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Ageometretos medeis eisito

 
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Millicent Grim
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PostPosted: Wed Aug 30, 2017 4:04 pm    Post subject: Ageometretos medeis eisito Reply with quote

"Please, Neil?"

"You realize that was actually a person, once, right?"

"Geh."

"Laurent is... you know what Laurent is, child."

"I thought it was just ...leather."

"Well, it is. Technically."

"...do you think this is a *** up present, then?"

"Wait, you are going to give it to someone else?"

"Well... Yes."

"Millicent."

"Neil." A duel of names- personal cartography.

Neil sighed, audibly. It was a paternal and ironic sound. It was not one that rolled off his tongue easily. "Girl, giving away priceless, *** up artifacts to people ... who would actually appreciate them-- well, it alarms me."

"Too late, really."

Neil actually frowned at her, and stopped what he was doing to look up from his paperwork and truly regard the winter siren with his chocolate amber eyes. His response was obligatory and perfunctory. "Nothing, is ever, "too late.""

"Your concern is."

"Are you asking me to be more concerned? I thought you were less guile-some than that, Millicent."

"No I just... I dunno. You know me." She was eating her words and draining elegance like a deflating balloon animal, and Neil watched her rather perplexed. She rarely got in her own way, so this was a rarity to regard. It made him think of art. Music. Muses.

"No, Milli, sometimes I don't think I do."

"I feel like I'm going to get in trouble over this somehow."

"With whom? Me? Us?"

"Yes."

"In the nature of ‘business’ type trouble, or in the ‘you are in trouble’ type trouble?"

"I'm not in trouble. But he's probably trouble."

"Ah. The Greek."

Millicent cocked her head and frowned at the vampire. "... cheater."

"I do love you, Millicent, but you are, also, an investment."

"Neil." Millicent actually sounded angry.

"And a liability."

"Fine, whatever."

"And like, almost, kind of... like a daughter.... which is *** up considering--"

"Gross."

"-- is he worth the trouble?"

"I don't understand the nature of trouble you are implying or whatever."

"This, this conversation right now. Is it worth it?"

"-- everyone is worth it."

"Not what I mean, fey-thing."

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"No, just duplicitous, mercurial, flighty and unfathomable."

"...I feel like you just complimented me."

"I did."

"...look if you don't want me to take the map-book, I get it. It's old. I just-- you guys never care about your stuff. I think he'd really like it. I'd like to--" She pursed her lips. Like to what, Millicent? Make him happy?

"Your company should be all--"

"Oh, for ***'s sake. I feel like I'm being scolded. Forget it." She put down the book on the desk-- she half dropped it the last few inches as she pivoted to turn. It made a supple sound as it landed on the surface. It almost sounded like people whispering-- secret things, blood and sacrifice. Sanctity and blasphemy. If only she had known.

"No, you're right. It would be nothing to give to you. Laurent has another in his home. And if your friend does find such things enchanting, well, a gift from the heart is truly priceless in and of itself." He paused and steepled his fingers together in front of his lips. "By the way, so is the book. It's one of three in existence, now. Laurent ...knows. I believe there had originally been 5. ...or 10. You should ask him. See the maker’s mark?” Neil gestured at the book. “When Laurent was apprenticed for several arts and trades during that time, that was the name he went by. The way he bound his tomes was a bit of a *** up joke."

"That's kinda creepy."

"He's been called worse." He is worse.

"...so... ..wow. Yes. Please, can I have it? If he doesn't love it I'll bring it back. But I think it would really make him happy, and none of you care. Maybe Laurent would even--"

Neil clucked his tongue, that request was a whole other bag of drowning kittens. "I care because it's old and it's a part of history, both personal and lost (and personally lost). But I know how you are with gifts, Millicent. No need to premise it with its return. You may have it. I just hope ... I just hope-- Just don't get hurt. I don't need more work right now, ita?"

"Thank you! Thank you!" Millicent veritably bounced as she came around the side of the desk and actually kissed Neil on the cheek like a dutiful daughter. Neil somewhat comically scowled. Always attuned to old-world decorum, this was just too much for him. And already feeling paternal, this was a bit too grandiose. But the look on his face didn't sit well, the slick cool of his chocolate hair and the pale perfection of his skin sang of Blue Sundays and L.A. Women not protective gift dealers. He collected himself elegantly and resumed his musing from a more composed glower. However, it couldn't help but soften at her delight. Not even the dead.

"Millicent."

"Yes?" She beamed at him as she picked up the book. This book in question was a medieval, Slavonic tome of illustrated maps of Wallachia and Bucharest. To her, it was the city that had caught her attention. It had been the reason she had plucked it from his shelf while she waited here to discuss music and ...Twitter. To anyone else, especially to the occultist or neo-anything, the priceless antique was worth murder and subterfuge. Even more so because most of these texts were destroyed - either by time or by the Church. For there were things in here that could be unlocked. Not just places or ideas, but things. And Laurent loved hiding things in... other things.

"Be careful."

Neil walked his delicate fingers through his book of contacts, and chose a method of delivery that would wrap the gift accordingly and remain utterly discreet. For him, he was pleased to also have insight into where Sinon resided, if he was ever in need. Millicent would send it to the hotel that evening. On an egg-shell coloured card, in fountain pen, she drew a mermaid, and a vampire. Sufficient and succinct. From me. To you.
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Sinon Lagos
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PostPosted: Wed Aug 30, 2017 9:00 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

“You have a package, Mr. Lagos.”

“Put it with the rest of the mail.”

“I believe you’ll prefer to receive this one now, sir.”

The three men sitting around the office table shared a skeptical look. Sinon sat at the head of the table, flanked on either side by two men who were under his direct employ, two of three he paid personally to advise and assist him in schemes both large and small. The third, the mystic, was seeing to an errand and thus not in attendance.

Sinon: royal, martyr, monster. He wore a freshly pressed suit, all straight lines and perfectly tailored, and his spine was lazy taut despite relaxed appearances, like a hidden switchblade or a sleeping cat, ready-ready-ready to spring into action. Black eyes were void of color except at the rim, where there were hints of a silver disk, a tight ring of scattered, unlit stars. This was his hotel and they were his men. They moved for him, worked for him, killed for him, and would die for him, if it came to it.

On Sinon’s left, Frank Kuklinski: driver, bodyguard, thug. Hired help acquired from the youngest Lagos in exchange for a miracle of favors, Johnny’s former puppy dog. Nothing but a skeleton of vicious animal intent wearing sallow skin. The silk of his suit was a cruel joke, pretty packaging over oil slick pollution. A never-smiler. His hands smelled perpetually of raw meat and blood, and his eyes were the color of nuclear waste. When he looked at the man interrupting their meeting, the man’s skin tried to crawl right off his body..

On Sinon’s right, M. Galat: skeptic, confidante, investigator. Where Frank sat in taunt repose, Galat sprawled and slumped in his chair, acting unimpressed and bored. His tie was eschewed, the top button of his shirt undone. A big, crooked nose dominated the features of his face, and the gray eyes that lived in its shadow were as mute and expressionless as his mouth. His skin was the darkest of the three; he was Eastern European and spent the most time in the sun. A thick fingered hand scratched an old ache along his ribs, feeling the constellation of scars beneath the shirt. Must be about to rain, he thought. It always ached when it was going to rain.

Sinon simply picked a polite smile and wore it carefully, like he might hold a knife or a dagger. “And why is that?”

“Well, sir, it’s from Millicent Grim.”

“So?” Sinon interlaced his fingers deliberately, slowly.

“It’s a book.” The valet frowned, but not at Sinon, which both bothered and interested the Lagos.

“And this can’t wait until we’re done here?”

“Mr. Lagos, I think you should see now. We all discussed it and --”

It was Galat who spoke up, his voice low and heavy, honey on a cold day. “Who is we?” Unsaid: Why are you discussing Sinon Lagos with others? Galat ignored Frank’s lip curl. Though the dog’s teeth were perfectly straight and white, they always gave him the impression of being rotten. Instead he watched the valet wilt before the three of and take a retreating step back and then hesitate.

“I’m … we’re … we’re pretty sure it’s human skin, Mr. Lagos.” There, he said it, but if he expected relief he got none. All three men stared at him in pointed silence. He wanted to retreat further but protocol pinned him in place.

Finally, Sinon unlinked his fingers to brush a non-existent bit of dust from the table, glancing between his compatriots and wordlessly bringing them to heel. “Bring me the book.”

The valet was out the door immediately, thankful for the reprieve. Again it was Galat who spoke first. “What’s with you and spooky chicks, Lagos?”

“I was not aware she was of that nature, detective. We talked, we took a walk.” A nonchalant shrug. “I do not generally ask if the women I spend time with are -- spooky.” Sinon almost smirked at the word. Almost. He leaned back in his chair and tried to imagine why Millicent Grim would send him such a gift, if what the man had said of the book was true.

“Ah. That explains it.” Galat chuffed. His smile was ugly and small, but genuine. It made Frank bristle at the intimacy of it. The driver huffed at the two and unceremoniously picked at the cigarette case and lighter next to Sinon without asking for permission.

“Explains what?” Sinon frowned, first at Galat, and then more curiously at Frank without pointing out how rude it was to just take his things. Frank light up then bared his teeth at both of them. Even Sinon felt uncomfortable.

