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The Table Cloth Will Never Be Finished. [Sep. 25th, 2009|11:58 pm]
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It had taken her the whole day to make up her mind.

Delilah-Rose-Johnson-from-Kamloops-BC had been undergoing the worst possible form of mental torture she could ever have imagined. It was one thing, when the White Man said that fishing in the Thompson was forbidden. It was another, when they said that the women couldn't pick saskatoons out of the next hill's shrugs. Then Daisy-May-Kaboom died, and her sister had lost her only cow.

And it was all her fault.

Cut for spoilery things.Collapse )
Delilah Rose lies now, in a pool of her own blood, eyes wide as the dusk paints the sky crimson. Very certainly, this can't quite be the Pearly Gates.  Then again, as she didn't fit anywhere anymore, perhaps even the White Man's God doesn't know what to do with her.  She's not even certain that she's dead - this feels real, and it's most strange.  Vaguely, she wonders if the Laulier Memorial happened and how it ended. But is this even hers to worry about anymore?

Presenting twenty-one year old Delilah Rose Johnson, nee Laughingbird, from Tomson Highway's delightful play, Ernestine Shuswap Gets Her Trout. She's from the summer of 1910 (specifically, the day of the Laurier Memorial).
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Open Post [Sep. 24th, 2009|12:27 am]
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  Azhure is sitting on the porch just after midday, arms propped up on the rail in a comfortable chair. Her wings are folded neatly behind her and somehow expertly around the back of the chair, and she's found more accommodating clothing to wear thanks to the aid of Belize; nothing fancy, just soft black breeches and a top that lets her wings out with considerably less cutting and pinning of fabrics. She's staring off quite absently into nothingness, blue eyes somewhat fogged - it's obvious she's been there for a little while to the observer, one of those things one can just assume.

  She's got her chin leaned down on her arms, and every so often a finger works itself up to coil around strands of very black hair. She seems deep in thought about nothing in particular, but Azhure's not known thus far for being unfriendly, so company is, as always, welcome.
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Open Post [Sep. 22nd, 2009|09:59 pm]
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     Daniel has been gone quite a few evenings now an Lestat does not have much worth noting to occupy his time. A few trips here and there, a few affairs to get in order, a present or two purchased. If he cleaned the little home they shared any more there would be no floor left to vacuum, no tiles left on the floors, no porcelain left in the tub, and not a thread left on the linens. Instead now he has ventured to a place not often visited these days, though there are a few people here he has been meaning to speak to, at least to catch up with the things that go on in their lives, and as always he enjoys his idle chatter. His car is, as usual, abandoned a little ways before he reaches the mansion itself, and as he approaches the house he feels oddly relaxed and much more positive for the future than the last time he came. Should he run into anyone, old friend or someone new, he would be glad to speak to them.
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Unexpected Return [Sep. 22nd, 2009|10:48 am]
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This is not the library at the Keep.

Before he lets himself get annoyed about it -- his nature won't let him be completely calm about such things -- he casts around with his senses. Almost immediately, he knows that this isn't the Shadow Realm or Terreille, and if he doesn't know what Hell feels like, then no one does. He can catch a whiff of various intriguing psychic scents, including traces of his children, Lucivar, Jaenelle and more faintly Daemon. There are traces of other members of Jaenelle's court as well. Wherever this is, he isn't alone, though the implications of that worries him.

Saetan SaDiablo prides himself on having a sharper rein on his temper than younger Warlord Princes--and face it, there aren't any alive who aren't younger than the 50,000 plus years old Guardian. By now, the Blood are very rare since the taint has been finally purged. But some instincts cannot be curbed. He doesn't know where he is, and his family may be in danger. The expression on his handsome face seems almost blank, unless one spots the lazy flatness of his golden eyes. And any getting too close will the chill in the air emanating from his cold anger riding the edge. Anyone who knows Blood, especially Warlord Princes, can recognize this as a bad sign.

The High Lord of Hell (semi-retired) is back, and to say he's not happy is an understatement. He strides with purpose toward the large house he can see across the grounds. If nothing else, he wants to get out of the sunlight before he gets too drained by it.  He has no idea what kind of trouble he'll find here, but if he doesn't find his children soon, there will be hell to pay.

