Lucas quietly closed the front door, a smile still lingering on his lips. After the movie, he'd seen that Tia had fallen asleep in his arms, and he wondered at the fact that anyone could feel safe enough with him to do that. It had taken all of his willpower to shout down the voices last night, so that he could focus on Tia. He felt exhausted, washed out, but it was worth it. She was worth it. Carrying her into her bedroom and tucking her in without waking her up felt better than a week in a Glade. He hoped she liked the note. He'd been working on his handwriting.
He paused for a moment as he passed the bird feeder. Slipping sideways for a moment, immersing himself in the spirit of the world, he opened his eyes to the umbral reflection of Tia's neighborhood. Hovering near the bird feeder was a hummingbird-spirit, watchful and war-like. Just what he needed. Speaking to him in the spirit-tongue, Lucas convinced the little warrior to guard this place until midday, plenty of time for Tia to wake up and discover her unlocked front door. With a whispered oath to maintain a feeder in one of his parks until the next full moon, the deal was struck.
It wasn't until he reached Sky Harbor that the whispers started again.
She isn't good enough for you.
Strengthen the blood, boy.
She's a tool of her tribe. You can't trust her.
Will you claim her unclean brat as your own?
Honor your heritage!
...kill her...
"NO!"
Two dozen waiting passengers turned as one to look at the crazy man. The panic rising within him, Lucas choked it back, plastering a smile on his face as he pulled the headset out of his ear and showed it to them. Two dozen waiting passengers went back to ignoring the douchebag with the bluetooth.
Lucas sighed in relief. Certain technical improvements made it much easier to hide his own infirmities. Ironic, really. It usually went the other way 'round.
Don't listen to them, Lucas. A mate is more than a vessel for a bloodline. She reminds me of your grandmother, in a way. At least she's nothing like her mother.
"Thank you, Grandfather."
Then the announcer called boarding for his flight, and he flew away to a place where he knew she would be safe from him, just in case.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Monday, April 15, 2013
Flashbacks pt. 2
This material is all related to an old Changeling character of mine. It's in reverse chronological order ;).
------
Willem leaned back in his seat and poured himself another scotch. Around him, he felt anger, despair and frustration against his skin, a revitalizing bath of misery and hate.
The amber liquid burned a trail of fire down his throat as around the car, afternoon drivers battled the rain and each other in the great game of rush hour.
<i>I love this time of day. The traffic, the smell of car exhaust, the frustration and rage of the humans stuck in their boxy little imports and gas-guzzling SUVs, a veritible stew of anger and consumption. It brings joy to my heart.</i>
Willem slowly bared his iron-grey teeth in a fierce smile.
------
Willem looked over the city as rain poured from the sky.
<i>I love winter in this town,</i> he thought. <i>All the cold and dreariness, and none of that Norman Rockwell snow-and-Santa crap.</i>
The Girl's infrastructure in San Deigo was collapsing steadily, wracked by scandal and the appearance of poor management. <i>To think, it would have motored on fine, if she hadn't stabbed me in the back. Now, I have a new interest in personal destruction. I feel ten years younger. I almost want to thank her.</i>
The rain pattered off the high windows.
------
The captain of industry looks out over his fiefdom, a land of oil and smoke and "progress", and contemplates the future.
Or more specifically, one particular future.
It was going to cost him a finger. That was all. Such a small price for his insult. His antics this weekend were going to cost him dearly. Every further insult was going to be added to the balance sheet, and suitable payment would be extracted.
He sipped more brandy, and smiled at the thought of the drunkard's future pain.
------
Willem slowly placed the handset in it's cradle, savoring the anger rising in his guts.
<i>So the little Irish fucks thought they could get away with anything if I wasn't there?</i>
He stood and walked over to the window, looking down on the early evening Hillcrest traffic. He raked his fingers slowly down the wall, and thin curls of varnished pine fell to the floor.
Called away by business, he was unable to attend the small reopening party for the Unnamed Theater, to which he invited the local Kithain. He gave them haspitality, and this is how he is repayed: his guests assaulted, his wife embarrassed, and his property wrecked.
He turned from the window, thinking of what he would inflict on them, and he <i>almost</i> smiled.
He reached for the phone. "Martin, get Rodney and come to the new theater. I have a job for you..."