“I’ve seen what kind of walks you have with people. She probably already loves you, or is addicted to you. Probably writing your name on her skin in secret.” Frank’s dislike of the exchange made Galat smile wider, despite Sinon’s own pointed look back at him.

“Shut up, detective.” Droll.

“Probably writing hearts around your name and hers and planning how many children you two will have.”

Sinon rolled his eyes. “Why do I keep you around?”

It was Galat’s turn to shrug. “If I knew that, maybe I could move on.”

“Doubtful.”

Frank growled, drawing both men back to him, but if they thought he was annoyed at their casual friendship then they were mistaken. He was focused on the door, the man standing in it, and the book he held. The growl froze the man in place. Sinon glanced back at Frank with a stern application of black eyes, and though Frank just bared his teeth again, he at least wasn’t looking at the man with the book.

“Set it down and you can leave.” Galat patted the table between the three of them. “Don’t mind the dog. He’s just protective.”

This time the growl was directed at Galat, who smirked back at it, if only briefly. Sinon coughed once and both men broke settled, though Robert was still on edge. When Sinon smiled it said No more of that. Both of them got the message.

The valet set the book down carefully and slid the card over to Sinon, leaving after a dismissing wave from the Lagos. Frank sniffed at the air pointedly, glared at the book, then pushed back from the table with a mumble of “Pellis.”

Galat raised a brow. Sinon translated: “He said skin.”

“I know what he said.”

“Your latin is getting better, then.”

“It’s a necessity, if you’re going to keep him around.” Galat shrugged.

“I am.” Sinon peered at the book without moving closer to it. He was vaguely aware that it was making noise, but that surely had to be a trick of mind. It was just the sound of an air conditioner turning on, or a conversation from down the hall.

“What’s the card say?” Galat eyed it.

“Nothing. It just has a drawing.” Sinon flipped it over and showed him.

“--- is that a mermaid?”

“Yes.”

“Do they really look like that?”

“No.”

“--- wait, have you seen a mermaid?” Galat squinted.

Sinon shrugged in response, but a tick later he smiled lightly. He enjoyed teasing the detective as much as the detective enjoyed chiding him. “The other one is a vampire.”

“Well, that one I got.”

“I am just helping.”

“Why do I stay around here?” Galat motioned at the cigarette case and lighter, too polite to just help himself.

Sinon nodded vaguely without looking, granting the detective permission. “Because you have nowhere else to go and you like my charming personality.”

Galat cursed quietly in Polish and returned his attention to the book. On the other side of the table, Frank continued to stare it down, like he was in some invisible game of chicken with whatever was inside it. Galat used a match from a pack he kept on hand, waving it out when he was done with it, leaving the smell of sulfur hanging.

Sinon ignored him, or rather the others drifted out of his focus, receding back as he leaned in to examine the book in closer detail. Long fingers extended before it, above it, settling just atop the cover with delicate weight. It thrummed. A nascent vibration less felt than simply known, like his mind was playing tricks on him, or he was privy to secret information that crossed the barrier from thought to physical reality. The experience was unusual, though not without precedent. Hairs on the back of his neck rose up.

“Human,” intoned Sinon. Fingertips traced the details of the over.

“Do I want to know how you can tell?”

Overly curious, Sinon collected the book in both hands and lifted it into his crossed leg lap, opening the cover and starting a cursory glance through. Frank stood up and stalked to the far end of the room, taking up a spot leaning against the far wall. He ashed onto the floor with perfectly manicured fingers and sneered.

“I don’t think he likes it very much,” chimed Galat, watching Frank while Sinon read over the first few pages.

“I do not think you want to imagine what Frank likes, detective.”

“Mm.” Galat did not disagree. This earned a sneer from Frank, like he too was agreeing.

Sinon continued to read in silence, going first page by page and then moving through whole chapters as he came to understand the work’s fuller structure, until suddenly he laughed. He casually flipped to the next page and laughed again.

Galat stared, as did Frank.

“Whoever wrote this has a *** up sense of humor,” said Sinon, quietly amused. He tapped his chin and regarded a diagram.

Flatly, Galat responded. “No offense, but if anyone has a *** up sense of humor, it’s you.” He dragged an ashtray close and flicked his cigarette into it.

“No denying that.”

“--- You’re smiling.”

“Mm.” He was. Sinon’s smile was sublime even.

“That’s creepy. That’s creepier than the book. Congratulations, boss. You’re creepier than a book with human skin as a covering.” Galat frowned and pushed back from the table, shaking his head. His relationship with Sinon was such that he didn’t worry about losing his head for such remarks, but it’d taken many years to get there. He regarded his employer with a hint of concern.

“That is not the first time you have called me that.” Sinon moved onto another section of the book until he found glyphs drawn in blood. He traced them carefully with a finger, smile softening to something more subtle, more ethereal.

“Won’t be the last, either.”

“No, I imagine not. Galat, I want you to do something for me.”

“You want me to research Millicent Grim.”

“Mmhm.”

“And you want me to dig into her background and associates, specifically looking for the how or why she can just give you a book like that.”

“The how, yes, but not the why. I will find out the why.”

“Fine. You probably want me to see if I can find the author, too, and dig up anything on them.”

“You are correct.”

“Anything else?”

“No, that will be all. I would enjoy some mystery.”

“So long as she’s just a very strange woman and it’s not a trap.”

“More or less.”

“More, or less, Sinon?”

Sinon ignored him for a second time. Even if it was a trap, it could be used to his advantage, so long as he knew who was laying it and what game meant. He scratched at a page with a fingernail absently before announcing, “First, though, I want you to find out where she is tonight.”

“--- I swear if you tell me you want to see her ---”

“I want to see her.”

Galat groaned under his breath, waving a smoking hand at the air. “Why am I not surprised?”

An amused shrug. Sinon closed the book and set it down in front of him. “This needs to go into the private vault for now. When you know where she is, please call me.”

“One of these days you’re going to want to talk to a very nice, normal woman.”

“Doubtful.”

“I can dream.”

Sinon smirked without looking and Galat rolled his eyes, standing slowly.

“Once I find her, I’ll text you the address. What’ll you do if she’s at home?”

“Then I’ll see her at her home.” It was simple for Sinon. Manners and protocol were rules he could easily ignore when they suited him, much like Frank. More so than Frank.

Galat snorted at Sinon’s outlook, as though he were completely aware of what the man was thinking. In a sense he was; decades of experience were akin to telepathy in a way, a psychic phenomena in and of itself. Galat could picture Sinon just showing up out of the blue and somehow passing it off as entirely uncreepy. Hello, I’m just here to unannounced because I wanted you. Aren’t you going to let me in?

“You know some women don’t like it when you do that, don’t you?” Galat stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray.

“Normal women, perhaps.” Sinon stood, too. He picked up the book and tucked it gently beneath an arm. “But normal women do not send gifts of skin bound books, do they?”

Galat was forced to admit they didn’t, not at all, and had to watch Sinon hug the book just a little tighter. “You really disturb me, boss.”

The three filled out, Frank trailing behind, Sinon smiling, and Galat wondering just what new fresh hell Sinon was unleashing on all of them this time.
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
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PostPosted: Sun Sep 03, 2017 10:52 pm    Post subject: ...to keep you and watch you escape and chase you back down. Reply with quote

I.
black and blue - rolling thunder of bass and bodies of strangers - pure context
white light in the dark, skin and shoulders - vectors of intent. There you are.
the right ratio, golden in the proportions - chryselephantine
took all the noise in his skull and turned it down, down, down.
an audio grainy sound of skipping vinyl (needles) in the heart and mouth
The sea churned with sirens and rocky shores - see me down here with the neon glow fish
helical necessity in an iron staircase - the murmur of undertow in the wild

II.
‘I’m taking you home with me’
down the ribbons of black road
leather and luxury and a purring engine
skin-milk-skin, a catch of fingernails in the raw silk
Tracing maps of you. Game of view.
'thank you's in flesh and bone
grateful secrets in a sleeping city

III.
hot breath across a mirror - in the light
the cold streak of skin across glass - fingerprints and sweat
peeling layers back - exposing shadows
'look at this' - watch
see me see you see yourself
a white rose in bloom
top floor

IV.
this place is not safe
for you, not home for you
the foundations and dust and bone
and the mortar blood
but if you stay with me, I promise
I will be the only one to hurt you
ever again

V.
You are a field of vision - my point of view
where the brightly shining sea is clothed in the sky
Surrender like a song, pulling Truth and words of weight
Sacred geometrics and sweet gravity - shift
This world, our world, is only us
And we fit together like
An equation of land masses

VI.
here is a thought, an idea,
[it’s been keeping me up]
an idea of an endless want
endless need, a depth to sink into
and inhabit, like a sea, like the sea,
ouroboros waves
let me show you exactly what I mean

VII.
A new landscape, pristine snow still tract less - we soar
A system integration - need-aligned
Wordless connectivity
spiral -maps and math mingling in the in-betweens
the way men lost at sea are sick for the water
This is your fault
The ocean black swallows him whole.

