, he wasn't sure they'd get satisfactory answers. And Valerian was fine with being fired? What kind of tricks did this man have up his well-kept sleeves? Florian fully believed that his brother would pull through and find new ventures if the need arose, he'd shown his cunning and spirit countless times before, but it was still odd to hear him say it. What if he had to leave again? _Stop being selfish Florian._ \n.\n\nHis stomach sank when Valerian confirmed what the younger Barca already feared, the wolves would be back. (And there were more.) It sunk further still as the words continued spilling into the kitchen air, which suddenly felt much colder. Just as his anger had slowed, it came back and with a vengeance this time. It cloaked his true feelings of helplessness and fear about as well as Briar Ridge cloaked its stance on the prohibition of alcohol: entirely inadequately for those who'd been around for longer than a few weeks.\n\n\"And leave you here to die!?\" His voice was firmly above the volume that was acceptable at this hour. But he couldn't be bothered, to hell with social rules, to hell with what was proper and polite, his brother was planning his own death for God's sake. Disbelief and powerlessness flooded his mind. What on earth did he mean _Florian_ could get hurt, he wasn't the one planning on facing a potential pack of wolves with one measly bullet in a house unfit for defending. \"Valerian if you fire that bullet and it doesn't kill the beast, those things will kill _you_! Need I remind you what just *One* Of those things did to our walls, now imagine your skull in its place! You can't-\" His voice broke, it was all too much. He looked away, down at his legs. ~~His stupid, broken legs.~~ He didn't want to risk Valerian seeing the tears that were threatening to form in his eyes. Imagining Val's death at the hands of those things was exactly what he'd been doing, wholly against his will.\n.\n\nThey shouldn't have to worry about werewolves. They shouldn't have to worry about coal company higher-ups willingly sending their employees into danger. They shouldn't have to worry about fellow Briar Ridge citizens luring killer beasts to their doorsteps. \n\nFlorian wanted to scream, he wanted to find those beasts and kill every single one of them. He wanted vengeance. He wanted to go back to how it was before. If he could walk, if he could run... He could help fight those things... \n\nBut most of all he wanted to break open Valerian Barca's head to find the rotten, poisonous barb that had wedged itself in there and infected him with these self-sacrificial ideals and pry it out with his bare hands. \n\n\"I understand you feel responsible for Olivia and me but-\" He looked up again, so what if Val saw that Florian was emotional when faced with the possibility of his brother dying. His voice was void of anger, only a deep sadness remained in its wake. \"-_fuck_, Valerian.\" A shaky breath. \"Don't get yourself killed f-.\" ~~for us~~ He swallowed. \"We can rebuild the house. We **Cannot** Rebuild _you_.\"\n\nIt seemed Valerian thought himself an Atlas, albeit one who proudly carried the weight of the world upon his shoulders. Life thought him a Sisyphus, forever doomed to push the boulder that was his own ambition and drive to protect those few close to him against a seemingly undefeatable enemy, one misstep away from it all crumbling down. In the end, he was merely man, not Titan and not King. And Florian? Florian supposed he was the boulder and weight in both of Valerian's myths.\n\n\"Please, come with us. I can't lose you.\" Not you too, not again.\n\nFlorian's voice was frail, he was coming undone. He'd always experienced emotions larger than he suspected many others did. Some would lean into cliche and say that that was common amongst artists. Florian wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of much in that moment. But he knew with earthshaking certainty that he would never forgive himself if his brother died because he wasn't able to protect himself. What he wouldn't give to be the protector for once. To be shield, or weapon, whatever was needed. _I want to help. **Tell me how I can help.**_ His thoughts were so loud, he almost believed Valerian would be able to hear them."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "Florian's yell back at him was not of a pair of brothers; it was, to Valerian, a child in defiance of the individual who was making the rules. Valerian's stance on all of this was clear- Florian would not be in attendance at the Barca Estate during the full moon, and nor would their sister. Valerian, who seemed to care little for the outburst at first, listened to his kin with a stoic expression, even going so far as to take a sip while Florian was still talking. \n\nThat was, of course, until Florian started to cry.\n\nThere were few sights in this world that Valerian couldn't handle. After all, he was the man responsible for sending boys and men down into the mines, the one responsible for signing off when they inevitably died due to the conditions. He could handle missing arms, bloodied stumps, thrown out organs. He watched Oswald Katz die in front of him and did not throw up at the smell; instead, he scrubbed and scrubbed the carpet of his living room until the stench was gone, until the sin of murder had been baptized from this place. He cannot, however, handle the sight of Florian crying, big tears in his eyes like they were at the funeral. (Valerian hadn't gotten the opportunity to cry; it wasn't until much later, when he sat next to the wood in the shed, forehead against the metal of the helmet his father used down in the mines, that Valerian was allowed to cry, unfound by his kin.\n\n_ _\nHe looks at his glass, at the ambery liquid inside, and sets it down on the table, looking up at Florian. \"*This is not up for debate,* Florian,\" He emphasized, looking straight through his brother, pupil-to-pupil. \"You will be going to someone else's house - perhaps I can ask Marianne to take you both in, given that she has somewhat of an accessible home. And I'll be here, with the bullet I have, and the people who are... *Stupid* Enough to come stay in a place like this for the moon. I won't be *Killed.* Those idiot bastards know I have this weapon, know that Briar Ridge has been *Equipped* With things that *I* Provided for them. To try this house again would be nothing other than an early grave - and I know plenty who would be happy to sign a death warrant.\"\n\nA little chuckle, another lip against the glass, as if he's going to take another sip but stopping. \"This house is important to me, Florian,\" He says, looking daggers past his brother and into the absess of the wall, the one that Mr. Whitaker was working on. Time was a fickle mistress, one that meant that as the winter closed in, the Barcas would be dealing with the same discomforts that some beloved citizens of Briar Ridge already did- a punishment, perhaps, for Valerian's folly. (He somehow expects those fucking fire-catching ghosts to not be interested in warming parts of the house by now.) \"It's all I have left of our father. Sure, the house can be rebuilt, but how much of this house is allowed to be before it stops bein' the house our grandfather built? The house our father expanded on, to give us a better life?\"\n\n_ _\nHe smiles, and the boulder collapses atop Valerian's head once more. \"I promise you that I'll be fine. You'll come back the morning after, and I'll even go so far as to make us a breakfast, yeah? Have some eggs, and sausage- a family celebration of another month survived. Might convince Hazel to stay, too; I want you both to like her terribly. I— *God,* I only hope she likes the two of you, too. But. I digress, Florian. Please, just listen to me — just this one thing. And then I'll never ask you to do anything of this magnitude ever again.\"\n\nHe extends his pinky for the promise. A bond shared between brothers - the penultimate form of swears immemorial."
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "_This is not up for debate_ The anger inside him was almost tempted to remind Valerian that he was not his father, but Florian wouldn't dare stoop that low. Nor did he want to. For better or for worse Valerian was the closest thing he had to a father, he had been so young when he died. They both had been. Florian could barely remember the face of Octavian Barca and had since lost all memory of the way his voice sounded. At times he wasn't even sure if he missed his dad or just the version of him that he'd created for himself; the concept of a father.\n\nAt least Valerian wouldn't be alone, there would be others. Fools, each and every one of them, but they would make a stand together. The thought of that provided him with some semblance of trust that all three of them would pull through. And really, how likely was it that the wolves would hit the same house four times? Unless they had a vendetta against the estate itself, or one of its inhabitants. Florian didn't want to think about the possibility that werewolves were capable of targeting specific individuals or places. It felt much better to think of them as indiscriminate. He knew of course that there was pretty damning evidence to suggest the contrary. But he was not part of that evidence. The wolves didn't seem to consider him a target.\n\nThe house was important to him too, and he understood the additional value it held for his brother, who he suspected had many more active memories of their dad. But a house would never be more important than his siblings. Nevertheless he remained quiet, he wouldn't be able to convince Valerian, once that man had made up his mind it would take more force than Florian possessed to shift it. Especially on the current topic. \n_ _\n\nHe realised the house served as a physical reminder of the Barcas before them, the hands of their father and his before him had worked on it, shaped and extended it. They had built a life here, worked hard to ensure the following generations would live in comfort. Furthered the existing legacy and improved upon it. And all the three of them had managed to do was get it torn down. It was as if the wolf had killed off a piece of their father, and by patching it they were stomping all over his grave. By replacing the torn apart wood with new planks they were spitting on the love and care Octavian had put into the newer rooms of the house. Even in death, no Briar Ridge citizen was safe from the impact of its monsters.\n\nHe wiped away the tears that had started rolling down his face. *Pull yourself together* \"I believe that at its core it will always remain the same house, no matter what happens to it.\" Just like us, at our cores. \"But I understand it doesn't feel like that to you, and I respect that you want to fight to protect it. I didn't mean to imply that you should let it be turned into ruins, I'm sorry.\" His voice remained soft, he turned away from the piercing gaze of Valerian. Even though it hadn't been aimed at him this time. A small part of him was grateful Valerian had stood his ground, if for whatever reason the house was destroyed further than it already was, they'd likely have to find a different place to live, at least temporarily. He really did not want to leave the Barca estate behind. He felt safe here, even with the hole. \n\nHis eyes met his brother's. \"If you die I swear your ghost will never hear the end of it Val.\" And then fingers interlocked: a promise made. He held on to the physical touch perhaps a second longer than was strictly necessary, still reeling from the exchange that just occurred. He just hoped he hadn't damaged their relationship.\n_ _\n\nEggs and sausage, something to look forward to. \"I can be charming if I need to be.\" It felt good to joke around again, but it wasn't with ease that he jested, his body still held on to tension. It would continue clinging onto it until after the full moon. Only during the promised meal, where all three—four now he supposed, were safe and in one piece would he be fully at peace. A peace he knew wouldn't last, the moon always grew fuller; a celestial hourglass brightly shining down upon Briar Ridge. \"I'd love to meet Hazel properly. She seems to mean a great deal to you, I'm happy for you.\" His eyes reflected their natural state again, kindness slowly returned to his features.\n\nHe hesitated for a second before committing to a question that had been on his mind for a while. He was afraid of being rejected or denied again, but now was as good a time as any. Yet he still felt bad for shifting the mood in a decidedly darker direction again.\n\n\"Can you teach me how to shoot?\"\n\nHe didn't own a firearm, not yet anyways, and he certainly wasn't very comfortable handling them, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He would dig into the few savings he had if it meant he'd stand any kind of chance at protecting himself and Olivia. Anything would be better than having to resort to something like stabbing a pencil into the eye socket of a werewolf in the unlikely scenario that one would get that close to Florian."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "He laughs at the commentary about his ghost being throttled by his little brother— somehow, he believed it. If there was anyone who could grab some kind of occult symbol and summon his spirit back to the mortal plane just to choke him out, it was Florian. \"I'm not going to die,\" He tells him, reassuring him as their palms pulled away from each other. \"I have too much left to do to die this month. Or the next. Or the one after that.\"\n\nHe leans back in the chair— he goes for another drink, only to find the glass is empty. It's a good idea not to have a second, but the warmth of the alcohol in his belly kept his skin nice and warm in the face of the draft coming from the giant hole in the wall. He was careful not to balance this intake with anything else - Arthur's words rang firmly in his head. His neck rolls to the left, then to the right, and he exhales, smiling. \"Oh, Flori, I'm going to make that woman my wife,\" He says earnestly, a boyish, goofy smile pulling against his features, his skin elastic and kind. For a moment, the Valerian in front of him is the teenager that Florian grew up alongside - longer-haired, strumming his guitar, always smiling. Bright. Happy. Intelligent. Kind. He says nothing on the fact, not wanting to speak too long on Hazel while she wasn't here, but it was obvious that every word that left his lips just now was the truth.\n\n_ _ \nThere's a pause, and then Florian spoke again: *Can you teach me how to shoot?* \n\nHis face sobers, here, and there's something different about teaching his brother how to shoot in comparison to teaching Hazel how to shoot. Teaching Hazel to shoot was arming an independent woman with the means to defend herself; teaching Florian how to shoot is like passing a metaphorical torch - one that Octavian gave him, and now he's passing on to Florian. Dark eyes looked down at his brother, watching his expression: *Concern, fear* Written across his face. Not fear of the werewolves — fear of *Valerian.* Fear of Valerian rejecting him again, of telling him he has to stay helpless in the face of a beast.\n\nHe chuckles, again, \"With as many people asking me for shooting lessons, I might as well become a marksman's instructor,\" He shrugs, sitting up straight. \"Yes. I'll teach you. I pray you never have to use the gun, but in the case you gotta, I'll ensure you got it. We'll have to figure out something to counter the recoil in your chair - *You might go scootin' backwards, I'm not gon' lie* - but I'll teach'ya. Tomorrow alright? I got to get some sleep, or I'll be shootin' bleary-eyed, and that's not the way to go about anything. *You* Should get some sleep, too, else *You'll* Be shootin' bleary-eyed, and you might hurt yourself.\""
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "_They had much left to do, both of them. And survive they would._\n\nFlorian smiled, it warmed his very soul seeing Valerian talk about Hazel. The smile on Valerian's face was one that very few people were able to draw out, he hoped nothing more than for Hazel to feel similarly about his brother. How his brother sat in front of him now reminded him of years long gone, back when he wore that smile regularly. When they were both kids, they were never truly careless but they sure got close to it from time to time. Sitting out on the porch in the sun, how he'd listen to Val play guitar and softly sing along. It was good to see that side of Valerian again, he wished that side would be there more often. Val deserved happiness. They all did.\n\nThe mental image of their shared youths vanished, replaced by the harsh reality of their adulthoods. \"I am right there with you.\" He didn't want to have to use a firearm, but he would if he needed to. He hadn't stopped to consider the logistics of recoil in a wheelchair, his brother was clearly ten steps ahead of him. \"Maybe I can ask Noah to help fashion me some brakes, something to stop my wheels from spinnin' temporarily?\" Normally he just parked himself against a wall if he needed to exert force, or asked someone to be the counterweight. \"They would come in mighty handy outside of shooting too, stop me from rolling down hill if I am out on my own and need my hands.\" The current set-up made it so that he needed at least one hand on a wheel to stop him from moving if there was a decline, far from ideal, but he was not often in a situation where he was on his own, on an incline with a need for both hands free and whatever needed to be done could not be done a few feet further away from the angled surface.\n_ _\n\n\"You're right, I should get some sleep, wouldn't want to hit something I shouldn't.\" He hadn't been aware of just how tired he'd been until Valerian mentioned it. \"Have good dreams Val, and *Thank you*.\" Thank you for being there for me, thank you for all you've done for this family, thank you for agreeing to this, there was much to thank his brother for."
}
] | 811 | 8,398 |
733.285714 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "*In teaching florian how to shoot a gun to protect himself, valerian feels like he is the ghost of octavian. What does that make florian?*\n\nAs soon as he left Hazel's, Valerian waited for himself to be out of sight of her windowpane - breaking out, then, into a full-speed sprint. He's not sure how long he'd been running, but he knew that the skin of his cheeks was wind-chapped. He knew that it hurt to be exposed to the wind in such a way. He knew that he could hold the cardigan that Hazel had give him to his face to protect it, but for some primal, innate reason he knew that he would ultimately be in a place of better mind if he didn't bother with such a thing, instead getting home as fast as he could. He took the grass paths rather than the matted-down dirt-and-stone ones, keeping him from slipping and busting his ass - or worse, his face - on the ground below. \n\nIn what simultaneously felt like minutes and days, Valerian saw the estate in the distance, pushing himself through the tail end of his sprint, shuddering now as the skin on his lips chapped, as the redness of his cheeks began to touch slightly blue. No one could pave the driveway - if Florian were here, he had been trapped inside, unable to get down the icy decline and the snowy yard. That's when he sees it - the obstruction in front of the hole in the wall, in a piss-poor attempt to keep the heat in and the cold out. Had Florian done that by himself? Had Olivia? Did, somehow, they work together in a sense that they were able to move such a thing?\n\n_ _\n*They're Barcas,* Valerian had told himself two nights ago, *Of course they're going to survive.* Pride swells in his chest at such a thing, but it doesn't stop him from nearly barrelling the door down, instead pushing the door open as quickly as it could possibly be, exposed to the warmth of their cast-iron stove radiating throughout the building. *Someone had been here,* Valerian observed, closing the door behind him. At the same time as the front door closed - the bedroom door on the first floor opened, and the eldest Barca spoke: \"*Florian?*\" He couldn't turn off the fear, the broken defense mechanism he put up in front of himself, voice crisp as day.\n\nBy the time the wheelchair pushed itself into view, Valerian crossed the room in a matter of three strides, the cardigan reverently placed on the back of the couch. His arms threw themselves around his brother, squeezing tightly - desperately. The tears that welled in his eyes refused to leave, clenching them tight and staining only his eyelashes. His hands balled themselves into his brother's form - one in the hair, from the back of the head, and another on the back of his shirt. He trembles into the embrace - and look, *Look* At the circus act Valerian Barca had become. Look at how human he was in comparison to his side-show attraction of a man who believed he was god. Look. *Look* At how *Human* He is when faced with the fear of losing that which you cherish most.\n\n_ _\n\"*Flori,*\" He whispers, shaking out a breath and then pulling away - sparing his brother from any more exposure to the dried sweat on his shirt, the dirt on his pants. \"You're alright. *How* Are you alright? *Are* You alright? Where's Olivia? Have you been warm? Are you hurt?\" A thousand questions left him as he pushed his glasses up onto the top of his head, looking down at the other. This was not the fear of a man who believed his disabled brother couldn't protect himself; this was the fear of a man who believed someone he was responsible for, someone he loved, was in danger, and he had failed to teach Florian how to protect himself.\n\nOne hand goes to his forehead, the tears of his left eye trickling out in relief."
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "Algernon and Florian had made it through the storm together, relatively comfortable thanks to the cast-iron stove. As much as one could call huddling together in the kitchen with a blizzard raging outside comfortable. Algernon's clothes had dried, the two had talked and all things considered, Florian had enjoyed the hunter's company. He had almost forgotten the lingering fear for his siblings' safety. _almost_ Had he been alone, the past two days would have felt like weeks. Algernon had been a most welcome distraction, after the initial shock had worn off.\n\nHe'd been nervously pacing through his room when the first set of footsteps had entered the Barca estate at record speed. Olivia had returned safely. Cold, but safe. Florian almost ran her over in his haste to hug her and try to get some warmth back into her body. The two of them had almost been stupid enough to go out there again to look for Valerian. Until Olivia mentioned that she would have seen him if he'd been out there. Florian had come to the conclusion that if the two of them would go outside to search the chances of the two groups of Barcas not meeting in the middle of whatever path they were traversing would be too big to risk it. They were doomed to stick to believing that Valerian had found someplace safe just like the two of them had. Valerian was smart, _hell_, he could sell the concept of drowning to a fish. He was fine, he _had_ to be fine.\n\nHe heard the front door open and nearly barrelled through his bedroom door. A second set of footsteps followed by his name called out, fear laced the word. \"Valerian!\" And there he was: looking like he'd just ran halfway across town, red and blue and out of breath. A second after Florian registered Valerian's presence, the man was on him, the force of the embrace nearly knocking him out of his seat. \"You're back.\"\n\nHe said, his voice soft as he held onto Valerian. His grip on Valerian's shirt was tight, as if his brother could slip between his fingers at any moment and be whisked out into the storm again, as if letting go would mean losing him again. A third pair of arms joined the embrace as Olivia stormed into the living room. \n\nA storm of questions washed over Florian. \"Woah woah, _slow down_ there Val.\" He looked at his brother, a smile on his face that reflected the relief and happiness he felt seeing all the remaining Barcas (those who mattered to him anyways) safe and sound. \"I am fine, I promise.\" While his words may have been downplaying the situation, his tone indicated clearly he had been similarly scared about Valerian and Olivia. She spoke up, answering his question. \"Good God am I glad to see you... I went to the general store when it didn't look quite so bad yet. I had ample time to reach it before the winds picked up in earnest. I stayed there during the storm. But you should really worry about yourself, look at the state you're in, let me fix ya somethin' hot before you freeze again.\" With that she pulled them both to the kitchen, currently the warmest place in the house.\n\n_ _\nFlorian saw a tear run down Valerian's cheek, somehow his eyes had stayed dry but the sight of his brother crying never failed to upset him, even with the knowledge that this was a tear of relief and not sorrow. \"_We're all safe. It is all over now._\" He coughed, likely having caught a cold somewhere in the past days, but that was no worry of his, he'd recover quickly enough. \"Algernon, a hunter, he's new to town– lives in a tent, poor fellow– well I guess he _broke into_ our house, through the hole. I damn near thought it was a creature or robber at first.\" Not near, he _had_ thought it had been wolves, foolishly, but Valerian and Olivia didn't need to know that. \"We nailed a tarp over the hole, and now I know you told me not to do that but we didn't really have a choice in the matter. He stayed with me until Olivia got back. He's a good man, Val.\" Olivia rummaged through their cupboards grabbing cups. \"But what about you?\" Florian asked, concern returning to his face. \"You looked like you just ran a mile out there, are you okay, what happened, where were you?\" The question was not an accusation, there was not a single bone in Florian's body that was mad at Valerian. Well, maybe there was one bone. A massively outnumbered bone. A voice in his head, in one of the deep dark corners of his mind was screaming. It screamed that he _should_ be mad, 'See, Florian? That's all they do, your siblings. All they're good for is abandoning you.' He knew it lied. He forced it away, locked it in a soundproof box. He wasn't mad, he was just unbelievably glad all three of them were in the same room again."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "\"*Olivia,*\" Valerian had breathed when their sister joined in, and each of the younger Barcas recieved a prompt kiss to the forehead, to the top of the head, or wherever Valerian could find before Florian interrupted him, drawing his attention back to the youngest brother, only to have his attention snapped back to his sister. Olivia had been at the general store, hunkered down, and Florian had been here - but not alone. Whoever this Algernon man was, Valerian owed him a cup of coffee and a thank you that would put even Baptist appreciation to shame. Still, when Florian pulls him along to the kitchen, Valerian takes a seat - he's still wearing the clothes he was wearing when he left to go speak with the Coalition, but this time, he was holding an embroidered sweater to his chest. He looked a man possessed — eyes wide, looking back and forth at both of them as if he were in a room with ghosts.\n\n*Where were you,* Florian asked, and if the youngest Barca stared too long at his brother's face, he would find that it was shifting from confusion (Algernon *Broke* Into their house? Maybe he should retract that cup of coffee..) to exasperation (*Stop worrying about me, I'd run five miles to get back to you, stop worrying about me-*) to guilt (*What's more important to you, Barca? The selfish comforts of a woman who makes you feel better about your own sin, or the survival of your siblings? You should have been here: YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN HERE!*) as he tries to find his words, face still blue with the shock.\n\n_ _\n\"I... Told you both, right, that I'd run n' gone to the Coalition meetin'. It went good - I gave them the silver bullet. Rhett Sterlin' said he'd be able to make more if I gave him a bullet for the mold, so I did, and I asked 'em what I could to do help. And Alma Cooper, that—\" He wants to say *Bitch* Here, but Olivia is here, and so Valerian quickly corrects himself, \"—*Witch* Of a girl put me to work haulin' metal. So I did, with Wes Gray— you all know the Grays, the folks 'Liv buys her soap from— until it got too dark. N' the snow was comin' down. Before I came home, though... I... Promised Hazel I'd go see her. She wanted to know what would come of me. Damn near thought I'd be shot out there. We had a cup of drink together, and I was gon' give her her Christmas present — the foxfurs? — when the snow came down somethin' fierce. By the time I was tryin' to go home, I couldn't. We were stuck up there together for two days. And it was—\"\n\n\n\n\"—never mind, I'll... Tell you all the details later. But I just now got out — she saw me off, and I just... Ran. I ran, and I ran, and... Now I'm here.\" He drapes the cardigan over the back of the chair, accepting the cup of warm tea from his sister with an appreciative smile as he warms his hand on the porcelain. Another tear streaks out of the other eye, a modern day Lucifer, and he shakes his head. \"I'm so grateful you two are alright. I'm so sorry. I should've been here— I wasn't listenin' to that old hag in the diner... Never again. I promise. Never. Again. Next time we're met with a mother nature prophecy, I'm grabbin' Hazel, and we'll all be here. I promise.\""
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "Florian rambled when he was stressed, he found that if you just kept talking then you didn't have to think about whatever bad had just occurred, that it would be filtered out one's mind in the background. Valerian had not yet processed the fact that they were all alive and safe, Olivia and Florian had had their reunion, they'd had time to process, at least somewhat. Florian didn't want to think about the fear he had felt for their lives, it was a fear he was altogether too familiar with at this point. He wanted to move on, to forget it ever happened. He selfishly wanted to pretend that in this moment they were just three regular siblings, drinking a cup of tea at the kitchen table, that nothing was out there trying to push them into early graves, that they didn't all three just spend two nights not knowing if the others were alive. But he knew he couldn't, no amount of jokes or pretending would absolve the worry still very present in Valerian, or him for that matter. Val felt responsible for him, that much Florian knew. He had tried, time and time again, to tell his brother that it was not his job to worry about him, but it seemed like those attempts always fell on deaf ears. And if Florian even dared to worry about Valerian the way the eldest did over the youngest, well, Val seemed to think he held the monopoly on worrying, a fact Florian had begrudgingly come to live with. _Val I am allowed to worry about you too God damnit._\n_ _\n\nFlorian looked at his brother when he asked where he'd been and felt his heart sink the moment the question left his lips and arrived at Valerian's ears. The familiar visage of guilt met him then. The expression was a knife in Florian's chest, a new voice itching to join the one he'd locked away could be heard. _See, all your siblings do is worry. All you cause is heartache for them. They would be so much better off if you weren't in the picture._ Florian was caught between two urges. One part of him wanting to take Valerian by the shoulders and shake some sense into that mind of his, to tell him that he should stop with the guilt, stop with the worry, _they'd all made it through._ He wanted to tell Valerian that he could start feeling guilty when he actually caused harm. If Valerian got Florian killed or attacked or shot or God knows what else as a _direct_ result of his actions, **Then** The man could start feeling guilty. The second part of him wanted to shrivel up there, to leave all together so he wouldn't be the cause of pain to his siblings, who he knew deep down would never stop feeling responsible for him, something which applied to all three of them. It was an unspoken truth that each of the Barca three felt responsible for the safety of the other two and similarly felt guilty for having been the cause of hurt and pain for the other two. Maybe one day it would be spoken about, today was not that day.\n_ _\n\nHe listened attentively to his brother's answer, the internal struggle he was dealing with bled onto his face for a moment before he pushed away the conflict and feelings that his brother's brief expression had summoned. He'd deal with that later, he always told himself to deal with it later. He wondered when later would come to turn into now, maybe it never would. Maybe he would take these feelings with him to the grave, whenever that moment came. \n\n\"More silver bullets? You mean to say we may stand a chance next moon?\" It was good news, most welcome news. Valerian Barca hauling metal, what a sight that must have been. At least it hadn't been in full, immaculate suit. Florian felt bad for his brother regardless. He was glad his brother had come out of that meeting unscathed, apart from the effects of physical labour. If he'd been harmed then the Coalition was fuller of fools than he thought possible. It wasn't unthinkable, his brother was far from popular, but the shared goal of keeping Briar Ridge alive had won, a fact he was most grateful for. He nodded, he remembered the fox furs, luxurious looking things they had been, Hazel was a lucky woman. His brother laughed there. The unmistakable sound of love was woven tightly and wholly into that laugh. Florian couldn't help but smile in return. A smile that faded into an apologetic expression when he heard how Valerian had sprinted across town. Flo would have done the same had he been in that position. He eyed the garment, was it new? Did Hazel make it for him? It looked like it would suit him well.\n_ _\n\nHe noticed the tear gently rolling down the other man's face and wondered if he would ever cease to be the reason for them existing. The angry part of him wanted to yell at Valerian: _For God's sake pull yourself together, can you not see Olivia and I are more than capable of surviving on our own if required to. You cannot take blame for everything, you cannot take the blame for an act of God, an act of nature. Stop! It!_ But he didn't, the angry part of him scared him, the part that was full of love, the gentle part of him, the part that ached when presented with the image of his crying brother, it won as it so often did. He reached out a hand, laying it gently on Valerian's forearm. \"Val-\" He said, squeezing his brother's arm. \"-it is alright. I am so glad you're back and in one piece, that is all that matters to me.\" He looked his brother in the eyes as if to gently tell him: _I don't blame you, there is nothing to forgive and if there was this part of me would have granted you forgiveness the moment you enacted your offences upon me._ \"Let us all hope there won't be a next time and if it does come, we'll all be safe together yeah? Just like you said.\" He smiled then, an apologetic smile, a smile that told the other that there was no anger, no hatred, no blame to be found.\n\n\"Tell me about Hazel, did she make you that there cardigan?\" He pointed towards it with his head. \"Did she like the gift you got her?\" He was genuine, he wanted to know, Valerian loved Hazel which meant Hazel in turn was important to Florian. Anyone responsible for providing happiness to his siblings was someone Florian was grateful for, he wished for nothing but happiness for his siblings."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "There was no malice to be found in his baby brother's expression, and Valerian doesn't know if that's supposed to be comforting or mortifying. He exhales slowly, and when his attention is turned towards his gift on the couch again, he shakes his head. \"N—Yes, she did, but...\" He goes to say something, and with a nudge from the inner part of him that demands he be more rational, he smiles. \"Yes, she did. She— she loved the furs. We used them to stay warm. She looked damn near radiant in them, I tell you. And her gift fits me perfectly. 'Course it would; she already has my measurements.\"\n\nOne hand warms itself on the warm drink he was given, the other rubbing against his forehead, and he sighs. The guilt of leaving them behind in pursuit of something he wanted fades gently with each breath he takes, and he casts another cursory glance to the tarp that covered up the hole in the wall, and he sighs. There's nothing more to be done about any of it, and ruminating on it anymore would give him wrinkles. He rolls his shoulders back, and he looks to Florian, nodding.\n\n\"I, eh... Kind of kissed her. I wanted to kiss her more, but look at me— I'm sweaty and dirty and gross from workin' with the coalition, and like hell I'm gonna kiss her when I'm like this. But— I'm bringing her to the house for dinner. She knows what my intentions are now, and... It sounds like she wants to return them. That's all I can ask for. So at the turn of the month, after I deal with all of this fuckin' work, and *Eugene*, and the full moon... I'm gonna shoo the two of you out and bring her here. Olivia has all of these girlfriends, and you can go hang out with, eh— oh, what's his name—\" *Fannie? Edward? No... God, his face was familiar, like he'd been around once before, but he shakes his head.* \"—short. Blonde. That guy. Your friend. Just for the evenin'. It all has to be *Perfect.*\"\n\n_ _\nNeurotic to a fault, that Valerian was. It was so easy to watch him assert control over the parts of his life that he could when he was faced with a lack of surety in other aspects. He liked his papers straight and his pens in order and everything neatly filed. He liked his Ts crossed, and his Is dotted and everything kept into neat little boxes. It didn't take a hawk to see the continued changing emotions on his face. It didn't take a psychiatrist to see that Valerian was struggling. With... Everything.\n\n\n\n\"Besides... I've done enough sittin' in a house for a couple days. I wanna just... *Be out there.* You know? That alright with you?\""
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "There was something hidden behind his brother's words. The question had been simple, was that her gift, did she like hers? He wondered why Val tripped backwards over his own words. His eyebrows rose in surprise. There it was, the tripwire. \"Oh? You kissed her?\" Florian was happy for Val. He still remembered how his brother had acted when Hazel turned him down for dinner some months back. He'd felt bad for him. Mostly. Almost entirely. (Maybe a small part of him had found it a tiny bit funny. In a loving way.) How someone could _kind of_ kiss someone else was beyond him, but he wasn't going to push. What Valerian and Hazel did or did not do was between them. He wished nothing but the best for them, should they continue their paths towards one another. \"I'm glad you got snowed in with her and not the coalition.\" \n\nValerian's second attempt at asking Hazel out for dinner had gone well. Florian smiled, he knew just who Valerian was describing. His best friend. \"His name is Freddie, and I will happily be shoo'ed out for you two to have a proper date.\" \n_ _\n\nHis brother seemed to be experiencing every emotion out there at once. That was never a good a sign. \"Val if there is somethin', _anythin'_ that I can help you with please tell me. I'm more capable than I am given credit for sometimes and it's not your job to take care of everythin' in this family. No matter how much you like to think it is.\" He knew his brother was under a lot of stress and he wasn't sure that there was anything he could do, but he wanted to at least offer. Any load he could take off would be an improvement. \n\nValerian had really meant it when he said he was going to teach him how to shoot. It might not seem like a big deal for outsiders, but for Florian it was. Learning how to shoot meant increased agency, meant resilience, meant more independence and meant he could be someone to be built upon. _I am never going to let you be in a position where you can't protect yourself again._ Neither of them had the gift of prophecy. Perhaps for the better.\n_ _\n\n\"We might have to dig a trench for my chair, but _yes_, of course. I'll join you outside. Gladly.\" It was not like the storm hadn't invited itself into the estate plenty over the past two days. But actively choosing to go outside was different, at least this time he'd be encountering snow willingly. He took a sip of his tea, hoping its warmth would loosen the nervous knot in his stomach that had reformed. He was nervous about learning to shoot. He wanted to be good at it, like Val was. He wanted to truly be able to protect himself and others should he need to."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "Valerian snaps his fingers in acknowledgement when Florian denoted Freddie's real name, and Valerian echoed it quietly with a *Freddie, that's right; I almost had it.* Still — as soon as the emotions formed, Florian called him out on them; the poker face is more often than not reserved for the board room. He rolls his shoulders back, shaking his head, \"I'm fine, I promise you. I've just experienced probably every emotion that exists and invented two more over the last couple o' days. Got my ass laughed out of the Coalition - fuck if I'm ever sharing *Anything* With them ever again, the idiots - only to be paranoid for two days straight about you an' your sister. And God help me, all of the damn emotions that come with being stuck in there with *Hazel,*\" He makes a face here, one that's almost too boyish, one that widens his eyes, one that Florian might have seen on Valerian's face once before as a child, when he had a crisis about kissing some boy.\n\nIt seems Valerian loves to have crises.\n\n_ _\n\"Eh, what's a trench in the grand scheme of things,\" He shrugs, looking out the kitchen window, peering around the corner. \"Besides, I need some damnable payback on this blizzard in one way or another. And if you need to get to the shed for whatever reason...\" It's not like there was anything out there that either of them needed, really: there was the car (which had no business being out in this snow), the rifle (which didn't need to see use outside of full moons and training sessions), and an ashtray alongside several dozen of their father's things still in boxes (which Valerian thinks can stay out there for some time longer).\n\n\"So,\" He exhales, shaking himself off as he rises from the table, continuing to warm his hands on the mug until he finishes swallowing all of the tea down, making a face - now that he had been introduced to coffee, he preferred it over tea tenfold - yet enjoying the warmth that spread throughout his chest, his waist, down into his arms and legs. \"Let me run upstairs and scrub everything off and you find your coat? Shouldn't take more than a half-hour to get myself ready and dry off, and then we can go out.\" The urgency is strange for Valerian, as if the blizzard and the fears around it have been damaging in a way he cannot recover from."
