concierge: (Default)
[personal profile] concierge
Any entries earlier than this were pre-reboot.
at_your_side: (072)
[personal profile] at_your_side
There was a strangeness to the moment as the world slipped from one second to the next. As if the ground beneath her feet no longer echoed with not just her footsteps but the footsteps of all the others crossing that same scarred, wooden floor. The sensation that accompanied it was dizzying, the world seeming to spin madly for a moment as she reached out for balance and found the handle of a door rather than the wall she had meant to catch hold of.

The handle turned on an accident of her wrist, the stability reached for then lost as she stumbled where she had been so steady only heartbeats before.

Perhaps there was something to not just pants but the weight of a sword sheathed at her hip and the heaviness of a gun held in her opposite hand. Perhaps that was reason enough for her finding her balance sooner than she might have while wearing the acres of fabric that came with the court gown she had worn for too long a stretch of days, as there was no hem to trip over as she left the comforting background noise of the voices of her friends speaking for the sudden silence of a hallway in a place she had not expected to find herself in again so soon.

Constance blinked slowly as she straightened, her fingers still tight on the grip of her borrowed pistol. The memory of the Musketeers plans had her turning immediately to look for the door she had come through but found, to her consternation, only smooth, unblemished wall at her back. "Oh," she said, too surprised to be eloquent as she stood staring. "Oh, no."

Jul. 5th, 2015 02:27 pm
lordharry: (is this hell?)
[personal profile] lordharry
At first, Hal doesn't notice it.

How odd, truly, to imagine that something so monumental can be so easily ignored. And yet, Hal begins his day as he normally would, goes through his routines and habits. He sets up the dominoes and takes them down. He listens to his radio programs, does his exercises, and even pitches it to help clean in the kitchen, but even that does not take him aback. It is not until he is cleaning up and scrubbing his hands properly that he notices it.

It is the moment when he lifts his gaze in order to grasp for the paper towel that he sees it for the first time in over five hundred centuries. His reflection. Startled and taken aback, Hal stares for what must be nearly thirty minutes as he realizes that he's entirely forgotten what he looks like. Five hundred centuries without your own reflection will do that to a man. He prods and pokes at his face, marvelling at the way he's changed and takes another, longer moment to marvel at his hair, wanting to weep for how tidy and good Leo had kept it over the last fifty-five years.

He swallows hard to push back the grief and that's when he realizes he's not suppressing the need for blood. He's not hungry. Whatever door he passed through this morning has done something to him because he has no thirst for blood, can see himself, and suddenly, he's struck with the need for something else.

Hurrying (but not so quickly that he doesn't properly finish with the towels), Hal makes it back to the buffet. He's quick to load up his plate, his cravings for food immense and desperate.

"Excuse me," he asks, lifting his gaze to the nearest person, "what are those sticks called? They're breaded and abhorrently fried, filled with cheese, and I'd very much like two dozen, possibly."

[Hal is temporarily without his vampire affliction and very, very hungry for cheese]
notthewoman: all icons by Buckybear on IJ (Default)
[personal profile] notthewoman
She was not accustomed to genuine fear as she was not sure she was truly capable of it. Instead she felt varying emotions that usually accompanied fear in a gradient of severity. She was mildly confused by her newfound surroundings, but she was learning quickly and not drawing attention to herself in the meantime. Freedom for Jamie Moriarty had been inevitable, and this twist of fortune was not something to be rushed into. There was almost too much freedom here, but then she was also positive that it was entirely impossible for such a thing to exist. She was exactly where she was supposed to be, and now the only thing left to do was make the most of it.

The library of the Nexus was appealing to her in much the same way she enjoyed the gardens. She favored solitude for the contemplation of things, and the Nexus itself had been catalyst for much deep thought as of late. The door back to her world was present in her very own room, and she’d made the trip back and forth between her world and this one without any notice of the guards who were designated to watch her. They thought the blood loss had weakened her, and that fact was quite obvious. She still felt weak and breathless and a bit chilly, though she could force herself above those particular setbacks if she found herself in danger. Thankfully, the Nexus had yet to present anything of the sort.

She found herself in a section of what she recognized as ‘Classic’ American fiction, her fingers brushing along legible and clean book spines as she sought out something simple to read. Moriarty rarely indulged in fiction, she seldom had the patience for it, but she was feeling a bit of a fat cat these days, and wanted something with which to curl up in a spot of sunshine and allow her to present the image of someone entirely wrapped up in their book, while allowing her mind to turn over the possibilities of this place. Her fingers came to a stop on a thin volume, small and compact, bearing the title To Kill a Mockingbird. She knew the subject matter, of course, though she’d also never read it for herself, and that alone meant it matched all requirements she had at the moment.

She closed her fingers around the slim book and slid it free of its neighbors, turning away from the shelf in search of somewhere to sit.