[Saetan SaDiablo from Anne Bishop's Black Jewels Trilogy. He's been completely reset and is from after the end of the main trilogy, so he's retired from the world of the living to be a librarian at the Keep. He's missing one of his pinkies.]

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The Bridge of Sighs (Intro) [Sep. 15th, 2009|07:45 pm]
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     He looks around, confused and out of sorts as he stands in the doorway. The last memory is that of pain and then bitter cold, everything in between it all a blur of color and sensation. Things he'd rather stay forgotten. A dull ache rises in his chest, however, as a memory stirs, something vivid and colorful, meaningful. A moment of happiness perhaps. But it is gone as quickly as it came, as quickly as the sunlight that should have devoured him, the sunlight that instead seems to have deposited him here in this place where there is darkness save for the flickering light that illuminates the otherwise seemingly abandoned entryway. There is disappointment, hurt, feelings of rejection, loss and of course the lingering confusion but for now he manages to bury it well beneath a mask of indifference, moving further inward to survey his surroundings, attempting to figure out his next step.

Typist: And we've got Armand from Anne Rice's The Vampire Chronicles. The last active post on main comm was from March 14, and I believe the last journal post was from March 21. But yes...willing to back off if the other typist is still around.

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Step In, Step Out [Sep. 14th, 2009|09:55 pm]
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 Leah will admit to herself perhaps this one time that being a wolf is not so bad. She runs through the trees, smug that she is faster than all the others, and uses the cover of dusk to skip ahead, taking shortcuts that only she knows. This is the second time she's been on this path for the day, and the faster she runs, the more she feels like she could do it with her eyes closed. She runs and runs until the sounds of the pack chattering become so faint she can barely hear them at all.

  This is so wicked, she thinks to herself, that I have left them so far behind.

Moments pass and she slows down to a slow, leisurely trot.

 Seth? Jacob?

There is no answer. Nothing.

She is somewhat bothered by the experience she's having, but the possibility that she can no longer hear the thoughts of the other wolves - hear those infuriating feelings - has her almost... excited. She emerges from the wood behind a large mansion-style house that she cannot remember being present before, and is quite surprised. Leah, however, is much more spritely now than previously, and so she turns back into the wood to phase.

  She'll put on her clothing and investigate. It's dark, perhaps nobody's there. Leah loves exploring abandoned houses. At present, she appears a tawny coloured wolf with an odd-looking bundle tied to her leg - and it's a good thing, too. Leah should not like to meet new people with no clothing at all.


Leah Clearwater, from the Twilight series. I almost forgot to have her clothing bundle with her, in which case, this would be a naked Leah.

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History, as I conjure it (introduction) [Sep. 14th, 2009|12:23 am]
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It's been a long day, and Zillah? Is exhausted. She's been up since 5 AM making posters for the protest, and between that and the protest itself (which went well, if she could say so herself), she's beat.

So it's no surprise that when she dozes off on her desk, with her "Reagan kills" sign nearby, she really, really sleeps. For a while. And when she wakes up and finds it's just her and her sign in front of a large house, she's not too surprised. After all, sleep deprivation does crazy things, right? It's only after a few minutes that she realizes she's not in Great Neck anymore.

"Um, hello?" she calls out hesitantly, feeling sort of scared. She clings to the sign (like that'll do any good) and looks around warily.

Typist: I have no willpower. Introducing Zillah Katz, from Tony Kushner's A Bright Room Called Day. She's sort of a Brechtian character in the play, existing outside of the world of the Germans (in the 1980's, which was present-day when Kushner wrote the play), and generally stands around and yells things. Have fun! :3
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there are tall elves and small elves, nice elves and... (introduction) [Sep. 10th, 2009|06:27 pm]
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Damn fools. Fools, all of them! If they think they will last an hour under that fool Orodreth - well. A slight change in plans only. Though the desertion of his own son - that stung, a little. He should have been firmer with the boy. Spent more time with him here, perhaps, rather than leaving him to tinker in his smithy at whatever little projects he found fascinating. There were more important things to do! Perhaps if he'd gotten the boy involved in the planning, or the running of things -

But what was done, he reminds himself, cannot be undone. Look forward, not back.