VIII.
We are laminar, yet
spooky-action-at-a-distance
A slowly spinning-churning of honey and milk
Saccharine sweet like an opiate illusion -- no. Real!
So real I can *** touch.
Resonating in unison - electrons are electrons are electrons.
Spirit is fire - Taste, consume

IX.
Words: A gospel, so good on his tongue that it must be sin
Ad infinitum - lands unseen by light [ no dawn, no day, and no dusk ] and unknown by foreign eyes
drinking hemlock or stripping naked in the freeze-- inherently dangerous
A Saint granting blessings- where no one should ever want a priest
Recursive - a seashell capturing the ocean
he swept her up and carried her the rest of the way, the man on the road in all his dimensions [ Death, Mage, Fool, Knight ].
Starfire and halo moon-lit skin of delight - divinity

X.
“I want to draw you.”
“I like you selfish.”
“All we are are choices.”
“Oh, Sinon. I want you.” Like wildfire. Like opiates. “...Undertow. Hunger. Faim.”
"Do you know," ... "how dangerous those words are," ... "to say to me?"
Make me.
“It is sacred. Promise me.”
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm


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PostPosted: Fri Sep 08, 2017 10:39 pm    Post subject: "Over dragon lines we walked the current" Reply with quote

The water poured like rain from the expensive shower head. The water pressure had been harnessed and transmogrified into an allusion of nature.

It was dastardly subterfuge, for oh how she loved the rain at night.

The bathroom was all glass and marble with accents of gold.

There was black and there was silver. There was a water spout for every angle.

They reminded her of the water-spicket mouths of angels and demons on the roofs of old chapels. One in particular in the Scottish countryside. She stood before the glass of the shower and regarded herself thus in the many mirrors: a moon-pale girl, a naked girl- white on white on white on white. The blood under her skin blushed several pieces of her chiaroscuro image in a soft, ashen pink, but for these signs of life she was white with just a slash of gleaming green for a conjurer’s gaze. [High Priestess]

But that was just Millicent. That which she carried with her in flesh. Tonight, Millicent was a slash of white with sacred, black burning hands. And tonight there was also red.

It looked like he had written on her in smoke, for the fine edges he had drawn had smudged and blurred when they touched. And the red of his blood on her occluded some of the more arcane ministrations.

The charcoal glyphs lined her skin in whirls. Square, circle, triangle. Sacred, sacred, sacred. The seed, tree, egg, flower, and fruit of life danced along her fine bones-- fingers, knuckles and forearms. He had drawn her, true. [His powerful dragon embroidered kimono was spilling off her milk shoulders and wrapping around her pale body loosely as she watched him watch her watch him. She had hung off the side of the divan as he slid his black, infinite-gaze over her. She peered at him upside down, her snowy tendrils of white hair splaying on the floor as she pressed a cool strawberry to her lips. As she became berry stained he had gotten up to get something red to capture her with. Foreshadowing. Forewarned is seldom forearmed.] But he had also drawn upon her.

They spoke a language of touch, a true conversation. Memories of him blended and blurred- his tongue formed thoughts in the ether between them but also wrote them on her skin as well. Her pale form had hummed quietly with a soft light and soft energy that he drew from her and reflected back in his own way. They were still tuning forks discussing soft lightening. Galvanics. And he wrote spells on her, even as she had wrought them on him in return. Treble Clef. Eye. Heptagram. Meditation, repetition and contemplation. The hands make, the heart conceives.

Her palm was Metatron's Cube, drawn there perfectly in divine proportions by Sinon’s murderous, articulate and dexterous hands. She opened her palm in front of her, spilling her absinthe coloured, half-mad gaze on the vision of declaration, definition and intent. Her delicate piano player’s fingers curled their fine china bones and she stared. Absently she leaned her face into her wrist and softly nuzzled her own skin, lost in thought and… anguish. And love.

Millicent resisted the urge to lick the soot from her fingertips, to ingest and bless the thaumaturgic scripts he had claimed her with. They had smudged on the black silk sheets as they slept, they were translating into spectres of themselves and she thought about inhaling them like they were ectoplasm in the air. They had blurred as they marked him smoke-coloured as she touched him. They were like beautiful memories sifting through dust-motes of the mind. Her heart ached at the idea of washing them away.

Had her phone not died, she would have taken pictures of them. She would have decoded them like an archeologist for days. For months. For years. She would forever dig for secrets of him.

Skin-secrets.

Blood secrets.

Millicent rotated her arm and found a place where his red (flashwhite!) blood had flooded the black incantations on her skin and written its own intentions (gravity, oaths, threats, pacts, armistices) in negative space. In colour. Millicent traced the accurate-suicides running vertically down her forearm with her fingertips. Traced where Sinon had spilled himself on her. Where he had smeared himself between their skin when they had embraced in the sacred violence and seminal storm.

She remembered his hot-white tears and regretted not tasting them as well.

Her brows furrowed.

She swore she could smell him like earth on a hot, humid day after rain. Like his ghost was warm and wavy, defying gravity, lifting from the foundations in the misting bathroom as the hot water fogged the glass and blurred, even further, the white boundary lines of the girl amid the steam.

Millicent looked at the door of the bathroom. She had a hundred things to ask him before she washed him and his alchemy away. She wondered what he did beyond the door.

She wondered why.

Truly, why.

Millicent stepped into the warm water. It enveloped her with loving, cleansing fingers of refracted light. Aqua sacris. The charcoal ran to shadow-tears on her skin-- flowing in dusky rivulets down her arms and collecting in the soft inner-skin of her elbow.

She raised her naiadic arms and pushed both of her slender hands through her snow-white hair, making ephemeral streaks of grey as her tendrils flattened and pressed into her scalp. Her sense of self thundered through her as the red and black began to slither down her skin- serpentine, mysterious and portentous. The blood that had wound its way around the Jacob’s ladder of her spine began to fade, shift and run like apocalyptic Highland streams through the lowlands of her milk-skin. The scarlet rushed and flowed, winding around her hips and thighs, making primal swaths down her legs as though it set red fire to the journey-maps his mouth had traveled in its wanderlust. Like she was developing negatives in blood before the photographs dissolved away. Souvenirs of a kiss that held no hunt, and no hunger. [as if whispering into her shadow to the person living inside it.] Soft.
You know that I will choke until I swallow…

I am she whom you have despised and upon whom you think.
I am the one from whom you have hidden and to whom you are manifest.
But whenever you hide yourselves, I myself will be manifest.
For whenever you are manifest, I myself [will hide f]rom you.


Millicent shivered despite the warmth of the water.

Not why. How.

Perhaps what, as well.

What are we?

What am I?

Where are you?

A memory. [Sinon watched her repeat the shape again and again, and felt the power swell in it, felt the very magic of the act. He carried her mark. Already he felt the drums moving in.]

Beneath her, the spiral of water in the base of the shower churned with soot and blood- eulogies to razed cities of the heart. Of the Self. Like cartographies of spinal landscapes waiting for her to discover what it was to be realized.

**Title by Tori Amos, "wildwood"
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Young Wyrm
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PostPosted: Fri Sep 15, 2017 12:48 am    Post subject: But it's just a crazy game, When it ends it ends in tears Reply with quote

Jonathan opens the door before she is able to touch the electronic keypass to the sensor. He must have heard the jangle of the keychain. Millicent had carried no bag with her when she had left a few days ago, so the keys had been hidden on the property. Lars would have been appalled and angry but it would be out of training and decorum rather than any true need for safety. Afterall, if there were windows in a building then locked doors were just suggestions ('do not enter') to the type of people who would come here wishing harm to him or his. Besides, Wintermute was here. Somewhere. Jonathan must have truly been worried if he had braved the anger of the wolf-dog to locate Milli.

"Hey girl, how--" he could smell him on her. Blood and-- It completely broke his concentration, slamming into him like she’d struck him - disappointment and anger cutting into marrow. Thus, his greeting was vivisected as the unfamiliar presence washed over him like a tidal wave. A primal old fear forcing old gods and a little bit of madness on him. Oh he could tell that the scent had been wrought bone-deep and critical because he could barely smell her beneath his scent. And it wasn't just that the Greek's scent was strong, it was that it was more present than she was. Millicent's natural soft and gentle skin-scent of amber and vanilla was a nocturne and he was a partial - a harmonic he could not stop from ringing in his nostrils. "Oh, Milli." Jonathan sighed softly.

The way his entire demeanor changed in five words stole any greeting that would resonate with her. He stole her from the moment. His somber sigh alarmed her, she reached for his hand "Jonathan? What, what's wrong? Is someone hurt?" Something must have happened. Something he wouldn't tell her over text. She was worried.

Jonathan's lips parted and then pursed. He did look grave, and his brows furrowed. "Milli... I--" I love you. I miss you. I'm worried. I'm jealous. I can't watch this happen again. You're going to lie to me. I just want to be with you and keep you safe. "No. No, no, sorry no." He came back to his senses, trying to block the other man out of his mind, and he clasped her hand gently in both of his. "I'm sorry I scared you, no. Are you ok?" Oh just *** lie to me, Millicent. ...say you aren't.

"Jonathan, what? You're acting crazy."

Crazy for you. "No, sorry, just, you took me off guard. I thought it was Lars. He just called to say he was coming home and I was worried you wouldn't be here first. You took longer than you said."

"Oh." the syllable sat on her o-shaped lips for a little too long. Something about him wasn't being... honest. She sensed it. Like she could taste it. Her vibrant, humming perception of that was entirely too present for a natural inclination and it made her head swim for a moment. I know he's not being truthful. He's hiding. It was such a stark contrast to the experience of the last few days. Self-destruction wears many faces.