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "The Coalition acting the way they had had been a mistake on their part. Ungrateful bastards. Nevertheless, Florian knew that Briar Ridge might need those bastards. He'd been similarly paranoid about the well-being of his siblings during the blizzard, but Algernon had helped calm some of those fears. Florian knew his siblings to be resourceful and had had to blindly place his trust in that. He smiled at the look his brother had on his face when he mentioned the tailor. _Oh he was in **Deep** When it came to Hazel Calhoun._ \"The offer still stands.\" He wanted to help in any way he could, no matter how small. \n\n\"If you want to rest for a bit we can wait, Val, it's not like the wolves will be bangin' on our doors tomorrow.\" Nor would they be staying in the same place when they inevitably would. And oh how those wolves would come. Florian may or may not be stalling, out of fear of not being a good shot, not understanding it well enough for Valerian to trust him to hold his own, a fear of letting his brother down. He had steady hands, made for delicate details, surely he would be able to aim true. \n\nShovelling snow hardly seemed like payback, it seemed like even more work actually. He smiled at the image, _that'll teach it_ as if shaping a path would hurt the snow. He couldn't think of a reason why he'd need to be in the shed any time soon, but still appreciated the option to do so. Even if he wasn't going to use it. The trench would melt with the rest of the snow. They could always resort to using him and his wheelchair as a snowplow, though that was not his preferred solution.\n_ _\n\nSomething had gotten into his brother, there was a level of urgency that hadn't been there when he first agreed to teach Florian to shoot. Florian was not sure if he liked the urgency or if it worried him somewhat. It might just be both. Olivia and him continued talking for a bit until both had finished their tea. They could hear footsteps from Valerian's room indicating he was coming down again, at which point Florian went to grab his coat.\n\nDespite the slight nervousness about the speed at which things were happening, there he was, approximately half an hour later, slipping into his coat and strapping down the sleeves where they met his forearms so they wouldn't get in the way. \n\n\"Alright, so how do we do this?\" He said, watching Valerian get ready to go outside alongside him. He'd seen Valerian shoot before, he knew approximately how it worked, but the details and practicalities would be new to him."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "In the many years Valerian Barca has taken baths, he doesn't think he's ever been more grateful for a bar of soap. Scrubbing himself up and down, he near-neurotically works the cloth over his body, through his hair, over his face (though, maybe not in that order). Then, and only then, once the grime had peeled away and the man underneath all of that trauma looked again a bit like Valerian Barca, he rolls his shoulders back, looking himself over in the mirror. Eugh.\n\nWrapping the towel around his waist, Valerian took the straight razor to his jaw, cleaning up the smattering of stubble that had come about in a combination of the stress and the three days its been since a previous shave. Valerian's always been chasing his quickly-growing hair, always fighting to keep it neat yet his genetics demanding his hair goes back to being wild and free. (Even in this moment does he bite it back down with a thin layer of pomade, and when he slides his glasses back on again, he feels like the man he should be.\n\n_ _\nBy the time he's in a sweater, and a coat, and a pair of long johns, and some jeans, and thick socks, and his *Fucking work boots,* He's back outside and says nothing as he crosses through to grab the shovel, and the back door opens. He shivers, tucking his scarf down into his coat as the snow-wind damn near knocks them over. It takes a little while, all things considered, but when the yard is Florian-ready and the shed is entered, Valerian looks a different man.\n\nHis shoulders are a bit dropped, his coat adjusted — and despite his best attempts, his hair is still wet, tousled all over the place. Perhaps, for the first time in several years, Valerian Barca looks like Florian's older brother and less like a man pretending to be his father. He cusses quietly as he drops one of the bullets, squatting to pick it up. It gets set on the table, and then Valerian goes to set up several things, just as he did for Hazel weeks ago. They are cans, half-bent and some busted, and a couple of glass bottles he has leftover from the milk delivery.\n\nOnce settled in properly, Valerian loads the rifle with the appropriate number of rounds and then hands it over. His hands move like a teacher's, like he has teaching Florian how to hold a guitar, how to swim, how to do any of the things that should be the duty of an older brother to teach his younger brother. He guides the rifle to the appropriate place on his hand and on his shoulder, gently moving his hand in front of the trigger.\n\n_ _\n\"This is how you hold the rifle,\" He tells Florian, content with his positioning. \"Now, remember: the gun should always be unloaded unless you plan to shoot it, and you never want to touch the trigger unless you plan to pull it. You have to make sure that you're aiming *Up* Alongside your aim left to right, because you're never going to be at eye level with another person — and especially not a werewolf — so we may want to fit you with a pistol instead, but we'll try that if this doesn't work out. Don't close your eye to try to get a better shot— just point the tip of the gun towards one of the cans or bottles, and pull the trigger.\""
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "He wheeled himself onto the porch, watching Valerian clear out a path as best he could. The youngest Barca felt bad about making Valerian do manual labor again, especially after he'd just complained about Alma making him do it not two days ago. But then again, it had been Valerian who wanted to be outside again. \n\nA particularly stubborn gust of wind pushed Florian back a good few inches, his hands quickly grabbing onto the pushrims of his chair to stop him from rolling back any further. He was glad for the gloves he had, metal pushrims were excellent conductors of the cold, it was one of those things that nobody had warned him about when he first started learning how to use his wheelchair. It was one of quite a few lessons he'd only stumbled into by accident and through practice. When there was a clear path he pushed down the ramp. His grip and control over his wheelchair were abysmal in the current conditions and he would have almost bowled Valerian over if it hadn't been for the snail's pace he'd forced himself to adhere to. _God he hated winter._\n\nHe watched as Valerian set down various cans and bottles, paying close attention to the action of loading the rifle. Something glinted in the sunlight that peeked through the clouded sky, a metal plate on the side of the rifle: Happy birthday, Valerian. - Dad. Their father was protecting them still, even from beyond. He listened attentively as Valerian explained the process, studying the way he placed the rifle, the appropriate etiquette, _don't load unless you plan on making it count, got it._ He nodded. _Aim upward, you're low to the ground._\n_ _\n\nFlorian aimed, just as Valerian had shown him, keeping both eyes open despite the urge to close his left one. When he thought the barrel was pointing right where it needed to be, his finger came up and squeezed the trigger. \n\nHe had been warned about recoil and knew what it entailed, but experiencing it was a different story. It was as though someone had shoved him against the shoulder, _hard_. A surprised \"Oof\" Was pushed from his lungs as the firearm jerked in his grip, pulling it firmly away from the target he'd been aiming at. He could feel his chair wanting to roll backward with the momentum, stopped by his brother's presence. He was going to need brakes, that or be parked up against a wall. But he'd rather not be cornered when facing a werewolf. He'd rather not face a werewolf at all.\n\nNone of the cans or bottles had moved. He'd missed. Off to a great start.\n\n\"Well _shit._\" \n\nHe sighed. At least werewolves weren't bottle-sized.\n\n\"I want to try again, I'll get this right. Do I just hold on more tightly?\""
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "The *Oof* Makes Valerian laugh — it's a warm, hearty chuckle that leaves him with warm breath at the end, and he nods. Yeah — Florian definitely was going to need some kind of brakes. He has no idea who in town can make those for him, or what they'd even cost, but he's sure that someone can take care of it. He just has to find someone who's willing. Then again, since these are for Florian, he doesn't expect to get some kind of pushback on such things. He wonders if he can drop a line to the nurse who cared for Florian in his absence, see if she has any recommendations.\n\n\"No one hits their first shot,\" Valerian reminds him, comforting hands on his brother's shoulders, here. \"I didn't, Haze didn't, you didn't. That's 'cause of the recoil. No one ever expects it, so we loosen our grip or get scared. Now you know what it feels like, let's try it again.\"\n\nOften, Florian asked Valerian what their father was like. It makes sense that Florian barely remembered Octavian; for the good majority of their lives, all Olivia and Florian ever had was Valerian—and Valerian didn't have much of anyone. Sure, he had the Coopers, and anyone else who was willing to run around with one of the most overworked thirteen year olds in Briar Ridge in the brief moments of respite he had between hauling lumber, running messages, delivering packages, and helping on random farms. It wasn't much, but it was enough for them to get by. Those that couldn't pay in cash paid in the things that the Barcas needed — it was not an easy life, and that life is what drove Valerian to prioritize his own preservation over all things — but it was his life. And if it meant that he got to stand here with his younger brother, both alive and well (despite one of them physically disabled and the other emotionally compromised), he'd do it over and over again. He doesn't want to think about what his life might be like without either of his siblings around.\n\n_ _\n*They're Barcas,* He had to tell himself while he was lost in Hazel's embrace, triggered by his own fears; he wasn't there to protect them, and he was paying the price for it. *They'll be okay.* Valerian had yet to identify that the reason he was so certain that they'd survive is because they've already done it once before.\n\nHe doesn't realize he's squeezing Florian's shoulders until it's far too late, and he pulls away, embarrassed. Returning to his position holding his brother's wheelchair, he nods. \"Your form was real good, your shot well-taken. I think it was just the recoil. Go on an' try again. Remember: the real thing is gon' be much, much bigger than these stupid bottles, so your surface area's gonna be easier to hit. *This* Is to practice hitting them where it counts. Dad always told me that the best way to kill a deer is through its eye. I'm assumin' werewolves die the same way. \""
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "\"Oh, that's good to know.\" It wasn't just him who missed his first shot. It was common, not a personal shortcoming. He felt Valerian's grip on his shoulders tighten and he smiled. He nodded, _try again, mind the recoil_, he could do this. He brought the rifle back up again and took a deep breath in and out, steadying himself. _Let's do this._ His hands were trained for precision, painting and sketching details required steady hands and close control over their movements. He aimed, finger meeting the trigger and this time there was a marked increase in surety as he pulled it back. The sound of a glass bottle shattering rewarded his improved technique. Maybe he shouldn't have aimed for something made from glass, but that would be a problem for later. He lowered the rifle. \"I did it!\" He had, and it was, well, _fun_, he wanted to do it again, maybe a can this time.\n_ _\n\n_Werewolves die the same way, shoot them through the eye._ The realization of what he was doing, _why_ he was doing it, suddenly dawned on him. Fear crept up on him, bottles and cans were one thing, but a werewolf was something else entirely. He started doubting himself, would he even be able to move when faced with one of them? Would he not freeze up instead? Would he fail to protect himself, or worse: fail to protect Olivia, fail to protect whoever else would be in the safehouse he'd be staying in? As much as he liked to see himself as someone worthy of being relied upon, as someone who could and would protect others, he wasn't sure he actually was that person. He was scared, scared for the lives of his siblings, scared for the lives of his friends, for those in Briar Ridge he was so close to he might as well consider them family, scared for his own life. But there were _people_ inside the werewolves, neighbors, friends, people he'd interacted with, people whose lives he may very well be afraid for. What right did he have to hurt them, wasn't there another way to defend himself, a way that didn't involve harming them?\n\n\"What is it like? Seein' one of them up close?\" He asked, clearly worried about the possibility of being in that situation. \"How do you shoot them knowin' that it might be someone you know?\" The question wasn't an accusation, there was no blame or judgment in his words. _Them._ There was already a separation in place, despite knowing that there was no clear _us_ and _them_ in this situation. The werewolves were victims of circumstance, of a curse, they didn't choose to be the way they were."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "Valerian is an echo of a man who is long-since dead when Florian's next bullet collects with a tin can. He looks down at his brother, proud, an instinctive hand gripping his brother's shoulder. In a matter of a moment and a half, he looks at Florian and sees a younger version of himself staring back at him. (*Abel is a compilation of every mistake you have ever made and still you love him anyways, Cain.*) Perhaps, then, this is what Octavian felt like when Valerian took his first shot, took his first deer, took his first... *Whatever.* He wonders, in that moment, if Octavian had prepared him to die in the way he is preparing Florian to die—he wonders, briefly, if perhaps he should have gone to war when the draft came about, his name scrawled in red ink, his contestion accepted by those powers that be.\n\nDoes Florian Barca know that he and his sister are the only reason Valerian came back from Roanoke and Richmond, rather than overseas? Is that something, perhaps, that only Valerian thinks of on occasion? That being their sole provider potentially kept him from coming home in a pine box, and now he trains his brother as he would be trained to fight in a war that does not need to be theirs to fight?\n\n*Look what I have done,* He thinks, and when he pulls away, he leaves blood and coal dust on Florian's shoulder. Shaking his head, he listens to the question his brother asks him, and he steps around to pocket his hands to look at his brother. He knows better than to squat or to kneel to be at eye-level with his brother; instead, he stands at a pseudo-attention, the light hitting him in a way that makes him look a bit like an angel, a bit like the devil. He could lie to his brother, continue to be this object of simultaneous accomplishment and heresy in his eyes. But no — Valerian Barca is done lying.\n\n_ _\n\"Terrifying,\" He admits, and he laughs softly, rubbing the back of his neck. \"But to be honest with you, Flori, all I could think about was keeping you all safe. It's either us or them, and I haven't done all of the things I've done just to die at the hands of someone who doesn't know any better.\" To Valerian, there *Was* An established us-and-them. It was those who would keep the Barcas alive and those who would try to kill them. That was the only separation that existed, to him, and there was nothing in the manual about blurring those lines. \"I remember being there, with that pistol. I remember feeling the gun heavier than it had been before, knowing there was silver in the gun. Knowing that I could *Save you.* \"\n\nHe purses his lips, something ghosting over his face. \"I... Know I've failed you in a lot of ways, Florian. Tried to overcorrect. Tried to be something I'm not. Done... *Unspeakable* Things to this place, this house, *Our family* In the interest of self-preservation. But in that moment... None of it mattered. Like hell I was going to die to something that couldn't even choose to kill me of its own volition. It was us or them. And I'll pick *Us,* Every time.\"\n\nWhen did he stop talking about the werewolves, and start talking about Briar Ridge?"
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "_Knowing I could save you._ How much more blood, wolf and human alike, was going to be spilled in the name of protecting Florian? How many more people had to get hurt so he could remain in comfort? ~~How many of those mines had he indirectly funded with his mere existence?~~ He didn't know the full extent of his brother's sins, but he knew it was more than he wanted to be aware of. Valerian had returned to Briar Ridge partially for him, just like Olivia had. He was there pulling them back to their roots, pulling them both into the hungry maw of a werewolf. All while he was tucked away in a corner, out of sight and unaffected by the violence.\n\nThe blood on Valerian's hands was mirrored by the guilt that stained Florian. Red was met by a sticky blackness. Two sides of a guilt-ridden, warped coin. What would their father think?\n\n_What if, god forbid, one of us gets cursed?_ It was a thought that had plagued his mind for a while. He couldn't bear to think about it or to speak it out loud, afraid that if he spoke the words they would increase in likelihood. No, they were Barcas, that wouldn't, _couldn't_ happen to them. They'd done the impossible before and they'd do it again. \n\nValerian was right, it was us versus them. The werewolves didn't care if the human trapped inside knew whose body it sunk tooth and claw into. They were monsters. No monster was going to rip his family from him. He wouldn't be losing them, not again, and certainly not to an early death. He would guard Olivia that moon and take on the role of protector for once. He let Valerian's words sink in fully before speaking again. In his brother's eyes he was still that small boy in need of protecting, he wondered if he would ever shed that image. He'd tried to, only to be shut down each and every time. One of these days something outside of both their control might force Valerian to see the truth. But not yet and not now. \n_ _\n\n\"You did what you had to to survive, Val. I can't rightly blame you for that.\" He wasn't sure if he spoke of werewolves or Briar Ridge at large. \"You're right, it is us or them. Thank you for teachin' me. It means a lot.\" Being armed meant he didn't have to be hidden away anymore, it meant he was shedding some of his vulnerable image. It meant he could be useful instead of a burden, and by God did that fuel the youngest Barca."
}
] | 640.5 | 10,266 |
541.5 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "Jessie nodded and scurried up and into the house, gently placing Owen's jacket over his shoulders as they went. He wasn't able to offer his nibling so much as a greeting, though, as his focus had gone from Rhett to the cat that nuzzled his hand. Without thought, he turned his hand this way and that so Spider would have a better time getting the rubs she so craved. Yet, even as he lavished her with attention, his face remained hollow.\n\n\"Of course,\" His voice cracked, eyes remaining fixed on Spider, \"Go right ahead.\"\n\nAs Rhett came closer, Owen's body began to tense. It seemed involuntary; a learned response, almost, to the man who had taken a piece of Owen's heart in his absence. The said piece had been given willingly- they had been *Friends*, after all. Still, after all these years, he wasn't sure if that rang true anymore.\n\n\"I... Didn't think I'd ever see you again.\" His tone was softer as Rhett sat down, but still cracked at some of the words. \"Mama told me before she was gone that you were back, that you'd *Been* Back and she'd kept it from me-\"\n\nOwen's words cut off with a choked sob, and his free hand flew up to muffle the sound.\n\n\"I'm sorry-\" Another sob interrupted his words, followed by the trembling of his shoulders. \"I don't- I can't-\""
},
{
"author": "RHETT TERLIng",
"message": "The air was thick with tension and Rhett felt like he could hardly wade through it. He leaned his crutch against the side of the porch and clambered up to sit a healthy distance away from Owen, perched just off his right shoulder, watching the other man all the while. This was the first time Rhett had been able to see him proper since he'd been home. This was the first time he'd seen Owen's scars, but they didn't bother him– the imperfections seemed like just a hazy overlay, and Owen was still whole and unmarred beneath them. They weren't just skin deep, though. Rhett could feel it, how the milky white haze of Owen's bad eye changed not just what he saw, but the *Way* He looked at things. Rhett had missed so much, and he would never be able to recover it all. His heart rolled in his chest like an off kilter grindstone, milling down all his jagged feelings all uneven and coarse. \n\nOwen's admission seared through Rhett's already aching ribs like a bullet, and he froze, barely able to make out the next sounds through the ringing that started up between his ears. Something had been uncorked, and the pressure was building, building–\n\nOwen began to cry. Moments later, so did Rhett. Gracelessly, he scrambled himself to Owen's side and hooked his good arm around his friend, Owen's blond head slotting into the crook of Rhett's neck, Rhett's cheek pressed to Owen's crown.\n\n\"Hey, hey,\" Rhett croaked, failing to sound soothing. He sniffed, and squeezed Owen's shaking frame. \n\n\"I didn't wanna stay away, Owen. I hope you kin believe me. Your mama– she only wanted the best things for ya,\" He sniffed again, and tried to shrug his slinged shoulder up to his face to clear away the stream of tears at his cheek. \n_ _\n\n\"When I came back, she told Bonnie 'n Linda it'd be best to leave you be. I'm sorry, Owen. I'm so–\" Rhett closed his eyes, aiming for even the slightest shift in composure. One of them needed to be stable, and Rhett elected himself the most fit for the job, being the one who hadn't just said goodbye to a mother. His breath was shaky, but he drew one in all the same.\n\n\"If you want me to keep away, I'll go, I jus'... When Jessie come callin' for me, 'n after all this time that I been wantin' ta see ya I jus'...\" He heaved air, and air out, \"I jus' couldn't keep stayin' away.\" \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "Rhett's arm slung around his shoulder, while it was a comfort to Owen, it also made his heart clench painfully. He couldn't understand it- his mother knew he struggled with making friends, and Rhett was one of the few he had- why would she keep him away? Of course, he'd been hurt by his leaving, but he'd forgiven him a long time ago.\n\nOwen's heart had always been soft, and his forgiveness easy, but he'd only just learned that his mother's was not.\n\n\"I don't want you to go, and I'm not mad.\" He fought down the sobs that threatened to slip past his lips, and continued, \"You're my *Friend*, Rhett- that hasn't changed, even if Mama kept you away.\"\n\n\"You could have stayed away for a decade, even longer, and you'd still be my friend.\" Owen rubbed at his good eye, careful not to get any of the tears on Rhett's shirt. \"We don't need to talk about it anymore if you don't want to, we don't even need to talk about anything, I just... Please, stay.\""
},
{
"author": "RHETT TERLIng",
"message": "With Constance, it had always been easy to shrug out of the hard times. She had patterns that he could drink through, glaze over through with the help of some substance or other. If she ever caught him lucid, he had the faculties to slip out of her chokehold, his consciousness fizzling and blurring on automatic pilot, as it did under the influence. There were always only two choices, anyway, and even those were constructed by Connie herself to contribute to an illusion of freedom: running towards, and running away. With her, she always made sure he was running towards her, even in his attempts at escape. She always made sure his world seemed big enough to find spots to hide, all the while keeping it small enough to reach him in any corner. \n\nThe way he'd received her abuse had felt something like penance, but in the years since then that he'd spent out from under her thumb, he'd begun to realize that there were countless ways to counter conflict. Still, after all his learning, his favorite method continued to be running away. He had Alma to thank for trying to teach him there was merit in standing still: in steadying his shoulders to weather the pain. There was meaning in a fight. It didn't have to be all fear and defenselessness. \n\nIn Rhett's experience, he could find no better heading to suit what was happening between him and Owen than \"Fight.\" It wasn't that, though. Maybe each of them were fighting themselves, all the while within each others' reach, but they weren't fighting each other. His miscategorization of the situation made it all the more difficult to navigate. He was silent for too long as the breeze dried his tears. \n\n_ _\n\n\"You could be mad, if you wanted ta be. I'd understand it if ya were.\" He finally said, and it was nothing but the truth. He'd understand Owen *So* Much better if he lashed out with anger. Instead, his sadness was an inconvenient and amorphous thing, and it saw into Rhett's eyes with a disturbing clarity, begging him for a balm he didn't understand how to give. \n\n\"You're my friend, too, Owen. I– I missed ya. I thought about you so much while I were away. I thought about you so much when I come back, too, I jes'—\" He turned his head to the side, worried the tears were returning from the way his throat constricted. \n\n\"I shoulda come 'n seen ya. I was worried you'd be angry, but even if you was, I shoulda come 'n felt it. I'm sorry.\" The urgency of tears had passed for the moment, and he looked back at Owen, his eyes roaming the man's face with a desperation to make up for years of absence. \n\n\"We should talk 'bout it more. I mean– if you want. I been learnin' not ta run away from things that hurt ta say. Or. You know. Things that take work ta say out loud.\" He swallowed, suddenly nervous to cross this boundary with Owen. With Alma, he could know what to expect, to some degree. He understood the ways her eyes broadcast what she was feeling. He understood the different sounds in her voice. With Owen, it had been so long since he'd been able to claim true understanding of the man. What if he'd changed beyond recognition? What if all the little ways he projected himself were confusing and illegible to Rhett, now? \n_ _\n\nSome of those worries were unfounded. As soon as Rhett'd seen Owen today, there was familiarity. There was comfort in an old friend. Surely, most of the Owen that remained since Rhett's absence would be the familiar parts. The unfamiliar parts could be understood in time, like knowing the difference between a busy, well-trod road, and the little paths through the grass that folks wore down into the dirt over time. There was a hopefulness in learning Owen's new pathways, and Rhett clung to it as he breathed through the discomfort of their reunion. \n_ _"
},
{
"author": "Owen Barnes",
"message": "Something about the two of them sitting there reminded Owen of broken toys; of broken porcelain, frayed cloth arms, and missing button eyes. They both went about their jobs as best as they could, led by someone they knew (or had thought) they could trust, but something along the way had seared into them both and left them changed. He didn't know exactly *What* Had happened during Rhett's absence, but there was now an uneasy edge that he didn't remember in his friend's eye.\n\n\"Why would I be mad at you?\" He sniffled but offered Rhett a shaky smile. \"I can't be upset with you when you were chasing after something that would make you happy, even if it took you away from here.\"\n\nWould it have been different if Owen was the man he was before the fire? Most certainly. He would have ranted and raved about how *Stupid* It was for Rhett to leave, only to come back without the very same beau he chased after. It would have passed fast enough once he saw his friend's tears, but his heart's first response would have been anger.\n\nThe pyre that had been the Barnes' farm that horrid night had done more than just scar him- it reduced his capacity for anger to near ashes. Owen never got angry, never yelled. Even if the stirrings of frustration began to rise within him, it was always *Small* And manageable.\n\nA blessing, he had come to think of it.\n\n\"You're here now.\" Owen slunk his arm around Rhett's waist and gave him a half-hug. \"I accept your apology, too, though you don't need to be. You're alive and breathing, and that's all that I can ask for.\"\n\nHis brow furrowed a small bit, and the question weighed heavily on his tongue. Rhett opened the floor to speak about it, but as injured as his friend was, it almost felt wrong to ask. He *Needed* To, he knew, and he hoped that his expression was as non-judgmental as he could make it.\n\nOwen took a break, then spoke, \"What made you come back?\""
},
{
"author": "RHETT TERLIng",
"message": "Rhett had been cautious about centering his full attention on Owen, as if his friend had told him he didn't want to be looked at. Somehow he felt like he barely deserved to be sitting here, let alone to watch Owen's face as he spoke. That smile, though– that watery, shaky smile, caught out of the corner of Rhett's eye– felt like an invitation. Finally, Rhett turned fully, committing to memory every detail in Owen's expression, the rough skin at his jaw, and the fair blond hair that peeked around the nape of his neck. \n\n\"You *Can* Be mad– 'n I guess I should thank ya that ya ain't. But it don't feel right. *I'm* Mad at me– at how I could jest *Leave* Like that. It seems lazy ta say I don't remember the boy I was who'd'a done a thing like leave a town fulla people I loved to follow just one I *Thought* Did.\" He paused, not having looked away from Owen, just focused on his friend's hands as he spoke. He considered reaching for one. He didn't. \n\"But I don't. I jes' hope I turned inta a better man than him.\" Rhett only met Owen's eyes again just before he was pulled into a hug, and now it was the crown of Rhett's head tucked into the space between Owen's jaw and chest. It felt safe there. Time paused. The breeze fell still, the birds silent. Rhett breathed, and for how long he didn't know, before the rumble of Owen's voice drew him to sit upright again. \n_ _\n\n\"What made me come back,\" He parroted, a bit hollow. He turned to face forward again, as if the shame in his answer brought back that undeserving feeling of beholding the face that welcomed him. Maybe he couldn't bear to see his own shame reflected in Owen's eyes. Maybe it was easier to *Speak* That shame when he pretended it was only to the tangle of grass around the foundation of the porch.\n\n\"What I were chasin'... Stopped makin' me happy.\" He confessed, his eyes hardened and far off. He'd unraveled most of the story of his time away to Alma, albeit in fits and spurts. Some of the words he'd strung for her sat ready and willing on his tongue to offer themselves to Owen, but was that what he'd asked for? He wanted to know why Rhett had come back, and all those horrible things, well- they were only the reasons why he'd *Left.*\n\nHe could have lived his days in Cleveland, together with his found family, the hum of the shop's diesel generator replacing the warmth of home and any semblance of a heartbeat. He could have fled elsewhere, could've kept sinking into other folks' shadows so he never had to measure up to the darkness of his own. \n\nBut he'd come back. Why? \n_ _\n\n\"This is where home is. In... In all the people here, in the dirt, in the river. Fer some reason I thought I deserved ta know what home felt like again. I was too scared ta keep runnin' away forever, e'en though I knew it meant remindin' the folks I'd run from in the first place how much I mighta hurt 'em leavin'.\" He shook his head– just a tick to the left, \"Selfish.\" He tutted, and peeked over at Owen, his brows knit, desperate to know his friend's expression. Would it hold contempt, pity, anger? For some unfathomable reason, could it possibly hold understanding? \n\nRhett's insides did an odd dance between his hunger for forgiveness, and the nausea in his belief that he didn't deserve it. If Owen followed through on his acceptance of Rhett's apology (that is, if Rhett allowed himself to believe it), what then, would he owe the man? And how many years of his life would it take to pay him back?\n_ _"
}
] | 510 | 3,249 |
215.73913 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "It had been a long... Long morning. His mother was out of the house, and he'd promised her he'd clean up the yard, because really... It was the least he could do for her at this point. The woman was grieving, after all. If he could pull up weeds in her garden or move some things around for her, he could make it happen. \n\nHe'd been sweating, despite it being a brisk February morning. The wind was crisp but he was hauling jugs of moonshine into storage, cleaning up the mess from pulling up weeds, and wiping the sweat off his brow. \n\nMaybe he was just very distracted, or maybe it was about time he got his ears checked by Doc Olander - because he didn't hear the great beast until it was almost directly behind him, breathing down his neck. When he turned, he gave a start. \n\nA massive horse stood behind him, it's nose almost on his neck and huffing like he'd done something wrong. Charlie put a hand on the horse's neck, rubbing and down as he observed it. It seemed friendly, if the way it knocked it's head against his indicated anything. \n\n\"Well hello there,\" He said, amusement in his voice. \"Now where in hell did you come from, huh? I reckon somebody's gotta be missin' you, ain't they?\" Unfortunately, he wasn't exactly familiar with every horse, nor it's owner, in Briar Ridge... And it wasn't like the thing was outfitted with a giant dog collar. \n\n\"Well, why don't ya come on over here,\" He said, trying to lead the damn thing over to the side. \"I bet my ma would know exactly who ya are if she was here.\" He tutted and snickered. \"Pretty thing, ain't ya?\" The thing sniffed at him, nearly knocking off his glasses in the process. \"Hey, watch the specs,\" He said, though it held no malice."