Nov. 17th, 2014 09:02 pm
tobearwitness: (002)
[personal profile] tobearwitness
Ichabod has experienced his fair share of adversity over the years - wounds, fatigue, illness. He has never experienced a cold of this magnitude, though, and he just doesn't know what to do to shake it. He has ensconced himself in the library for the time being, dozing between doses of tea and soup, and there are any number of books scattered around him.

He is simultaneously trying to research demonology while correcting a so-called history of the Revolutionary War (Paul Revere was not the hero of the entire revolution and Franklin was, for the most part, an insurmountable ass) and neither is going well. It's as if his entire brain is fuzzy and thoughts are slow and dull. He doesn't do well when his keen intellect has been blunted and he hopes that the sickness passes soon.

First and foremost, he wants to be cared for and cossetted. It is times like these that Ichabod misses his wife the most. Katrina, for all her power and glory as a witch, had been his wife first and had been very good at making him feel better even when it seemed all the world was crashing down around his ears. What he wouldn't give to have Katrina caring for him now, to have Katrina making him tea and soup and tending to him while he relaxed.

He would simply have to make do with cooling tea and a slightly-scratchy blanket in a library for the time being.
lordharry: (you taste wonderful)
[personal profile] lordharry
August 10th | Aboard the newly emancipated SS Yorke

Not all doors are safe. Hal takes a tumble into a pirate's world of robbery and crime, but with it comes a return to the monster lurking inside him. Ichabod is unfortunate enough to meet that thing.

PG-13 for violence
lordharry: (is this hell?)
[personal profile] lordharry
Throughout his long, varied life, Hal has seen many attempts at connection and while he bears the traits of a leader, he has also gone through long periods of his life in which he had struggled not to accept any attention at all. Now, in an odd hotel that he lingers in to grasp control, he finds himself organizing a small soirée of like-minded beings, of whom he has invited using the phone system as well as a very politely worded typed up note posted at the Front Desk which announces:

Supernatural and supernaturally sympathetic people:

Please bring your experiences to a support and conversation group. Snacks will be provided. The discussion will revolve not only around common afflictions, but a key purpose of the evening intends to assuage us all that there are no surprises to us lurking behind the doors, whether ghost, werewolf, vampire, or other.

Hal had procured the library for the evening, setting chairs in a loose circle as he tries to avoid it becoming too reminiscent of a circle in which people ought to confess their sins and their addictions. Not everyone who might come is an addict like him (or perhaps that's not the right word as homicidal murderer of thousands isn't quite in the same neighbourhood as addict). True to his word, there are snacks -- small triangle sandwiches and bitter black coffee served alongside punch.

Most importantly, there is a hush to this room that Hal feels secure in. If they are to group here together, creatures of the night, at least it will be done in privacy and solace.
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[personal profile] chuisle
One would think that after three and a half weeks, Angel's mind would've been put at ease, but it hasn't. He's still worried, still afraid that if he looks away — even for a second — she'll be gone again. Vanished, just like she did in his office. He's gotten into the habit of opening doors they haven't been through yet first, peeking through them to ensure he isn't going to lose her to another world, before he lets her pass through them.

The man has something of an obsessive personality, whether he feels like admitting it or not, and keeping a constant watch on Cordelia has become his latest obsession.

It's not that Cordelia isn't sympathetic to his worries -- she is. She gets it. Considering what happened she gets why he needs to keep an eye on her. But there's keeping an eye on her and there's following her constantly like a little puppy. Kind of adorable at first but at some point? After a few weeks? It looses some of the shine.

So after what has to be the 100th time he's paranoidly watched her go through a door Cordelia whirls around to face him, her lips pressing in annoyance.

"You don't have to keep doing that, you know? The whole following me around, making sure I don't go poof into thin air thing."

He comes to an awkward, abrupt halt, bracing his hands on the wall by the door frame to avoid crashing into her.

"I'm not doing that," he tells her, but they both know that he's doing exactly that. It's like their initial training sessions all over again; Angel trying really hard to be chivalrous without coming off as insulting or suffocating, but doing so in spite of his best attempt not to. (His Old World upbringing clashes sometimes with his New World existence — and his paranoia.)

Only this time, he won't quit following her instead of teaching her to do nothing but stave.

She gives him a look at first. One of her patented 'I don't believe a word you're saying, who are you trying to kid?' looks. "That's exactly what you're doing." It's not the first time he's been a little overbearing for the sake of trying to keep her safe. And again, it's not like she doesn't appreciate the sentiment.

But it's still frustrating. )

ooc | Cut for length. BLACK = Angel, PINK = Cordelia ([personal profile] visiongirl). Open for run-ins with either one of them!

Jun. 8th, 2014 07:03 pm
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[personal profile] royalunderachiever
Adrian had never been the type of guy to hold down a traditional job and being Moroi, he had wealth and privilege to insulate him from the real world for a lot longer than most people. Still, since branching out to Palm Springs and now to the Nexus, he had to actually work to support himself even if it was just as supplement and not his main income source.