Jonathan felt the need to fill the pause, maybe because he wasn't that great of a liar. "Come in, sit with me." He was reeling her in, a mermaid on a hook. He wished he didn't have to. He wished she'd come of her own accord. Accord - bitter, spicy violence and sweet smoke. A chord - something fragile, played by piano till it fractaled and frayed.

"Okay, Jonathan. But, you need to tell me what is going on. Why did you need me back here?" They were walking through the slick, modern entrails of Lars' beautiful home. He'd spill himself over the black leather L-shaped couch in front of the huge TV. He'd pull her down with him, next to him, their thighs pressed together.

"I needed to know you were okay."

"Of course I'm okay. I told you."

"I just... it doesn't feel like you're ok." What have you done? What have you promised? What have you given away?

"Jonathan," she laughed softly at his innocent and laden concern. Something about it was too much. She reached up and tamed her snow-white hair behind her ear. "You think someone stole my phone? Maybe some kidnapper was texting you instead of me?"

"You never know."

"No. I guess you don't."

Jonathan reached up to absently touch her white hair, to press and pet and spread a tendril between his thumb and forefinger, streaking his pale skin with her white lines. He felt the texture of it, soft and silk. The familiar gesture eased her and she lay her brow against his shoulder and stared out over their knees at the blank TV screen. Jonathan felt her slide away into her thoughts and he protectively, a little selfishly, wrapped his arm around her back and pulled her a little closer. Stay with me. Stop day dreaming. I know what you are thinking about. He felt her go adrift on a black silk sea and he refused to surrender her to that storm. "What did you get done?"

"Oh." Her return- resplendent. She straightened some. "A little bit of a few things. I had a few ideas I needed to work into Ephemeral. I'm actually starting... I will tell you soon. But I can play something for you."

He heard her and what she was saying, and he heard the muses in her. The heady booziness of love and inspiration. He could not tell if it made him sad, or angry. But he did know he wanted to hear her play. He had a vision then, a pale haired ikon with a golden diadem that glittered like the sun. Her eyes were emeralds, speaking of earth and sea and…. A ruby red heart, glittering like crystal and pulsing with vitae thundered in front of her chest. Disembodied. The liquid in it was like pomegranates and paint. So red. Life. Her hands were white, marble and so, so white - striking. Striking…? Deep grey tendrils wrapped and wound between her fingers like snakes and lifted into the sky like incense smoke. She gleamed and lifted (and lightened) the heart, his heart, but she was cloying. He whispered as the vision dissipated, but it had choked the voice from him… "Yes. Please, Millicent." The vision scared him but it felt more like he was hallucinating pure symbolism. It hurt. He wondered if he should tell someone…. something.

The weight in his tone made her pause, and in a characteristically Millicent way, she pushed herself up and kissed his cheek softly before she stood up from him. But Jonathan held her hand just a little too long and Millicent, just for a moment, frowned at him. "Jonathan, I need to do this." I need to be myself.

"To do what, Milli?" Like he was waking from a dream.

Millicent looked at him almost disapprovingly. I know what is bothering you. Don't make me say things that undermine love and music and friendship and...

"Milli... I'm worried about you. I know how this goes... the music and the guy and-- "

"You make me sound like a lost child. Like it doesn't matter. Like I can’t handle this. This-- being me."

"What you want matters. I'm just worried about what he does and doesn't want. And what will happen after you finish what you're writing? You just got up and disappeared for a year and a half before. This guy shows up and you put the fear of god in me? What the hell is that? Are you doing drugs with him?"

Millicent blinked several times, fanning her white lashes over her cheeks, flickering absinthe green at him like strobe lights. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You can't know someone in a night."

"That's your expert opinion?"

"He smells weird."

"What?"

He waved a hand at her almost dismissively but also like he was just going to throw down a secret, like a gauntlet, like a dead animal, because he'd already said it in his tone and he didn’t care if it hurt her. "I can smell him all over you."

A Millicent of not that long ago would have blushed a deep pink at such a comment. Instead, she sighed. "... I like him."

Jonathan frowned. Millicent didn't 'like' anything. The word was so banal it felt like she was lying to him just to shut him up. It actually hurt him like she had struck him. Again. Violence.

She explained further, "I truly feel music when I'm with him, lately. A song I never heard before. ...I need to experience this song. It tells me about all of the other songs. I--"

He cut her off, he knew what she was going to say and it was too much for him to hear. This man, coming in, like a thief in the night and stealing her from him before he had gotten the courage to tell her. It was like the man himself was in the room calling him a coward. Hurt and anger. Hurt and anger. Maybe he could find something to convince her otherwise. "Did you use protection?" How many times did you *** him? No, how many times did he *** you? Jesus christ, I can smell him on your insides as well as your out.

"What the ***, Jonathan."

"Well that's a *** 'no.'"

"What the hell are you even asking me?"

"I can't be here right now." He got up quickly, swiftly, preternaturally. The rush of power almost had him fantasizing about biting her. Slipping his ivory fangs into her throat and taking what he wanted. Making her his forever - alive or dead. The latter would be forever. Millicent was forever, sideways 8, but he knew that no one could ever have her like that. One can only burn so long. He looked at her and saw her burn, so bright, so white. Maybe it would be better. Maybe that was the answer. If he couldn't, than he at least could. The thought terrified him and repulsed him. He almost put his foot through the glass coffee table just so the blood and shatter of it would remind him not to murder her. He almost pushed her when she put her hand on his shoulder. He snapped back to this unfulfilling reality. His eyes flashed at her, a deep, rich earth colour that pulled instead of pushed.

"Jonathan. I'm sorry I scared you. Please. Please let me play for you." Her voice was like a warm wind over a roiling sea. If she had seen the light in his eyes, or the hint of fangs at his lips, she did not address it and did not react. He was in the center of an unpleasant hurricane. Millicent the storm. Something about that tasted familiar to him. Heat and electricity and brine.

"I'm sorry." He said softly. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. "I -- men are *** assholes. You're so soft.... and so precious to me. And I've seen you so hurt and they just never understand." A sigh. "No one understands." But I do. I don't understand everything but I do. And I'd never hurt you. God, where the *** was this coming from? Oh. Right. It’s always been here, behind the eyes. In the cavity of his chest. Rotting in his teeth.

"It's okay, Jon. I know you care so much about me. You're -- " like a brother. But no, she would never say that to him. He knew too much. He was like no brother she knew. "I love you, Jon."

And he hugged her. Pulled her against his black swathed chest and crushed her there like he could crush out this tempest of feelings he had for her. And he did. It took several moments but he did because he had to. She was gone from him for a while. His Millicent had left the building. She had her muses, he could see it in her eyes. He could hear it in the song he had heard and he needed to steel himself against the things he was about to hear from her now. Maybe next time. Maybe after him. I'll be there to make it better and after him I will tell you.

Millicent hugged Jonathan back softly but strongly. The waves of comfort lapped at both of them, sometimes for her, sometimes for him. The hug took a long time. He ran his pale fingers through her hair because it soothed him to sooth her. It soothed him to not find that slash of sunlit-gold materialized on her crown when his eyes were closed. He kissed her hair and got a sense of her he hadn't had yet today, but the heat of her still quivered and rose with that man's scent - galbanum, labdanum, white flowers, patchouli, and something sweet - cacao, something dark - woodsmoke, blood and gunpowder. ***. But at least it gave him a sense of purpose. He needed to take care of things and make sure this wasn't something else. Let Millicent have her playthings, as long as they weren't dangerous. He was her manager. Maybe he'd get an album or two. Right. Work. That's what he'd do, he'd do his job.

Eventually Jon let her go, and she unfurled from him and led him over to the long electronic keyboard she had set up in the corner of the room. He had helped her hook it up to the surround sound system so the quality of the sound was heady and sharp at the same time. It took you places.

Millicent played for him.

The music spoke to him of her, but he knew she had written it for someone else. For everyone who would hear it, sure, that was her gift, but for him specifically. The piano was all fragility-- the music quivered like those moments you feel connected to someone. How they are bright and electric and connective. And how they never last. No matter how hard you try, usually the harder you try, or if you try at all, you ruin them. Strangled by our coveting. It’s a first singularity high, a novelty, and then a shadow of itself. Never to be felt that way again- running after an event horizon. Those moments of true expression of yourself (terrifying) and how exposing such beautiful things should strengthen a connection that should last forever. But they never do. Time, and distance, and change crumble them into dulled forms. Dying stars, burning so bright, leaving only pitch-shadows on the backs of your eyes that dull everything that reflects there again forever after. Ephemeral experiences. Yet, echoes and ripples of experience touching you forever more by highlighting the absence of him or her or that moment of sacrificial vulnerability and protection in trust. Shadows of you and him together, entwined. When you realized what it was. What this is. It was the realization, the discovery. It was before the acceptance and revelry in it. You only make me (materialize me) here once, and then I’m here. It’s not the same. I am becoming. We are becoming. It was the flare of existence in the existential dark. Us. We. Everything after this violent, harmonic moment was different and degrading. The song captured just the dawn, not the day of it. Awe and infatuation with what was possibly to come. Before it came.

Millicent didn't notice that Jonathan had cried.