He swears and unstrings his bow, annoyed. Should have told Celegorm to go do the hunting. He had too much enthusiasm for the sport, and if he was going to bring that dog it might as well pull its weight. As it is, he himself is finding nothing and only getting more and more frustrated with the whole thing.

Well, he is done. Done. Things have to start going right soon, though of course not of their own accord. And he will have to do the thinking again, it isn't as though his elder brother is going to be any use. He turns and starts back to the fire his brother has been building. Nothing. Frustration wells up.

"Turco," he bellows, "What the hell do you think you're-" 

What he thought was the clearing he left doesn't seem to be anymore. It is dusk, falling on a large lawn, with a strange - house, he supposes - and a dark wood at his back.

Curufin's expression darkens. This is not going his way at all. And that is displeasing.

Typist: ...so. The one, the only, Curufin of The Silmarillion. Known for - um, being probably the nastiest and almost certainly the cleverest son of Feanor, being the fourth and most like him in aspect and spirit. But with a bit less of a moral compass. He's a bit cranky right now, taken after that messy incident that ended with a cousin being nommed on and he and his erstwhile sibling getting kicked out of Nargothrond. He's a bit unhappy about that.

Try and cheer him up! We dare you. Also I'm sorry. >>;;

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Winter [Sep. 9th, 2009|10:41 pm]
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  They are all there - her husband, his father, her children, and the other Enchanters. Azhure opens her mouth to speak, and then...  The song is like nothing she's ever heard. Her father, WolfStar, that madman. He has done this, somehow, ripped her from her very reality and put her quite somewhere else. She can remember the cold of winter that had brushed her wingtips as she stood outside of the Keep, her family in tow, and now it is very warm. Sunlight licka at her long, thick black hair, and she blinka her bright blue eyes, trying to shake the fog of confusion from her.

  What had he done?

  She wants to walk from this strange place, despite how comfortable it was. Thick green grass grows, and she can hear birds and even the babbling of a brook nearby, but this was certainly not her home. This was nowhere in Tencendor that she is aware of, because she would know - wouldn't she? She is afraid to move, afraid that WolfStar had done something. That man was always doing something. Finally after what seems like hours, she sighs, and picks up the skirts of her long, pale gray dress. She can see a hill from the distance, and she surmounts that if she gets atop it, she might be able to make heads or tails of her location.

  As she begins walking, she is irritated that her first reaction isn't necessarily to just shoot off into the sky. Clearly her wings are in working condition - but does she really want to take off like a rocket and have the first alarmed woodsman or whatever lurked in the wood load her down with mighty bolts from a crossbow? She is an Enchanter, yes, and she knows how to work her magic, but still - without knowing quite where she is, it's probably better to hang on to whatever power she's retained. She huffs a little, muttering to herself as she makes her way through the lightly wooded portion, headed the mile or so towards the hill as she estimates it.

  {Typist Claire: And so introducing Azhure, from the Sara Douglass Starman series.}

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An improvised little party of sorts [Sep. 6th, 2009|03:12 pm]
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Ever since they had to relocate, Sugar has been thoughtfully pondering on things that she could do for the community.  It seems to her that every time something joyful happens, she has nothing to do with it, and that every time trouble comes forth, someone is there for her and Sophie. 

Therefore, a young red-head in her very late teens and an eight-year old girl are setting food out on the lawn.  As a reflection on the fact that they are part of a family that is from multiple eras, Sugar is wearing a green summer dress that is fairly anachronic for her, and for once, Sophie is wearing pink girly pants.  It's a beautiful day, and they imagine that perhaps a picnic would please the random passersby. There is food galore, sandwiches and salads, a couple blankets to sit on, and the pair is currently playing hand games and singing, joyfully. 

So, basically a party-ish post of sorts, there's enough food for everyone, as Sugar and Sophie spent a whole day making sandwiches.  Tag me, tag others, enjoy! 
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