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Meddlesome Kid

STATUS: Off Hiatus? 6 yrs ago
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6 yrs ago
Current Off Hiatus?
7 yrs ago
On Hiatus
7 yrs ago
"Mecha Cowboys" has less than a thousand hits on Google. I've never been more upset.
7 yrs ago
RP Concept: "Screw just the plans, we're stealing the Death Star and taking that baby for a joyride!"
5 likes
8 yrs ago
The VeggieTales theme song has been stuck in my head for at least three days now. Can't decide if it a good or bad thing yet.
6 likes

Bio

Writer of schlock dressed up in some decent clothes.

Most Recent Posts

In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 → 3 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

Interactions: Anya @Fernstone & Jack @Blizz
(Teleporting All Over) The Halloween Festival


Drunken friend? Sloane gave Jack a look that lacked the typical vacancy in her eyes, showing her confusion and indigent rejection of the statement. Drunk? She didn’t like being drunk and she liked how she felt right now. She felt warm and tingly, like she was in a hot, steamy bath while sipping on a hot chamomile tea and reading a steamy romance novel. She wasn’t drunk. She couldn’t be drunk. If she were drunk then that meant she had been overserved, and the waitstaff were responsible professionals. Perhaps Jack was drunk. That must be it, of course, that was it, Jack was clearly drunk because ooooh! Ooooooh!

Anya. Anya was drunk. Obviously Anya was drunk. Yeah, Anya could hardly even stand up out of her chair. Sloane covered up a little smile with her hand as she followed Anya and Jack outside. She had never seen Anya drunk before, but wow, yeah, the way she walked in an almost perfectly straight line out the door made is sooooo obvious that she was trying as hard as she could not to appear completely wasted. Wow. Anya really hadn’t been holding back tonight. She must’ve desperately wanted one fun night to forget about all the terrible things in the world right now almost as much as Sloane did. Except obviously Sloane wasn’t drunk unlike Anya, who was clearly drunk and not like Sloane who wasn’t. Drunk, that is.

Where were they even going? The festival was the other—wait!

Before Sloane could protest against Jack teleporting them it happened. She felt like her body was dumped inside of a cocktail shaker and vigorously shaken over ice until she was nice and frothy, then she was flipped in the ass over head by an amateur bartender trying to show off but failing to snap the lid all of the way down as they tossed the shaker in the air. Sloane spilled out from the teleportation, a desperate and lucky catch upon Jack’s robes the only thing keeping her from becoming a human party foul as she just avoided spilling out onto the ground. Her body stopped but the world kept spinning. She let go of Jack, tilted her head back, covered her face, and held her breath as her body continued to swirl and mix because of Jack’s stupid teleportation spell and nothing else.

She pulled her hand away from her eyes, blinking rapidly at the chorus of singsong voices chanting toga, toga, toga. As Sloane was about to turn to take a look when Anya stumbled into her (because she was, despite how well she hid it, obviously soooo drunk, and the teleportation probably didn’t help with that). Sloane let out an absolutely foreign sounding girlish giggle as Anya “steadied” herself by bracing her hands on Sloane’s shoulders, allowing her friend to steer her so that she wouldn’t fall even if it meant being spun quickly in a half circle.

”...Best to get work out of the way so we can enjoy the rest of the night!”

“I mean I should but…”

She had only even mentioned her stall to further push the conversation away from Drake.
It would be fine, really. Her employees were handpicked by her after all. They would really only need her if there was an issue they couldn’t fix, and the amount of things that qualified as that had become smaller and smaller and smaller. Sloane still got heavily involved when dealing with certain parts of her clientele and anything involving antiques of substantial value, but the souvenir side of things was essentially self-sufficient. Tonight should just be about fun and honestly, those strangely familiar voices chanting about a toga sounded like they were having a ton of it.

Sloane tried to turn to get a look at the party, but as she turned her head Anya shifted her in the other direction. She turned her head the other way and Anya shifted them again. Another strange sounding giggle saw the wardens had their backs turned, hopped the fence, and fled out from Sloane’s mouth before she could block it with her hand. Jack said something she couldn’t register as she tried to look back at Anya and once again found herself steered the other way. It started to make her feel like she was on a boat in choppy waters, the feeling of nausea making her clinch her eyes shut.

“Anya, how much did you—” Jack teleported them again. Acid and alcohol bubbled violently up to Sloane’s chest and quickened her heart rate as she nearly collapsed, just barely keeping herself from both sprawling and spewing onto the ground, hands grabbing at Anya for support. “—driiiiink. Ugh”

Sloane righted herself and held up her head to bat away any raised concerns.