To that end, he'd set himself up in the hotel lobby doing caricatures. It worked for people down on the boardwalk and while he didn't have the advantage of great natural lighting indoors, his pale skin wouldn't appreciate the sun beating down on him while he was trying to work so it was a fair enough trade off. He was charging a few bucks per portrait and while it was mostly pocket change, it did keep him from getting bored.

Right now, he was working on a drawing of Sydney just to hone his skills. It was mostly her blonde hair with a prominent chin and generous mouth but it was coming together and starting to look distinctly Alchemist like. He was toying with whether or not to add the lily to her cheek when he decided against it; Sydney had broken away from that life and maybe he needed to respect that and depict her as such.

He looked up every once in a while, hoping to catch the eye of someone he could charm into buying a portrait off him. Pocket change, sure, but every little bit helped.
lordharry: (in everything there is hope)
[personal profile] lordharry
April 9th, 2014 | The Nexus Hotel

Hal meets a kindred spirit and uses shared experiences to try and keep him clinging onto his control.

discussion of violence
follow_the_wolf: (039)
[personal profile] follow_the_wolf
Stories of the Huntsman and his Wolves were traded over the fires in the camps at the edges of Roman territory. Those whispers twisted with each telling, changed in the inflections and origin of its speaker. The Roman Empire spanned continents and pulled its soldiers from every territory, but no matter the language of those who shared the story, every tribe had a word for 'wolf.'

Some said they were outlaws who had been brought under the heel of the Emperor and had agreed to follow his orders in exchange for the sparing of their lives. Some said they were soldiers who had moved too smoothly through battle and been hand chosen by their commander to join his elite unit. Still others claimed they were shapeshifters who changed shape with the moon and so only struck enemy forces on those three nights of every month that the moon was at its fullest. There were whispers that each Wolf stood towering tall and lean under daylight, and became monstrous creatures under the fall of night. Most shocking of all, there were even whispers that there were women among their number who fought alongside the men as equals.

All agreed that the Wolves wore heavy mantles of thick fur across their shoulders, the long cloaks that fell behind them the color of the forest at night. They moved like ghosts through the forests they struck from, attacked only at night and fought with sword and bow and what could only be imagined as strange knives by the wounds left on the dead they left in their wake.

The Huntsman stepped at the forefront of his Wolves then, as dusk fell heavy among the trees, and looked over his shoulder to inspect those who ranged behind him, readying themselves for the strike ahead. He lifted his chin and spoke to the nearest of his Wolves, "You prepared?"

[AU and open to any who might like some leather and fur clad warriors in the Northern reaches of the Empire. Obviously any who are already shapeshifters could remain so, but others (such as the Huntsman himself) are purely human warriors]
lordharry: (piece by piece)
[personal profile] lordharry
Place one down and pick it up. Build an endless wall of fragile representations of his wavering self-control and before a stiff wind can knock them down, take them up piece by piece, like every day. Since the door, since Pearl and Leo left him, Hal has tightly corseted himself to prevent himself from feeling anything.

One stiff wind and the dominoes fall. One good, hard emotion and Hal worries what he might do. The days are endless, now. His rota is clung to with ever the more strength, with Barry's unfamiliar surroundings echoing around him. Tom is not Leo, not even slightly and Annie might be easier to get along with than Pearl, but he finds he misses her eccentricities. It had almost made him feel normal.


He had begged Leo not to go. Five hundred years old and he had sat there begging a werewolf not to die. The Hal of the past would have laughed until he was blue in the face, but at this precise moment, Hal feels that plea like a broken dagger shattering the heart he has not borne in too long. Hal presses a domino in his pocket as he stands, staring accusingly at the door before him. It was one thing to lose Leo as they had known they would, but for Pearl to go, too? For them both to leave him?

No. No, the anger could not be called upon. Hal tempers his emotions with a slow breath, ignoring the memories of what the bedroom door before him had been only days ago and stepped through it to continue his daily rota, mentally preparing himself for what comes next. He tries to banish Pearl's voice in his mind, talking about the doors being theirs as they walked away from him.

It's a momentary lapse in the awareness of his surroundings that Hal pays for the instant he steps through the door into bright sun, having stepped out onto a lawn of sorts.

As old as he is, the sun hardly bothers him at all, but there's a serenity in front of him and a peace to the landscape before him that makes Hal falter and wonder, wonder if maybe this had been meant for him, too. Perhaps Tom has come to a decision and brought Hal to his end. One sharp inhalation proves that to be untrue, however, because his desires and his hunger are still there, as present as ever. He hisses, fangs coming out before he quickly remembers that he shouldn't be even remotely reminding himself that he can, and he knows that he hasn't been saved.

No. This is only more torture. Cautiously, Hal raises his guard once more and begins to look at the paradise before him as the mirage it likely is. "Show yourself," he calls, wary of the men with sticks and the other horrifying monsters that haunt hallways and past doorways. "I won't be cowed."


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