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "Tapshoe, despite all of Adrian's training, had one flaw: she liked to wander.\n\nIn most circumstances, it was easy to locate her: she was never too far off for Adrian to find her- a few minutes, at most. Today, unfortunately, was different.\n\nAdrian had woken up like it was any other day, crawling out from her canvas tent to stretch out the kinks and aches in her back from sleeping on a thin bedroll. Normally, Tapshoe would be tied to a nearby tree and would snort upon seeing her rider emerge for the day. Adrian would rifle through her things, hold out some of her feed, and her morning would start in earnest.\n\nInstead, Adrian had come out to an empty campsite.\n\nAfter tugging on her boots and jacket, Adrian set out into the cold morning, intent on finding her damn horse.\n\n...That had been half an hour ago.\n\n\"Stupid fuckin' weather... Cold as a witch's tit out here...\" She grumbled, adjusting her coat around her cotton nightgown. \"Never gonna wear this damn thing again til I see fuckin' flowers springin' outta the ground...\"\n\n*\"Now where in the hell did you come from, huh?\"*\n\nThe voice had her head jerk up, eyes wide as she searched the area. It was a tad faint, but not too far off, and Adrian shot off like a bolt in its direction.\n\nTapshoe, meanwhile, happily soaked up the attention Charlie gave her, sniffing any available part of him like a bloodhound, and snorting low whenever she got a pat.\n\n\"Tapshoe!\" The horse snorted again and lifted its head lazily towards the approaching Adrian, who stormed towards the beast, only to slow once she spotted Charlie.\n\n\"Oh. Uh. Mornin'?\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "The horse was clearly not his only unexpected visitor today. He heard her before he saw her; all dark hair and fire in her eyes. He wasn't sure he'd ever become acquainted with this woman before, and he couldn't help but think how much of a shame that was. \n\n\"Mornin' ma'am,\" He greeted her, tipping his head as she came fully into view. \"I figure... This must be your missing Tapshoe, huh? Didn't give me much trouble, just came sniffing around ma's garden is all.\" \n\nHis eyes flickered from the horse to the woman and he realized, belatedly, she was in little more than a cotton nightgown. He wasn't a prude by no means; he'd been lucky enough in his life to have seen a few women naked by now, but this was an entirely different situation. He wasn't sure he was supposed to be seeing her in her nightclothes, and he wasn't sure how she felt about a strange man seeing her like this. \n\nHe tipped his head again and let his eyes fall away out of respect. \"Charlie Cooper, ma'am, pleasure to make your acquaintance. I'm not sure I've had the pleasure of knowin' you until now.\" He cleared his throat and leaned a little on the cane at his side."
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "\"Of *Course* She did. You'd think I never feed her, with how much she focuses on fuckin' food.\" She snorted, rolling her eyes. \"She woulda eaten this whole damn garden up if you hadn't been here.\"\n\nAdrian didn't seem to mind Charlie's eye on her; she stood as though this was an everyday occurrence- to have an underdressed woman appear upon a man's doorstep with her wandering horse.\n\n\"You'll go and make me feel ancient by callin' me ma'am, Charlie. My name's Adrian O'Davoran, and it's a pleasure for both me and my silly little mare here to meet ya.\" She held out her hand to shake the hand Charlie wasn't using to hold his cane, a wide grin on her face.\n\n\"Forgive me for trudgin' on in like I own the place, I've been searchin' for her for a good little bit now.\"\n\nTapshoe, once again, began sniffing Charlie."
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "He lifted his eyes back to her hand and shifted his weight a bit, sticking out his hand to shake. Her hands were smaller than his, sure, but strong. He could feel the callouses, no doubt from the leather straps of riding a horse, paired with whatever she did for work. He couldn't imagine someone like this was puttering around a kitchen all day. \n\n\"Then it's a good thing I was out here, ain't that right Miss Tapshoe?\" He released Adrian's hand so he could pat the sniffing horse. \"Don't you worry about it none, Adrian,\" He said her name, letting it roll around his tongue a moment. It was a nice name, he'd give it that. \n\n\"Ain't often I get women comin' to the yard this early in the mornin' but it certainly ain't nothing to complain about.\" He cleared his throat afterward. \"How far did this little lady walk then?\" Charlie asked in curiosity. \"Hopefully not too far.\""
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "\"I'd reckon I'm one of the first, 'lest you got ladies chasin' you home all hours of the day.\" Adrian chuckled, stuffing her hands into her coat pockets. \"Not too far for me- thirty minutes, I think, give or take. Longer than the *Other* Times she's gone an' wandered off, but at least she's still in town.\"\n\nShe grimaced suddenly, shuffling her feet as her teeth chattered. \"Tapshoe coulda' gone and done this in more pleasant weather, mind ya, but once she went off an' trudged through a fuckin' river in the middle of December on me, so I can't complain unless I want her goin' and gettin' ideas.\"\n\nTapshoe's head lowered to Charlie's pockets, nudging at the fabric of his pants for a moment before Adrian clicked her tongue.\n\n\"I think she likes you, ya poor bastard- she won't ever leave you alone now.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "\"Clearly she's got a whole lotta ideas on her own,\" He said, moving his arm up to allow the horse to nose at his pocket. \"Are you after a treat?\" He asked her, digging in his pocket where he'd stored a carrot. It was a runty thing, something that had clearly been pulled up to be discarded, but he held it flat in his hand to allow the horse to take it. \n\n\"I'm not bothered by her none. And for the record— no, I ain't got no ladies followin' me home, so you'd be the first one to stumble here.\" He cracked a smile and rubbed Tapshoe's broad snout. \n\n\"Where are my manners?\" He said, clearing his throat as he realized how frigid Adrian had become. \"Christ almighty, come inside and get warm. I can make you something warm to drink, keep the chill off...\" He felt awful that she'd been walking around in just that damn nightgown, freezing half to death out there."
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "Tapshoe was quick to snatch the poor excuse of a carrot from Charlie's hand, slobbering all over him as she did so. Adrian, in response, only shook her head, muttering something about a mess under her breath.\n\n\"I'm mighty honored to be the first to bug ya like this, then.\" She curtsied with her nightgown, despite the chattering of her teeth. \"May it start a long tradition of strange women showin' up on your mama's doorstep askin' after you.\"\n\n\"I appreciate the offer, as long as I'm not puttin' you out none. I've got a camp back the way I came from, so I won't stay in your hair long at all.\" Adrian shuffled closer, almost bumping into Charlie. \"I hope your family don't mind.\"\n\nShe stopped, though, to turn toward Tapshoe. \"You wouldn't have a post or somethin' I could hitch her to, would ya?\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "\"I don't think I'll be getting many more in quite like you, Adrian,\" He said, a soft laugh following. \"Not with a horse and all, nah, and that's half the fun ain't it?\" He patted Tapshoe one more time before he wiped his hands off on his pants. \n\n\"You ain't putting me out none by no means. Nobody else home— well, it's just Ma and me. Alma ain't livin' here no more and...\" His words slowed and he cleared his throat. \"I'm sure you know what went on and happened to my Pa.\" \n\nHe tried not to think about it. God, he needed to push it down. \"You can go on and tie her off to that post over there,\" He gestured towards the left the house. \"Why don't you head on in after, I'll put a kettle on to make some tea.\" \n\nHe turned on his heel and went inside, up the steps with his cane. He had filled a kettle with water from the pitcher and lit the stove, setting it to boil on there. It gave him a moment's reprieve; she was something else, wasn't she?"
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "Adrian's brows furrowed at the mention of Charlie's father, his tone all too familiar to a woman in her line of work. How many times had she gone after a murderer for a weeping widow and her family? Too many times, but people were predictable- as long as there was money in it, men would die, and leave behind whatever they could. She hadn't been in town long enough to know exactly *What* Happened, really, but the pain was easy to spot all the same.\n\nTapshoe followed easily behind her with some simple coaxing, and a promise of a hefty breakfast seemed to placate the horse enough to allow Adrian to hitch her to the post. After a few pats and a few whispered words, she sprinted over to the door where Charlie had disappeared behind, shut the door, and shot up the stairs.\n\n\"Sweet baby JESUS do I hate February.\" She shivered, rubbing her arms over her coat sleeves. \"Thank you again, Charlie- I already feel a little bit better.\"\n\nAdrian paused for a moment, still rubbing her arms, before speaking again.\n\n\"I don't rightly know what happened to your Pa, Charlie, but I could always go after 'em, if you wanted- I've got experience in the area.\"\n\nIt's said casually as she slid into a chair, crossing her legs to seal in whatever warmth she still had."
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "Her words had caught him off guard as she entered the room. A promise to murder for a perfect stranger; Adrian certainly was unlike any woman he'd ever met. Then again, he supposed nearly none of the women in Briar Ridge were like the women back in the city. \n\n\"Nah, nah, it's alright,\" He assured her quickly, his cheeks a bit flushed. He pushed up his glasses as he tried to think of a way to explain it to her. \"I'm sure... You know, you've heard of the situation in town?\" He said, raising an eyebrow. \"With the werewolves?\" \n\nHe could hear the kettle begin to scream, and he poured two cups for them, the teabags nestled in the cups as the water shifted from clear to that deep, rich color. \n\nCharlie placed the cup in front of her and had a seat, racking his brain. \"He was one of those beasts. And someone thought he was better off dead than facing trial.\" He grimaced and took a sip of his tea, though it was much too hot. \n\n\"I didn't wanna say goodbye to my Pa, but things gotta be done.\" His eyes flickered to meet hers. \"Sounds like you might understand that.\""
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "Adrian had heard of the werewolves, but none of it made sense to her. Sure, she had encountered odd things out east, but never something as... Intense as this.\n\n\"I have, though I hope nobody thinks too poorly of me for still bein' a little skeptical.\" She wrinkled her nose, cheeks flushing as warmth began to settle back into her. \"Never seen or heard of somethin' like this, and I've been around.\"\n\nThe cup gave Adrian's hands much-needed warmth as she hovered her palms around it, careful not to burn her hands.\n\n\"I get it, but not about the part of 'things needin' to be done'. You're sayin' someone was keen on seein' him dead 'fore he could hang, but you ain't doin' much of a good job of a mournin' son, neither.\"\n\nShe took a sip of her drink, eyes trained on Charlie from under her lashes. \"Sons wantin' their father's dead ain't nothin' new to me, though.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "His mouth felt very dry, and the way Adrian had him pinned with her eyes made him sweat. She knew, it seemed, and it wasn't a good idea to lie his way out of this one. \n\n\"I didn't want him dead,\" He said, not breaking eye contact with her. \"I ain't never want him dead. He was my Pa. But...\" He grit his teeth. \"He was a murderer. He ain't done anything to prevent himself or his kind from rippin' apart half the town. People were found out in the woods, yknow? Two young boys, ripped to shreds. I ain't know if it was him or another but he ain't givin' them up, neither.\" \n\nHe paused and looked down into his cup. \"I'd mighty appreciate you keepin' this bit o' information to yerself, Miss Adrian.\" He said, lifting his eyes to meet hers once more. \"It ain't somethin' I'm proud of in the slightest. It was just somethin' that had to be done.\" \n\nHe took a long sip of his tea. He felt like he was under a magnifying glass with her; like she could see right through him. It made his cheeks warm and he tugged slightly at his collar. Was it warm in here?"
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "\"Boys,\" She echoed, face stilling. Her fingers twitched around her cup, and she closed her eyes to take a deep breath. When she opened them again, they held an unsettling severity.\n\n\"Not any of my damn business if you killed a fella who was killin' others, Charlie, Pa or not. Sounds to me like you did the right thing, even- god knows I woulda done the same in your position.\" She shook her head. \"You don't gotta be proud of doin' it, but you've saved folks, I reckon.\"\n\nAdrian took another sip of her tea, ignoring the burn as it went down.\n\n\"How many of those monsters are here, or do none of ya know?\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "He was stunned that she seemed so incredibly... Calm about what he'd done. She didn't seem to care even a little bit. In fact, she seemed to approve, which... Charlie could not begin to wrap his brain around. \n\nHe was glad for the slight switch in topics, and he shook his head. \"Hard to say,\" He said after a second. \"We ain't ever seen em all together at once. We done killed two— Pa and the sheriff.\" He grimaced. \n\n\"Hard to say which of em was which. But I'd say... Four? Maybe more?\" It was so hard to tell in the pale moonlight, especially when them creatures moved so damn fast. \n\n\"You're awful calm, hearing about all this here murder and slaughter,\" He said to her curiously. \"If I was you, I'd have been runnin' for the hills by now.\""
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "Adrian only grimaced at Charlie's offered number, nose crinkling in what was her clear sign of distaste. She'd seen poor odds before, even gone through several bounties when she'd drawn the short straw, but never an entire town on the edge of a horrible precipice.\n\n\"Would it surprise you if I told you murder and slaughter are a part of my job?\" Her head tilted. \"That seein' fellas kill each other over less than turnin' into ravenous beasts was my daily?\"\n\nShe scooted forward in her chair, and leaned over the table, her mouth quirking into a cheeky grin. \"I've done things that'd make some men piss themselves, Charlie; this ain't nothin' to me. Not today, not tomorrow, not never. You'll have ta' go an' find another gal if you want her faintin' at your table over this shit.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "To say that Adrian O'Davoran was unlike any woman in Briar Ridge was perhaps an understatement. In fact, she was unlike any woman he'd ever met *Ever*. \n\nHis eyes flickered down to where her nightgown's neckline had scooped lower as she leaned across the table, and like a polite man, his eyes jerked upward and made direct eye contact instead. That somehow felt more dangerous than looking at her exposed collarbone, but he stayed steady with his gaze. \n\n\"I dunno if I'd say I'm surprised, Miss Adrian,\" He admitted, pushing up his glasses with his fingers. \"Yer one hell of a woman.\" He cleared his throat and flashed her a smile as he leaned on the table more. \"And I ain't interested in havin' no girls fainting at the dining room table.\"\n\nCharlie shifted in his seat, still not breaking eye contact. To do so would be weak, he thought. \"It seems like you done lived a life and a half. Am I wrong?\""
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "\"I'd reckon I have, but I wanna try to be a *Little* Humble around ya, Charlie. What would your mama go an' think if you went tellin' her about how I went on an' on about my achievements and shit? I'd be banned by the woman of the house!\" She laughed, reaching over to nudge at his arm. \"I ain't ever been banned from a house before- think about my reputation!\"\n\nAdrian tugged her coat tight around her, then crossed her legs under the table. \"Again, none of that 'miss' or 'ma'am' shit- you're makin' me sound old.\"\n\nShe hadn't noticed the plunge in her neckline, though the sight was thankfully(?) covered by the re-adjusting of her coat. Color had returned to her fully at that point; her cheeks and the tip of her nose were rosy, and even the white streak in her hair seemed softer in the candlelight of the Cooper house.\n\n\"Tell me somethin', Charlie: say I wanted to go and help with yer wolf problem, that all I needed was help with somethin', maybe some pay. What would you do?\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "He cracked a smile, stretching more across his face before he laughed, shaking his head. \"You ain't gotta be humble,\" He told her. \"...'sides, my mama ain't gonna ban you none from the house.\" \n\nHe was relieved that she'd leaned back, the coat keeping any bits and pieces out of sight. He couldn't help but think she was beautiful, but she was clearly a dangerous individual. In honesty, they needed more of those in Briar Ridge. \n\n\"I'd say we can take all the help we can get,\" He said, pushing his glasses up again like it was a nervous habit. \"And I figure a small price to pay for someone who sounds like a good shot.\" Charlie paused and leaned on the table now. \"So, what kinda help are you lookin' for, then? I can rightly try my best,\" He cleared his throat. \"And if I can't, I can prolly point you in the right direction'a somebody who can.\""
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "She waved a hand in the air. \"It depends. I don't want you gettin' into any trouble for my sake, and what I need to do ain't exactly pleasant. I'm not gonna assume, but I reckon yer a smart man, Charlie, and you know what I do for a livin'.\"\n\nTalking to Charlie had been the most open she'd been in... Months. Most of her time was spent traveling in search of bounties, and she rarely stayed in place for very long. It led to an isolated lifestyle, and aside from the occasional lawman or thankful person, Adrian didn't even have more than a handful of acquaintances. Friends were something that was even more far-fetched for her, but sitting here, laughing with him, her chest ached in *Want*.\n\n\"Bounty huntin' don't seem like your scene, neither, but I figure you can give me information on who I'm here for.\"\n\nAdrian scooted her chair forward, placed her hands on the table, and leaned forward once again.\n\n\"Do you know a fella by the name of Eddie Bigby, by any chance?\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "\"No, can't say bounty huntin' is my scene at all. But...\" He averted his eyes as the woman leaned forward on the table. \"Ain't surprised you mighta tracked someone down t' here. It's a good place to hide.\" He cleared his throat, using the window as an excuse to look anywhere else but at her exposed skin. \n\n\"Eddie Bigby? Yeah, I sure do.\" He nodded, a grimace on his lips. \"I reckon he's related to Mrs. Bigby— she got done in a few months ago by one of them werewolves.\" He shook his head. \"Miss Charlene was a real nice lady, I'll say. I don't know much about her brother, but he didn't come on around until she passed. I don't know if I can give you much more'n that— but he is living with the Bigby's... Just in town.\" He gestured. \"If ya need more than that, I can ask around for ya.\" \n\nHe directed his gaze back to hers, keeping eye contact now. \"That what you needed?\""
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "Adrian hummed low, nodding her head along to his words. \"I hadn't figured *Why* He was headin' this way, besides havin' a need to keep runnin' from the long arm of the law, but lookin' for family makes sense. Them takin' him in... Makes less sense, but I guess they don't know about all he's done.\"\n\n\"I'd appreciate you askin' around, but you'd have to...\" Her words trailed off, brows furrowing as she looked at Charlie.\n\n\"...You feelin' alright, Charlie? I can stop talkin' about this if it's goin' and makin' you nervous, I don't mind at all.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "Ah, well. He hadn't expected her to confront him with it, had he? Nah, he thought he'd been so careful to not look suspicious and awkward, and yet here he was. \n\n\"Nah, it don't make me nervous none,\" He promised her, tapping his knuckle on the wooden table. He figured it wouldn't be right to lie to her in this instance. \n\n\"Yer a mighty beautiful woman, Adrian, I'm sure ya know that; and I'm just tryin' to be respectful is all,\" He explained to her, keeping his eyes on her face now. \"And when you done leaned forward, I see a lot... More of ya than I think you want me to see,\" He leaned his elbow on the table. \n\n\"And right as I'll say, I'm not complainin' none, I'm also a gentleman, and I don't think I oughta be takin' peeks when I ain't been offered one.\" He huffed out a laugh. \"So I'm sorry if I was actin' odd, I ain't mean to.\" He apologized quickly and nodded his head in her direction."
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "What followed wasn't the same joviality that Adrian had shown before, nor the sudden seriousness. Instead, she shrunk in on herself and wrapped her jacket tighter around her form, finally hiding the bare skin of her chest.\n\n\"Now, you don't gotta go and lie to me like that, Charlie.\" She chuckled, but the sound was forced. \"If I'm goin' on and on and flashin' you the whole time, all you gotta do is go and tell me, alright?\"\n\nGone now was her previous confidence and bravado, now replaced by something... Smaller, more timid- sorrowful, even. Charlie Cooper was a handsome man, she would be a fool not to see that, but that thought had been squirreled away in the back of her mind, never to see the light of day. People's interest was something she received on the job more times than she could count; crass and insincere, meant to guide her into a bed for a quick jaunt than anything meaningful.\n\nThis felt... Different, and Charlie seemed to be a good man, but to be called beautiful?\n\nAdrian wasn't able to find it in herself to believe him.\n\n\"Still, thank you fer tellin' me- god knows I'd be run outta town if I flashed my bits at other people.\" Again she chuckled, easier this time, but still small."
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "He hadn't known what to expect when it came to an Adrian's reactions; she seemed far different than any woman he'd ever met before. He'd expected maybe she'd be angry, call him a pervert and slap him across the face. Maybe she'd get bashful and huff. Maybe she'd leave his house, never to return. \n\nThe last thing he'd ever imagined in this situation was for her to look so damned small. Like he was poking fun at her— he couldn't imagine this look appearing on her face, and here it was. \n\n\"Why do I got any reason to lie to ya?\" He questioned her curiously, raising an eyebrow. \"I mean, I don't just go 'round saying women are beautiful willy-nilly, but you ain't got reference for that, s'pose.\" He scratched his jaw a moment, contemplating his next words carefully. \n\n\"But I promise I done mean it honest. No jokes, no lies, no teasin'.\" He shrugged a shoulder, pushing his glasses up on his nose a little. \"Like I said, it ain't everyday I have a beautiful lady walkin' up on my lawn.\" \n\nHe looked down to the table and tapped his fingers on it. \"But I ain't gonna push ya to accept none of my compliments if yer uncomfortable, Adrian, I ain't wanna make ya feel some type of way bout it.\""
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "\"No, no, it ain't that, Charlie.\" Adrian shifted in her chair, eyes drifting closed as she sighed. \"I just... People normally want somethin' outta me when they say somethin' like that, you know? It's never a compliment, just them tryin' a chance to see my bits.\"\n\n\"I don't... Got a lot of experience with people *Meanin'* It, and since yer sayin' you do, I don't rightly know what to do?\" Her nose crinkled. \"Again, it's not somethin' I'm used to, especially by someone as... Well. You know.\"\n\nSlowly, a bright flush spread on her cheeks, and crept to the tips of her ears.\n\n\"Handsome,\" Her voice cracked, \"I mean handsome.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "He couldn't help but laugh. *Handsome?* She thought he was handsome? Well, how about that? His cheeks did tinge slightly red, and he observed her a moment. She truly was unlike anyone he'd ever met, but he appreciated that. \n\n\"Well that's mighty kind of ya,\" He said to her smoothly. \"I promise, I ain't sayin' it t' see yer *Bits*,\" He drummed his fingertips on the table. \"You done showed me some of yer bits enough, I don't think I'd need t' make stuff up t'see em.\" He teased her flirtatiously. \n\nIt felt nice to do something so normal like *Flirting* For once. Maybe he didn't have all the time in the world to flirt and court, but... To pretend for a moment that maybe she'd be interested, that would be enough. \n\n\"But y'don't gotta do nothin' if yer not wanting to. But if yer at all interested, I'd love t' see ya more often. But from the sounds of it, if yer lookin' to kill some werewolves and all, we might be seein' a whole lot more of each other.\""
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "\"Wh- you-\" She sputtered, lips quirking downwards into a pout. \"Now, that ain't f-fair, Charlie! I just told you I ain't used to this s-sorta thing, and yer teasin' me for it!\"\n\nEven with her protest, her cheeks only darkened further. She wasn't refuting anything Charlie said, either, but what sort of respectable woman would she be if she didn't put up *Some* Sort of fuss?\n\n\"Maybe we will, maybe we won't, Charlie. Depends on how much e-effort you put in, hm?\" Adrian coughed into her sleeve, then nodded once. \"I may be goin' after those wolves soon enough, but you may not get a chance to see... These bits again.\"\n\nShe coughed again, then turned her head to the side. \"I should charge ya for what little you *Did* See.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "He couldn't help but to laugh; it was a real, full-bodied laugh that made his shoulders shake and his glasses slid down his nose a bit. \"Charge me?\" He repeated her words, resting an elbow on the table. \"Why, Miss Adrian...\" He nearly *Crooned* Her name. \"I don't think a lady like you can be *Bought*, and if ya could... You'd be mighty expensive, I'll tell ya that.\" \n\nAnd the bastard *Winked*, because Charlie Cooper might've seemed like a polite man with a kind smile, but his secret was that the man could flirt til the cows came home. \"But if it'll please ya, I can gift ya some 'shine and maybe we'll be even?\" \n\nCharlie sat up a little straighter in his seat then. \"Maybe two, make it more fair.\""
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "Adrian's head whipped back to face Charlie, eyes as wide as saucers. She remained silent, yet the corners of her mouth quirked up and down repeatedly- she couldn't decide whether to smile or to continue to pout.\n\n\"...I don't know whether I should melt or bolt out yer damn door, mister.\" She rubbed at her cheeks, only to deepen her pout when she noticed that her *Hands* Were now also flushed. \"Too smooth for yer own damn good.\"\n\n\"Start with flowers, maybe- I ain't too sure if this town's got any shine that don't taste like swill.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "He wasn't about to wipe that sly smile off his face anytime soon; not with her reacting like that, all flushed and pretty like. \"I'd prefer the former than the latter, if you'd be so kind,\" He said. \n\nCharlie took a moment to observe her; how she truly looked so flustered. Had she never received compliments like this before? Been truly flirted with for no other reason than to see her face flush? \n\n\"Flowers? I think I can make that happen, thank God above for spring comin', Miss Adrian,\" He flashed her another smile. \"But hey, don't knock the Cooper shine! I stand on it that my family makes the best shine in Briar Ridge,\" He told her, taking a slow stand and leaning on the table. He didn't want to look weak in front of her; forgoing the cane by the table as he made his way to the shelf, taking down a jar. \"I know it's right early, but y'might as well start the day off right, yeah?\""
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "\"Now you just hold on there-\" Adrian nearly bolted out of her chair as she rushed over to Charlie's side, and unthinkingly reached out to place a hand on his free arm to steady him.\n\n\"I've already come in, takin' up yer time with me and my silly little mare- you don't gotta go and give me none of yer shine, Charlie.\" She paused, eyes flickering to her hand on his arm and then back to his face. \"I wouldn't... Have no way to repay you fer it, neither.\"\n\nAnother pause, though it only served to make Adrian fidget at Charlie's side. \"Less you want... Somethin' silly like a kiss. Or flowers. Or anythin' else that'll make me stop runnin' my damn mouth.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "The sudden movement at his side did take him by surprise; her hands were warm on his skin, and he shifted his weight more to his good foot. \"Ain't gotta repay me for nothin',\" He told her. \"I'm being hospitable, Miss Adrian,\" He couldn't help but chuckle. \"But I'll say, if yer wantin' to repay me with a kiss, I ain't 'bout to say no.\" \n\nHe chuckled a little, hand coming to touch hers. \"Awful bold for a lady who's actin' a minute ago like she ain't interested.\" But now she wanted a kiss? How cute. \n\n\"I kinda like it when yer runnin' yer damn mouth,\" He admitted."