------
Willem Bradstreet stared out the window, holding a snifter of brandy as he looks out over the city. The dark void of the ocean gave way along a jagged edge to a dense spray of lights, thinning out as they spread east.
<i>Soon it will all be mine...</i>
He moved slowly over to the desk and punched the button.
"You may leave, Miss Winslow. I will require nothing else this evening."
The muffled response is almost pathetic in it's gratitude, and his secretary leaves, thankful that one more day has passed without incurring his wrath.
He stabs a finger down on another button, and addresses empty air.
"Take the car back to the house, Martin. I have things yet to take care of, and I will sleep here tonight. Make sure you lock the house down properly when you turn in."
"Yes, sir."
Willem turned back to regard the view. Even from here, he could survey the damage done by the Seelie to the lands that had been claimed by the Nightmare. The mists in Balboa dispersed, the great flocks of wyverns decimated, all the nasty little surprises that made living in the city of St. David so interesting.
He stands there, brooding, swirling the amber liquid in the glass. The situation had improved lately, though. He had finally attracted the attention of those who shared his aims. Or close enough to suit his needs right now. They needed his wealth and pull in mortal society, and they could teach him the sorceries he needed to protect himself and his plans from the sidhe. And when the time came, the winds would blow, and the weak would be torn to tatters by the cold.
Slowly, the corners of his mouth turned up, revealing iron grey teeth.
------
Willem leaned back in his seat and poured himself another scotch. Around him, he felt anger, despair and frustration against his skin, a revitalizing bath of misery and hate.
The amber liquid burned a trail of fire down his throat as around the car, afternoon drivers battled the rain and each other in the great game of rush hour.
<i>I love this time of day. The traffic, the smell of car exhaust, the frustration and rage of the humans stuck in their boxy little imports and gas-guzzling SUVs, a veritible stew of anger and consumption. It brings joy to my heart.</i>
Willem slowly bared his iron-grey teeth in a fierce smile.
------
Willem looked over the city as rain poured from the sky.
<i>I love winter in this town,</i> he thought. <i>All the cold and dreariness, and none of that Norman Rockwell snow-and-Santa crap.</i>
The Girl's infrastructure in San Deigo was collapsing steadily, wracked by scandal and the appearance of poor management. <i>To think, it would have motored on fine, if she hadn't stabbed me in the back. Now, I have a new interest in personal destruction. I feel ten years younger. I almost want to thank her.</i>
The rain pattered off the high windows.
------
The captain of industry looks out over his fiefdom, a land of oil and smoke and "progress", and contemplates the future.
Or more specifically, one particular future.
It was going to cost him a finger. That was all. Such a small price for his insult. His antics this weekend were going to cost him dearly. Every further insult was going to be added to the balance sheet, and suitable payment would be extracted.
He sipped more brandy, and smiled at the thought of the drunkard's future pain.
------
Willem slowly placed the handset in it's cradle, savoring the anger rising in his guts.
<i>So the little Irish fucks thought they could get away with anything if I wasn't there?</i>
He stood and walked over to the window, looking down on the early evening Hillcrest traffic. He raked his fingers slowly down the wall, and thin curls of varnished pine fell to the floor.
Called away by business, he was unable to attend the small reopening party for the Unnamed Theater, to which he invited the local Kithain. He gave them haspitality, and this is how he is repayed: his guests assaulted, his wife embarrassed, and his property wrecked.
He turned from the window, thinking of what he would inflict on them, and he <i>almost</i> smiled.
He reached for the phone. "Martin, get Rodney and come to the new theater. I have a job for you..."
------
Willem Bradstreet stared out the window, holding a snifter of brandy as he looks out over the city. The dark void of the ocean gave way along a jagged edge to a dense spray of lights, thinning out as they spread east.
<i>Soon it will all be mine...</i>
He moved slowly over to the desk and punched the button.
"You may leave, Miss Winslow. I will require nothing else this evening."
The muffled response is almost pathetic in it's gratitude, and his secretary leaves, thankful that one more day has passed without incurring his wrath.
He stabs a finger down on another button, and addresses empty air.
"Take the car back to the house, Martin. I have things yet to take care of, and I will sleep here tonight. Make sure you lock the house down properly when you turn in."
"Yes, sir."