When she had finished she smiled at her piano and said "oh oh, and then this, too, something else" and she started playing a piece of something else for him. She never noticed what she had done. In truth, she was scared to. So she took him somewhere else without looking at him or taking his hand. She took him for a time on a soft journey on a black-sea ocean. It wasn’t sad, it was sensual and vaguely threatening. A vision of endless, recursive want that blended the sea and the sky into one interlaced mass of milk and caramel skin. Forever hunting each other on that horizon. The moments when they had each other rendered immemorial only in contrast to when they drifted apart and yearned for each other again. And in this song they had each other, and they held together, winding around the moment (roiling sea and storming sky) and creating a context of This. We have this. This is ours.

The songs complimented each other in imagery and intonation but they said something very different. Entire cities of emotion captured in bottles. And when she was done he was certain he had to go make sure that gunsmoke and blood was not going to harm his dear, dear friend.

**Title by Dionne Warwick
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Sinon Lagos
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PostPosted: Sun Sep 24, 2017 12:23 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

Two packages wrapped in brown paper arrived for Millicent Grim the evening of the 17th, addressed to her studio. One was flat and stiff, blatantly a painting, canvas stretched over frame. The other was more mysterious, paper hugging tightly to the shape of a cylinder with the cool feel of metal. A note came with the packages:

Millicent,

I wanted to properly say thank you for the book. I apologize I did not get these to you sooner, but it has been a very long time since I did anything approaching true art.

The painting is for you. You will recognize the meaning immediately. The map is an exchange for the book itself, a replica I drew when I was much younger. I believe your friend will appreciate it.

Yours,
Sinon Lagos


The painting was exactly as predicted; immediately recognizable. Millicent in white, painted across a canvas soaked in an uneven, churning sea of blues and blacks. She was emblazoned from behind with a solar halo of gold. The style evoked students of the Renaissance, and was something of a recreation of a painting hanging in a certain, rarely visited church in the heart of Spain [where Sinon had once met with Nikolaj to discuss guilt and the human soul]. Millicent was made a Lady of Sorrows, as Sinon’s lady of sorrows, held in painful reverence for the sacrifices she’s borne for him, for others, and for herself. The flaming heart in her hands was a vivid demonstration of what she took for him, and how it must have hurt [in the painting, her heart was pierced through with ten daggers, not seven, but Millicent would understand the significance of the deviation]. She was rendered nude; unsurprisingly, Sinon spent a lot of attention getting the shape of her exactly right, but not for the obvious reasons. She had to be right, accurate, correct. If she wasn’t, it would have distracted from her face, the look of love it holds and the tremendous sorrow behind the eyes. Some of the look is not hers, but Sinon’s, but even that is unsurprising. After all, there were elements of it that were self portrait. The tears, for example, burn like his, white and aflame.

And then, across her, across the whole painting itself, in a savage arc from one corner to the other, a bloody strike of red. It crossed her face and the paint had been allowed to drip down the rest of her, coloring the milk white of her skin. Mutating. Corrupting. Revealing. Sinon himself, in redux. [“We share much in common, Millicent. Much in common.]

There were a number of minor mistakes: a pencil line on her chin had not been properly covered in white, the shading was not perfect, the composition muddled, and the heart slightly off center. Sinon was not an incredibly talented artist, and mechanically he suffered from lack of practice. But he meant what he had painted, and hopefully that was enough. Choices and intent. It was just choices and intent.

The second package was for the original owner of the book she’d given him. Unwrapping it reveal a bronze case, unscrewable on one end, housing a map. As it had been described, it was a recreation of a map, or specifically, multiple maps. It was the culmination of a project that had occupied much of Sinon’s free time as a youth, had both come about from and also feed his love for the artform, and though it was no longer quite as special to him as it had been once, it was still unique to the world at large, as it was one of the single most accurate recreations of the ancient city of Ur ever made. Some elements were recognizable from their sources, but others pieces were more esoteric or harder to place. How Sinon knew what he knew of the city was practically impossible, but that was half the point. He would never have bothered it it’d been easy.

There was one quality of the map that most would have missed, but Sinon felt would be understood by the new owner. In the layout of the streets, in the pattern of them, there was an odd geometric quality. One done on purpose, encoded in secret. Only a few people in the world would notice it [even some Lagos missed it], but with the right mind, and the right eyes, it was rather obvious:

Some ancient designer of the city had wrote a spell right into the city’s arrangement. It was the streets, the way they were carved into the earth. Primitive, perhaps, but powerful, an early attempt at sacred geometry. Where two roads met, the angle between them; where one street ran parallel to another, and how the sun would cross them on the right day; where the walls truncated one shape but prolonged another -- the spell was clear and of one function:

It was meant to destroy.

Ur had been a doomed city.

Sinon had always found that funny. He expected Laurent would, too.
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Millicent Grim
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PostPosted: Thu Sep 28, 2017 1:21 pm    Post subject: Transmutate these leaden grudges into gold Reply with quote

Sinon was the sated savannah lion to Millicent's slender kitten. He was all olive skin flushed and salted with dried sweat. Limbs sprawled, Sinon lay half-in/half-out of the sheets, still too warm from the hours behind them to settle beneath the black. If not for her and the desire to touch her, hold her, feel her weight on him -- he would have laid entirely in the cool air, drying and luxurious, a beast after his kill. But she was there, so he fit himself between the two worlds, and had been taking time to kiss her shoulders and hands and anything else she dared to get near him while they laid together.

Millicent was absently reveling in his soft attentions, the black sheets spilled like shadows over her white hips and lower stomach but left her ribs and thighs to gleam like soft moon-light. She was toying with the tie around her throat. His tie. An aesthetic choice but she was also playing at a cat with yarn. The tie had been around both of their wrists in the night, perfectly utilitarian [binding rituals], and at some point she had decided to do a very simple, over-under knot of it around her slender neck. Aesthetically she enjoyed knowing that all her white was slashed with a pattern of his choosing. But then she had an idea-- she twisted with new energy, and turned to face him, propped on her elbows. "Can you tie one of those Windsor knots…(is that what it's called?) For me?"

He might have even been drifting off when she asked, and for a moment all he did was eye her from his back and raise a brow at her. Really? He smirked at her. "I love you," he murmured, reaching up with one set of long fingers to undo her knot, then rolling onto his side to use both hands. In only a moment it was done.


What are you made of, Millicent?

And the fabric slipped around her throat, silken and neat. Winding through her hair as though it would make bows of itself… Sentient. She laughed softly, quietly in her sleep, in the real world and in the dream. The black-slash of silk flickered a ruby-jewel tongue in her ear and she giggled at that, too. But then, from the coiling tendrils of her hair, made of the same cloud-stuffs, the serpent raised white dove’s wings, and took flight. And in the nature of dreams, the serpent was both shadow and light. It hovered above their forms like a storm cloud, and began to wind itself in the air in a softly undulating tempest. Sideways 8s. Sideways 8s and wings. Dream Sinon tilted his head at her. An afterimage of memory [another one, that same night] flickered in the imagery. Brows rose and his head dropped to the side. Finger tap to her chest, indicating heart. "I want this, so perhaps not anything we want. But plenty." Watching her. It was a duplicate motion like deja-vu, blurring Sinons together over each other. Millicent stirred in the real world, but she was comfortably constrained by his arm still wrapped around her naked form, hugging her to him like a child with a teddy-bear. All the while, dream Sinon grew and glowed. His edges blurring with a soft light that began to burn and darken as that rim of white that flickered at the edge of his space-deep gaze began to brighten to burning quick-silver and cast after images like holy ghosts. His gaze pierced the veil of her dream and burned all but their outline from view, like the reel of film had ignited with an inner heat. Like his eyes were heaven that she looked on with hope from...

Fire. The serpent untwisted itself in a 4th dimension, flattening to a line and then folding open like a book. It became a circle. Inside it she saw a distant shape. A triangle. A pyramid. It was off in the distance like the serpent was a portal or a door. And then it flattened, too. And then a square. A circle. Millicent recognized it immediately. Her mind’s eye transfixed as the triangle grew over the horizon of the lines. The geometry was perfect-- the square in ratio with midlines. The triangle dared not touch the snake, not in the dream, not ever.

And then the snake, now made of holy smoke, began to blur and shine. It turned to mercury and it twisted to unfurl a hood of silver. On it blinked an eye, just one - embossed. A relief. Just one. One black, peering gaze. In Sinon’s arms Millicent shivered as it watched her.

--and his invisible should be clothed with form. He therefore opened his mouth and uttered the Word like unto himself. This word standing before him showed that he was manifesting himself as the form or type of the Invisible One.--

The words thundered through her like vibrations. They were not spoken nor sung, they existed. They resounded. Terrible and triumphant. Word. Logos. It shook-- shuffling reality like a deck of cards. She felt it in her teeth.

Millicent woke.

She was warm. So warm. But she drew Sinon’s arm around her tighter, as if she had been given a chill in a fever and needed the weight of him to banish it. He murmured softly in his deep, deep sleep. Beset with travel and misery, his body was reveling in a peaceful unconsciousness. She would not wake him.

She turned gently, twisting to catch a glimpse of his sleeping features. She had no concept of the time. He’d returned in the early afternoon and the day had melted away into ‘i missed you’s and sweat and sleep. But she had been well rested when he had come home, and she was unsure how many days he had gone without proper respite. Any other day, she would not have dared to touch his sleeping features, but after the dream, and with an assurity through experience of his home-coming, she pressed the underside of her soft fingers against the curve of his jaw. Real. His soft skin on his sharp features. She touched his hair. She inhaled the deep, sweet but dark scent of him. And though Millicent enjoyed his impossibly dark gaze, enjoyed it and its mystery and perpetual danger and mirth, in this moment, she was content to be free of it. Not only because she wished for him to rest.