“You know, I am quite capable of walking by myself, Mr. Hawthorne. Just because you were gone for ten years didn’t mean that I’d lost the ability to go places. I got around just fine without you,” said Sloane, the acid that still lingered in her throat reacting with the embarrassment burning in her cheeks, making her normally cold tone sound heated. What am I doing? Maybe, possibly, as ever so unlikely as it was, she could’ve been just a little, teeny tiny bit drunk. She held her head up and took a large breath in an attempt to calm herself. “If I need a magical Uber, I’ll tell you. I just…”

She couldn’t find the right words to express how she felt. Sloane only wanted to have a nice night, but now she only had a head full of steam. She didn’t even know why. It wasn’t like she was actually angry at Jack. Sure, perhaps he could do a little work to perfect his teleportation spells so that it didn’t cause motion sickness, but that wasn’t really the problem either. Everything just felt off. She wasn’t having fun anymore. She had just wanted to have fun. No, more than that: Sloane had wanted to pretend that she was someone else, but right now she was just a shitty and drunk version of herself dressed like a cartoon character from a television show she’d never even watched.

An annoyed sigh exploded out of Sloane as she sharply turned, violently flicking her hands out before shoving them down into the pockets of her red trench coat, hunching her shoulders, and walked away without caring whether or not the others followed her. Sloane stormed past her own stall, a surprisingly festive display staffed by a trio of witches selling a mixture of cutesy halloween decorations like tiny straw voodoo dolls in Halloween costumes, spooky bitch essentials like incense burners and tarot sets, and basic souvenir shop bullshittery like mugs with the cityline of St. Portwell on them and t-shirts with slogans like “Straight Outta Cracker Island” printed on them.

A man dressed in an Italian suit with slicked back hair was casually chatting with one of the witches. The witch waved and shouted at Sloane as the man turned with a smile that quickly faded as the woman in red blew right past them without even an acknowledgement. The smile fell from the man's face as he looked back at the witch who, looking apologetic, immediately began saying something. The man shrugged and stepped away from the stall, putting down the three-faced voodoo doll he had been holding and pulling out a cigarette. He was about to light it with a match when he paused, looking in the direction of where Sloane was heading and then back in the direction of where she’d come from. His eyes skipped over the shrouded Jack and lingered briefly on Anya. The little smile returned to his face as he lit his cigarette and turned, heading off in the opposite direction of Sloane.


Interactions: Linqian @Fernstone
Toga Town, USA. The Halloween Festival.


For over ten years Sullivan McPherson had been scared, gripped by a fear so strong that sometimes awake, nearly paralyzed and having to fight himself to get out of bed and go to work. It was a fear that had made him give up on his dreams, a fear that had pushed him into accepting a life of irrelevancy. It was a fear that not many of his peers seemed to have, despite how many of his peers tended to trigger the fear inside of him and cause his stomach to tighten with dread just by their very existence. It was a fear aggravated by grabbing drinks with the boys after a hard day's work and hearing their life stories, all of them that started with a “yeah, I could’ve been somebody if” and ended with them in the same bar as Sully drinking a light beer and bitching about their back.

Sully was simply afraid that he’d peaked at eighteen, as saving the world was hard to top—even when his role in it was being nothing more than a glorified waterboy. However, in this moment as he drunkening led a parade of revelers in togas through the Halloween Festival he no longer felt fear. This was his greatest achievement in life: his Mona Lisa, his Godfather, his Jordan Game 6. It was the Prince Superbowl Half-Time Show of spontaneous toga parties. It was his magnum opus. He was a man with a magnum away from being mentioned in the same breath with the likes of King, Kennedy, and Lennon. Tonight, he had truly ascended, going from the party god, to the God of Parties.

Unfortunately, there was absolutely positively no way he was going to remember a single damn thing, as he had already been a few drinks in when he made the decision to fully commit to his now forgotten “Sully” costume and shave his beard into a mustache. Yet in this moment he was glorious.

The toga party wasn’t just an excuse to be drunk and half-naked, although being drunk and half-naked was a perk. The toga party was about coming together. It was about putting down differences and embracing the things that really matter—the person right in front of you (otherwise they couldn’t have a conga line). But think about it, really think about it. They had Sycamore chanting with Greenwood. They had Greenwood sharing a drink with 8th Street. Even 8th Street was getting friendly with Sycamore, although it was hard to tell if Drake could breath given how hard that one girl was squeezing on to him. Three Covens, One Line. Can you dig it?