Willem turned back to regard the view. Even from here, he could survey the damage done by the Seelie to the lands that had been claimed by the Nightmare. The mists in Balboa dispersed, the great flocks of wyverns decimated, all the nasty little surprises that made living in the city of St. David so interesting.
He stands there, brooding, swirling the amber liquid in the glass. The situation had improved lately, though. He had finally attracted the attention of those who shared his aims. Or close enough to suit his needs right now. They needed his wealth and pull in mortal society, and they could teach him the sorceries he needed to protect himself and his plans from the sidhe. And when the time came, the winds would blow, and the weak would be torn to tatters by the cold.
Slowly, the corners of his mouth turned up, revealing iron grey teeth.
Flashbacks Pt. 1
So, I'm throwing up some of my older stuff from about 10 years ago. Let me know what you think.
Omar Yevgeny Salazar y Kovalenko, once known as Thunder's Velvet Glove, sat in the cramped kitchen, looking out the window at the night sky. On dilapidated table sat a crinkled photo and a shotgun. He looked down at the floor to see the remains of his gauntlet. Once a mark of favor from Grandfather, it now lay shattered on the grimy linoleum, it's spirit fled.
<i>This is how we are repaid. To fade into nothing, our sacrifices forgotten. The World Puta has written us off.</i>
He thought back on the packmates he had lost. The friends who had given their all and more. His own sacrifices, made nothing by the Great Bitch.
His strength had fled, the Gifts of the spirits had faded from his mind. The spirit world was almost beyond his reach, and he could not remember when he had last Changed.
<i>Do not suffer the pack to tend your sickness.</i>
He picked up the photo, and gazed at it. It was the last reminder of what he had first given up. His father and mother, his brothers and sisters, gone. Where they were, he knew not, but even if he did, it would matter not at all, for he was no longer their son, their brother.
<i>Do not suffer the pack to tend your sickness.</i>
It was easy to get the silver. Without their spirits, what use was a Klaive? He wasn't even sure he really needed the silver, but why take the chance? Better to go overboard, than not far enough.
<i>Do not suffer the pack to tend your sickness.</i>
He lightly kissed the photo, and lay it down on the table. He hefted the shotgun, oiled and gleaming. As he wedged the stock between his feet, he muttered a quiet prayer to whatever spirits might still be listen, or even gave a damn.
<i>Do not suffer the pack to tend your sickness.</i>
With all prepared, he took a deep breath and opened his mouth wide. He leaned over the doubled barrel of the 12 gauge, his teeth scraping the steel.
<i>Do not suffer the pack to tend your sickness.</i>
There was a sound of thunder...
Omar Yevgeny Salazar y Kovalenko, once known as Thunder's Velvet Glove, sat in the cramped kitchen, looking out the window at the night sky. On dilapidated table sat a crinkled photo and a shotgun. He looked down at the floor to see the remains of his gauntlet. Once a mark of favor from Grandfather, it now lay shattered on the grimy linoleum, it's spirit fled.
<i>This is how we are repaid. To fade into nothing, our sacrifices forgotten. The World Puta has written us off.</i>
He thought back on the packmates he had lost. The friends who had given their all and more. His own sacrifices, made nothing by the Great Bitch.
His strength had fled, the Gifts of the spirits had faded from his mind. The spirit world was almost beyond his reach, and he could not remember when he had last Changed.
<i>Do not suffer the pack to tend your sickness.</i>
He picked up the photo, and gazed at it. It was the last reminder of what he had first given up. His father and mother, his brothers and sisters, gone. Where they were, he knew not, but even if he did, it would matter not at all, for he was no longer their son, their brother.
<i>Do not suffer the pack to tend your sickness.</i>
It was easy to get the silver. Without their spirits, what use was a Klaive? He wasn't even sure he really needed the silver, but why take the chance? Better to go overboard, than not far enough.
<i>Do not suffer the pack to tend your sickness.</i>
He lightly kissed the photo, and lay it down on the table. He hefted the shotgun, oiled and gleaming. As he wedged the stock between his feet, he muttered a quiet prayer to whatever spirits might still be listen, or even gave a damn.
<i>Do not suffer the pack to tend your sickness.</i>
With all prepared, he took a deep breath and opened his mouth wide. He leaned over the doubled barrel of the 12 gauge, his teeth scraping the steel.
<i>Do not suffer the pack to tend your sickness.</i>
There was a sound of thunder...
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