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "Adrian didn't fully realize the trap she'd set for herself until Charlie jumped for it. All she could do was stand there and gape at him; unable to defend herself but unwilling to actually *Leave*.\n\n\"T-There's a difference between bein' hospitable and given' away somethin' that makes yer family money, Charlie! I'm not-\" She stopped, the rest of her sentence weighing heavily on her tongue. \n\n*I'm not worth that.*\n\nIt's chased away quickly, all the same, but its remnants leave a sour taste on her tongue.\n\n\"I never said I wasn't *Interested*, I told ya that I don't know how to deal with... Genuine things. I can't say I'm a very good flirt past tryin' to get someone off my tail, neither.\"\n\nHer cheeks puffed up, followed by a few more mumbled words, though the word 'kiss' could be made out."
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "Adrian was such an interesting woman; he couldn't help but be taken by her nature. She was complicated and *Difficult* In a way that made her so fascinating. He could see emotions pass over her face at times that puzzled him; raw and vulnerable things that didn't sit right on her beautiful face. \n\n\"Now Miss Adrian,\" He said, their proximity quite close as she gripped his arm tight to keep his balance. \"I think my family can miss a jar of shine, and if they throw a fit, I'll pay with my own money,\" He insisted. \n\n\"So you are interested?\" He asked her, pulling open the cabinet and reaching into the back to grab a jar of the moonshine. \"Good, because otherwise this whole thing would be awful embarrassing for me,\" He sat down the jar of shine and turned more towards her. \"Can't quite hear ya, darlin'. Mind speaking up for me?\" He asked her. \"You keep talkin' about this kiss you want? I'm more than happy to be kissed by a lovely lady like yourself but I ain't in the business of pressuring women, y'know?\""
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "\"I ain't pressured, you big ol' worrywart.\" She huffed again, though her face was very obviously flushed. \"I said I... I don't know *How* To. I ain't ever kissed no one before.\"\n\nIn her time traveling, trustworthy companions were few and far between. She never allowed herself to partake in frivolous things like romance, despite people's wandering eyes, and the absence of intimacy drained her. The last time Adrian could recall a purposeful touch beyond a simple handshake or pat on the back was... Before her mother passed.\n\nHowever, holding onto Charlie's arm was different, even if she initiated it. He was solid and *Real*, almost dizzyingly so, and Adrian found herself wanting to hold onto him longer than she should.\n\n\"...I don't want you feelin' disappointed, is all.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "His eyebrows shot up. \"Yer kidding,\" He said, no amusement in him but genuine surprise. \"A pretty specimen like you ain't kissed nobody?\" His hand came up and caught her upper waist real gentle like; fingertips just barely brushing the fabric of her nightgown. \n\n\"Disappointed?\" He couldn't help but laugh. \"Why in hell would I be disappointed?\" He asked her. \"My question bein', you sure you want a fella like me taking a first kiss?\" He asked her. \"That's real important I'd say. Shouldn't I be askin' you to have dinner first before I'm kissin' those pretty lips? Though I'll admit, it's a hard thing to resist.\""
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "The ghosting of Charlie's fingers was easily transferred into the light cotton of her nightgown, the feeling making her eyebrows shoot up on her forehead and crimson to bloom even deeper on her cheeks.\n\n\"I-I don't know? I ain't got much of a clue what's good and proper here, Charlie.\" Her eyes darted down. \"I feel like most fellas wouldn't be too keen on kissin' a woman who doesn't know what she's doin'.\"\n\nShe shrugged and scooted just the tiniest bit closer to him."
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "\"I guess I ain't most fellas, just like you're not most ladies,\" He pointed out. \"Don't think I know too many ladies who's runnin' round outside in her nightie, lookin' for her horse.\" Charlie pointed out, chuckling to himself in amusement. \n\nHe steadied himself on the cupboard a bit, his hand braver now to cup her upper back. Was this insane? Maybe. He just met this woman today, but she was entirely too magnetic. He was taken with her; she was complicated and for some reason, he wanted to smooth the wrinkle between her troubled brows and make her realize she was beautiful. \n\nHe took her closeness as a positive sign; they were nearly chest to chest now, and he did have to lean down a bit to come nose to nose with her. \n\n\"If you don't want me t' kiss ya, I'd suggest tellin' me now before I done get my hopes up.\" He told her softly."
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "A small shiver ran through Adrian as Charlie pressed his hand to her back. The sensation was grounding but set her heart at a jackhammer's pace all the same, surely able to be felt as Charlie came closer.\n\n\"I'd like ya to kiss me, Charlie.\" She looked up at him from under her eyelashes, a small, nervous smile making its way onto her face. \"As long as you don't regret it none. I know this is... Fast, so I won't be upset if you change yer mind at all.\"\n\nShe took in a breath. \"If you don't, I wouldn't mind you teachin' me how to k-kiss...\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "Christ almighty, how was he ever supposed to cope when she was lookin' up at him through her lashes like that? How was he ever supposed to deny a lady who asked him so shyly, so sweetly, to teach her how to kiss? \n\nHe could feel her heart thudding as he pressed the flat of his palm to her back. This felt nearly wrong, kissing a lady he just met in her *Nightgown* In his kitchen, but damn it all— if it ain't felt so right. \n\n\"You got lovely eyes, Miss Adrian,\" He told her politely, and for the first time in a long time, he felt a little nervous too. He didn't want to disappoint her, let her down... \n\nCharlie craned his head down and pressed his lips to hers; it was real soft, real gentle. There was no pressure behind it, no insistence. Just a soft kiss, no rushing into anything. He could feel her heart pick up more and he held her there for a long moment before he finally pulled back. \n\n\"That ain't too terrible now, is it?\" He asked her, voice soft and a bit embarrassed."
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "*You got lovely eyes, Miss Adrian.*\n\nThe words echoed through her head as Charlie pressed his lips to hers, her eyes widening for only a moment before slipping shut. Everything felt warm and comfortable like a blanket had been thrown over her shoulders, and it was surprising how much it simply felt... Right.\n\nAdrian brought her hand up to rest against his chest, curling her fingers into the fabric of his shirt gently. Again, she was reminded of how solid he was, and how... Safe this felt, how safe *He* Felt. She melted into him easily, entranced by the moment they shared.\n\nEven after Charlie pulled away, Adrian's eyes remained closed, lips slightly pursed. Slowly, she reopened her eyes, though her expression was somewhat dazed.\n\n\"That was... Really nice.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "He let her grip onto him, her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like she might just float away on the tide if she were to let go. In response, his arm held her tighter; his hand slid across her back until the entirety of his arm was wrapped around her, keeping her snugly against his chest. \n\nThey were a breath apart, their respective cheeks flushed. \"I'd say it was real nice,\" He agreed with her, a chuckle on his lips. This was nice; a reprieve from the chaos of Briar Ridge and finding some kind of oasis in Adrian O'Davoran's eyes. \n\n\"Would it be awfully impolite if I kissed you again?\" He asked her. \"You got every right to slap me for even askin' that.\""
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "There was still a voice in the back of Adrian's mind, screaming about the impropriety of it all; that she didn't even know Charlie beyond some small talk and the murder of his own *Father*, practically throwing herself at him because of a few honeyed words and sweet gestures.\n\nYet, the rest of her didn't really *Mind*. Even with her limited knowledge, Charlie seemed to be a kind man- assuring her at every turn, and holding her with a gentleness she'd all but forgotten.\n\n\"I think I'd be more upset if you didn't offer in the first place,\" She giggled, covering her mouth with her hand to muffle the sound. \"Don't want to mark up that pretty face of yer's, neither.\"\n\n\"Alls this to say that yes, you can.\" The idea sent her nerves alight once again. \"...Unless you got better things to do than kissin' a strange woman.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "\"You think my face is pretty, Adrian?\" He winked at her, his voice smooth like molasses. It really was so indecent of him, he was sure his mama would absolutely have his hide if she saw him holdin' a lady in their kitchen in just her nightie. Not even a bouquet of flowers or dinner before he was kissin' up on her lips like that! But alas, he couldn't help himself - Adrian was as pretty as a flower in the spring and he was not shying away from the idea of holding her waist closer and laying a kiss on those lips. \n\n\"I got absolutely nothin' at all that I'd rather do right now,\" He assured her. He should probably be pullin' up weeds or something, but alas... \n\nCharlie took that as an open invitation to lay another kiss on her smiling lips. She had a real pretty smile, and her giggle was about as sweet as honeysuckle too. It was almost a shame that he was covering it all up with his own, but he supposed if things went well, maybe he'd get to see her smile a little more often. \n\nHis hand came up, splaying his fingertips across her upper back, keeping her steady in his arms as he kissed her for a real long moment. When he broke it finally, he made absolutely no move to release her quite yet. \"I figure... When yer not all busy with yer *Business*, I'd really like the pleasure of takin' you out for an evenin'... If you'll have me, o'course.\""
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "Adrian only managed a quick playful roll of her eyes before Charlie kissed her again, reigniting the warmth in her chest. She hadn't come out here to find someone like him, yet she stumbled upon Charlie all the same- be it coincidence or fate. Adrian had never believed in the latter, but being here with him settled a long-buried loneliness deep in her chest and got her thinking that maybe it *Was*.\n\n\"I think I'd like that, Charlie- but I'd havta disappoint ya and wear somethin' *Proper*.\" She smoothed out the wrinkles in his shirt. \"A nice little dress I got tucked away, maybe. Do my hair all nice, maybe ask a housewife for some makeup...\"\n\nAdrian leaned up, just a hair's width away from Charlie's lips. \"I like yellow flowers, by the way. Somethin' I could put behind my ear.\"\n\nHer next kiss came without thinking, and the thoughts of her original purpose in town drifted off alongside them.\n\nFor now."
}
] | 207.5 | 9,924 |
297 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "Charlie had had about as much excitement tonight as he could possibly take. Seein' those babies get snatched, the way Charlie Marsh and Emery had been so damn distraught; and the fact of the matter was, them babies were still missing. He was sure he'd have to be up and about, figurin' out how to make sure everybody in town was safe - but first, he needed to get home. Needed to make sure his mama was alright, of course. Alma was on his mind, and he knew she was posted up at the cage, watching over Shady and all. \n\nBut he was real worried about *Adrian*, too. She wasn't even all the way moved in, still had some of her stuff at the tent, and was prone to wanderin' durin' the night. He loved that Adrian was a free spirit, but if he was real honest, he wished that he could just tell her to stay put for a moment - just on a full moon! Then he wouldn't have to be so damn worried about them all the damn time! \n\nCharlie made his way up the steps real slow and had a seat on the steps of the house. The light was becoming brighter, washing the early morning grey into the light pinks and yellows of the sunrise. As time ticked by... Adrian still wasn't there. And that's when he was gettin' more and more worried. His stomach twisted. Maybe... Maybe she went back to her tent first. Maybe that was it."
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "Adrian wasn't sure what stroke of luck had kept her alive and sent Sugar to her side. The phantom pain of that wolf's teeth in her neck and shoulder still lingered, and her broken arm dangled uselessly at her side, pain jolting through her with every step she took. Tapshoe trailed behind her, the mare's reigns tangled in Adrian's good hand and stained with flecks of her blood.\n\nIt was a miracle that Tapshoe hadn't run off in the opposite direction of Marianne Wilburn's cottage and instead ran *Toward* It, nickering worriedly as the last dregs of the storm soaked her hide. She almost bowled over Adrian when she hobbled into view, Sugar holding her up at her uninjured side.\n\nShe made her way out soon after, thanking Sugar for her assistance and insisting that she'd be fine and that she was heading straight for the infirmary, and slunk away before Miss Wilburn could catch sight of her.\n\nHer insistence had been a lie.\n\nThere was only one person she truly trusted in town- a man that she should have been with during the full moon in the *First* Place if it hadn't been for her misguided bravado.\n\nThe sight of the Cooper house brought a small smile to Adrian's face, and it only widened when she saw her beau sitting on the front steps. Charlie was beautiful in this early morning light, even as her wince of pain brought her eyes to close for a moment.\n\n\"Hey, handsome.\" She tried to sound calm, but her voice came out cracked. \"Sorry that I'm a little late.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "He was so tired, he was damn near ready to fall over on that step. The only thing keeping him awake was the fear and the roiling sour feeling in his stomach. It was making him jitter like he'd just touched a live wire; his insides felt the exhaustion, but his brain was on high alert. \n\nHe saw Adrian as soon as they'd crested that hill, and Charlie stood up. He gripped his cane so he could walk a little faster, and his arms came 'round her body as soon as they were together. \"Hell, Adrian,\" He whispered, and one hand cupped the back of her head to hold it to his shoulder. \"You done scared me half to death, I thought...\" He thought he'd have to go sending out a search party for her, too. That they'd be lost in the woods, just like Freddie Lovejoy. \"I'm so glad yer home.\" \n\nHome. Home didn't mean a house, a shack, a tent. Home was who you were with, where you found comfort and solace. Charlie had never been more relieved to have her in his arms than right now. \"Yer hurt,\" He mumbled, pulling back to look at her. \"What happened to ya out there, baby?\" Charlie was checking all her visible parts for bites and scratches. \"I swear'n hell, you ain't leaving my sight next moon.\""
},
{
"author": "Adrian O'Davoran",
"message": "She didn't want to worry him more than she already had, but when Charlie wrapped his arms around her, nudging her broken arm? Adrian couldn't stop the pained hiss that escaped her, nor the tears that sprung to her eyes.\n\n\"Careful, honey- I ain't doin' too well right now.\" They tried to smile at him, to give him some sort of assurance that she'd be fine, but the thought vanished when she spotted her blood on his shirt. Foolish, *Foolish.*\n\n\"One of them got to me, I thought-\" She exhaled shakily, \"I thought I was goin' to die, Charlie. It had my neck in its jaws, just waitin' to bite down, and I...\"\n\nAnother shaky exhale and Adrian shut their eyes. \"It tore my back up somethin' good, got my shoulder, my neck- pretty sure my arm's broken, too. I know I need to go to the doctor, but I... I just need to see ya.\"\n\nShe leaned her head forward, burying her face into the crook of Charlie's neck. \"Didn't think I was goin' to see you again.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "When Adrian pulled back, and he saw her blood on him, Charlie went about as white as a ghost. The blood was seeping through her shirt, and on closer inspection, her arm was all *Wrong*. His breath left him in a rush, and he let Adrian rest her beautiful face in the crook of his neck. \"We gotta get you to a doctor,\" He said, voice shaking. She was bleeding; just because she was out of the woods and away from them wolves now, didn't mean she was out of danger. She could bleed to death, hell, she could get an infection!\n\nHe held her close to him. \"I ain't losin' you,\" He told her, and he held fast to the cane in his hand as he supported their weight on his good side. \"C'mon darlin', I'm not... I'm not lettin' you get sick on me,\" He didn't wanna say the truth - that he was scared she could die. He wouldn't let it happen; he wouldn't never love again if it did. \n\n\"I love you, Adrian, I ain't- you ain't goin' out in them damn woods again during the moon,\" He told her seriously. He liked that his lover was carefree, wild, and independent. But she could do that every other day of the month if she wanted, just not on a full moon. He'd damn near lock her in their bedroom if he had to."
}
] | 302 | 1,485 |
493.076923 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "Florian Barca was done hiding. He was done cowering in safe houses, safe houses that proved unsafe time and time again. He was done with feeling helpless and watching as beasts raged and killed their way through town. He had had an idea, something he hoped would tip the scales of fortune in their way. He'd worked it out as well as he could, gathering information and facts on toxins of a specific plant.\n\nHe had initially wanted there to be a cure, he still wanted there to be a cure. But as things looked now it would be long until they arrived at one. Too much blood would be shed waiting for something they didn't even know truly existed. If he had been involved with the Coalition at the time of voting for the fate of Mayor Cooper, he would have voted for 'imprison'. But that stance had now tipped over firmly into 'kill' territory. The moment that wolf had taken Valerian from this world, Florian wanted it dead, even if his brother had come back. He _needed_ it dead. The idea that someone in Briar Ridge, someone he may know, someone who may have talked with him, someone who may have seen him grow up or grew up beside him, someone out there now got to live merrily alongside the very people they'd terrorized. They got to continue living as if they had not killed a man. It made him sick. It filled him with rage. Anger had always been a familiar emotion to him and he embraced it thoroughly as he rummaged through his collection of dried plants and flowers. \"Where is it, I swear I kept some...\" He found the bundle, dried and yellowed but clearly labeled by look and a tag attached to the stems: aconitum reclinatum: _wolfsbane._ \"...Gotcha.\"\n_ _\n\nHe was not sure it would work. His notes indicated that it might, wolfsbane was used in Europe to kill wolves and from all he'd read it was quite potent in toxic elements which proved lethal for humans too. Such a pretty plant capable of such destruction. And a lot easier to access than the silver bullets they now knew worked quite well. He wrapped the plants up in paper and put the pages of notes on top, slipping the bundle into a bag placed on his lap.\n\nCharlie and Valerian had been very close during childhood so Florian was more than familiar with the man. Florian knew that Charlie was involved with the Coalition, he seemed like the best person to approach, the person he most trusted there. Florian may not be of much use physically but he couldn't sit by and watch any longer, not after what happened last moon. He hadn't told Valerian or Olivia of the plan, this was all him.\n\nHe spotted a familiar face in the distance, as luck would have it, there he was, the man who initially told him his plan might have some merit. \"Jasper!\" He called out, waving the other man over. \"Remember that wolfsbane plan? I'm headed over to Charlie Cooper now, gettin' the Coalition involved. You're welcome to come along, should you want.\" It was evident that Florian was on edge, his usual joyous demeanour had been replaced with simmering anger and determination. He'd be going, with or without Jasper. \"One of those damned beasts attacked my brother, if it wasn't for the doctor he would've been...\" He swallowed, clearly still emotional about what had come to pass. \"He would've remained dead. He'll be alright, doc says he will be eventually. I have to believe that-\" _he has to be alright._ \"-but I want those bastards dead for what they did to him regardless.\" He wanted revenge, it was too late for justice. The claw marks that ran across the entirety of his own right leg had since stopped bleeding, thanks to the excellent stitch work of the nurses. But scar it would, just like his heart had."
},
{
"author": "Jasper Hewitt",
"message": "Some days Jasper entertained the idea it was all merely a dream. An entertaining little nightmare he would awake from amidst an ocean of down feather covers. He'd crawl from sheets and possibly arms reaching after him, beckoning him back into their embrace, and throw open the blinds for the sunlight to wash away all the memories of werebeasts.\n\nToday however, they felt far too real. They were in the howl of the wind and the teeth of the winter, lurking in the shadows between the trees. A nightmare unchanged by harsh daylight. \n\nJasper had allowed himself a comfortable hour or so to wallow in self pity. A little morning routine before he reminded himself it was another night he stayed standing and drew breath while others may not be so fortunate. Still, remembering he himself was not the center of the universe was a skill Jasper had to actively practice.\n\nHe pulled the coat tighter around himself, tugging at the sleeves. It was a touch too short around his wrists, and the cold bit at the exposed skin with glee. His pride would not permit asking for a better fitting one, while his manufactured conscience barred him from theft. This would have to do.\n\nHis musings were interrupted by a familiar voice. Florian was not one to mince words, the plan laid out daylight clear before Jasper could even ask. There was an obvious shift, a steely undertone behind his words, cold determination and a thirst for vengeance.\n\n\"I remember indeed.\" Jasper nodded. \"I may not be much help, but I will offer all I know and hope that counts.\" This was something they could agree on, his true and false self. Dishonesty and theft were a debatable topic of morality, but werewolves? Nope, the line on that topic was firmly drawn. He very much wanted those things gone.\n\nThe rush of Florian's words carried the weight of the world. He'd heard about what happened with the elder Barca, words traveled fast to eager ears, and while Jasper did not know the man personally, he wished no harm.\n\nHe wished loss even less, the acid burn that tore one ragged and left hollow emptiness behind was a too familiar feeling. The only thing worse than losing one close was the eyes of their ghost in the mirror, always behind one's shoulder.\n\n\"He will be.\" It was a promise Jasper couldn't uphold, but tried his best to scaffold his words with hope. \"He's in good hands with the doctor, and if I've learned anything about Briar Ridge, no one here goes down without giving it a good fight. Thankfully. The beasts were out for blood.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "Being part of the werewolf coalition had taken a toll on Charlie; he had already had some telltale grays coming in before he arrived, but now it seemed that in his mid thirties, he was already progressing on to more of it now from the stress. Besides that, having to run around all the time did not do much good for his bad leg— a solution that required far less physicality would be better, although he hadn't the faintest idea where to start. \n\nHe'd dressed for the day, an ache in his shoulders as he pulled on his clothes and headed out the door, cane helping him along the way. It didn't take long for him to step off the porch into the yard, Dog sniffing at his heels and running off, that he spotted the two men headed up the lane. \n\nHe paused in his step, squinting through his glasses before Florian Barca came clearly into view— a gentleman accompanying him that he wasn't sure he was all too familiar with. No matter— he gave a wave to Florian and made his way to meet him at the edge of the property, leaning heavier on his cane. \n\n\"Florian,\" He tipped his head a little in greeting. \"Been a hot minute, ain't it?\" He grimaced a bit, glancing off to the trees. \"How's Val?\" His eyes shifted from him to the other gentleman, giving a nod as he chewed his lip in thought. \n\n\"Charlie Cooper,\" He introduced himself, sticking a hand out. \"What can I help yous two with today? Ma ain't in, so if ya came for her, yer shit outta luck.\""
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "\"I'll gladly take it Jasper.\" Having a second person there may not seem like much, but Florian had been underestimated one too many times in life. He didn't expect Charlie to be one to hold that bias, but having back-up never hurt. \"Thank you.\" He huffed, the beast were out for blood. \"They sure were... You made it out unscathed?\" The two pushed forwards, when they arrived on Cooper property Charlie had already spotted them, coming to meet them.\n\nFlorian smiled when he was greeted. \"It sure has been, good to see you again.\" Good to see you lived, an unspoken truth in most reunions that took place just after the passing of a full moon. He'd not called his brother Valerian, but Val, a nickname left over from their childhood, when the two had been thick as thieves. Florian thought there had been damage to that relationship over the years. Maybe the two of them had rekindled some of that old trust. \"He's, well I wouldn't say _good_, but all things considered he could definitely be worse. Still not out of the woods yet, but you and I both know how stubborn that man can be. He'll make it.\" He had to. Florian had told him that if he didn't, he'd come for his ghost and he had yet to figure out how to summon ghosts. Or if that was even possible in the first place. \"We actually came lookin' for you.\"\n_ _\n\nFlorian rummaged through his bag, pulling out the bundle wrapped in paper. \"I had an idea.\" He nodded towards Jasper. \"He helped me with some of the details. Has the coalition ever heard of the plant wolfsbane?\" He unwrapped the paper, revealing a few long green stems with rounded palm-shaped leaves and clusters of cylindrical purple flowers sprouting toward the top half. \"The name is a little on the nose, I'll grant you that. But it seems to be used overseas to kill wolves. Packs quite a punch to humans too, the lethal kind.\" The former was a good thing, the latter he was less happy with. Then again, werewolves and regular wolves could hardly be compared, they were different beasts entirely. \"Some books alluded to it bein' protective against wolves as well.\" If it was, it must not have a large range of influence, seeing as the very bundle of wolfsbane he was holding now had been kept in a drawer in his room. A room in the Barca estate, a building that had been hit by wolves on multiple occasions. \"I was wonderin' if you, and the rest of the coalition might see some use in it.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "Charlie was by no means a botanist, but he'd heard a thing or two about the wolfsbane that grew along the edges of the vast pastures of Briar Ridge. \"I don't know much,\" He admitted. \"But I know that one lick'a that can take down a full grown man.\" He remembered his mama telling him to stay away from this particular plant; that he'd drop dead if he ever tried to mess 'round with it. It was enough to put him off the stuff, that was for sure. \n\n\"But I reckon you must be onto something,\" Charlie said, leaning heavier on his cane. \"I figure we could do somethin' with it,\" He looked up from the bundle, looking to Florian now. \n\nHe had had an unspoken understanding with Valerian, now that they'd somewhat reformed their friendship. Should anything happen to Valerian, Charlie would make sure Florian was alright. He knew the younger of the Barca brothers could care for himself, but it was in the same way that Charlie would hope Valerian would look in on Alma if he was gone. With Valerian down for the count, he knew he had to make sure things went smoothly and safely for Florian and the others that Valerian cared about. \n\n\"The coalition would be real interested, I think. I bet this *And* Silver would do a number on them werewolves. Probably eliminate 'em with a single shot. You think we could formulate it into a liquid state?\" He asked him curiously. \"I ain't no chemist but I bet we could put our heads together— and you're real smart,\" He pointed out. \"Why ain't you lendin' all this knowledge to the coalition before?\" Charlie raised a brow curiously. \n\nHe did pause a moment. \"Protective,\" He repeated. \"Like a werewolf repellent. Speakin' of liquid— anti-werewolf perfume?\" He scratching his jaw in thought."
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "_Eliminate a wolf in a single shot._ Charlie might be right, Florian hoped he was right. If this was truly something that would work, they'd have a way to turn the tides, to really stand a chance in this battle. \"Maybe the doctor would know a way? Could we try to insert the dried plant into a bullet somehow?\" He turned to Jasper hoping he had more knowhow on the topic. He hadn't thought of the logistics himself, he wasn't a botanist nor did he have much knowledge of the intricacies of bullets or firearms. He knew how to shoot one but that's approximately where his knowledge on that particular topic ended. \"If we had access to fresh wolfsbane I suppose we could just squeeze it out, but it'll be a while until that starts bloomin'.\" Even nature wasn't on their side, it grew during summer.\n\n\"After Val's last meetin' with the coalition I had my reservations about sharin' information with you folks.\" It was an honest admission. His brother had been laughed at and treated altogether unkindly, despite sharing valuable information in the shape of silver bullets with them he'd been treated as an enemy. Valerian had shared some strong words about Alma in particular. That was part of the reason. The other part was that up until now he hadn't been directly affected by those monsters, he had still seen the humanity in them. He had been of the opinion that they had to look beyond the curse, that the focus should be on curing and not harming. Only when claws had sunk into his leg, when teeth had ripped his brother's life from his body, did Florian's belief that there were people worth saving behind those wolves get ripped from him. \"But after what just happened, well, I felt I had no other choice.\" It had to be done. \"Valerian doesn't know I'm here.\" He added. \"I don't want him to be worryin' any more than he already is. He needs his rest.\" It was Florian's turn to be the protector.\n_ _\n\nHe grinned at Charlie's comment about the perfume. \"Maybe sprayin' ourselves with poison isn't the best way to go about it, but I like the way you think.\" He'd chosen the right person to go to with his idea, that much was clear. He hadn't been laughed at, quite the opposite, he'd been taken seriously. He could be, _would_ be useful, in his own way. He might not be able to hunt, but he could provide information, and that was just as valuable."