She could not escape the simple perfection of his long-missed embrace without brushing her ash-pink lips against the curve of his chin. A timeless act of sanctification before she gently, like a white spectre, picked his arm up from her body and slipped out of bed.

She was keenly aware of the pang of gravity in her chest, calling her back to his sleeping form as she stood there for a quiet moment looking at him. It had been days. Perhaps… But… She had to draw the dream. She had to capture the image in her mind. The winged serpent. The geometry. The shapes. She knew what it was, and she had to capture it in order to bring it into reality in its unadulterated form.

Millicent stepped lightly, leaving the room. Leaving Sinon. She sought paper and the charcoal pencils he had used days-- weeks ago. Millicent, a white shadow, wild and bewildered, slipped almost somnambulantly through his apartment, gathering up the items she needed to collect herself upon a soft chair. Cradling the sketchpad in her bare lap, she began to draw. In truth, Sinon was a much better artist than she, but she needed to capture the details and the iconography. It was an obsession. It was necessary. It flickered green flame in her somniferous almond eyes. And she did. She captured each perfect detail. For if she had forgotten one, she would not be able to have it crafted. She would not have it made. Magic was dangerous mis-spoken or mis-cast. It was the whole. It was the ritual of it. It was End through Beginnings. And this ritual, this sketching of dream things, was something she had done before. She enjoyed bringing the fire of life to the surreal-- the things that lurked the soft places of hypnagogia. They meant things. They were portents, heralds between conscious and unconscious. She had done this often when she was a child. Where had those journals gone?

Millicent regarded the drawing.

Of course.

Of course.

She hoped he would understand.

She would add two things before it was cast.

**Title by Tool
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm


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PostPosted: Sat Oct 07, 2017 10:16 pm    Post subject: Like no one's watching, like trying to stop it. Reply with quote

Laurent propped his feet up on the glass coffee table, draped out like a silver fox pelt. He wore grey slacks, with a grey belt, and a tight, fashionable, grey t-shirt. The wiry muscles of his chest were smooth, but taut. There was a slash of white where his navel showed unceremoniously. He didn't have a desire to waste time and adjust it. His long, luxurious lean was just comfortable and useful enough to cradle the metal cylandar on his chest and pop it open. He could smell...age. So after the hiss of the revelation, he slowed. One of his fine silver brows rose expectantly and he glanced between Millicent and Lars.

There they were. Three of them like peas in a monochromatic pod, sitting together on Lars' beautiful black couch in a spectrum fade from white to black. Millicent in her white, and Lars wearing almost the same thing as Laurent, at least in essence, but his Armani t-shirt was black and so were his jeans. Lars leaned forward to look at Millicent over Laurent. "What does our silver friend have there, kätzchen?"

Milli shrugged her shoulders and made an 'I dunnooooo' sound. But then she said "Make sure you don't have any butter on your fingers," she intoned to Laurent.

Laurent tilted his head as he looked at her. "I have not touched your popcorn."

"Yeah you did."

"I did not."

Lars: "Yeah, you did."

Laurent's head swivled towards the other man, there was approach to it but it was more like a cocking back. Like a hammer in a gun. No, like a snake.

Lars met the happenstance threat with a quick grin that said 'gonna do something about it?' Then he said to Millicent, "Does this have to do with the new gespiele?"

Laurent laughed. It was more of a melodic chuckle. "Yes. Yes it does." He was slowly dipping his long fingers into the cylendar and reverently removing the contents.

"Has he been in the house yet?"

"No." Laurent answered for her again.

"Ah. So Winter hasn't gotten to check him out yet?"

"No. Lars. ***."

"Hey, I'm just curious. It makes my job easier, later."

Millicent's white brows rose as she listened to the two vampires talk like this. It was convivial but vaguely threatening in a way she only somewhat appreciated.

"You know he can come over. Especially while I'm here." A sly smile bared white teeth in Lars' pale mouth.

"You don't like guests." Millicent said nonchalantly.

"Wouldn't be my guest."

"I would think you liked those guests even less."

Laurent nodded at this observation of Millicent's, then added "Can you imagine what they do together, anyhow?" Laurent wrinkled his nose.

Lars just raised his black brows.

Laurent glanced over, "Oh. That, too. I meant more like the infatuated fawning of artists and new lovers. They probably giggle and--" Laurent visibly shivered.

Lars frowned. "I was just trying to arrange an interaction with the least amount of effort. Now you have me trying to remember if my ear plugs are in my carry on, still."

"You sound like a bunch of nosy big brothers that have been plotting something not very funny."

"Oh, it'd be funny," said Laurent.

Lars nodded then laughed and leaned back, throwing folded arms over the couch back and nestling his head on his upper arms. "Gonna have to meet him at some point. Especially after what I heard."

"What did you hear?"

"Yessss. What did you hear?" Laurent.

Lars looked at them both somewhat dramatically, but really more studiously. His ice blue eyes were quick and cruel. Analysis conducted. "Well--"

"Yes, out with it."

"Whatthe--"
"*** me."
"***."

The three reactions were a cascade of preternatural nerves. Lars was on his feet, a handgun already aimed at the black clad man standing behind the couch. In truth, Millicent hadn't even seen the transition from unarmed to armed. But she had leapt a few inches into the air, the popcorn that had leapt up out of the bowl didn't all manage to tumble back into it so there were kernels in her lap and Laurent was picking them off his own lap as well. Laurent hadn't moved. His epithet was likely for the spill. One of which he popped into his mouth as he grinned up at Lars. "Losing your touch?"

"No but. ***." The handgun was placed on the table.

Neil was all smiles. His pale mouth was a crooked backdoor man. "Relying too much on your modern technology, Lars?"

"Hey, Winter didn't even--."

"No," said Neil, "She didn't."

Millicent beamed at Neil with a big smile. "I didn't think you'd make it."

"It's Ridley Scott." Neil shrugged and peeled off his black leather jacket like a panther. He handed Lars a bottle. "Four tumblers?"

"Neil." Laurent had pulled the thing out of the tube now and was turning his head to regard the map from many angles. He was chuckling again. "Neil, oh man."

"What do you have there?" Neil walked around the back of the couch and sat right up along side Millicent. He threw an arm behind her on the ridge of the couch as he leaned half over her to see what Laurent was grinning at. "Ur?"

"Not bad," Laurent teased. Neil's eyes narrowed with a furrow of his brow, he clearly disapproved of the comment.

Lars came back and was placing tumblers on the glass table rather loudly. "Wait, like the city? What is kätzchen doing hanging out with some junge that thinks ...wait why is he sending you stuff? What the *** happened while I was gone?"

"Millicent gave away one of my books." Laurent dramatically rolled his eyes and then snapped a smile at her before continuing. "Evidently her new boytoy approved. He-- huh." Laurent began to re-scrutinize the drawing. Then he got up and walked over to the kitchen island counter top. Neil and Lars looked at each other curiously.

"Wait." Lars had not cared about a thing until now. He had just been making polite conversation. In truth, he also didn't care who was doing what to whom. But... "Did I miss some family picnic or some ***, who is this guy?"

"Another time," said Neil. And this was said like business. Lars understood business. He nodded slowly and started to uncap the Scotch. The comfortable sound of pouring was interrupted by a sort of half-mad sounding cackle from the kitchen.

"Ooh boy. haha. Merde. Ahaha. Agh.... Millicent. Ah, ma chere." Laurent turned to them shaking his head slowly. "Where'd you find this guy?"

Millicent was chewing on some popcorn so there was a heavy silence for a moment. She looked between the men in front of her. If only just shifting back and forth between all their eyes. Neil's chocolate amber brimming with syrupy-stern amusement, Lars' ice-blue gaze that could cut diamonds and Laurent's silver-fog eyes dancing jovially like ghost-lights from his porcelain features. She felt like she had tumbled into a closet full of monsters, and while they were amused, they were hungry for entertainment.

"The Inn," she said, her mouth still full.

The different laughs were also terrifying. Neil gave a soft, rumbling thing and he actually reached down to pet her white hair. Lars gave more of a scoff that clipped out of his thin slanted lips. And Laurent gave something of an amused, rolling howl.

"Hahaha "the inn." Indeed. Mill, you must introduce us."

"Laurent, you never have --"

"First times for everything, my girl. Besides I must say 'thank you.'"

"That was a 'thank you.'"

"Well it looks like it's going to be a 'thank you for a thank you.'"

Millicent frowned.

Lars frowned and started handing out the tumblers.

Laurent began again, "Where does he live? I can always just stop by."

"A hotel. The Grand. In town." Responded Neil.

Laurent's mouth writhed into a grin. He was utterly delighted not only to have the information, but, essentially, the permission all in a few syllables. "Merci."

"Uh huh."

Millicent looked back at Neil. Neil rolled a shoulder into a shrug. "You knew that was going to happen."

"Not really."

"You know. Hmm." Neil paused to pick his words very carefully. "There were certain things about your request that piqued my interest in such a way that I had to do my due diligence as ... well, as a business man."

