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Party Time, Excellent!
Sep. 16th, 2014 12:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
regimes_fallClint and Natasha decide to go through the Vegas door for a night out and win enough money to buy some frivilous shit.
Sep. 16th, 2014
regimes_fallwhen the hurlyburly's done
Sep. 16th, 2014 07:38 pmlordharryNot 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.
have you both completely lost your minds?
Sep. 16th, 2014 07:53 pmarmedagainstloveThere is no graveyard in this place and so Athos seeks out the closest approximation he can find. There is a garden here with a rotunda that reminds him of some of the palace architecture that they've stood guard at. In the right light, Athos can pretend it is still Paris. Were he as religious as Aramis, he would want a chapel, but Athos had stopped believing in God the day his wife had died.
Or, rather, the day he thought she'd died. The trouble with learning how to live again is that it's increasingly difficult to change five years' worth of thoughts in one's mind. Death is on his mind again, what with Marsac newly gone and with his passing brings Athos thoughts of twenty dead Musketeers in Savoy, a dead wife hanging from a tree, and graves with swords marking them in Paris.
He had taken to the Musketeers to give himself another life outside of the nobility, thinking that if he didn't have to stand at court with the rest, he could almost stand to bear it. Except now that Anne is still alive and he's learning that there are just as many politics in the garrison as there are in the court, he wonders if there's actually any difference.
There is one, though.
Standing in the midst of these beautiful gardens, Athos draws his sword from its sheath, he allows it to stand parallel to the ground, listening to the singing of the metal as it's drawn. There is honour in the cut of the sword and grace in wielding it, moreso when Athos half feels as if parts of him are falling away and rotting, much like he imagines Marsac had felt. What does a man do when his life spirals away from him?
Marsac turned traitor.
And Athos turned drunk.
He focuses on the tip of his sword, lunging forward to draw himself from his thoughts, piercing a nearby shrubbery and cutting a line from the tip of it to the ground, causing some poor gardener a heart attack, he's sure. Drawing his sword back, he slowly begins to unknot his kerchief to clean off the stray bits of grass, thinking perhaps he will continue and shape it in the form of something familiar to him. Eyeing it, it now comes to the task of choosing what shape will be.
Or, rather, the day he thought she'd died. The trouble with learning how to live again is that it's increasingly difficult to change five years' worth of thoughts in one's mind. Death is on his mind again, what with Marsac newly gone and with his passing brings Athos thoughts of twenty dead Musketeers in Savoy, a dead wife hanging from a tree, and graves with swords marking them in Paris.
He had taken to the Musketeers to give himself another life outside of the nobility, thinking that if he didn't have to stand at court with the rest, he could almost stand to bear it. Except now that Anne is still alive and he's learning that there are just as many politics in the garrison as there are in the court, he wonders if there's actually any difference.
There is one, though.
Standing in the midst of these beautiful gardens, Athos draws his sword from its sheath, he allows it to stand parallel to the ground, listening to the singing of the metal as it's drawn. There is honour in the cut of the sword and grace in wielding it, moreso when Athos half feels as if parts of him are falling away and rotting, much like he imagines Marsac had felt. What does a man do when his life spirals away from him?
Marsac turned traitor.
And Athos turned drunk.
He focuses on the tip of his sword, lunging forward to draw himself from his thoughts, piercing a nearby shrubbery and cutting a line from the tip of it to the ground, causing some poor gardener a heart attack, he's sure. Drawing his sword back, he slowly begins to unknot his kerchief to clean off the stray bits of grass, thinking perhaps he will continue and shape it in the form of something familiar to him. Eyeing it, it now comes to the task of choosing what shape will be.
trulyoracularYou know, when people head downstairs for a late day breakfast (4PM is never too late, not when you'd gone to bed at 5AM) and turn into a woman, most people might give it a bit of pause. Technically, Olaf does, but he's still really hungover and really hungry and the sausages kind of look incredible, still. He prods and pokes two on a fork before trying to stand in place and accommodate some of his new balance, but that's probably going to take a while (see, the hungover thing).
And normally? Well, normally this would be something to freak out over.
Olaf's never been normal, and seeing as he's watched his grandson get fucked out of a female body, he's pretty sure this is as normal as the Johnson family gets. Finding a seat near the food, Olaf sits with his knees spread wide as he digs into the food, as starved as ever despite the fact that he's suddenly got a lot less body mass to feed. He really wishes he had Stacey or Ingrid around. Dressing himself is always a rough pain and if he does need to get fucked to get normal, he'd rather have a bit of fun with it too (which makes him a bit regretful that he doesn't have a) a video camera and b) Michele).
Yawning and drinking half his coffee cup in one go, Olaf slumps back in his seat, possibly as unladylike as it gets, and debates heading back for seconds.
Really, if this is a god-related switch, he'd get some sort of oracle sign, right?
Seconds, he decides, standing up and getting back in line, peering eagerly forward to see what the roast looks like, which makes his cleavage very, very visible with the lowered line of his white tank-top.
And normally? Well, normally this would be something to freak out over.
Olaf's never been normal, and seeing as he's watched his grandson get fucked out of a female body, he's pretty sure this is as normal as the Johnson family gets. Finding a seat near the food, Olaf sits with his knees spread wide as he digs into the food, as starved as ever despite the fact that he's suddenly got a lot less body mass to feed. He really wishes he had Stacey or Ingrid around. Dressing himself is always a rough pain and if he does need to get fucked to get normal, he'd rather have a bit of fun with it too (which makes him a bit regretful that he doesn't have a) a video camera and b) Michele).
Yawning and drinking half his coffee cup in one go, Olaf slumps back in his seat, possibly as unladylike as it gets, and debates heading back for seconds.
Really, if this is a god-related switch, he'd get some sort of oracle sign, right?
Seconds, he decides, standing up and getting back in line, peering eagerly forward to see what the roast looks like, which makes his cleavage very, very visible with the lowered line of his white tank-top.