},
{
"author": "Jasper Hewitt",
"message": "Jasper introduced himself to the other, a firm handshake and a small smile of well practiced politeness before taking a half step back, allowing the others to converse. Always a half step back, not quite the shadows but never the light. Even this felt closer than comfort.\n\nIt was a raw day after all, too harsh-bright to pull a veil around the world and expect concealment. Some days he could pretend this was but a play on a stage, him in the audience ready to laugh and clap, to critique wooden delivery and fumbled lines, delight in manufactured misery as a man who had no stakes in the game. But that was not today. Standing here was a toe on the front line, an admission of involvement.\n\nHe'd put himself in this situation, he reminded himself, a lashing he delivered to his soul on the daily. If this was a shot at redemption or just another twist in the rope he'd strung himself upon? Time would tell. But with or without him, the full moon would make its crawl, clawing its way through the clouds across the sky, and Jasper, in the end, was far too stubborn and far too vain to let anyone but him make the choices, for better and often worse.\n\n\"I'm no expert on the inner workings of a firearm, but there may be a way\" He considered. \"The doctor may know if the effects remain as potent if we turn it to juice. Since offering the beasts a candlelit dinner and plaiting it up real pretty does not seem a possibility.\"\n\n\"Protecting may be a smarter option. Not all can hold a gun without a tremble, and some may not have the chance to fire first. It all hinges on how much of the plant we can spare to test our options.\" Jasper added, his mind deciding Wolfsbane perfume, while not something he would choose to use on himself, was not a train of thought unworthy of exploration. \"If we could somehow turn it to potent liquid, there may be a chance of traps? Stakes soaked in poison in hidden pits. Nails to protect, hammered through doors coated on a paste. Hells, I wonder if we mix it with shine and set it on fire, would the smoke be enough? Too many questions I don't know the answer of.\" \n\nIdeas were always the easy part of course, the child's game where one could close their eyes and pretend it was make belief until the sun dipped behind the horizon and the monsters came to play. \"Time is not our ally, and it's not without danger. Unlike beasts, men are far too easy to kill with a wrong slip of a hand. Losing one to the beasts is second only to losing one to our own carelessness.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "There was a point that Jasper had made— time was a resource they lacked. The minutes ticked down; a clock that reset every moon. Days passed so quickly here; everyone was desperate to find a way to survive when there was nowhere else to go. \n\n\"We could coat the bullets,\" He thought. \"With a wolfsbane oil, perhaps. Like with anything, a lavender or rose oil, it would be infused with it. Maybe that would be enough.\" He crossed his arms as he thought about it long and hard. \"My only other thought would be to follow Mr. Hewitt's line of thinking; I say we just take it all and throw it at the wall... Metaphorically speaking. The more area we cover with this, we can see how much of it works. As long as nobody's eatin' it, we should be fine. Hopefully they ain't takin' licks on wolfsbane paste on doors, ya know?\" \n\nHe looked once more to the batch of wolfsbane in Florian's palm. \"I say we ought take it to Doc Olander, see what he's gotta say. I'll pass along word to Alma 'bout her thoughts on usin' it for the cage preparations.\" He promised them both.\n\nHe cleared his throat and looked out on the horizon. The day was slowly coming closer and he got that sick feeling in his stomach. \"I swear,\" He said, \"It feels like it's the end of the world, ain't it?\""
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "\"From what I've read, it remains toxic even when dried but is most potent when fresh.\" He replied to Jasper's comment, who was right, not everyone was capable of leveling a firearm at one of those monsters and holding steady. Florian had practiced for it, his brother had taught him, come February he hoped he'd be able to hold a weapon steadily, even if the thought scared him. \n\nProtection was key, Jasper was right, but Florian wanted offense, not defense. That wolf was going to die for what it did to his brother and him. If this was a way to expedite that death then he'd be grabbing hold of it with both of his vengeful hands. \"This bundle is all I have, and it won't be 'til summer that wolfsbane starts bloomin' again, so we might want to use it somewhat sparingly.\" Nevertheless, the ideas, which ranged from perfectly plausible to somewhat outrageous, gave Florian hope that his plan might work. That Briar Ridge might see a decrease in werewolves, opposed to the current increase.\n\n\"I'd prefer to focus on killin' rather than protectin'.\" They wouldn't need to protect anyone if those wolves were dead. \"But I'll agree to whatever the Coalition deems the best idea, assumin' that we're goin' to bring it up to everyone else as well?\" _I want to help, I'm serious about this, I want to join._ He wouldn't be able to help with the actual construction of the cage, nor did he think he would be spending full moons at the ruins, but he desperately wanted to be useful, he always did. \"Doc and Alma should definitely know, yes, thank you. I'll gladly come along and share my findings, I've got more details written down.\" \n_ _\n\n_Feels like it's the end of the world._ That is exactly what it felt like. Images flashed through his mind: claws digging into his leg, hot black blood pouring down on him, voices screaming, rolling into the hospital _retract time of death, Mr.Barca is alive_, his brother's broken body in a hospital bed, the blood staining the floor of the estate. Florian had scrubbed at his skin for hours when he got home, the feeling of blood, both his and the creature's, it wouldn't leave. ~~Why won't it leave?!~~ His skin had turned red and raw and angry. That same anger had seeped into him and had yet to leave. Even now, at least a week later, he could swear that he still wasn't fully clean. \n\n\"It does.\" It hadn't felt entirely real to Florian until now, he'd heard the werewolves, seen the damage they'd done, of course, they seemed to enjoy smashing through the doors and windows of the Barca estate, but until the moment he'd been targeted by one it all felt so far removed from him somehow. \"Things just seem to be gettin' worse.\" January had been especially bad, it didn't bode well for the next moon. \"It doesn't feel real sometimes. Werewolves shouldn't exist, and yet here they are.\""
},
{
"author": "Jasper Hewitt",
"message": "Jasper nodded along, his mind still conjuring idea after idea, a fractured prism of scenarios one after the other that all ended in death. The corpse was one of their own far too many times for comfort. \"If anyone knows how to put our guesses into reality, that would be the doctor. Until we know what is what and how it falls, there is little point to hinging our traps on this.\" He caught the tone of doubt before it crept into his words and choked it down. This was not the place to let his own uncertainties claw further at the already fragile foundations of hope. \"It will work, just gotta figure out the how part.\"\n\n\nThere was no questioning the fight in Florian's words, the steel in his eyes and that was not something Jasper could blame him for. Even before nightmares walked among them, Briar Ridge looked like a hard town, callused hands unwavering under the weight of a weapon. But that was not the world Jasper grew up in. Gentle touches on the ivory of piano keys, fingers so soft even the bluntest of embroidery needles welled blood. Not hands for taking lives.\n\n\"Killing isn't easy work. Even for beasts.\" Jasper spoke slowly, a conscious effort of making wild thoughts ring out with some sense behind. \"We all want them dead in this world and back in only our nightmares. \"But we can't decide for others to have blood on their hands. It's not a burden we can give.\" \n\nIt did indeed feel like the end of the world, there was no better way to put it. Every day felt like both a first and a last. A more optimistic soul may have tried to talk about the spring to come and the days when these would just be words in a storybook to scare the young ones. But an optimistic soul Jasper was not. \"And yet it still keeps turning and the sun still rises. Sometimes I wonder if it's just because the world isn't done hurting us.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "\"I assure you, Mr. Hewitt,\" He drawled. \"I don't think you can begin to understand how easy it can be to pull the trigger when the time comes.\" He grit his teeth and cast his gaze off towards the tree line. Perhaps it wasn't *Easy*, but it was a hard decision and the simple pull of a trigger. The action was done and over in seconds; Charlie realized how easy it could be if ya just didn't think about it too long. Things like this got easier and easier. \n\n\"Just look at all them people with hurt families. Y'think I'd hesitate for even a second if one of them beasts jumped on Alma or my Ma? Even if they are citizens under all that fur,\" He shook his head and made direct eye contact with Florian Barca. \n\n\"I'm sure you can agree with that, can't ya, Florian?\" He raised an eyebrow, before his eyes went back down to the flowers at hand. \"The doctor. Doc Olander will prolly know more about those than any of us; he's a little weird, ain't he? But I'm sure he'll be able to do something with all this information.\" \n\nHe rubbed the back of his neck. \"You fellas thinkin' of joining up with the coalition?\" He asked. \"Val's down for the count right now, we can always use more hands around.\" He cleared his throat. \"Specially big brains.\" Charlie folded his arms across his chest. \"Alma's real overloaded right now with the cage and all, we can use all the help we can get. Dallas Sinclair's been layin' more traps up in the woods— so be careful.\""
},
{
"author": "Florian Barca",
"message": "_Killing isn't easy work, even for beasts._ The youngest Barca son let out a humorless, angry laugh. \"I can assure you it is _plenty_ easy for them. You should count yourself lucky you and yours haven't met one yet, if you did you wouldn't be spewin' those kinds of words.\" How could Jasper be so naive, how could he think those beasts were anything but monsters? Florian had once been naive, had compassion, had seen the humanity behind their eyes. His soul spoke to him, _don't lose your compassion, Barca_, and Florian ignored it. \"Killin' is all they're good for, these wolves. I'm sure that if there was somethin' left inside them that didn't want to kill, they'd have acted on that by now.\"\n\n_I'm sure you can agree with that, can't ya, Florian?_ He'd already felt the beasts' blood on his hands. The sickly black ooze had stained him once before. The next time it would stain the ground of whatever shallow grave Florian's silver bullet had sent it into. The next time he lay eyes on that beast would be the last time. It would die there and then. \"I agree,\" He'd been armed with a butter knife and raw instinct had driven him to plunge it into the wolf. It'd be a cold day in hell before any wolf was going to hurt his family. \"And so would plenty of other folks 'round here. The choice between kin and wolf is a simple one.\" He pushed the thought aside that kin and wolf might be the same. It had been for Charlie. \n\n\"If you'll have me, I'd like to join. I might not be much help when it comes to buildin', for obvious reasons.\" The paralysis of his lower body. \"But thinkin', that I can do. I've been sittin' around for too long.\" He was itching to actually work towards fixing this problem instead of hiding or being hidden from it."
},
{
"author": "Jasper Hewitt",
"message": "Jasper was a million miles away in a moment, with gun smoke clawing his throat choking and metal heavy between faltering fingers. _How easy it can be to pull the trigger_. There was something almost comforting about allowing himself to drift back into the darkness of that cellar. It was the last moment he could not be fooled to believe a nightmare.\n\nThe world caught in his throat as tried to explain himself. \"That is your choice to make Mr. Cooper. But I have met enough folks to know not all have the strength or the will to do so.\" With a breath, Jasper centered himself, smoothing over the cracks of his act. He was not here, not really. Would he ever be? Jasper doubted it. \"I guess I can be thankful I don't have 'mine' to worry for. That's why I do for the others of this town. I'd rather put my faith in strong walls than the hubris of my own shot.\"\n\n\n\"I fear my roots are far too fresh in the soil for my words to hold weight with anyone.\" Jasper said. There was no bitterness in his voice. Nothing cold or hollow. A calm reserved note, well practiced with nothing behind but the shell of where a person once was.\n\nHe'd slipped. Tripped on words. The rope slipped between his fingers with a burn, the heavy brocade curtain swung too far, the audience catching a glimpse of what hideous mess lay behind the glamor of the stage. A voice inside him laughed bitter, amused as the fool tumbled. But anger did not rise the way it should, the way it used to. The fire faltered. A month ago, a week ago even Jasper would have cursed his misstep, pulled his own puppet strings back taught. But his mind had grown tired and this was a fight he was too wary to hold the sword for.\n\nIt mattered not if they understood. He was a tumbleweed blowing through at best, an ink spatter marring the carefully drawn map of Briar Ridge at worst. He did not belong and he was just here till the last card fell and the table cleared, just like always. Briar Ridge could be his coffin but never his hearth. \n\"On that note, I will leave you to discuss further matters in private. I've said my piece and given my best advice. I can only help so much with laying the plans.\" He said. \"You know where to find me if my help is needed. I can promise the steady hand of a man with nothing and no one to lose.\"\n\nWith that, he took his leave."
}
] | 527 | 6,410 |
524.363636 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "The train ride back to Briar Ridge had been one filled with anxiety, his good leg bouncing. He'd stuffed his entire life into two suitcases and hopped the first train back in the direction of his hometown. He'd learned a lot in his time away— he'd read a lot about the world in those encyclopedias, learned a lot from the people he met and made friends with. He'd had lovers and friends alike; but it was time to go home for good, now. He hadn't seen his family properly in decades, now— and he didn't want to spend another day away. \n\nThe walk from the station back to town was a few miles hike, and his leg screamed at him as he walked along. His leg had never really settled proper since the accident; getting crushed under a mining cart was no joke. Maybe part of it was his age slowly catching up to him. He'd be damn well forty years old in a few years, and that scared him. Not married, no kids to call his own— though he wasn't sure about the kids to begin with. But a wife would surely be nice... \n\nThe hills were the worst to get through. He took breaks often to take a breath, and Briar Ridge had never looked like such salvation as he saw it off in the distance, tucked in amongst the pines. Now, it was all about getting to the farm. \n\nThat familiar place where he was born— it seemed both so warm and so foreign at the same time. He hadn't even sent a letter ahead... He hoped, prayed, begged God that someone was home. Sitting out on the porch in the dreary October weather wasn't something he'd like to do today. \n\nHe took the slow steps up the porch, hesitating a moment before he reached for the doorknob and just opened it. It was his family's house, what sense was there in knocking? \n\n\"Ma? Pa?\" He said as he slowly opened the door. \"Anybody home?\""
},
{
"author": "Alma Cooper",
"message": "\"Mama, wait, I—\"\n\n\"I don't wanna hear it, Alma!\" \n\nAlma raked her fingers through her hair, trying her best to calm her anger. If only her Mama would just see to reason! Her Papa was hopeless, but Mama still had the chance to make it—\n\n*\"Ma? Pa? Anybody home?\"*\n\nHer mama's favorite casserole dish slipped from her oven mitts and shattered on the kitchen floor. Alma didn't know the voice that had gingerly called out from the front door, but her Mama clearly did. It didn't take but a heartbeat for Alma to put the dots together as her mother rushed out of the kitchen. Which of her brothers was crazy enough to come back home now? *Now*? Of all the damn times? \n\n\"Charlie-!\" \n\nAlma didn't have to come around the doorframe to know her Mama was crying. It was clear from the way the taller woman's voice broke. No doubt she was wrapping Charlie up in a bear hug right then. The perfect excuse for Alma to linger for just a moment longer in the kitchen. She pressed the cool backs of her hands to her cheeks in an attempt to soothe the angry red of her cheeks. A futile task. She sucked in a deep breath and tossed her loose hair - a rare sight - over her shoulder as she stepped out of the kitchen to greet her older brother. \n\nWhen Charlie had last seen her, she was only four years old. In fact, she wouldn't have remembered his face at all were it not for the one picture of the all of them her mother had cherished over the years. The picture that had been shattered during the most recent werewolf attack and now sat - cracked glass and all - on a nearby side table. Alma's eyes darted across his features: their shared slender noses, their inky black hair, and their deep-set round eyes. They were kin, alright. But he had Papa's high cheekbones . He was taller, too.\n\n\"Hey there, Charlie,\" Alma managed a friendly smile and crossed the living room to envelope him in a friendly hug. She didn't linger the way her Mama had, though. She pulled back and delicately smoothed her flour-covered apron. \n\n\"Set that down-\"\n\"Are you thirsty-\"\n\nBoth women began fussing over him at the same time. Alma pressed her lips together to hold back her words and let her Mama take over for her while she ran to the kitchen to fetch them all some sweet tea. \n\n\"Here, here! You kin just set that suitcase down right there. And take a seat, please! You must be plum tired after all'a that walkin'!\" Mrs. Cooper fluffed him up a throw pillow and waved for him to sit. \"Good lord, I just cain't believe my baby's come back home! Look at how grown you are!\" His Mama clasped his face between her palms, turning his head this way and that as if committing his every feature to memory. \n\n\"Mama,\" Alma's calm voice came from the kitchen doorway, momentarily prying the older woman's attention away from her son. \"Let the poor man breathe. He only just got home.\" \n\nAlma's words fell on deaf ears. Her mama went right back to fussing over him, and Alma smiled weakly over her shoulder as if she was silently apologizing for her failure. The ice tinkled in the glass she set down on the coffee table for him and she perched herself on the edge of her Papa's armchair, waiting for the opportunity to get a word in edgewise."
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "The first thing he heard was the shattering of glass and the quickened footsteps of who he could only guess was his mother. As she came around the corner, he felt some relief fill him; his arms came around her, squeezing her tight. It was good to be home— and he felt awful for avoiding it as long as he had. He hadn't been home in... Well, it had to be close to two decades, hadn't it? His mother's hair had changed; from the same dark black to silver, and she now had wrinkles where they didn't used to be. But she looked good, sturdy, healthy as she could be. It was a sweet relief. \n\n\"I'm alright, mama,\" He promised her, resting a hand on her back and rubbing up and down in a soothing way. He picked his head up and spotted his younger sister, and he felt his heart clench up a little. \n\nShe looked so *Different* From when she was little. She used to be so small he could easily pick her up— he remembered doing so the day he left home. Lifting her up, giving her a big squeeze, a kiss on the head before leaving. Now she was a full-grown woman... It was shocking, to say the least. He disentangled himself from his mother's hug to receive one from Alma, giving her a brief squeeze before letting her escape the embrace. \n\n\"You're all grown up, Alma. How about that?\" He laughed, looking her over. She seemed a bit apprehensive, nearly. It was understandable; to her, he was nearly a stranger. It made him feel a deep sadness he had yet to realize until now. Staying away this long out of *Shame*... It had cost him watching his baby sister grow up into a proper woman. \n\nBut it seemed she took after mama in some ways, as they both were ushering him to sit. He put his bags down, taking a few steps and having a seat with a groan of appreciation. \"S'alright, Alma,\" He said as their mother grasped his face. He chuckled and let her, not minding the attention. \n\n\"Can't blame her. Been a while since I've been home, huh?\" An understatement, of course. \"Sorry I ain't wrote.\"\n\n\"I ain't know what to write, if I'm honest.\" He said, sheepishly glancing away and clearing his throat. \"I thought... About time I came on home. I missed everybody something fierce.\" His eyes flickered between Alma and their mother a few times. \n\n\"But enough about me!\" He clapped his hands together. \"I wanna know what's been goin' on with everybody else! Where's Pa?\" He asked. There was always a flicker of fear that something horrible might've happened and he'd never know it. \n\nAnd maybe he didn't want to have to field any invasive questions about where he'd been... Why he hadn't written... It was still so shameful to him. Quitting hadn't ever been an option, and he had. He'd *Failed.*"
},
{
"author": "Alma Cooper",
"message": "Alma tried not to make a face when Charlie apologized for not writing. She still remembered the way her Mama would dedicatedly drag her to the post office once a week, every single week come Hell or high waters. It'd been like clock work. A cup of coffee, flour from the general store, a visit to the post office. Her arms would ache from the groceries and her toes would be numb and her Mama would still trudge her way through snow just to check for a letter from Charlie. \n\nThe tradition continued on when Papa left for the war. \n\nIt wasn't until he came back that Mrs. Cooper had finally given up on waiting for his letters. 1918. It took 12 years for her to accept that he wasn't gonna write. But Alma wasn't gonna say any of it. She just got a distant look in her eye and pretended to get distracted by the ruined casserole dish that still lay in shambles on the kitchen floor. \n\n\"No, no, no,\" Her Mama cooed gently. She was a better woman than Alma in every regard. Mama pulled Charlie into another warm hug and eased down on the couch beside him as if her arms alone might heal the years of distance. Funny how a Mama's arms could feel like that. How a Mama could love endlessly like that. It made Alma feel guilty for bein' mad at him for breakin' her Mama's heart the way he did. \n\nBut she was no better than he was. Not with what she was plannin'. \n\n*Pa.*\n\nAlma stood up quick and began sweeping up the broken bits.\n\n\"Oh, your Papa's... Your Papa's off about town.\" Mrs. Cooper patted the back of Charlie's hand and used that loving tone of voice that signaled she wasn't gonna say somethin' bad against her husband. \n\n\"He's Mayor now! Kin you believe it?\" She smiled so big and wide with pride that her eyes nearly disappeared in her cheeks. \"He came back from the War n' he said he was gonna help the town git back on its feet! Been that way for ten years now. We bought another 5 acres off the Shands and grew the farm out and - oh, you'll just have to see how it's all grown! How all of it's grown! Briar Ridge has so many new faces these days.\n\n\"Alma, you should show your brother around town once he's rested!\" Her mother called, trying to pull Alma out of the safety of the kitchen. \n\nAlma poked her head through the doorway, fixing a smile on her face. \"I'd be happy to.\"\n\nHer mother's eyes nervously darted between Alma and Charlie. \"Alma's the school teacher now!\" She tried again to bridge the distance Alma had willingly created. Alma's smile only grew awkward and she ducked her head down in a small bow. \n\n\"I am. N' I'm... Really grateful for you goin' off to work...\" Alma couldn't hide the way her eyes darted down to her brother's leg. *Guilt*. \"I finished my schoolin' cause of you,\" She murmured. \"So... If you need anythin' at all, you just ask. I owe you more than I know how to repay proper.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "There was a stiffness in the air that, while he hated it, seemed deserved. He hadn't written in over a decade. He'd left them all wondering where he was, what he was up to— all because he was ashamed. He'd thought about writing, but as the years had stretched on... Well, he just felt guiltier and guiltier. He didn't deserve to be forgiven for it, and the flash of something like contempt had crossed Alma's face felt like a slap in the face of reality. He'd been an awful son; missed out on so much, too. How awful. \n\nHis eyes dropped a bit and he cleared his throat. The best thing he could do from here on out was be a good son— his parents were getting old, they'd need help around the house. He could do that, at least, even with a bum leg. \n\n\"You're kiddin!\" He slapped his knee, surprise painted on his face. Mayor? No, there was no way! That was... Well, wasn't that just something? He really had missed a lot. All this land, all this power... Wow. A lot had changed since he'd left. That was to be expected, he supposed, being gone for nearly two decades. \n\nHis eyes slid back to Alma and his smile was warm. \"How about that? A schoolteacher... You oughta be real smart then, huh?\" He shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. He watched her eyes flicker down to his bum leg and he tucked it behind the other one out of embarrassment. \n\n\"It's uh... I just wanted to help,\" He told her. \"So you don't gotta thank me. I just wanted to make everybody proud.\" His eyes flickered away from his family a moment and focused on the floor; looking at the wood grain in the floorboards and tracing it with his eyes. \n\n\"I guess... I dunno, guess you don't need as much money no more since you're all so fancy now,\" He teased. \"But I promised every paycheck to y'all and... I've been savin' it for the past years to bring home,\" He looked up from his lap to his mother. \"Hope it'll make things a little easier these days. I'm real sorry I ain't write,\" He said again. He couldn't begin to apologize enough."
},
{
"author": "Alma Cooper",
"message": "*\"A schoolteacher... You oughta be real smart then, huh?\"\"* \n\nAlma felt her face burn bright red. It went right up to the tips of her ears and made her grip the broomstick tighter. She'd always been wretched at taking compliments. They made her skin crawl. Smart was never a word she'd use to describe herself, but here her eldest brother was smiling at her so earnestly that she wished the floor would swallow her whole. The brother whose paychecks kept her from joining her siblings in the field. The part of her that didn't feel as small and useless as the shards of ceramic in her dust pan wanted to show him it was worth it through the guilt and the resentment. \n\n\"Nah, the kids prove they're smarter than me... Most days,\" She murmured in an attempt to keep the topic of conversation squarely off of her. She took a mental note of the way he'd moved his leg away. She decided she'd avoid it from then on to ease his discomfort. \n\nAlma kept listening as she peeled herself away from the doorframe to finish the last bit of sweeping up and disposing of the ruined dish. Just in time to catch the last bit of what he was saying. Her mama's eyes were big and watery and proud. Her smile hadn't faded once. Mrs. Cooper shook her head 'no' again and ran a comforting, calloused hand up and down his back.\n\n\"You ain't gotta apologize for nothin', Charlie. You're home. We're so, so happy you're home. We thought we weren't ever gonna see you again.\" Their Mama's voice cracked a little at that. She sniffled, but that smile didn't fade. \"You don't gotta give us nothin', Charlie. Not a single cent. You take that money up and git you some land out here. Oh, please tell me you come back home proper? You ain't just visitin', but you're here to stay?\" \n\nFrom where she continued to linger in the kitchen doorway, Alma took stock of his suitcases again. \"I hear tell of a nice house for sale the town over.\" She ignored the way her Mama whipped around to face her. \"Ain't supposed to be too much work to fix up. If'in you ain't got roots put down elsewhere.\" Alma hadn't seen a wedding ring, but she let the unspoken question linger in the air all the same. \n\nShe opened her mouth to continue on when the sound of dog barking from somewhere outside picked up. It wasn't a simple, warning bark. It was an awful, vicious sound. He was right riled up. Then, the thuds of heavy work boots came from the stairs on the front porch. Any curiosity that may have been in Alma's gaze died as William Cooper came through the door. \n\nWilliam was still skinny, but he was back to a healthy weight after his month being lost in the woods. His shoes were covered in dirt. The bottoms of his pants legs were still wet as if he'd just been wading through the creek. He pulled his hat from the top of his head, blinking to allow his eyes to adjust to the room as he realized everyone was gathered including-\n\n\"Is that Charlie?\" A grin broke out across the Mayor's face as he strode across the living room to pull his son into a bear hug. \"Well, I'll be damned,\" He laughed, clapping him enthusiastically on the back. \"Took ya long enough! When'd you git back?\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "\"Aw, c'mon now. You know that can't be true.\" Charlie said, his eyes tracking his youngest sister for a moment until she was out of sight with the broom. His eyes flickered back to his mother; he was just eager to take it all in. He didn't want to miss a single moment right now. Not now, that he was back - this was all too important to him. He was intent on absorbing every little bit of time he had left with his family... Granted, if they would have him. His mother seemed excited, at the least. He couldn't help but think Alma wasn't completely sold on it, for some reason. They were practically strangers... Which struck him in his chest like something cold. \n\nHe pulled the envelope from his coat pocket, clutching it in his hands and holding it out to her, insistently trying to press it into her hands. \"I ain't feel right about it. Take half, at least. For all them years I stayed away. All the years I ain't wrote...\" He pivoted to Alma and looked to her. \"If they ain't gonna take it, you could at least take some too, couldn't ya? For the school? Or... Whatever.\" He cleared his throat, standing up and moving towards her now. \"I figure... I mean, I really am here to stay in Briar Ridge. I don't wanna be away from my family no more than I gotta. If I'm wanted here, at least.\" He cleared his throat once more, like he was fighting for the words. \"No roots nowhere else.\" He'd always been to preoccupied with his business than anything else, his friendships. Besides, it was always easier to sell to lonely housewives when you didn't wear a wedding ring. \n\nHis thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of his father. He turned to the door and felt relief, wrapping his arms around him and giving him a huge hug. \"Pa,\" He said, laughing in that breathless sort of way. \"I just got in... You ain't missed me long,\" He promised him. \"I'm here to stayh this time. Promise.\""
},
{
"author": "Alma Cooper",
"message": "Charlie Cooper wanted to donate half of the money to the school? \n\nAlma felt her throat close up tight at the thought. They needed that money. The desks were getting wobbly. A chair leg had broke just the other day. She was nearing the end of her chalk and would need to put in another order to come from the city. And the books? Lord, the books! What she wouldn't give for the children to have something new for once. \n\nIf they lived long enough to learn how to read them. \n\nWith her father back, though, Alma just clamped her jaw shut as she leaned against the doorframe and waited, all coiled up and tense like a rattlesnake. Her Mama was left nervously holding onto the envelope Charlie had pressed into her hands, her big doe eyes darting between all three of them. She so desperately wanted this to be a happy occasion instead of another warzone. And she especially didn't want Charlie to be caught in the crossfire. \n\n\"Good! You been gone far too long! Let me see you!\" William pulled back to examine his son's face, wearing that same crooked grin all the while. \"My! Will you look at that Miriam? He's a chip off the ol' block, ain't he?\" He joked, fully aware of the way his son over had half a foot of height on him. \n\n\"Charlie was just tellin' me and Alma how he was lookin' to stay here. And I was just about to tell him that his old room is still his. It always has been, and it always will be,\" Mama Cooper finally interjected as she stood up from the couch and tried to hand the envelope back to Charlie. \"We kin talk more about what you wanna do over dinner. You must be hungry after that long walk. Good news is that I've already got chili cookin' on the stove. I'll make us up another batch of corn bread while you two go and get yourselves cleaned up. \n\n\"Alma? You wanna help your brother with his bags?\" \n\nAlma sucked her teeth as she unfolded herself and picked up the two bags for him while her mother slipped away to find her surviving baking pan.\n\nAlma: _\n_ \"Good to have you back, Charlie,\" William said with one last squeeze to his shoulder before he sat down and started peeling off his waterlogged boots. \n\n\"This way,\" Alma called from the hallway. She led him around the corner and opened the door to reveal his old room, practically untouched. A few boxes of items for seasonal storage had been stacked in his closet and a sheet had been draped over his bed to keep it from gathering dust. It needed a good dusting in general, but the Coopers hadn't exactly had housekeeping at the forefront of their minds in recent months. Alma set his bags down for him and made sure the door had clicked shut before she finally let the mask of civility drop. \n\n\"Listen to me and listen to me well, Charlie. You need to leave. You kin stay for dinner. You kin even stay for the night. But you *Need to go*, Charlie. Briar Ridge ain't safe no more n' Mama won't leave. So either you leave, or you leave n' you take Mama with you. But you **Cain't** Stay.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "As he pulled back from his father, he realized then how tense the room had gotten upon their father's entrance. It had him shifting from foot to foot, glancing around and to his mother as she began to speak. He didn't understand; maybe they'd gotten into some kind of spat earlier. That had to be it. \n\n\"Well, yknow Ma, I don't wanna live her forever but I surely will take ya up on the offer until I can find a place to stay.\" There was some relief there. And besides, his parents were getting older anyhow. He was sure Ma could use some help around the house and Pa could use a hand doing... Well, whatever he was doing these days that had him wading around in the water like that. \n\nWith the envelope safely back in hand, he glanced to Alma and followed her back to his bedroom. The house hadn't changed too much, somehow. It seemed funny, seeing what had moved around and what hadn't. Even the door with the creaky hinge hadn't been fixed; and maybe he liked that. \n\n\"Glad to be back,\" He told his parents and bowed his head as Alma took him out of the room. \"Yknow, I been all around the city and—\" \n\nAs the door shut, the words dies in his mouth. His sister looked angry. At first, he didn't quite process what she was saying. \"I know I been a bad brother and son but I promise I'm good, I ain't meant to do the family bad like that.\" \n\nHe sucked in a shaky breath. Ain't safe? What did she mean by that? \"I ain't— Alma, I ain't got anywhere else to go. What is goin' on with you?\" He asked her suddenly. \"You ain't makin' a lick of sense, Alma, would you just give it to me straight already?\""
},
{
"author": "Alma Cooper",
"message": "*\"I know I been a bad brother and son but I promise I'm good, I ain't meant to do the family bad like that.\" *\n\nOh, no. That wasn't the message she'd intended to send. The anger dropped for just a moment, her big brown eyes gone wide with surprise. While she was still far from happy about how he'd just up and left the family without a trace, his offering to donate money for the school had struck a chord with her. He'd climbed up a notch in her mind, though she was certain there was a whole slew of emotions she'd have to work through before she might embrace him the way her Mama just had. \n\nBut, at the end of the day, he was kin. That made him keeping him safe her responsibility. Older brother or not. \n\nHis questions brought her resolve back. She swallowed hard and tried again. \n\n\"You got plenty'a money to lay down roots anywhere. You'll be fine so long as you git on that train with Mama n' you never look back. Papa's treatin' this like he's the captain of a ship; he won't abandon the town. But he's makin' it *Worse*. You cain't believe a word he-\" \n\nAn old, wooden floorboard creaked down the hallway. Alma froze. The noise was imprinted into her very bones after 26 years of living in this house. Alma quickly pushed past him to gather up the sheet on his bed. \n\n\"You gotta come out and see how big the town's gotten,\" Alma attempted to sound happy in a desperate play to cover her earlier words with honeyed lies. But Alma was always a terrible liar. She just sounded downright nervous.\n\nIt was a beat before the footsteps passed and was followed by the sound of a door shutting softly. \n\nAlma looked up at her brother, trying her best to put on a brave face. But she'd lost her earlier conviction. She looked far more like a kid caught with her fingers in the cookie jar."