"Neil, this isn't funny. I don't.. I haven't even made up my mind about things yet."

"You nearly have a whole album written, child."

"That doesn't mean... That just doesn't mean--"

"Oooh," Laurent purred and veritably slithered over to the couch, creeping in like a thick grey mist. "Where were you going with that, my dear?" He was curious in a way that made his mouth water.

"Laurent, maybe you should lay off." Lars actually interjected for the girl.

"Oh should I, Lars?" Gunmetal sneers.

"Look at little kätzchen. Maybe they aren't figured out-- Whatever. Stop being a dick." Though Lars was realizing he needed more information. "Who'd want to introduce you to anyone when you are like this." Rhetorical.

Neil unwound his fingers from Millicent's hair, "Oh, she's figured it out. He's just scary."

Millicent turned her envy-green glare on Neil. And this, this was actual disapproval. "First off, what the *** does that even mean? You. Saying the word 'scary.' Second off, Lars is right, though I have no idea how, since I don't even remember him liking people nevermind understanding them--"

"Hey--"

"--I don't need you all getting ...what ever this is. You're like a gaggle of dangerous cat ladies. I will introduce you. I always do. But it's not going to be some weird formal--"

"Maybe it should be." Interrupted Neil.

"Why?" she frowned.

"Because I think this is a bigger deal than you think."

Laurent was nodding along from his nearby vantage point, but his smile still dripped like a big bad wolf grin. "I, in truth, just want to talk to him. I'm intrigued. He -- Je ne sais pas. I don't know if he's a dick or if he's funny. But either one is highly entertaining."

"And to be honest, Millicent, the fact that Laurent is so amused actually disturbs me."

"Me too."

"This is ***."

"Just say we're family."

"You--"

"--are your family."

Lars one-shoulder shrugged his approval of that comment as he took a swig of the Scotch. He ended it with a quick, decisive nod after he thought it through one more time. Laurent mimiced the gesture- just a little too exactly. The room got thick with the deja vu. Neil leaned across Millicent's lap and picked up his own glass.

"Millicent, I would also like to meet the man behind the music. I would prefer meeting him with you. That would be much more informative regarding that. The rest is sort of just, icing. But, maybe you should let us say hello, you know, to make sure everything is comme-ci, comme-ça."

"Isn't that up to me?"

"No."
"Not really."
"Non."

Millicent actually scowled at all three of them.

"Bladerunner?" Asked Lars.

"Bladerunner," approved Neil.

**Title by Kesha
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PostPosted: Wed Oct 11, 2017 6:58 pm    Post subject: Stars fall at my feet, keep me grounded as I reach Reply with quote

The day after the park (whichever day that was, or more specifically, whichever day she did not wake up next to him) an envelope arrived at The Grand. It was an 8"x11" manila envelope, that was weighted and somewhat thick. The contents were stiff and on the outside it stated "DO NOT BEND" in Millicent's pretty, but spidery script. A professional warning. His name was written, large and in looping script.
S i n o n L a g o s.
She assumed he would know who it was from.

Inside, made of 7" x 7" square bristol board was a card. A thick, folded card. On the front of it was a watercolour willow tree with looping Celtic knots for drooping leaves, and familiar iconography of them worked together in a circular emblem, like a sigil. He would recognize the symbols, most of them having been drawn on skin either milk-white or olivine. Hidden in the negative spaces, and the reason for the particular placing of things, was his name, again. For names had power, and this card was a spell. A response. "I think of you, Millicent. So stop worrying. I love you," he had said. He had woven her into every thread of the day, like he was one of the Norns. She needed to communicate. To sever a vein. It was not quite like that, Sinon Lagos.

Inside the card, his name, again, though simple, began the decent amount of text. The S was illuminated like a medieval manuscript. There was even gold leaf. There was a crown, and rays of sunlight. There was a storm-grey sky that was murky purple and held no stars. The letter read thus:


Sinon,
The places in you are dark. And deep. Turbulent and primal. Some days I see the sea - calm, or just before a tempest. Full of mystery, or full of answers. Sometimes I see space. And it is filled with invisible solar storms, at once in a vacuum that defines all and everything and yet contains within it things we have yet to discern how to measure. You have such... capacity. And here Millicent draws several constellations, Greek. Beautiful night.

It is that capacity that holds me in awe sometimes. I have not had enough time to understand it. I'm glad of this. I look forward to the slow burn and slow devouring of you. I want to roll you over my tongue and commit every last piece to memory and assimilate this into my understanding of you, of me, of the world. Of thought, and of knowledge and of love. I don't want to stumble through and guess and grab for each piece clumsily. I want to learn you slowly, and perfectly. I want to titrate each bead of sweat from your skin, each rivulet, into its base elements, and I want to breathe in and taste and save each part, in one-third measure.

But by the nature of this.. sometimes I don't know. I do not worry. Not really. But I do feel an absence of knowing, sometimes. And I believe you, and trust everything you have said. There will be things that will be hard for me to hear and understand. I have to share you with a century of past that I did not know you, and did not live through. And I am jealous of Time, when I think of this. A futile feeling, truly. I am not a jealous creature, I've never felt that way before. But you ignite those things in me. I believe that is the danger of playing with fire. I burn. I feel you everywhere. And hurt or revel, I want and I want and I want. But I know that it will be hard. I know this, because those times when you seem so, so sad, or there is such weight and gravity in your solemnity... when you are with your most private self, I know and trust that the gravity is immense. And I see the delineation of your event horizon. I think that idea is perfect, in some ways. I know you have a relationship with that line. The boundary between seen and unseen, known and unknown. And sometimes you take me beyond it, sure of our ability to return from that particular sojourn. And sometimes I see you push me away from it. Sometimes for me. Sometimes for you. ... I'm not sure. Just thoughts. Here she draws the brilliant double rings of a black hole. The aura of it is flecked in silver ink, spattered rather expertly like she had practiced the effect a hundred fold before daring to try it upon the card.

But, I do not worry. Just sometimes, when you're with me, I'm greedy to know. We communicate so many ways. With fingertips and tongues. With .... all of me, I speak to you. But my greed for you has no end. None. So, sometimes, when there is a cadence in your voice, when we are soft or you have wound me between your fingers like a lock of hair, and I hum softly, inside and out, and you speak to me.... in your Greek, in words I know... I just want to take, and take, and emboss your beautiful words into my skin so I can keep them, taste them, know them always. I love your voice. I love listening to you, Sinon. It is perverse. And I love adding to the spell of you. There is Truth in all you do, but when I can steal a translation from you in words, I want to press them like flowers, dry them like fragile keepsakes, and make molds of them like keys. They are greedy, frivolous things. Childish, perhaps. But I want them.

I keep them. I will never forget them. They become a part of me. All of this, all of you, becomes a part of me. But these develop the lines of you. Whether they are gravitational (circles, ripples, revelations) or are boundaries of our beautiful, perfect countries... they are both. The ebb and flow of the Byzantine empire. You. I trace them at night when you are not there. I feel them on my skin in the dark. They hum with your heartbeat. Forgive me.

I love you.
Millicent

And it is sealed with a kiss. And near her name, the scent of her is most vibrant. Vanilla and sunlight, amber and tiare.


**Title by Zedd
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PostPosted: Thu Oct 12, 2017 5:08 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

Within hours [within moments, for an immortal], there was a returned envelope, delivered by a quietly unamused M. Galat. Sinon's envelope was smaller than Millicent's, and the writing was sharper, straighter, and constructed with a mind for mathematics; across the bone white paper, M I L L I C E N T G R I M in black. Sinon had taken time to fill in the accents, and the inkwork was immaculate. M. Galat handed it over to Millicent very carefully, and he told her not to squish it before leaving.

Inside there two slips of paper: one bone white card, and one tissue soft vellum slip. The former contained a note, the second something more unique.

The note read,
Millicent,

A memory for you, of you, from me.

Yours, Sinon

There was no other explanation. Again, he spent time on her name, determined not be careless with it. His own name flowed like ocean waves.

The slip was smaller, barely large enough to contain the bloodied thumbprint pressed into it. The blood was still wet and rose from the paper in congealed peaks and gelled shapes. It was, without a doubt, Sinon's, both in blood and print. It spiraled in on itself, recursive, like a fractal. Irrationally infinite. Uniquely him.
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PostPosted: Thu Oct 12, 2017 1:30 pm    Post subject: We are entranced, Spellbound Reply with quote

…. it pulls at her with a tidal force, with gravity waves of Sinon Lagos that rise up from the deep-within, from where she is all at once both unaware of and fundamentally familiar with, from the down-down-down beneath the her of her, from below her awareness, from within her pretty spine … it pulls her down, sweeps across her body with a tongue of raw, dirty electrons, with a hum like the ground effects of a detuned amplifier [bbbbfzzzz on her skin, bbbbfzzzz] slowly being dialed, dialed, dialed in, dialed in through the harmonic scale, dialed in through the frequencies, until she hears one that rings in her, rings right in her, rings right in her soul, and resonates ….

…. dials right in until she resonates, and the memory unfolds itself in her, a fractal, a perfectly black flower with pulsating silver threads ….

…. dials right in until she dials right in, until she slips right in, and is not herself but is herself, because she is Sinon Lagos, and this is his memory ….

…. of her.