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "He couldn't help but feel some frustration, some stubbornness in him that had only gotten stronger since he'd left. He'd always been someone who felt like he had to protect his family; that's why he'd gone to work in the mines. He might've had a bum leg but he'd still walked on it, everyday, for miles and miles, toiling to try and sell those heavy encyclopedias so that maybe one day, he could return to face his parents with some semblance of pride. \n\nThis wasn't exactly how he expected his family to be. It was like they were walking in egg shells around some kind of secret that he wasn't being let in on. \n\n\"It ain't my money,\" He said to Alma, shaking his head. \"That money belongs to Ma and Pa and you.\" He insisted. \"I ain't touchin' it. And I ain't goin' nowhere, cuz I just got here—\" \n\nHe couldn't help but think his sister looked an awful lot like a small, frightened animal in the moment she froze. He couldn't understand her erratic movements— then again, he'd yet to fully understand Alma herself. The last time he'd seen her, she'd barely stopped sucking her thumb and now she was teaching kids not to suck their thumbs. \n\n\"Easy,\" He said, reaching out to touch her arm but hesitating before their skin could make contact. He dropped his hand down at his side and looked her over. \n\n\"...Let's take a walk, you can show me that schoolhouse of yours,\" He said, shoving a hand in his jacket pocket. \"And I wanna see how big the town's gotten, yeah.\" And maybe they could talk more freely, away from the prying ears of their parents. \n\n\"So,\" He said, trying to make easy conversation as he walked to the door. \"You ain't married yet? Me neither, obviously.\" He laughed, putting on that charm he always used when trying to sell those big, bulky encyclopedias. \n\n\"Reckon you ain't bursting at the seams to have kids when you already got so many little ones to take care of, huh?\""
},
{
"author": "Alma Cooper",
"message": "A walk? A walk?!\n\nCharlie Cooper had just walked all the way to town from God knew where on that leg and he was trying to go on a walk? She picked up on his meaning quick enough and, while she was grateful for it, Mama was gonna be awfully upset about them just up and leaving. But Charlie was already half way out the door and Alma found herself trailing after him against her better judgement. She only paused briefly to drop the sheet in the dirty laundry bin and to tell her Mother they'd be right back before she followed his laughter out the front door. \n\nAnd into freedom. \n\nIt'd been a good call. Alma was already feeling her frantic energy slipping away as her ears filled with the familiar crunch of their walking path to the main road. Charlie's seemingly easy going nature was both equal parts grating as it was welcome. But the relief didn't mean she'd given up. She'd dance this dance if it meant he'd listen to her later on. Even if it was giving her whiplash. \n\n\"Married?\" How could he be possibly be asking her about something so... So... Mundane? People were dying and she was trying to save his life and Mama's life and he was asking her about marriage? \n\nWas this really what her life had turned into? \n\n\"I-I, uh, n-no! I ain't...\" Charlie wouldn't know. She nervously crossed her arms over her chest and glanced back at the house is if making sure they weren't being followed. \"I ain't married. Mama won't let me hear the end of it, of course. She's always goin' on about how I should find me someone and be givin' her grandbabies already.\" That was the last damn thing on Alma's mind. \n\nCharlie's last question did earn himself a nervous chuckle of a laugh, though. \"Right. I ain't in no rush. Don't get me wrong, I love them kids like they're my own, but... There are some days where it's awful nice to wish them goodbye.\"\n\n_\n_ Now that they were some distance away from the house, a dog came tearing out of the tree line and sprinting through the fields. A great, big bloodhound with sagging jowls and floppy ears raced straight for them. Oh, no. \"Dog! Don't you dare jump on him,\" Alma warned the great beast and he skidded to a halt just shy of knocking into the siblings. \"Charlie, this is Dog. Dog, this Charlie. You be nice.\" \n\nThankfully, Dog didn't know the definition of the word stranger. If Charlie let him get close enough, he would shove his black nose right up against Charlie's pant leg and inhale as though his life depended it. His tail wagged so hard that his back legs could barely keep him upright. \"Papa got Dog as a huntin' dog a few years back, but he ended up turnin' into my dog instead. He started refusin' to come on huntin' trips with Papa cause he didn't wanna leave me alone. He's trouble... But he's a good boy.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "He couldn't help but chuckle at the clear confusion and disbelief on his sister's face. He was playing it quite cool— not wanting to draw too much attention to the fact that they were leaving the house for reasons of privacy. \n\nHis leg was aching, but he chose to ignore it. He'd been ignoring it for years, he wasn't about to stop now. He would grin and bear it so nobody had to worry about him— least of all his frazzled sister or his mother. \n\n\"Don't let all that talk about kids and marriage get to ya too much,\" He told her. \"Best you ain't rush into anything you don't want to. I reckon... If you wanna meet somebody, you will.\" He shrugged a shoulder. \n\n\"Myself? I like to focus on my work, leave the extra stuff for after. But then I'm just too damn tired to go have a smoke with a pretty girl, you know? Well, making conversation is easy, I s'pose, but then it's all dates and courting and...\" He waved his hand and laughed. \"Frankly, I figure love will come if it wants.\"\n\nThey were a safe distance from the house, he opened his mouth to ask a question when the dog came shooting out from the tree line. \"Well hello there, fella,\" He said, slowly sinking down and groaning at the crack his knees made. \n\n\"Nice to meet ya, Dog.\" He said, holding out a hand to let him sniff and then pet him. \"He's awful cute.\" He looked up at Alma now, eyes crinkling as he grinned. \"Now... What was all that in the house 'bout?\" He asked her curiously. \"You sound right scared of something, Alma Cooper, and I know you ain't a 'fraidy cat.\" He just knew."
},
{
"author": "Alma Cooper",
"message": "It seemed as though that easy going attitude wasn't going anywhere. He must've gotten that from their Mama. Alma watched him increduously as he shrugged and laughed so... *Freely*. The knot in her stomach was growing. Was this what... The rest of the world felt like? Unburdened? His every single word was a kindness but it only made her feel like she was somehow a puzzle piece that didn't fit into his world anymore. She might have once snapped right into place. Back before she got into that truck. Now she was waterlogged and her edges warped to odd angles. \n\nCharlie was just so... *Good*.\n\nWho was she to look him in the eye? \n\n*\"Frankly, I figure love will come if it wants.\"*\n\nAlma swallowed hard as her mind immediately raced towards *His face*, but she pushed it back into the box she'd made for him. He kept growing and changing, too. She wasn't sure how much longer the glue and layers of tape would hold. Dog was a welcome distraction. She didn't have to pray for the world to swallow her whole as Charlie was bending down to greet Dog. \n\nThe big bloodhound leaned right into Charlie's touch and would try to lick all over his if he was permitted. Alma halfheartedly tried to stop him, but she needed the quiet laugh that bubbled up out of her. Til Charlie was asking the question she'd been waiting for. She swallowed hard and her arms found their way defensively crossed over her chest again as if it might somehow keep her as whole and unafraid as he seemed to think she was.\n\n\"It's cause I *Am* Scared, Charlie. I'm scared for you n' I'm scared for Mama. Them things got into the house just a couple months ago. Broke right through my bedroom window,\" She paused as a shudder ran down her spine. \"Feel free to peek your head in there when we git back. The wall's still boarded up n', if you move the back left corner of the carpet, you'll see where the blood refused to lift from the floorboards. Lord knows I've scrubbed n' I've scrubbed n' I've-\" Alma cut herself off fast. She felt like crying. She wasn't gonna, though. She wouldn't let herself. She sniffled once, swallowed hard, and pressed on.\n\n\"It's a miracle, really. I thought my friend was gonna die that night, but we scared it off with our guns. But they just keep comin' back, Charlie. That's why you gotta go. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy you came home. Really, I am! But that don't mean you kin stay. They'll come for you too if you do.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "He took pause, letting the hound lick at his hand as he took in all the information Alma was throwing at him. She seemed hesitant to give him details for reasons beyond his comprehension. *Things*? He supposed he'd known a few things about the... *Things* That lurked in Briar Ridge since he was a kid. Snallygasters and haints and all that were mere folklore - children's stories, made up to scare kids. Though, of course, some people believed in them well into their adulthood. Charlie had never been one of those people. \n\n\"Mama can go if she wants to, but I ain't makin' her go nowhere she don't wanna be. Briar Ridge is her home. My home too. I been away too damn long. And if stayin' means I can die in the place I love, so be it, Alma. I wanna be here to protect these people. Why do you get to lay down your life and stay here, and I cain't?\" He asked her curiously. \"I wanna be useful. I wanna make up for all them times I ain't been here.\" He crossed his arms as he took a stand, leaning on his good leg. \n\n\"Are you gonna give me the details? Or are you gonna make me stick around and find out for myself what's been crawlin' through town? What is it?\" He asked her again. \"Clearly ain't a mountain lion or bears, otherwise you'd said all that by now.\" He chewed his lip. \"I don't need two good legs to hold a gun, y'know.\" He said, stubborn as all hell as usual for him."
},
{
"author": "Alma Cooper",
"message": "\"Charlie, you don't know what you're sayin'! You don't know what you're agreein' to! They're just awful! They'll- They'll - They'll—\" Alma's emotions were overtaking her ability to speak properly. She carded her fingers through her hair in frustration and took a few quick steps away from him. She needed to make space before she started to get mad. She screamed at her Papa enough. Charlie hadn't earned that kind of anger from her. Dog let out a small whine of concern over how quickly she was moving. \n\n*Bottle it, bottle it, bottle it.*\n\nThe next time she spoke, she faced the treeline instead of Charlie. Her shoulders were shaking with the effort it required for her to maintain her composure. \"I done told you, Charlie. Guns don't mean nothin' to 'em. I shot one in the leg! N' then Rhett shot it with a god damn shotgun! N' it was still able to run off into the woods before we could finish it off...\" \n\nAlma sucked in a shuddering breath. \"I don't want to give you the details. I want you to git Mama to safety and go on livin' your life. Get you somebody who makes you laugh. Grow old somewhere that you ain't gotta question if you'll live to see next month. It ain't too late for you.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "He was worried about Alma, and for so many reasons. She seemed... Exhausted. Like every nerve in her was strung taut, and she was a ready to snap at any moment. He took a few hesitant steps towards her and laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezing. \n\n\"I ain't goin' nowhere,\" He said softly. \"I'm gettin' older, Alma. All I got... Is you folks,\" He grimaced slightly. \"I don't wanna leave you behind cuz you wanna play hero, Alma. I ain't lettin' you. Im Yer big brother— I'm s'posed to protect you *And* Mama.\" \n\nHe squeezed her shoulder again before he dropped his hand. \"And papa too. You gotta tell me what's goin' on 'round here. I don't care what, I wanna help. Cuz... I spent way too long feelin' sorry for myself. Ain't happening now. I'm here to stay. And you ain't movin' me.\" \n\nHe knew she would be pissed, but he didn't care. W"
},
{
"author": "Alma Cooper",
"message": "The touch made her jump. Alma whipped around on Charlie like she was half ready to punch him for scaring her like that, but her fist never came up. It wasn't meant for him. Her big, brown eyes were so distraught that she looked like a madwoman half ready to fight even God himself for the chance to stay alive. And she would if that was what it would take. She would if He were real. He was the one who deserved every ounce of her rage. But she'd lost all faith in Him when Beaux LeBlanc was mauled three times in a row and when they'd held funeral rites for Eli Abrams before he'd even heaved his last breath and when Anna Mae Thomas's body was dragged down from the ridge and — Over and over again, she'd been reminded that a benevolent God could not exist. \n\nThere was only man and the forest. And the forest was winning. \n\nThis time, when Charlie said he wasn't going to leave, Alma's shoulders slumped. Only their shared blood was a bigger sign of their Cooper lineage than their shared stubbornness. But only just barely. That exact stubbornness was exactly what the cage builders needed. Alma didn't want to bring Charlie into this, but he was forcing his way in. If he was gonna throw himself to the literal wolves, she would have him working with her. \n\n\"Just... Don't look at me like I'm crazy, Charlie. Please. I... I know it's bad. I know it don't make no sense until you lived through it.\" The image of Rhett's face crept into her mind. The way his lips had curled into a odd smirk of incredulity before he was able to smooth his expression back. She'd never forget it. Back then, she hadn't cared. Alma hadn't needed Rhett to believe her like she needed Charlie to believe her now. She didn't need Charlie to dismiss her entirely and got himself killed on a full moon.\n\n_ \n_ \n\n\"I don't want you sayin' you'll be protectin' anyone until you've seen it with your own eyes. I'll explain as best I kin, but you gotta live through it before I'll let you help me. You may feel like runnin' afterwards, n' that's okay. But, if you stay, we could really use your help somethin' awful.\" Alma paused for just a breath. She didn't bother to glance around to see if anyone was eavesdropping. Everyone who'd lived through the attacks knew the truth of what she was about to say. Most folks just weren't ready to say the words out loud. \n\n\"We just finished buryin' two boys in their Papa's backyard. They went out on a full moon and were found face down in the pines the next morning, half eaten. Their Papa had taken 'em out hunting since they were grown enough to keep up with him. They didn't listen to the warnin's. Thought they could do what the huntin' party led by the sheriff hisself failed to: kill a werewolf. The sheriff almost died with how his ||guts were hangin' out||. Francis Estep had to be dragged home... Just like I did, back in July.\"\n\nFinally, Alma glanced around. There wasn't a soul in sight. What she was about to do wasn't *Improper* By most folks' standards, but it was by hers. She lifted her skirts anyway. Only up to her knees. Only high up enough to reveal her shin. A set of horrid tooth marks had permanently marred the russet brown skin. A creature with a set of jaws like that had to be *Massive*. Its snout had to be at least as long as Charlie's forearm, if not longer. With an injury like that, Alma and Charlie should have also shared a limp. It was truly a miracle that Alma was well enough to move. But there was no God. Just man and the forest. \n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "He could see her body go into defense mode, like a cat with all the hair on it's back standing straight up. He didn't want to scare her, nor did he want to upset her. He could see the fear, the anxiety, the *Exhaustion* In his sister's eyes, and it broke his heart. His chest ached; what had he let his family suffer through? What had he been absent from, living blissfully unaware of their turmoil? \n\nHe listened to her speak, eyebrow knit together. He knew he had to keep a straight face, if her begging for his understanding said anything. But *Werewolves*, said like it was nothing, like this word was commonplace on her tongue, really threw him for a loop. He paused, tried not to look perplexed, and let her finish. \n\n\"I ain't goin' nowhere,\" Charlie said with a firmness, a lack of moving evident in his voice. That stubborn Cooper way that they both possessed, though they'd hardly grown up together. His eyes traced her scars, focusing in on exactly how *Large* The beast must be. How she'd managed to pull herself from the creature's maw was beyond him, though he wasn't surprised. He could tell by the way she held herself that she was a fighter. He wasn't sure he was as much of one as she was, but he also wasn't going down without at least trying. Maybe that was another common thread that maintained a feeble connection between the siblings. \n\n\"Whatever you need from me, Alma, I'm here. I can do whatever you want. I can... I can post up with a gun, take care of traps, whatever it is, you got me there. I know I ain't fast, but I know how to hunt good enough to fight my way out,\" He promised her. \"We'll get mama somewhere safe, but you know she ain't goin' far. Not with her babies fightin' a war against... These damned things.\" \n\nHe squeezed her shoulder and, unprompted, pulled her in to hug her round the shoulders. He let his little sister go after a moment, and looked down at her. Even though she was far older now, all he could think about was the toddler he'd—\n\n— known, all the way back then. He had to protect her, not because she wasn't capable of helping herself, but because she was his *Family.* And he knew he had to do this, or he'd never forgive himself for running away. Again. \n\n\"There a reason we ain't tellin' Ma or Pa about this?\" He asked her curiously. Alma had been shifty in the house, which he couldn't quite place. He knelt a little, wincing at the ache in his leg as he began to pet Dog again with a steady hand. His eyes flickered up to Alma again. \n\n\"They ain't approvin' of Yer methods?\" He asked."
},
{
"author": "Alma Cooper",
"message": "As Alma lowered her skirts back down, her eyes raced up to Charlie's face. She was prepared to find and counter his disbelief. She would stand there and provide him every ounce of proof she had if it meant he might take her warnings seriously and *Leave* With Mama in tow. Rather than reproach, all she found was steadfast determination. All she saw was herself in his eyes and in his words. \n\nThe hug caught her off guard, but she didn't resist it. No, instead it was all too easy to sink into her brother's arms. She knew he was naive still to the creatures that haunted her dreams and the way her own screams would sometimes echo in her ears. She knew he hadn't caught glimpses of the Clark boys' half-eaten corpses as they were lowered into the earth. His support was coming from a place fueled by hope and, Lord, did she need it. Despite how coiled up she'd been, she managed to hug him back quick and hard as if to say 'fine, you can stay.' \n\nShe tried to ignore the way he looked at her like she was still a child who needed protecting. She'd sometimes seen that same look in her Papa's eyes. Something told her, though, that her brother wouldn't try to lock her up in a safe house. They'd be on the front lines together if he wasn't frightened off by his first moon. So, she didn't try to correct him. She just smoothed her skirts and tucked a few wild wisps of hair back into place until she looked every bit like the proper schoolhouse teacher she desperately tried to project still. \n\nThe subject of their parents had her brows knit together, though. The same hands that had just smoothed her skirts balled the fabric up in her fists.\n\n_ _ \n\"Mama and Papa both know,\" She started carefully. \"Ma saw the one that came in through the bedroom window, and Pa's known from the very first attack. He's-...\" Her voice caught on the secret. She couldn't say it out loud yet. She couldn't ruin him. Not until Charlie was *Sure* He'd stay. Once the words were out, they could never be taken back. She had to wait. \n\n\"Neither of 'em approve. In fact, they disapprove so much that I'm... Movin' out.\" She tried to summon up a smile, but it was pained. \"I cain't stay in that house no more. It's... Like a poison for me. I was just comin' by to get what's left of mine. I'm takin' up with the Sterlin's.\" That was a name that she wasn't entirely sure Charlie would have encountered. \"Rhett Sterlin's aunties've been a real boon. I poured most'a my money into buildin' up this Cage to trap the werewolves in n' so I'm gonna hole up with them till I can afford a place of my own. Not too terribly long, I hope. But Mama's just... Tore up about it. Wanted us to have one last dinner before I moved out. And I wanted to try one last time to git her to safety.\" \n\nAlma's head hung low in shame for what had gone unaccomplished and for how she wagered she'd just pulled the rug out from Charlie's feet."
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "The warmth of that hug, familiar in a way he wasn't sure he'd felt until now, was quickly vanished by the news Alma left at his feet. Alma was leaving; albeit not very far, since Briar Ridge itself wasn't very large at all. Everything felt real small after living in the city; sure, the people basically lived on top of one another in those little apartments and townhouses, but still. \n\nAlma was leaving, just when he was getting home. How ironic, he found it - if he'd just gotten up the courage to come home a week ago, or maybe a month, a year, *A decade ago*... Maybe he wouldn't be feeling all this damn guilt. Maybe he and Alma would be closer. But no sense in regretting the past that couldn't be fixed. \n\n\"Guess I came in time for dinner then,\" Charlie said, trying to keep all the sadness holed up inside. He was a sensitive man in his own right, but this wasn't the time for that. Alma was strong, and he had to be too. \n\n\"Well, you know I'll be at the front of the damn thing, fightin' alongside ya. Damn what they say, and damn this leg.\" He gestured vaguely down at that leg; he hadn't let it slow him down before, and he wasn't about to let it start neither. Not with his little sister fighting the good fight. \n\n\"You let me know what all I can do to help. Ya hear me?\" He said, shoving a hand in his pocket as he squinted up at the house. \"And maybe I'll try and talk some sense into Ma and Pa. I'm sure they's just worried about ya, Alma. Lord knows I am, too. I also know there ain't no stoppin' you.\" He didn't need to know much about her to know she was probably just as stubborn as he was and just as strong-willed too."
},
{
"author": "Alma Cooper",
"message": "*\"Guess I came in time for dinner then.\"*\n\nCharlie's gentle joke caught her by surprised. As did the soft laughter that boiled up out of her. She supposed he was like Papa in that way. Stable. Dependable. Good. When she looked at her brother, despite the fact that their difference in age made them practical strangers, she believed she was already starting to see someone she could trust. A quiet voice whispered that it was trust that got them into this hell. A louder one insisted it was trust that would get them out, too. \n\nShe needed to tell him. But not now. Not when the sound of her Mama's voice was rolling across the harvested cornfields to call them both inside as if they'd been out playing too long. Alma turned and saw Miriam was even going so far as to wave a white kitchen towel over her head as she hollered. Of course, Mama would do that. It brought on a nostalgia that the two of them had barely experienced together, but nostalgia all the same. \n\n\"Alright, alright. I promise I'll let you help out. After we survive this dinner with our folks. Mama said she was savin' up her last jar'a pickled jalapeños just for tonight's cornbread and, I don't know about you, but it's my favorite. Even better than Mrs. Estep's! Don't tell nobody, though!\" She grinned - actually grinned - and playfully knocked her shoulder against Charlie's as she turned to head back up to the old farm house.\n\nTry as she might, she couldn't douse the flickering flame of hope that sprang up in her heart at the thought of Charlie lobbying for her. If it meant that it would get Mama to safety, then that was all that mattered. It meant one less thing to weigh heavy on her shoulders, and good lord did she need all the help she could get. She tried to ignore the tears that came to her Mama's eyes at the sight of Alma smilin'. Acknowledgin' them would make Alma cry, too. So, she just straightened her back and kept walkin'."
}
] | 467.5 | 11,536 |
663.294118 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "*And i love ~~vermont~~ briar ridge / but it's the season of the sticks / and i saw your mom / she forgot that i existed / and it's half my fault but i / just like to play the victim / i'll drink alcohol 'til my friends come home for christmas / and i'll dream each night of some version of you / that i might not have known / but i did not lose / now you're tire tracks and one pair of shoes / and i'm split in half / but i think that'll do*\n\nHe is not a good man, but he is not heartless. That's what gets him at the Cooper Farms one night too late into the evening than is appropriate for him to be here, standing, looking at Charlie Cooper as he sits on a log.\n\nHe shouldn't be here, this he knows, but he's in his jeans and the sweater that Hazel made him, a silent flag, saying *I come in peace.* He knows he is not a good man, but Charlie Cooper has lost his father, and that's something Valerian Barca knows intimately. There was no one there for him when his father died - not even his mother - and while Charlie Cooper and Valerian Barca aren't the same boys they were back then, this was the log they'd sit on and share stories and giggle about girls and boys and everything in between. \n\nValerian Barca doesn't know why he knew Charlie Cooper would be here. He just knew.\n\n_ _\nThey say nothing to each other for the longest time, instead just maintaining some semblance of half-eye contact as the winter night comes to a close. They're both well-aware of what this is, some attempt at an apology, the first time they've spoken to each other since either of them came home. How Valerian wishes it were on better terms. How a part of him wishes they could suspend the injured and injurer look, here; how he wishes that Charlie's coat and Valerian's sweater were the bedsheets they ran around in as boys, playing heroes and knights and soldiers together. For now, it'll have to do, and Valerian intends to put everything at the door for this moment of grief.\n\nHow sick he feels, knowing what he knows - knowing that *Charlie knows what he knows,* Knowing that they'll take this to their graves, one more binding coil that separates and yet attaches them to one another. The silver string of fate binds them together in some semblance of fraternal kindred, as if for a moment they *Are* The boys they once were, and while Charlie may not be able to forgive Valerian for the things that he has done, Valerian will let himself be martyred in this moment to ensure that Charlie alright.\n\n_ _\n\"Do you smoke?\" He asks, and how he *Hates* That those are the first words that come out of his mouth. Of course vice has to exist in something like this - of course they have to mourn with some semblance of indulgence, as if they are burning a metaphorical funeral pyre for the late William Cooper. Valerian knows how this will go - Rafael will post some sort of announcement regarding William's death, it'll be written off as no one's fault, and Briar Ridge will make an announement for running for mayor.\n\nThe next time Valerian and Charlie see each other, he fears, will be on opposite ends of a debate stage.\n\nInviting himself in, Valerian sits down with a huff, opening up his cigarette box and extending one to Charlie. If he takes it, Valerian will light both his and Charlie's with a silvered lighter. If he does not, the one that sits between Valerian's lips will hang, unlit, some sort of de facto metaphor for a life snuffed out. Either way, it gets removed from his mouth moments later, his elbow resting on his knee, his eyes finding that slowly-dying sun. \n\n\"...You have my condolences.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "The time that followed the passing of his father felt like a fever dream; he knew that, in the end, this was for the best. Eliminating a werewolf was the right option, this was the correct thing to do, and *Yet*— \n\nCharlie found himself moving through time like it was molasses. His body felt heavy, heavier than it had ever felt in his life. The ache that festered in his belly threatened to lurch upward, to make him sick, to take hold of him in a way grief had never manifested for him before. He found himself wanting to be alone, for which he felt incredibly guilty; his sister was hurting in her own way, his mother was in utter devastation, and he had the nerve to want to be alone. \n\nIt seemed he wasn't granted that luxury for long, however. He was surprised to find the owner the boots crunching their way up the drive was none other than Valerian Barca, and the hazy, muddled feeling of grief was only slightly dampened by the new feeling of irritation. He didn't hate Valerian, but it was its own kind of mourning— for what could have been, what was now, and what would go on to be. \n\nHe knew *Why* Valerian was coming; at least he thought he did. He was sure it was about his father, about the election that would come upon them, about the town, about *Werewolves*— he was sure Valerian wouldn't want to get down to the bone with it. The silence stretched as Charlie sat, his coat pulled tight around his body, his cane at his side, staring a hole through the ground rather than make eye contact with the man before him. \n\n*Do you smoke?* Charlie almost laughed, albeit something bitter and cold. He refrained from responding with *I've had enough ash in my lungs to last a lifetime,* Because that was unfair. Valerian himself had nothing to do with Charlie going off to the mines at 12, but that didn't mean he wasn't angry all the same. \n\nHe eyed the cigarette and took it; an olive branch of sorts, and the tobacco served to calm him as he inhaled.\n\nHe held the thing between his thumb and two fingers, the cherry burning bright against the setting sun and the dark ground beneath their feet. What a sad reflection of their youth; they'd once been two young boys, sat here, talking about everything and anything until their stomachs growled and they'd run along to dinner. Now, they were two grown men; weathered by time and solemn. No camaraderie between them, only silence. *Painful* Silence. \n\n\"Did ya come all the way on down here just t' say that?\" Charlie asked him. \"Coulda sent a letter, but I s'pose I should be thankin' ya for makin' an appearance.\" He bit the inside of his cheek and glanced off a moment. It wasn't fair for him to be so angry, so bitter. He took another drag, hoping to find something stabilizing in the methodical pull and exhale. \n\n\"Spent so long away 'n now I'm comin' back and everybody I know is dead 'n dying. What kinda shit is that?\" He asked, flicking cigarette ash on the ground."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "\"I came down here for a number of reasons, Charl, but none of them feel quite right to be my motivation,\" He explains, looking at the sky still, wondering if staring straight into the sun will burn his corneas any more than his eyes were already broken. His glasses shone in the dimming sunlight, and he took a drag of the cigarette, breathing slowly through his nose as the tobacco of the cigarette warmed him something fierce. \"All I know is that it's the right thing to do, to check on someone who's mourning for reasons he can't control.\"\n\n*Everybody I know is dead and dying,* Charlie says, and Valerian almost wants to laugh. The people of Briar Ridge had been dead and dying for longer than Charlie Cooper had been gone, but Valerian bites his tongue, here. He knows there are semantics not otherwise communicated. He knows that Charlie is exclusively talking about the thing that took his father, but alas... Valerian had no wisdom, no guidance.\n\nHe takes another drag of the cigarette. \"Place is damn near cursed, I think,\" He says, finally moving his eyes away from the sky lest he become Icarus, draped in wax and feathers, burned down his shoulders and back in a baptism by fire. \"Maybe we made a mistake coming back.\" But Charlie Cooper and Valerian Barca left for identical reasons: to provide for their families, to set groundwork for things that were going to save them hardships in the future. They returned for the same reasons, too: to protect their siblings, to care for them in the face of adversity, to bring them to their chest and say *I'm the big brother; I'll protect you. I'll always protect you.* The only difference was Charlie was gone thirteen years; Valerian was gone three. Perhaps it was a representation of how hard they both had to sacrifice to get to where they wanted to be. Charlie sacrificed his body; Valerian sold his soul.\n\n_ _\nHe shakes his head, tired. He can't help but feel that Charlie looks exactly how he did when his own father passed, legs trapped in some coal mine accident until he passed out from the pain and died from bleeding out. His jaw sets thinking about how he found out, how he himself received a letter that read *On behalf of S&C Coal, we offer our sincerest condolences...* His head turns to the man he once called friend, once called brother, and looks at him. He looks at the curved slope of his nose, so angry and bitter, the downward turn of his lip, the furrow in his brow. Valerian is not a stupid man - he sees the cane, the scars. Charlie Cooper has been in some kind of accident, lost to the mines, where a piece of him died that he'll never get back.\n\nHe leans back, back straight as he sits on the log, staring out into the abyss in front of him. Oswald Katz comes to mind again. Briefly, he wonders if that was Mayor Cooper that tore him apart on Barca property. Then, he wonders if it was Sheriff Rowe. That's an answer Valerian is never going to find out, yet he cannot put it to rest as he has put so many other things to rest.\n\n\"I know how you feel,\" He says, eventually putting the cigarette out on the heel of his shoe, setting the butt down atop the snow so that it might cool off before Valerian pockets it, preparing to throw it away. \"Believe it or not. Losing your father when you're his oldest son takes something away from you. You have all of these... *Expectations,* Now, and you're not sure if you can keep up. No one stops to check on you, to ask you how you're mourning... For the longest time, it doesn't seem like anyone cares. Especially you. So many people in this town are going to blame Mr. William for what he was, for what he did... They'll badmouth him in one breath and coo at you in the other. Like damn pigeons. I fucking hate pigeons.\"\n\n_ _\nHis head tilts his back, this time letting the gentle snowfall kiss the highest points of his cheeks, of his lips, of the tip of his nose. He can't help but wonder what the source of all of this is. How S&C knows what's become of this. How there are other towns out there, plagued with the same thing. He wonders, briefly, if these people can be cured. He wonders, briefly, if they deserve to. His hand rubs over his own chest instinctively, as if he knows something that cannot be brought to the surface. A piece of him, too, gone - ripped from him as William Cooper was ripped away from Charlie.\n\n\"...I'd like to pay for the funeral,\" Valerian says after some time. \"Your father was a good man. He gave me good wisdom in the absence of my own father. And you've got enough on your plate now, planning the funeral and everything. No matter what anyone says about him, he deserves to be put to rest properly. At least, I think so. And I know I'm not the person you want offering that - I know it sounds like I think money can fix the problem, and I know it can't. But after everything that's been said and done... I'd like to do at least this for you, and for Alm.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "There was something so nauseating about the familiarity of a nickname. He couldn't imagine it felt natural coming out of Valerian's mouth— much like *Val* Felt foreign on his own. Charlie busied himself with smoking; focusing on the way the smoke filled his lungs and the methodical *Whoosh* As it left him right after. The cigarette was gone sooner than he liked, and he flicked the cherry until it dispersed into the cold grass, butt stowed away in his coat pocket without a second thought. \"It ain't a mistake,\" He said. \"Not fer me.\" If he had been any later coming back, or never at all, he wouldn't have seen his father again. Alma was already grown up, too; he hoped one day, he could see her happy again. It was the only dream he had left in this world. \n\nValerian was right; people were already discussing his father's death in a way he didn't like. He was a monster, yes, but he was still his father. Two ideas can exist at once, and they did, and he hated that anyone came to him at all with *Sorries* And tearful apologies for his loss. It was all bullshit— he hated it. At least, to Valerian's credit, some of what he said seemed genuine... Though these days, he trusted him about as far as he could throw him. \"They can't begin to 'magine what it's like,\" He said, and sat in the quiet a moment. How could anyone imagine? A werewolf for a father, a town in shambles, and you're there to try and pick up the pieces. \n\nValerian's words are enough to spring him from his inner monologue, bewildered as his eyes slid to him. His first instinct is to reject it, of course; he doesn't need charity from Valerian Barca of all people. But damn it all, the man made good points. \"Fine,\" He replied, teeth slightly grit as he, too, looked out onto the horizon as the sun slowly disappeared. \n\n\"You gonna run for mayor?\" He asked bluntly. \"Now that my father ain't 'round, somebody's gotta.\" He eyed him out of the corner of his eye. \"You seem like the politicalin' type.\""
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "It was just like Charlie Cooper to change the subject from something emotional to something constructive - being too vulnerable with Valerian meant that they could fall back into their old habits, that they could be children again. To be young, to be small, to need others to take care of them... But who was there to take care of them? They are boys in the bodies of men - the child inside Valerian died when his father did, and the child inside Charlie did when he left for who-fucking-knows-where. (Deep down, Valerian thinks he knows.) Still, the topic of politics is on his tongue, and instinctively, Valerian laughs.\n\n\"Ah, yes,\" He nods, \"The local coal man running for mayor. What a stereotype, hm? I have to admit, the power is tempting, even if it is some semblance of a nonstarter. Even if I did run, Charlie, who in their right mind would vote for me? I know what I've done to this place. I know what I've done to these people.\" A one-shouldered shrug, his other hand flat against the log they were sitting on. There is a long, long pause, and Valerian looks back up at the sky. \"...I'm currently in the process of deciding if I want to put myself through that humiliation. After all, doing *Manual labor* For your sister after she laughed publicly at me, which inevitably ended me up in a house with the girl I like, covered in my own sweat and dirt, and being stuck like that for *Two days* Was humilation enough for now, I think.\"\n\n_ _\nWhy is he running? Why would he want to? It's the same thing over and over again - he knows his place, the power he has, the crushing agony of being under Eugene's thumb. For as much as Valerian Barca thinks he is god, he knows that he is barely a cherub, always held and manipulated by someone else. He is a bad, bad man - he knows this. He knows what he is in every universe, in every attempt at some kind of freedom. Giving the silver bullet to Alma and getting laughed at still compels him to go see her, after this. To check on her, too. To pay for the funeral. He chews his lip here, tutting. \"Are you?\"\n\nHe looks now at Charlie, as if that was something he was desperately trying to ignore. As if he was Atlas, and meeting Charlie Cooper's gaze was the weight of the world in his arms. Still, he endures, and he looks at the man he once called friend, lips flat. \"For what it's worth, you've got a fighting chance,\" He says earnestly, shrugging a bit again, as if it was the only motion his body knew what to do at the moment. \"Who else is going to run? *Francis Estep?*\" Despite the tone making it sound incredulous that the orchard owner would run for mayor, Valerian knows that both he and Charlie hold weight in the knowledge that Francis was definitely going to run.\n\n_ _\nA sigh, an exhale. His nose crinkles a bit, here, and the condensation of his breath plumes out of him. \"You need to find someone to talk to about all of this, you know. Someone *Other* Than Alma.\" He can't keep his eyes on Charlie for this part, as if perhaps he is too ashamed to do such a thing at present. \"If you don't, you turn into a version of yourself that survives, but doesn't live.\" He doesn't expect it to be him, and a part of him doesn't want it to be him, but a part of him *Does.* A part of him misses the days of Charlie and Valerian leaning on each other - quite literally - pushing back and forth to see which one of them was going to end up being the stronger one.\n\nIn every way, Charlie Cooper was much, much stronger than Valerian Barca.\n\nValerian was already cognizant of what his weakness had made him become."
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "The idea of running for mayor had tumbled around in his head a few times since the very idea of a vote had cropped up. He supposed he did, as Valerian said, have a fighting chance. Charlie was born of this town; he might've been gone for a long, long time, but Briar Ridge was in his bones. It was in the very marrow of him, and who was he to deny that feeling? He was charismatic when he wanted to be, God knows he'd sold enough encyclopedias to learn a thing or two about selling his product, even if that product was himself. He wasn't half bad looking, neither— and that was important. \n\n\"I might run,\" He said after a long moment. \"If just t' keep Francis from winnin',\" He said, a joke on his lips and the bare twitch of the corner of them giving way to something like a near-smile. It was perhaps the closest they'd get to their old back and forth, and Charlie was desperate to run from that feeling as he cleared his throat. \n\n\"A little manual labor ain't hurt ya none, Valerian,\" He said, looking up as the stars started to make their appearance overhead. He'd missed this; the city lights drowned out the presence of stars, and you had to drive a bit away from it to get a glimpse. None of those city girls he'd dated had ever understood the romance of looking up at the stars, so he'd stopped trying to take them there. But being back home was refreshing, even if he had to trade out pretty girls for viewing them with *Valerian Barca.* \n\nAnd that damned man was right, he knew. But he didn't want to admit it. \"I ain't gonna burden Alma with it none,\" He promised. \"I got my ways of handlin' things, Valerian, I ain't gonna lose myself over all this.\" Though he already felt lost. \"I've spent the last nearly two decades dealin' with it my own way,\" Charlie said. \"Ain't no sense in changing it now.\" He wanted to tell Valerian *Everything*. The mines, the city... But there was a part of him that knew Valerian was well aware of what went on in those mines."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "He barks out a laugh when Charlie says he might run to keep Francis from winning. He's not sure if that was a continued riff based on his own commentary, but Valerian is choosing to believe, for now, that it is. He's choosing to believe, right now, that there is still a frayed thread of comradery. For a moment, Valerian's laugh sounds like the scales he used to practice on his guitar, and he shakes his head, only slowing it when Charlie speaks again. \n\n\"I'll do manual labor any day of the week if it means that I can take care of my siblings,\" He shakes his head again, as if he's trying to shake out something that's latched itself onto the back of his neck and feeds off him like a parasite. \"Hell, I'd go down into the mines myself if I fuckin' needed to, but the caveat here, Charl, was that I *Had gone to the house of the girl I'm tryn'a court and I was stuck in there with her for two days wearin' my work clothes.* \" He huffed, looking a bit like a disgruntled dog. \"I could'a kissed her then, but I didn't get to, 'cause I was too sweaty. Just know, that if I see Alma bein' sweet on that Rhett boy sometime soon, I'm gettin' my just desserts.\"\n\n_ _\nThe silence fills them, here; a guillotine separating the thread that was soon-to-be renewed between them. The shields they've built around themselves fortify again, but this time, Valerian Barca is holding a rifle, and Charlie Cooper is holding a pickaxe. Whether or not they choose to demolish them is their decision; Valerian loads the gun and shoots it.\n\n\"Could talk to me about it,\" He suggests, looking straight ahead onto the horizon. There is a Greek myth of a man who pursued the sun so reverently that his wings made of wax burned his skin and plunged him into the ocean. There is the story of Lucifer, whose pride pushed him to become greater than God, and he was thrown from the balcony of the altar of heaven. Valerian Barca, too, was burned; but instead of being thrown from the world and banished, he was burned crawling himself out of the coal mines; he was burned with the acidic blood of every man he killed down there. That's why he can't look at Charlie right now; he's too afraid to know what Charlie Cooper's burns come from, or if they are more holy than Valerian's.\n\n\"I've spent nearly two decades dealin' with the world my own way, too, Charlie.\" Finally, he meets his friend's eye, \"And look at the monster it made me. No— look at the monster *I* Made me. I sure as hell ain't a priest, but... I could listen.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "There's something about Valerian's laugh that settles heavy in his bones; it's an echo of something far older. A memory of sitting there, digging their heels into the soft ground and kicking up rocks to throw; hefty, sturdy things that they could hurl into the trees and disrupt the birds. They were just kids back then, before things got all serious and responsibility lay heavy on their shoulders. They'd been grown for far too long; men with barely any hair on their chests, squeaky voices breaking way as puberty burgeoned, and forced to take on the weight of the world anyhow. \n\n\"You wouldn't last a week in them mines, Val,\" He said, the nickname slipping far faster than he'd intended for it to. \"I'm sure she woulda kissed ya either way, yer being ridiculous,\" He said with a shake of his head. \"Ya think a little dirt n' sweat makes a girl not like ya? That's the secret, ya know— they like a workin' man, I think. Somebody who ain't afraid to get their hands in the mud.\" Though, Charlie's nose wrinkled a bit and he cleared his throat. \"I want my baby sister t' be happy and all, but I will say... I ain't keen on watchin' her get cozy with Rhett Sterling.\" Maybe it was that protective big brother nature he possessed inside of her, and maybe it was the fact that he wasn't sure he could trust everybody in this town right now. \n\nRhett Sterling was a good man; kind, hard working, a bit of a follower at worst. Any other time, he'd be plenty alright with it, but knowing that the beasts lurked amongst them made him feel awful wary. \n\nThe silence stretches a moment and he dug the toe of his boot into the dirt, kicking up a smooth rock. He stooped to pick it up, using it as a distraction as he rubbed his thumb across the surface of it. \n\nIn all honesty, he wasn't sure how to answer at first. Coming back to Briar Ridge had been hard in many ways; seeing old and new faces and finding himself lost in a place so familiar had been hard.\n\nValerian was a familiarity that he wanted to give into, but he was unsure if that was the smart thing to do. As sure as he could be about Rhett Sterling and Valerian Barca not being werewolves and all, there were more pressing matters about Valerian that pressed into the back of his skull. \n\n\"What do you want me t' say?\" He asked him after a minute, eyes transfixed on the stone in his hand. \"That I miss my Pa even if he was a monster? That I cain't get the sight of his dead body out my mind? That I shot him, and ain't nothin' can be done to go back and fix that? Or even if I wanna fix that?\" He ran a hand through his hair and looked to the sky. \"Is that what you wanna hear?\""
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "*I shot him,* Valerian nods, and part of him feels some guilt. They passed silver through their hands, one to the other. Valerian Barca knew long ago that it was going to be Charlie Cooper to kill his father - and even then, he wasn't sure if he believed Charlie, or if Charlie was lying to protect Alma. He leaned his head back, looking to the sky to see if there was something in Heaven that Charlie could see that Valerian was barred from so very long ago. \"I miss my mother,\" He tells Charlie, \"Even though she was the one that broke me so bad that I turned into this.\"\n\nA pause. His tongue runs over his teeth, and he exhales slowly. Part of him still wishes he had the cigarette, so that tobacco-laden breath could be a visual aid for the breath he took — in, and then out. \"I don't want to hear anything. I don't need lip service, I don't need lies, I don't need nothin' but your truth and your feelin's. I ain't a stupid man, Charl, and I know there's a lot more you want to say to me that you're not gonna because this ain't about us - it's about your old man. If you don't want to fix it, that's fine. If you want to fix it, that's fine.\"\n\nHe exhales slowly, running his hand down his face and then looking over to the man he once called brother. Cain and Abel - though, the rock in Charlie's hand was misplaced. It was Valerian who was Cain, who struck down his brother (the scars on his body aren't a mystery to him; he knows what the men he sent into the mines looked like when they returned), and it was Charlie who was Abel, irreparably damaged by his brother's actions. He runs his tongue over his teeth, and he sighs. There was so much that he wanted to do —\n\n_ _\n— he crosses the bridge.\n\nOne hand is placed on Charlie's back, and sure, it's almost too platonic an action for what the two of them have become, but Valerian doesn't seem to care. It is a metaphorical Christmas Eve during the banks of a war, a hypothetical ceasefire in the wake of the violence that was the full moon, that was William Cooper's murder. He doesn't care to know the details; willful ignorance is, in some ways, easier for them both. *Especially *About this. \n\nHe withdraws his hand, putting it in his lap with its matching half. \"What I want, Charlie, is for you to stop trying to be the older brothers we've both had to be, for maybe, perhaps, *Ten minutes.* I want you to stop walkin' around with the world on your shoulders and be *Mad.* Be angry, be sad, be frustrated, be *Fuckin' pissed* If you have to. At Briar Ridge, at me, at your dad, at Alma, at— *Whoever!*\" He looks at his friend, his eyes twisted into a look of desperation and concern. \"We're human, aren't we? You deserve this, don't you?\"\n\n*We're human,* He says. *You deserve this,* He says."
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "He preferred to handle complex emotions in the privacy of his own room; but as much as Briar Ridge was home, it had become completely foreign to him. He'd spent nearly two decades living in an apartment in the city, living a lie, avoiding the disappointment of his family that he was sure he'd face upon returning. He'd done it all for them, he'd sent money when he could. He'd avoided letters, avoided coming home... He'd missed out on so much, and his home had turned into a place so unfamiliar to him. New faces, new things, everyone knew everyone and he seemingly knew *No one* Besides the select few that had stayed and lived. \n\nValerian was a constant; he was a familiar face, but even he was different. It had been baffling, to see him— his face had retained some of that boyishness under the surface, Charlie physically recognized him, but the rest of him was distorted by time. Valerian was not the same person Charlie had left behind when he went to work in the mines. In fact, he had become part of the machine that had changed him forever. \n\n\"I ain't been a big brother,\" He snapped, the rage coming to boil at the top. \"Don't you get that, Val?\" He spat the words like venom as he stood up, having to use his cane to keep himself properly upright, because his bad leg threatened to give out. \n\n\"I ain't been home for damn near twenty years! I didn't get to be nothin' cuz I was busy working my ass off in those god forsaken mines—\" He squeezed his cane handle nice and tight. \"And then I can't even do that! I gotta pack up, they say I can't work no more cuz I'm a *Liability*, leg's too far gone to be any use! Can't come back home, yknow, let me family down— so you gotta move on to the city, get some job usin' all yer charms to sell books to housewives, that ain't damn respectable none!\" He dragged a hand through his hair. \n\n\"And then you stay in the city for two decades cuz you ain't fit to face your family, you ain't fit to do nothing but schmooze yer way through.\"\n\nHis breath grew ragged. \"So ya miss out on everything. On every birthday 'n every moment ya coulda had cuz yer a coward. And then you come back, and everything is shit, Val, and then you put a bullet through yer father cuz he's a monster but who the hell is the monster here?\" \n\nHis chest heaved, his hand shook and he begged for it to steady. \"I didn't want t' kill him,\" He said after a second. \"But I knew it was the right thing to do, cuz if I didn't, I could lose Alma. And that's my little sister, Val, I cain't lose her too.\" His voice was raw, exhausted, and he felt his cheeks color from having expelled all that emotion in one go. \n\n\"So... I can't just stop being the big brother that Alma needs me t' be cuz I hardly been one to her.\" He said after a second. \"I owe it to her.\""
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "_ _\n\"And who th'fuck told you all of that?\" Valerian says, the immovable object taking a step towards his friend. \"Because you know what I see, Charlie Cooper? I see a man who *Did what it fuckin' took* To provide for his family until it *Fuckin' broke him,* Who was too worried at being unable to provide for them that he instead took the next best thing and worked what he could to continue to fulfill a role *He* Set for himself? That doesn't sound like a goddamn coward, Charles, that sounds like a *Fuckin' man!*\" His chest is rising and falling as his words pull memories from his own mind- with every syllable that leaves his mouth, he thinks of the odd jobs he kept to provide for his younger siblings. He cleaned tables and floors at the Diner, ran courier jobs from neighbor to neighbor, helped with farms, cleaned out stalls, shucked and hammered and sang and laughed and fought and *Fought and fought and fought and fought-*\n\nHow the hell could Charlie Cooper call himself a coward, when they are two people wearing the same clothes, except despite Charlie being the murderer, it is Valerian's suit that is stained in blood?\n\nHe stands there, looking at the other, for a long, long time. *I owe it to her,* He tells Valerian, and Valerian wants to roar back, *You don't owe anyone anything!* Charlie Cooper has given so many pieces of himself away that he is *Broken,* And still he thinks he has to give more? He looks back at his friend, trying to figure out what to say or what to do. There isn't much more to say as he looks sick to his stomach (*What makes you righteous, Valerian? What makes you better than the man in front of you?*), and instead, he crosses the threshold.\n\n_ _\nIt's probably too forward of an action, but he throws one arm around Charlie, one that draped over the shoulder, and it was quickly followed by the other, that met about at the bottom of the ribs. The embrace was warm, and disgustingly familiar, and *God,* Shouldn't Valerian hate him? Shouldn't Valerian envy him for being the man that he fought and fought and fought to become? Shouldn't Valerian have the same disdain for Charlie that he does for Alma, that he did for William? What about standing before the man he once called friend makes this any different? What about any of this is *Normal?*\n\nWhere Charlie's hand shakes, Valerian stays upright. *I've got you,* The embrace says, and it's so familiar, *Lean on me.*\n\n\"I know you didn't want to,\" Valerian says, his voice warm and reassuring. \"And I'm not gonna tell you that what you did ain't the right or wrong thing to do. But I want you to think, Charlie, about everythin' you've been to everyone. And I want you to think about all the things everyone's been to you. And when you think about all that *Shit,* I want you to ask if you are giving out what you're gettin' in return. And if you're not, ask yourself... *Why?* Why ain't you gettin' back what you gave? And when you tell yourself that you think you ain't deserve it, listen to everythin' you just told me. Every *Last fuckin' detail,* About how you worked until you broke and then worked some fuckin' more to make sure that little girl you're so desperate to take care of was safe. Because *You deserve it,* Charlie Cooper. You deserve a fuckin' break.\"\n\n*You deserved that emotion,* Valerian doesn't say, and he squeezes Charlie tighter. *You deserve whatever you might feel next.*"
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "Valerian had really always been a little more eloquent with his words; even back then, when they'd just been two boys running around the yard, he'd always had a more proper tongue that Charlie fumbled with. Now, as an adult, he was sure Valerian used that same tongue to cut down his enemies as quickly as they came. He was sharp, he could do it. Even now, as they stood there, the words rolled off his lips easily and Charlie felt compelled to believe them, even just for a moment. \n\nHe had worked hard, he could admit that to himself. He'd pulled himself up off the ground and fought to keep on living, doing whatever he could to fight. Charlie Cooper was good at fighting his way through the mud, he'd done it a thousand times before. \n\nIt felt like the wind was knocked out of him when Valerian lurched forward and hugged him. It felt so foreign, so strange— they hadn't done this dance in a very long time. They were much bigger now; his arms stayed stone still at his sides as he grasped at what he was experiencing. \n\nAfter a moment, Charlie's arm came up, the one not holding the cane, and it came around Valerian's upper back to reciprocate at least some of the action. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, hearing his voice so close to his ear, an experience he was accustomed to engaging in with others but *Not* His childhood best friend. \n\nThis was an intimacy they'd left behind years ago; whispering secrets in each other's ears and hugging and all— it would feel juvenile if he didn't feel so raw. \n\n\"Who's she got if I ain't helpin' her?\" He asked, clearing his throat a little. He knew she was an adult but that didn't mean shit— and he liked Rhett Sterling but he was still a stranger in a way, and that was his baby sister. Mama wasn't much help neither. \n\nThe tightening of Valerian's hold dragged him back to reality and he felt embarrassment, having burst out in such emotion \"I ain't about to fall to pieces, you ain't gotta try and hold me together.\""
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "*Who does she have,* Charlie says, and Valerian snorts. \"Are you fuckin' kidding me?\" He asks, shaking his head as he sits there, beginning to pull away from him yet keeping his hand on the other's shoulder (On the side of his body that doesn't have the cane, he reminds himself; Charlie and Florian were mirrors of each other now with their injuries. It's fitting, then, that Valerian feels the responsibility to atone for his sin by caring for them both, and it's fitting that both of their angers were rightfully justified.) as he looks at him. \"Alma is the town's sweetheart, Charl. She started that stupid coalition with her boytoy, she's got your ma, she's got Akira and Dimitra and Miss Lefevre and whoever else. I'm not sayin' she don't need you — of course she does. But you don't gotta carry all that on your own.\"\n\n_ _\n\"And yes, I do gotta hold you together.\" His arms cross here, his weight shifting from one foot to the other and his head tilting a bit. He grits his teeth behind his lips as he thinks of the words he wants to say. An exhale leaves him instead, and he shakes his head. \"You stupid thing. Briar Ridge is about to change - and not for the better - with the death of your old man. You've heard how all of these people speak of the damn wolves, how they'll turn on their heels away from their mayor. Losing your dad is hard enough without all that shit, and I kinda consider myself a subject expert on the whole dead dad thing.\"\n\nA hand runs through his hair; he still has a blister or two on the palm of his hand, where the knuckle sits on the other side of the hand. He got them from moving all of that metal, from carrying that weight. He wonders if the Christ got blisters when he carried his own cross to his execution. (He pretends he doesn't get enraged by the sound of Alma's laughter, or runs cold with fear when he thinks too hard about the sound of rifles raised when he took out that revolver.) He sees the embarrassment in Charlie's body, but doesn't comment on that — he knows he has to give him some kind of dignity back.\n\n_ _\n\"Y'er old man was as much a father to me as he was to you,\" Valerian admits, shaking his head, \"Maybe not in the same way, but... He put me right, best he could, 'specially after my mom left. What you've got is a weight I can help you carry, if you let me. There ain't too many people out there who knew him the way you did, myself included. And for what it's worth, Charl? I think you should follow in his footsteps. This town's gon' need a mayor to put it back to rights.\" A silent admission: Valerian knows that if he runs, he'll lose. No one wants the coal man in charge. (Little does he know he won't be the coal man for that much longer, the baton passed back to Mr. Kent.) \"And I mean, hell. You sold, what was it, *Encyclopedias?* You'd sell yourself just fine.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "In a way, being chastised like this by Valerian feels foreign and too familiar all at the same time. He imagined this must be what it was like to have an older sibling; he was the oldest, he'd never know what it was like to be on the receiving end of this kind of lecture. \"I ain't been around for so long, Val,\" He pointed out. \"People barely know me round here anymore. What if they think I'm in cahoots with my pa? That I'm just the same as he is?\" He grimaced. \"Can't very well waltz up to them and say— *Nah; I'm the one who done put a bullet in him.*\" \n\n\"And there's a helluva lot of people wantin' to run, from what I've heard. Yknow even the pastor's considerin' it?\" He raised an eyebrow. \"I don't know if I stand a fightin' chance, but...\" His fists tightened up a bit. \"I was considerin' giving it a shot.\" He leaned heavily on his cane, the ache in his leg really doing a number on him tonight. His eyes were on the ground as he thought on it. \n\n\"Shame you won't run,\" He raised an eyebrow at Valerian. \"You's got the... Mayoral look to ya.\" A glimmer of something like a smile on his lips appeared before it vanished just as quickly. \"If we're all honest to ourselves, ain't none of us in the right mind to be runnin' for mayor. Havin' to write in goddamn werewolf legislature and all, like something out of a damn story.\" How dystopian it all felt... Like a horror novel. \n\nHe paused a moment, all the words catching up to him, and he smacked Valerian on the shoulder, like a pair of brothers would. \"And don't go on callin' me stupid.\" He said, shaking his head. \"You really ought t' be minding your own sometimes, yknow that? Between me an' Florian, when have you minded yer own?\" \n\nCharlie was mostly joking, but he'd seen it with his own eyes; how Valerian had taken such care of Florian. He was sure it had only continued all the years he was absent, too."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "He can't help but make a face when Charlie mentions all of the people wanting to run for mayor, because in Valerian's mind, the only worthy successor to William's legacy was standing right in front of him. He plays his cards right, here; practiced and concerned. Too much outward support of Charlie's campaign would damage it — *Who would want backing from the Coal Man?* — but too little would mean that the word of Charlie's intentions wouldn't get spread. Valerian has the essence of a viper, though; this is not the first time he's whispered in people's ears, convinced them to do one thing or another. Hell, that's how he got the Briar Ridge contract: manipulation, encouragement, ambition.\n\nHe's interrupted by Charlie smacking him in the shoulder, and he makes a quiet *Oomph* In response. *Don't go calling me stupid,* Charlie says, and Valerian laughs, shaking his head. When *Has* He minded his own?\n\nIn another life, their roles are reversed: Charlie, selling some sort of something to people who needed it; Valerian, abandoning his family just like his mother and father did only to come back and feel out of place in a world he was once such an integral part of. (A piece of him wonders if perhaps their roles would completely be reversed, and it would be Octavian Barca who served as the mayor for several years only to be damned to the same thing he was trying to stop.) Valerian shakes his head.\n\n_ _\nIt's true, though: Valerian takes care of others, prioritizes them, places them at the top of his expectations with the hope it serves as a reason for doing the things he needs to do. Valerian is in the business of ensuring everyone around him is okay to fortify the walls of survival around him. He knows he is not liked; he knows there are so many things about him that are detestful. (He has half a mind to go to the graveyard and kneel before his father's grave and cry into the soil to watch sprouts form of his agony and apologize over and over and over again.) He prioritizes others with the intention he won't have to think too long about himself — to be faced with the consequences of the sins he has committed.\n\n\"You all *Are* My business,\" He shakes his head, pocketing his hands. \"I've seen what happens if it isn't. Florian's angry, you've got a goddamn cane, Olivia came home crying after finding her man in a bed with another who—*Woman.* I see Ruth has a glassy look in her eye, something that misses real rough, and I see that Hazel does not see the woman I see when she looks into the mirror. I know that Alma is bearing some kind of weight for some kind of fuckin' guilt, and I know that *Despite his best intentions,* Rhett cannot carry it for her.\"\n\nThe light hits him in a way that makes him Luciferian; not the devil, the man who has fallen and built his empire off of the grief of sinners, but the angel. Multifaceted and multi-eyed, a horror amongst people, watching, ever-and-omnipresent. It was easy for Briar Ridge to take him again, to worm him back into the roots and soil, to make him yet another effigy of disgrace alongside everyone else who was here. Valerian's was covered in thorns, too prickly, too angry, too grievingg—someone who could not understand what it meant to be abandoned by both mother and father. Someone who didn't understand what it meant to glue yourself back together incorrectly.\n\n_ _\nThe Cain instinct is embedded in all siblings; Cain looks upon Abel and sees him as an amalgamation of all of his faults and followings and shortcomings. Cain waits for Abel to become an effigy of all of his wrongdoings and when he goes to God and pleads for assistance in knowing his brother, God won't look back from His doorstep when he says, *You're older, Cain. Help him behave.* And when Cain draws blood from Abel, when Abel screams as he is cut straight through his ribs with a stone that should have only bruised him but instead was too sharp to kill, God is removed from his doorstep and returns to the hearth. And it will be Cain who is blamed for this; the God of your world has too many things to worry about to understand the blood between brothers.\n\n\n\nValerian looks at Charlie, again, and Coal Man does not exist anywhere inside of him: not his eyes (dead and tired, with no gleam to them), not his smile (nonexistent, here, lips turned down in something that reads *I am a sinner, Abel*), not his outfit (that of a man who is preparing for a funeral; that of a man who is carrying a weight so that no one else has to, someone who is letting that rot make him a monster, and laughing because he believes he is the exception to the rule).\n\nHe chuckles, softly, acknowleding what Charlie has intended to be a joke. There's a fraternal nature that S&C has beaten out of him, returning. \"Until I'm dead - or worse - all of you will always be my business. It's my job to make sure everyone I care about is okay. No one else is going to do it.\""
},
{
"author": "Charlie Cooper",
"message": "Despite all odds, despite Charlie's insistence that this conversation was to remain professional— the tone had shifted anyhow. The tight-laced and straight-backed, solemn conversation had devolved into something closer to their brotherly camaraderie, something he had not anticipated. Then again, Valerian had changed, hadn't he? \n\nThe man had changed for certain; the crisp and clean suit of S&C Coal had fallen to the wayside, leaving behind something that resembled those old shirts and trousers they'd worn as kids. Of course, Valerian was still dressed impeccably to the nines— but the soul he carried was of a different man entirely. A far more familiar man, which startled Charlie, but made Briar Ridge feel a lot more like home. \n\nOf course, Valerian was still a stubborn bastard at the end of the day. Insistent on nosing into the lives of those he was closest to. \"Yer job,\" He repeated, shaking his head and chuckling. \"That is how you get yerself killed,\" He told him, folding his arms over his chest. \"But I know for a fact that it ain't gonna stop you none, is it? No, yer as stubborn as they come. Bastard.\" \n\nCharlie spoke fondly, even as he swore at him. Valerian was like a brother to him; it was an unspoken thing, he supposed, that should anything happen to either of them, that Valerian would care for Alma, and Charlie would set about bothering Florian in return. Even if they hadn't come back together this way— it seemed that there was always a remnant of brotherhood between them. \n\n\"But y'aint gotta do it alone,\" Charlie reminded him. \"Now...\" He cleared his throat and used his proper balance to lift his cane and whack it against the side of Valerian's shin— hard enough to sting but not actually hurt. \"Yer gonna help me with this mayoral shit, ain't ya?\" He raised his eyebrow. \"I figure, your coal industry knowledge and my skills bein' able to sell water to a fish, we could make a good team on it.\" He extended a hand, to firmly shake on it."