It’s so unlike the last time this happened, where his memories smeared across themselves in overlapping frames, in layerings of visual and audio and sensation. This memory is clear and bounded; the edges of it don’t bleed, don’t intermix. It is of a single moment in vivid detail. No blurring. Completely in focus. Every nerve of him plugs into a nerve of her, until she even smells the vanilla of herself through him, and even tastes the cream-salt of her skin on her tongue. Until she can even see herself, not as the her of her, but as the her of him. Through his eyes. Through his silver kissed eyes. Until she can see, and understand --




And time renders her into one. From one to two to one. One and one are one, eleven.

Millicent had at least had the forethought to taste of the bloody fingerprint while she sat in bed. She had touched it to her tongue like sacrament and hallucinogen while sitting cross-legged in her stormy-sky coloured sheets.

When she was herself again.

When she was of one consciousness, of one mind and one body, she found herself laying down. Not quite supine, but contourted, hips twisted, her palms raised and fingers curled almost as if in rigor mortis. She felt disconnected from the world, as much as she distinctly felt as though she were a conscious part of it. She felt like she was in a slipstream, beneath and above the occurrences of the moment. There was something keenly related to both thermo- and fluid-dynamics of her. Laminar. She was a sheen, a shellac, a coating on the seconds. She felt like light trapped in an opal, hovering and splintered into rainbow base parts. The effect rendered her almost sea-sick- deja-vu sick, as the blurry edges super-imposed themselves from the movement and flow. She started to transpose herself on the seconds and align. She caught up, not only to the now, but the who. The where. She even had to find her own why, because he had given her his. Like she had asked.

He had given her his.

Like she had asked.

Though the sheets were not black, which truly muted the effect, she saw herself as he did in the memory again --

-- how beautiful she is. Millicent Grim is white girlsoft in silk [REDACTED >stutter< >skip<], and the contrast is solarizing. She is poured cream, a moon slip, honeyed starlight. She -- oh, how she glows, in a way that has nothing to do with the reflection and entirely in how she emits, in how she just occupies the space around her with scent and heat and taste and --

She reels as the room spun.

Her mind grasps for the memories of someone else's memories. She forces herself to delete herself, pressing her personality and the algorithms of her existence down beneath the surface, holding it beneath the waters of consciousness to invoke that fugue state to experience her as him again. Him as her, her as him. She drowned herself, with full and perfect intent. [ when they simply thought about each other, when they simply, dangerously, suicidally turned their thoughts towards the other. ] She would do this as a child, trying to go soft and tug the tufts of dream from the boundaries of waking. Like pulling down from pillowcases. She tried to lay the pieces together in a way she could remember. Each one. Each. A memory archaeologist. Brushes of mink-hair gently sending puffs of dust, molecules at a time, into the air revealing the treasure she sought so hungrily. Trying to catch him in amber. Trying to catch him catching her catching him in time.

-- and taste. Sinon is
-- and there’s the ache, too, of being
-- she knows there is nothing in the vast universe as soft as
-- and she knows how this is about
her, and not about women.
-- she knows he’s
-- she knows the utter sense of base, smug, grateful satisfaction when
-- and, then, almost at the end of it --
-- almost at the end of it --
-- she knows what it’s like to
-- to be nothing but ...
-- until finally he
-- until she finally feels the utter calm she
-- until she feels nothing but his love, and knows why he


Millicent groaned quietly, lifting her hand to her throat and wrapping her fingers along the side and behind, like she could smooth out an ache that had lodged itself there splinter-style, under the skin. She pressed the pad of her thumb into the curve of her jaw and she flexed the tight muscles there. Slowly Millicent stretched out, like a cat, arching her back and realigning her thoughts and feelings with the body that felt them. She shivered as recursive memories lapsed and licked-- made reality fizzle and pop. She questioned the here and now of it. Her skin still felt electric and she felt like there was more mass, more gravity to her, like only now she realized what it was like to have been in a heavier form. Like only now, in the relief of it, the bulk had subsided and the shadows of it, the new ease of it, was a relief. The body was so much better at memorizing trials and tribulations than joy and wonderment. The relief would subside and there would be nothing left. Wait for it. Weight of it. If only drugs could leave such perfect, long lasting echo-havoc in their wake. How the nerves themselves could remember. Divine.

Millicent pushed her fingers through her tousled hair, still unconvinced that standing would be the right thing to do. Her mouth still tasted like -- milk and honey. Even animals know more humanity, are more dignified and polite, then when he --. She moaned softly and wiped her palm down her features, pulling the snow drifts of her hair down her face, dragging her lower lip to allow the doe-pink of her inner lip glisten in the light of the room. She closed her eyes to experience the last fading ghost-ripples of being inside him who was inside her.

She focused on her breath.

Inhale.
Her rib cage contracted into fragile bones and china white.
Exhale.
The muscles of her arms smoothed and shortened, became delicate and soft.
Inhale.
What was angles and flats became curves and swooping lines.
Exhale.
The electricity of his perfect need became the smoke of her perfect calm.

...eventually, and almost unwillingly, the experience circled like a fog around her. The transformation of this dissipating existence was on the boarders of her consciousness and it diffused into her through her flesh. As she began to doze, something happened in her, it shifted. It made her weak and soft and crept in like a marine layer. Memories of him of her became dreams of him and her.

is Egoless and without Self. There is nothing but her and he is simply the very contact with her, nothing but the contact with her, as if nothing else in the universe exists.

until even the black sheets drop from his understanding of the world, and they simply float and wind together in space.


She dreamed.

Hours would pass.

And when she woke, she reached blindly for her phone to call him.

Just to hear his voice.

Just to feel it move through her skin like she could stretch the experience of him out like taffy and pullllllllllllllllllllllllllll




**most italics by Sinon's player
***Title by Siouxsie and the Banshees

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PostPosted: Tue Nov 07, 2017 2:28 pm    Post subject: Trouble needs a home Reply with quote

Millicent stood.

Millicent stood in the skeleton of her new home.

It was perfect. She was in love.

RhyDin truly was an eclectic amalgamation of things, and Millicent was of the mind to take advantage of it whenever she could. It was comforting because it was familiar. She shared a particular state of grace in also being a perfect union of contrary things. So, when she had found the run down, High Gothic style, smallish sized church on the market... at precisely the time that she was looking to finally establish a true residence again (after returning from the Isle of Skye) she felt as though she were blessed. Fortuitous for sure.

It was perfect. It had a grand chapel hall, and a cloisters. The former offering a multi-storied main living area, the latter supplying small rooms for living and things. The things included a Victorian style library with smoking parlor, a stainless steel 50s style kitchen, an herb garden, a grand bedroom, guest bedrooms, a bathroom (or 3) that seemed more a temple than anything utilitarian... and then some.

And she also employed help. She contracted the engineers of the Sacrifice Club recording studio to create for her a perfect, 3 roomed studio with high-tech acoustic modifications. This was in the most run down corner of the cloisters, to allow for her to almost redesign it from the ground up.

She also had Sinon. And he offered invaluable suggestions and aid in several aspects of the premises- both utilitarian and personal. His influence and his presence could be felt in many of the nuances. Though perhaps only Millicent and him could see them.

But her favorite part of her new home would always be the main room. The high arched vaulted ceilings that had crumbled to dust 1/3rd of the way through the room were beautiful and well preserved (astonishingly) and she left the natural effect of time by sealing off the rest of the open area with glass. It was completely open to the sky and would forever fondly remind her of the night they spent here when they first viewed the property. [chinese food and temporary beds, star gazing and stories] This room would be living room and dining room, lounge and domain.

She was pleased.

It would be done soon.

And this weekend she would take it on its true maiden voyage and cook dinner for two and serve it on her dining room table under the night sky.

As she pondered the menu, she also began to wonder how she would begin her journey here. Should she throw a party? Should she tell anyone about her secret little get-away outside of town? Should she guard it as a secret for as long as possible? Should she host an event?

She mused.

And she was happy.

**Title by Tori
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PostPosted: Fri Dec 29, 2017 6:54 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Without ceremony, without comment, without clear cause -- the apartment once shared by one songlit muse and one ageless immortal was cleaned, locked forever, and removed from the hotel manifest of rooms. The room number was taken down, and a few quiet men carefully walled over the door. A single detective was sent to deliver items of note to an address outside of town, along with a set of keys, and he was instructed to keep the details and location of the mission to himself; he never spoke of it to anyone, not even the man who'd sent him. Galat knew not to touch where Sinon was most bruised. The danger was too real.

Other changes followed. Names were stricken from the elevator access log, and a stereo system was returned to storage. Josephine made plans to extend her stay with her brother by some months, if not indefinably, while John made himself scarce, rotating among the beds and couches of his various friends until the storm passed. Sinon spent a few long nights in the presence of an American cousin, and others in debate with the mysterious presence occupying the ninth floor. In between the two he locked himself away with his half-sister, receiving only the most private of visitors.

The immortal never spoke of the events that led to the changes, to the closure; he was quiet on the subject, even to those closest to him. "It is over," he said simply, detaching himself from himself. "What else is there to know?"

A rumor persisted for some time after, a whispered story of blood and violence and of shadows that continued to hide behind the wall where an apartment once was. Who any of it belonged to was a mystery; no one known had been harmed, no lives lost. Yet Sinon avoided the corner of the hotel at all costs, and members of the staff refused to speak of the condition of the room when they'd first entered, expressing only equal shades of fear and wonder.
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