},
{
"author": "MR. BARCA.",
"message": "\"Oh, please,\" Valerian chuckles, a hand on his chest as he laughed. It is a low and gentle thing, practiced and reserved, hiding the true laughs Valerian once laughed in his friend's company. \"Between my wit and your experience, the position might as well be yours. I'll swing by later and we can prepare you for the inevitable *Waste of time* This debate is going to be, because there will be one — if the community doesn't organize it, that slop-in-the-mud Sheriff will. But you, my friend? \"\n\n*My friend,* Valerian says, because *My brother* Doesn't feel quite right yet. He leans down to grasp Charlie's hand with his own; his hands are cold, all things considered. But then again, it's cold outside.\n\n\"I think we're going to make a very good team.\""
}
] | 675 | 11,276 |
997.5 | 1776-07-04 | GuildPublicThread | [
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "One day Lewis Ashworth found a cat in his kitchen sink. \n\nHe was trying to brush his teeth, but the day was too good to keep himself in a tight, dark bathroom, so he came downstairs, to the light big windows of his kitchen, when he discovered the creature in the sink.\n\nThe cat was spotty, with three-colored fur and its legs so long its body looked shaved. It stared at Lewis with uncontained curiosity, almost startled, like it was Lewis who invaded its territory. Lewis waved at it with a toothbrush.\n\n\"Sho-o!\" He commanded, \"Get away! Leave!\" The cat didn't seem to understand human. It blinked at him, then jumped out of the sink graciously and went to sniff the legs of the table. Lewis sighed and went back to his morning routine.\n\nThroughout the day it became more and more obvious that the cat did not plan on leaving. It graciously avoided all of the open doors and windows, and when Lewis came home, it ran to him and curiously watched him roam around. That was when it occurred to Lewis that the cat might be hungry. He fed it a finely chopped slab of dried meat he tried to always keep at his disposal, and a piece of goat cheese he had from last time with Kela: the kitten ate all of that with great enthusiasm, purring almost as well as Lewis' car did. Lewis filled a bowl he didn't like much with water and put it on the floor, which the kitten gladly lapped up. In all honesty, it was a very polite kitten. Still, Lewis didn't need a pet. Caring for it, worrying about it would be too much of a bother. Then it'll run away one day, just like all of them do, and Lewis would be in shambles.\n\n\"Alright, you... You have a night to leave,\" Lewis said, with the most serious tone he could manage, the same he applied to Kela's goats (the goats didn't care). He had to give it to the cat: at least this animal pretended that it was listening, and pretended well. It had huge curious eyes with not a thought behind them; still, very curious and very patient,\n\n\"Or else I'm bringing you to my brother, and he'll tell you that you sleep in the wrong pose and that's why your back's all sore. You better go, alright?\" He lifted the kitten up and carefully placed it in front of the open door. After that, with a lightened heart and a speech-well-done, he went to sleep.\n\nThe next morning the cat was sitting in the same sink.\n\n\"Alright,\" Lewis said mostly to himself, and tried to clean himself up as quickly as possible. It was weekend, which meant more people could see him; but he really needed to get rid of the damned animal as quickly as possible. He couldn't keep a cat. Couldn't get used to it being here, looking at him with its bottomless eyes. In a fit of remorse, Lewis fed it another piece of dried meat. The thing purred and went to play with his curtains. \n\nLewis got dressed, brushed his hair, scooped the cat up at headed off to the doctor's cottage.\n\nOn their way there, it turned out that the cat was slipperier than an eel. Lewis didn't know how to hold it, and the cat didn't know how to be held, so it always seemed to slide out of his hands and then sit on the ground with patiently waiting eyes, as if it was an angel just unceremoniously dropped on the ground, who couldn't wait to be picked up again. Then, the cycle repeated. Approaching the cottage, Lewis honestly started to feel gaslighted.\n\n\"Nat!\", he knocked at the door with his foot, the arms still holding the slippery cat in its place, \"Open up, you mole!\" After testing the door with a hand, however, it was discovered that the door of the house was left unlocked.\n\nLewis felt very embarrassed. What kind of irresponsible person keeps their door open in a house full of weapons? Although Nathaniel didn't keep his scalpels on display, he had to store them somewhere, probably not very well-hidden. He could be attacked! What an idiot.\n\nBoth Lewis and the cat calmed down at the sign of Nat's brushed and combed home. Lewis placed the cat on the floor, and it immediately went to explore something. Lewis, honestly, was very tempted to follow its example - if he remembered correctly, it was the first time he would be in Nathaniel's house alone. And he knew he was alone: despite being a quiet soul, Nathaniel always seemed to create a bubble of sound surrounding himself, be it humming or rustling of the paper. But the house stayed quiet.\n\n\"Don't eat a scalpel,\" He told the cat and went to roam through his brother's stuff. \n\nThe cottage seemed to have two bedrooms, which surprised Lewis: Nat seemed as alone as a wolf when he last checked. Of course, there were rumors of some sort of a romance between him and the Orchard boy, - Lewis saw them together on May Day, and he could confirm, the way they were looking at each other was very gross, - but from everything he heard, those relationships were very much in a blooming stage. Who could've occupied the spare bedroom, he wondered? A roommate?\n\nA quick sleuthing showed that no one occupied it. It was mostly filled with boxes and out-of-season things that Nat wasn't using. Most of the boxes were labeled: some with singular words, some with sentences, some with a vague combination of both, reminding Lewis more of book titles than notes on boxes. Most of them were related to medicine, of course, or to the werewolf research; but there was one box, in the corner, labeled with his own name on it. Just his name, nothing else.\n\n\"Lewis\".\n\nNow that was curious. What could Nat possibly store in this box? A gift for his birthday? The notes on Lewis', - amazing, might you, - health condition? A revenge plan for that one time Lewis tried to flirt with Lorelai and got her pissed off? Lewis cocked his head, thoughts already roaming free, trying to come up with the best way to check what was in the box without leaving fingerprints on the layer of dust coating."
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "Nathaniel, who to the world might seem a well-organized man, had run out of most of his breakfast foods a few days before and completely forgot to replenish his stocks. He'd been more than a little preoccupied with the happenings of the May full moon, he could still hear Jade's screams, how she had begged for death, and how Akira, Jackson, and himself had denied her. It had been the right call, but to hear someone cry out for mercy and continue the very act that is hurting them, it was never easy. He would never get used to hearing cries of pain, he knew that if he ever did, he would have lost himself completely. Somehow, he didn't feel exhausted, quite the opposite. He felt great, his energy levels had never been better, his body had rarely felt as comfortable and his mood was amazing. He hadn't doubted that, he was simply going to enjoy the good day and deal with the inevitable crash when it hit him. \n\nHe carried a bag of groceries into his house, unaware that there were two uninvited guests present. The first of which made herself known by dashing out of the kitchen. A small white, orange and black shape suddenly shot across the floor of his living room, the sound of something sharp clicking on the wooden planks could be heard as the shape raced from the kitchen into the guest bedroom. Mere seconds later it zoomed out again, sprinting to the couch and coming to a halt as it crashed against the pillows. There was a cat, in his house, a cat that wasn't his. Why was there a cat in his house? It was cute, clearly a teen judging from its lanky legs. It had a mischievous look in its eyes, ears turned back as it crouched in the corner. It raised its behind, shook its tail a few times, and off it went again, speeding into the guest bedroom once more. Nathaniel chuckled and shook his head, following the little creature that had inexplicably appeared in his home. \n_ _\n\n\"Come now little one, this isn't your house, I'm sure your family misses you,\" He said, walking into the guest bedroom, which doubled as storage space for boxes of important documents and various other things that didn't have a permanent place yet. He froze in the doorframe.\n\nLewis was in his house. \n\n\n\"Lewie? What are you doin' here?\" The nickname was one that found its origin in their shared childhood. Lewis had since surpassed Nathaniel in length, but he would always remain his younger brother, no matter how tall or old he grew. Nathaniel would always have a drive to protect the twins. They didn't need it anymore of course, but such was the role of elder brother. He never mentioned those feelings to either twin, afraid that they didn't feel as much love towards him as he did to them. They were independent, they had their own careers, in a field he would rather not see them in, which only furthered the fear Nathaniel had. They were so different from one another. He saw a little too much of their parents in Lewis, so it would make sense that Lewis didn't feel a need for a strong relationship, and didn't feel the same warmth that Nathaniel did. He wished to share things, emotions, and fears, with Lewis, but neither of them had ever been taught how to do that properly. Talking about feelings was a waste of time, and Nathaniel had long since feared that he had ruined his chance at a close bond the moment he left the 16-year-old twins behind and fled to medical school.\n\nThe cat sprinted between Nathaniel's legs, back into the living room to continue its wild chase of unseen prey, the doctor was sure that the little animal thought itself a ferocious predator. \n_ _\n\n\"Is that bundle of energy yours or are the unannounced appearances of both of you, at the same time, somehow unrelated?\" He smiled, he hardly minded Lewis swinging by. He noticed the box his brother was standing by, the one labeled with his name and his smile wavered. It contained all the letters that Lewis had ever sent Nathaniel while he was attending medical school and his residency. He had kept them all, sentimental as he was. Lewis wasn't supposed to see that box. Lewis didn't feel as close to Nathaniel as Nathaniel did to Lewis, that he knew, or feared at least. Would his brother think him weird, would he think it was shameful to hold onto those physical memories, would he think that Nathaniel was overly emotional just like their father did? Lewis wasn't supposed to see that box... He should have labeled it differently.\n\n\"What are you... What are you lookin' at over there?\""
},
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "Lewis wasn't quite surprised to hear the entrance door creek. His brother had a great intuition to interrupt the fun when it was just getting started, - he probably got it, as a package deal, with being the eldest sibling in the family. Lewis stood up immediately, still eyeing the obtrusive box. He had a bright idea to at least kick it a little, to see what kind of material's in there; but that was when the cat flew into the room he occupied. And after the cat followed his brother, with his stupid nickname, - throughout his relationships, Lewis has been called many obscene things, but \"Lewie\" Was the worst of them all. And then both Nat and the nickname got stuck in the doorway; with his endless worries, shaky breath, and hands that stopped shaking only when they had something sharp to hold. What was he worried about this time?\n\n\"Ouch. Hurt my ears,\" Lewis squinted involuntarily, \"That nickname sucks, did I tell you? I'm sure I did. Well, welcome home regardless.\" He said it with little to no housewarming attitude, but that was Lewis for you. Something about the sheer presence of his brother brought out an annoyed teenager in him, \"We've been waiting.\"\n\nOf course, Nathaniel immediately had questions, formulated in the most complicated way possible. Why couldn't he just accept that there was a cat and a brother in his house? As if Lewis never visited him, or never been here before; and animals probably followed Nathaniel around from the sheer energy of the pallid sun on a cloudy day he exuded. But that was Nathaniel for you: always caring about something, always finding things to care about. Lewis was sure: even if his brother wasn't employed, he'd start walking around and patching up people on the streets. Not a second of rest with this guy.\n\n\"Relax,\" Lewis asked slowly and softly, with slight amusement in his voice, because his brother looked like he was about to start hyperventilating, \"Breathe out. I didn't touch it, see?\" He pointed to the box, evidently untouched, \"It's closed.\" Of course, such a strong reaction couldn't lead to anything but more curiosity for Lewis. Still, with all his restraint, he changed the subject so his brother couldn't do the same in an attempt to avoid the answer.\n\n\"The cat's not mine.\" Lewis explained, \"It just came into my house one day and didn't want to leave. I reckoned maybe you'll know about someone who had lost one recently.\" He listed the characteristic too, in case Nathaniel didn't have an opportunity to take a proper look at a red-white-black comet occupying his floor, \"It's clean, certainly domestic. Ate from a bowl. You can pet it if you'd like, it's... Nice, honestly. It's a nice cat, man.\"\n\nNow that he had provided the answer, it was up to his brother to provide something in return. Lewis clasped his hands together and smiled, his eyes lazy but stern, realizing that maybe, at that moment, he might slightly remind Nathaniel of their father, \"What notes are you keeping on me? If you need to know if I'm a werewolf, I'm not. If I were, you'd be the first person I would tell, I promised. Then you could take all the blood you needed from me, for all the experiments your soul desires. And you're still suspecting me?\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "\"Old habits die hard, I fear,\" He said, allowing a smile to take shape on his face. \"As long as you keep takin' every opportunity to remind me of the fact that you're taller than me and have better hair, I am goin' to hold onto that nickname.\" The nickname allowed him to hold on to how they had been as children before they drifted apart. Before Nathaniel created that rift. _We've been waiting._ What, was Lewis his dad now, catching a now-made-teenager Nathaniel sneaking out of the house well beyond bedtime? Could a man not do groceries in peace anymore? He chuckled and shook his head. \"Have you eaten yet?\" He asked, ever the caretaker. It may or may not have been an attempt to get Lewis out of the guest bedroom and away from the box of letters, away from the boxed evidence of Nathaniel's soft and sentimental nature.\n\nIt made sense, Lewis didn't strike him as the type to adopt a cat and take it with him when trespassing onto his dear older brother's property. \"I haven't heard about a missin' cat, but I could make some flyers,\" He suggested. \"Hang them up on the town notice board, possibly at the hospital as well. People ask me to see their pets as well from time to time,\" He smiled, it had been an unexpected but very welcome bonus of being a small-town doctor. As if she knew they were talking about her, the cat trotted up to them, letting out a gentle meow and rubbing her head against Nathaniel's legs. He smiled and squatted down to pet her. She wasn't wearing a collar, but most barn cats didn't. The little creature started purring and Nathaniel's smile grew wider.\n_ _\n\nHe looked up when Lewis returned the subject to the box. The smile vanished from his features. Of course Lewis brought it up, Nathaniel hadn't expected anything else. \"Lewis...\" He sighed in a soft apologetic tone, standing up again. Did he suspect his brother of being a werewolf? Of course not, he'd never mentioned being attacked, nor did his medical files mention anything that might indicate such an event happening. Nathaniel had no reason to suspect his brother of being infected with the illness. Above all, he wouldn't keep secret notes on his little brother, or anyone. Had he created the image that he would? That he didn't trust Lewis? That Nathaniel held the capacity to look at Lewis with an accusatory judgment? Had he truly pushed the younger Ashworth that far from him... \n\n\"You were in the hospital with me during the full moon, I would know if you were infected,\" He pointed out but there was no snark in his words, he was avoiding the actual question. Just like he avoided their dad, who Lewis bore an eerie resemblance to at that moment. It was unsettling. \"And I couldn't care less if you were, Lewie,\" He sighed. He'd be worried, _incredibly_ worried about his brother getting hurt. He never wanted to dig burning silver out of Lewis. He never wanted to learn how his little brother's ribs would feel when they cracked under Nathaniel's hands during chest compressions. He never wanted to discover how Lewis' voice sounded if he cried out in pain. _April's dead body, Akira's injuries, Jade's screams for death, Rhett's ripped open torso._ Lewis being listed amongst them was a fear like no other for Nathaniel. There were few things he feared more.\n\nHe pulled the box from the shelf. \"I'm not keepin' notes _on_ you,\" He said, removing the lid and revealing the pile of letters. \"I am keepin' notes _from_ you,\" He confessed and looked away, ready for Lewis to step further into the footsteps of Samuel Ashworth and react negatively."
},
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "\"Oh, you know,\" Lewis shrugged his shoulders, but deep down, of course, he was enjoying the banter. Nathaniel could be fun when he stopped shaking and started speaking like a normal person, \"It's the genes. I won the lottery for the hair and the height, you won the family fortune of freckles and a ticket to pursue higher education. I'd say we're equal,\" He chuckled. Of course, it wasn't equal at all: Lewis wasn't missing the freckles much, and he probably would get thrown out of the university, his first year on campus, making it a total waste of money. But still, it was funny to imagine they were.\n\nFlyers did sound good, and so did the meal – on weekends, thrown out of his routine, Lewis struggled to remember when he had eaten the last time, - but he was too eager to have a reply to his question, letting both of Nathaniel's ring unanswered. And, here it was. Lewis almost let Dad's signature \"That's what I wanted to hear, thank you\" Slip off his tongue. But that would let Nathaniel know he lied, wouldn't it? And that usually didn't make him very happy.\n\nLewis didn't lie to him intentionally: it was just that Nathaniel was too easy to *Get*. Give him a theory wild enough and he'll bring you the truth in a minute. And Lewis's theory didn't hold water: a lonely box, with only his name on it, outside of the database, just for werewolf purposes? Unspeakably insufficient categorization, so unlike his smart and rational brother. So of course, Nathaniel hurried up to convince Lewis it wasn't true – something that Lewis already knew full well. And of course, additional evidence was in order. When Nathaniel couldn't help but tell the truth, and Lewis couldn't help but lie, was it even a scheme at that point, or was it just a friendly family conversation?\n\nNathaniel opened the lid, and, instead of looking closer, Lewis took a step back and closed his eyes immediately, unintentionally, like he was a child playing hide and seek with an adult, believing he could disappear when he wanted. There were *Notes*. Fucking *Notes*. Lewis felt his whole soul cringe to the size of a raisin.\n\nThe notes always were his outlet for something softer, something gentler. Even when they were comedic, even when they were intentionally laughable, somehow, Lewis could control them less than his voice. He always came out softer in his letters, underbaked on one side; he was honestly really glad he had never gotten a written response. Notes were his way of speaking the things he struggled to say out loud. Moreso in the past - there were times when every conversation with Kela was a battle for him, Kela with his stupid \"What do you feel\" And \"You'll feel better if you let yourself, I promise\", and if you cannot say it – you write it down, so he wrote it down; and Kela, *Kela* Could have a box full of his \"I don't know\"S, but Nathaniel? When did he manage to write to Nat so much?\n\nAnyways. Maybe Nat just didn't have a smaller box.\n\n\"Remove it, remove it forever, don't wanna talk about it. Let's go eat or something,\" His words were hurried, but his brain slowed down, almost like the river when there was suddenly a lot of ground under stopping its flow, which Lewis somehow just *Couldn't see*. Has he written to him that many times? Nathaniel barely moved here, when could this have happened? \"Let's talk about the cat.\" He was walking out of the room as fast as possible, as if the box could disappear from his memory, and he could stop thinking about it so damn much,\n\n\"Like, what are we going to do if it's owners won't respond? For... Any reason. Maybe they didn't want it.\" He tried to sound nonchalant. There were two bigger, obvious reasons, but judging by the state of Nathaniel, any mention of those would lead to him breaking down. And speaking of his state...\n\n\"You need to eat too,\" Lewis added, turning back to him, \"You keep zoning out. Your face has this... Scary lost look. Like you aren't here. Should put a bandage on this thing or something.\" He stood up for a second, eyes worried, \"Are you ok?\" He asked finally.\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "It was true, Nathaniel had been the only one to pursue higher education. Had he robbed Lewis and Mabel of their chances to do so? Neither of them had mentioned having such aspirations, but then he wasn't so foolish to believe that the twins told him everything. Lewis' complete avoidance of his question regarding the consumption of any kind of meal that day was interpreted as a potential no, luckily Nathaniel had just restocked, so he could prepare food for the both of them. \n\nNathaniel took Lewis' dismissal of the letters as confirmation of his fear: that Lewis did see it as useless sentimentality, that he should have thrown out their correspondence, that whatever relationship they'd upheld through those words was not worth the same to Lewis as it was to Nathaniel. He felt a knot tie itself in his stomach as he placed the box back on its shelf. Nathaniel had cut ties with their parents, he had no clue what his parents had told the twins about him in the years since. He swallowed down his sadness before following Lewis into the living room. The cat, **Right.** \"I could _keep it_ maybe?\" He suggested somewhat hesitantly. \"It seems to enjoy my house,\" He said, pointing at the creature roaming around without much of a care at all, like it owned the place already. \"I wouldn't mind keepin' the little speed demon around,\" He smiled.\n_ _\n\n_Are you okay?_ Was Nathaniel okay? Physically he'd never felt better. Mentally? Well, he couldn't keep his thoughts from wandering ever in the direction of one Mister Estep. The man was an incredibly (but welcome) distracting presence in his head. He hardly minded those thoughts. Quite the opposite actually. But there was the not so small issue of the screams of Jade Grant, the look on Akira and Jackson's faces, the sheer amount of blood that Mister Sterling had lost, all still racing through his mind. He couldn't stop thinking about it, he knew better, but that didn't stop him. \"I uh,\" He began. \"Physically I've never felt better, truth be told.\" And it was that fact that confused him. He knew he _shouldn't_ realistically feel as amazing as he was feeling. It didn't make sense. Had he not been a man of science, he may have ascribed it to magic. Then again, Briar Ridge did have werewolves and those were a scientific anomaly if ever he'd seen one. And he'd tended to multiple individuals infected with lycanthropy, they were very real people. Real people in need of help and community, and they were only receiving hate and exclusion.\n_ _\n\n\"There's just a lot on my mind currently,\" He admitted. Lorelai knew some of it, he trusted her enough to tell her that he'd been helping out infected people in secret. No names were shared, of course, but she'd been more than understanding. There was the ever-present worry that people would find out why his degree wasn't proudly displayed, aggravated by the fact that he had yet to tell Ernest about that, which felt selfish, but he didn't want to lose whatever it was that they had started. And of course, the fear that his patients would get murdered for an illness they never chose to have, that people he cared deeply for would get infected and he'd be helpless to protect them. Helplessness ate away at a man, especially one whose job it was to help. He sighed. Lewis had looked worried, which was somewhat unexpected. \"I've been secretly treatin' people who are infected with lycanthropy,\" He explained. \"_Werewolves,_ as this town calls them. It's horrid, Lewie,\" He said. \"Those silver bullets they've made, they _burn_ the people. Like shootin' ever-burnin' red-hot coal straight into a person. These people are afraid to seek medical care, they hide their injuries, only makin' things worse. Lewis, someone _begged_ me to let them die... And I refused.\" He hadn't told anyone about that, and saying it out loud made it feel all too real. \n_ _\n\n\"What sort of life is it when your own people are huntin' you? And this so-called Coalition won't listen to reason either. This town is goin' to kill itself and there is nothin' I can do but clean up after it.\" There was no preventative treatment to being shot in cold blood, just as there was no preventative treatment to being torn into by entirely unwilling teeth and claws. Nathaniel had felt torn up about it since he first got here. \"Lewie I am scared that you're goin' to get hurt and I won't be fast enough to save you,\" He confessed. And there it was again, that side of Nathaniel who just wanted to shield his younger brother from all harm. Who, if given the chance, would gladly let himself get injured and hurt if it meant Lewis would be spared. He'd already abandoned Lewis once, he wasn't going to do it again.\n\nHaving Lewis at the hospital had been a blessing and a curse. Him being there meant that Nathaniel didn't have to worry about Lewis getting attacked and not making it to the hospital in time. But he never wanted Lewis to see what went on there in the aftermath of the full moons; the blood, the screams, the tears of people as they dragged their loved ones into the clinic. Nathaniel had learned to shut off his emotions in the heat of the moment, but they would all come rushing out eventually. \"Medical school didn't prepare me for any of this,\" He laughed, but there was noticeably less humor in the sound than there normally was, it was a laugh of disbelief. This was an objectively insane situation to find oneself in."
},
{
"author": "Lewis Ashworth",
"message": "\"Are you sure?\" Lewis asked jokingly, \"What if it eats a scalpel or something?\" But, jokes aside, he would be glad if Nathaniel suddenly got himself a furry friend. His brother's loneliness worried Lewis: as far as he knew, Nat didn't have any friends outside of Lorelai. And bringing up his romantic life always led to Nat closing off completely, despite Lewis selflessly offering to set Nat up with someone. Nathaniel couldn't believe it when Lewis told him how many times his name was spoken around Briar Ridge with dreamy sighs and heart-eyes. Well, his loss.\n\nAt least, if the owners wouldn't come running, he would have a cat. And a great cat, too! With its persistence, - a quality Lewis had always respected, - and its mesmerizing eyes, the cat deserved to be entrusted with Nathaniel.\n\n\"Maybe you should try saying a bunch of names to see if she responds to one,\" He offered to Nat, \"Then we can put a name in the notice.\"\n\nLewis squinted. Nat was helping werewolves \"In secret\"? He thought it was obvious to any person with eyes that he would treat the Devil himself if that guy came in and laid on the bed at the doctor's. Nathaniel's kindness truly knew no bounds. Life, for some reason, had never taught Nat to take precautions when it came to who he trusted, but Lewis hoped it would soon. And he hoped it wouldn't hurt Nat too much.\n\n\"I hope the werewolves are at last paying you well,\" Lewis remarked, \"If someone from the Coalition finds out, your head will be on the cutting board. That responsibility is worth a generous tip\".\n\nLewis listened to Nat spill his guts out in quiet, caring silence; listened to his breathing get jagged, his voice become more and more desperate. He understood where Nat came from; he still remembered the last full moon: the look on the poor soul's face that stumbled in that morning, bleeding, their body morphed horrifically, rapid decay spreading from their wounds. The way all the pleasant conversations got cut; the way Nat's face changed. But Lewis had a great ability of keeping the unwanted thoughts out of his mind in the long run; he could imagine, it would drive him insane if he were to relive that night over and over again. But for Nathaniel – how many of those nights he had? And how many times have they repeated themselves in his head, as horrifying as when they first happened?\n\nHe felt so sorry for his brother. He wished he could take this pain away from him, somehow, but was almost sure Nathaniel could take it as an insult. At times, his overconfidence could be infuriating; but, Lewis was sure, many people would say the same about his own behavior. Arrogance ran in Ashworth blood.\n\n\"I can't stomach blood, that's why I'm not a doctor.\" Lewis started carefully, hoping that maybe, if he wrapped it up real pretty, Nathaniel could listen to him, \"If all of this is too much for you, which, I'm sure it would be for anyone, have you ever thought about moving out of Briar Ridge? Somewhere big and not as bloody, someone like... A dentist.\"\n\n\"I know you've always wanted to help people, Nat. I still remember how excited you were when I came to you and asked you to help with my knee. I scratched it when I fell, and it wouldn't stop bleeding, and I was so afraid I would die I stood there sobbing, trying to ask for your help.\" He smiled: it was a humiliating memory, nonetheless sweetened by the kindness with which Nathaniel treated his tiny wound and his silly fears, \"I think it was before I got in first grade. We both have changed since then, but I know that deep down, you want to give the same comfort to those people that you gave to me. But are you sure you aren't helping them more than you are hurting yourself?\"\n\n\"And I'll be fine!\" Lewis said briskly, waving off Nathaniel's worries, \"Four years in and still kicking; at this point, I think I'm just inedible for those creatures. Too much hair, too little fat. Or maybe I just smell too good to pass for a piece of stale meat, who knows.\"\n\n||"
},
{
"author": "Nathaniel Ashworth",
"message": "\"Lewie, I don't just keep surgical tools layin' around my house, you do realize that right?\" He asked, only partially joking. \"Yes, I am sure,\" He affirmed. Having another living being running around the house would be good for him. The little ball of energy would undoubtedly end up forcing him to break away from his desk to feed her. He couldn't grow attached, not yet. Her owners might be looking for her and he wouldn't want to accidentally kidnap a beloved pet. Nathaniel laughed when Lewis suggested calling out random names and seeing if any of them were correct. \"Feel free to run that little experiment,\" He joked. \n\nThe werewolves were decidedly not paying him well. He hadn't even billed them for his help, not wanting there to be a traceable record. All his notes on the people were anonymous as well. They were kept at his place instead of at the hospital. \"It doesn't feel right to make them pay,\" He said. Nathaniel hadn't considered that the Coalition would come after him for doing his job. They hadn't, so far. They had to know he was doing it, his notice was public and news traveled fast in Briar Ridge. He'd tried to remain somewhat neutral by not publically taking a strong stance. That particular ship would soon sail; an open letter addressed to the Coalition lay waiting in his desk drawer. Albeit signed by Nathaniel Ashworth, and not by Doctor Ashworth. \"These people are sufferin' enough already, helpin' them for free is the least I can do,\" He insisted. \"Besides, my notice was public, surely if this Coalition took issue with me, they would have let me know already. They can hardly tell me to stop doin' my job as their doctor. I treat everyone, and that includes those infected with lycanthropy, house calls are nothin' out of the ordinary.\" Forest calls most certainly were, but Lewis didn't need to know about those.\n_ _\n\nLewis was telling him to leave. To run away from the very people who he had sworn to help. Briar Ridge's people had already been screwed over by an Ashworth before him, abandoned for money. No, he wasn't leaving, he was seeing this through. He wasn't weak, despite what people might think when they saw him, despite what his parents believed. _He wasn't weak!_ He didn't need protection. Nathaniel had already abandoned his siblings once, he wouldn't leave them again. \"It's not too much for me Lewis, and I'm not abandonin' these people,\" He snapped and immediately regretted it. He wasn't mad at Lewis, he was mad at himself. He was frustrated that he couldn't figure out how to help the people who'd been infected. The cure relied on magic, he was told. Ernest might believe his hands were magic, but they were far from it. Nathaniel was powerless. He couldn't do anything beyond offering them aid after the full moons when the damage had already been done. \n_ _\n\n\"Sorry, I know you're just tryin' to help,\" He apologized. He sighed, a small smile forming on his face as Lewis recounted a shared childhood memory. The smile turned into a laugh as he remembered how Lewis had stood there, fully convinced he would meet his maker any moment. _But are you sure you aren't helping them more than you are hurting yourself?_ His smile faded again. Did it matter? So long as he was making a difference, he didn't care if he was harming himself. And he wasn't hurt nor was he harming himself; he wasn't injured, and he felt great! \"Look at me Lewie, I'm fine! Worryin' just comes with the job,\" He maintained. \"I don't see you quittin' your moonshinin' because it's illegal and undoubtedly stressful,\" He pointed out. \"You're not gettin' rid of me that easily, I'm here to stay,\" He said, trying to sound like those words weren't covering up something beyond mere werewolf-induced worries. _I'm not leavin' you again._ \n\nHe shook his head in disbelief at his brother's ability to make light of the situation. Had Nathaniel been someone else he might have pointed out that wolves preferred life meat, if anything his smell would have to resemble that of stale meat for it to deter them. But he wasn't someone else. \"So long as you don't start believin' that you're immune to bein' attacked, I am fine with stickin' to that very unlikely hypothesis,\" He chuckled. \"Just,\" He added in a more serious tone. \"Be careful okay? I mean it, I would rather not have to patch you up.\" ~~Or worse...~~\n_ _\n\n\"Do you still like your eggs soft-boiled?\" He said, standing up, not wanting to linger too long on a subject he suspected would be deemed too emotional by his little brother. \"Or are you back on your raw egg diet?\" He joked. It was rare for him to tease people, but as an older brother, he just _had to_ occasionally. A teenaged Lewis had once decided that raw eggs would grant him the muscles he so desired. They hadn't, of course, but it was something that Nathaniel would never forget. _Raw eggs. Can you believe this kid?_"
}
] | 959.5 | 7,980 |
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