But of course Sully had no time to preach to his magical brothers and sister about how through unity they could run Cracker Island. He was too busy filling the Chalice, passing it back, chanting toga-toga-toga, leading the cult of Dionysus through the crowded fairgrounds and recruiting true believers. Sully wiped sweat from his eyes and smoothed his missing beard as the line snaked through the stalls. It was only through happenstance—no, no, it was fate, divine intervention—that he looked when he did and made direct eye contact with Linqian. He always liked Linqian. He especially liked partying with Linqian. She might not be a sister yet, for no matter how close the dress of her Little Red outfit was to a toga it was not a toga, but she was still a friend.

And she had just made the grave mistake of using a cell phone. Linqian may not have realized what she had just done, but Sully had transcended. He knew the rules. He knew what happened to people with phones. He had to save her. He would save her.

The moment would be documented in the camera roll on Linqian’s phone in a choppy stop-motion: Sully’s eyes widening in horror, his mouth dropping, his hand reaching into his toga. A balled up toga palmed in his hand, his arm raised and cocked back. His hand thrown forward, fingers spread, mouth still shouting, the rest of his face obscured by a balled up toga that had just been released. A toga spiraling like a football through the air towards the camera screen. Getting closer. And closer. And closer as it began to unravel, leaving the next few photos nothing but a blank white screen as the toga continued to fly towards Linqian.

“Linqian! TOGA!” hollered Sully, a bit late on his warning despite his purest of intentions. Inside the conga line she’d be safe from any kidnappers or brawlers who hated phone users. Plus, maybe she would jump between Drake and that one chick and let his boy stop having to worry about cracking a rib.
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 → 3 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

The Greenwood Coven


in collaboration w/ @Punished GN
Near Cracker Island


The waves hit the shore…

Following the coordinates that Ruby put out (that Naomi thought was a bad idea given the shitshow that was a week ago), Naomi and James pushed through the foliage until they made it to the clearing in the middle. A few members of Greenwood were already there… Jess was there wearing a cowboy outfit, with her grandfather’s little leather hat that she had as her channeler on her head. Kashmira was there wearing an orange Saree, hands together that were painted with henna. Pearl was dressed as a Jiangshi by painting her skin. Most notably… Autumn was dressed as Didi Pickles, pushing a large stroller with a blanket in front of it.

“Heh, nice costumes, ya’ll,” James said as he walked up… he and Naomi were dressed up in Adidas tracksuits with a black fedoras and comically large gold chains… but James had his axe in hand.

“Why, thank you,” Kashmira said, “It’s not much of a costume, but…”

“To the white people, it is,” James chuckled, then he turned to Autumn. “And oooh boy, fuckin’... Didi Pickles?” He laughed.

“It’s so we can put your axe and Sully’s cup in here,” Autumn answered.

“What do you think is gonna happen?” James raised Shango’s Axe in the air. “We gonna start another gang war?”

“Ruby thinks we should be prepared just in case… we did get outed, after all,” Autumn said.

“Good point, good point,” James said as he slung the axe over his shoulder. “Where is Ruby anyway?”

“She said “she had business” to attend to,” Jess said, finger-quoting. “She’ll catch up.”

“So, are we gonna hop on the Ferry, or is Amelia gonna teleport us there?” James asked.

“Amelia… when she gets here,” Pearl answered.

“Is Sully coming?” James asked,

“From what I heard, yes,” Autumn answered before she shrugged, “I guess we just wait.”

That was when Naomi pulled a blunt out of her pocket and grinned.

“Let’s spark up before the Ass-Eater gets here!”

“Too late! You’re busted, buddy!” bellowed a deep, disembodied voice.

The bushes shook violently as a silhouette moved behind them, the figure large enough to be the fabled sasquatch, accompanied by a quiet string of curses as they struggled to break through the natural barrier of the brush. The figure finally broke through and revealed himself not to be the world’s most outgoing bigfoot but rather just a large man wearing worn-in dress shoes, a pair of dark slacks, a loose-fitting suit jacket, and a white button-up shirt and a black tie that appeared to have been tied by a toddler. Lines of golden tape were wrapped around the wrists of the jacket. The man was sporting a neatly trimmed mustache, the razor burn still fresh on his neck, and he gave the group a shit-eating grin as he adjusted the nametag pinned to his jacket that read Sully.

The Chalice, of course, was accompanying him, although it was currently acting as a hat stand for his airline pilot cap. Sully snatched the cap and, with a needlessly theatrical flourish, donned it and put the final touches on his costume.

“Ta-da. Pretty good, huh?!” said Sully, rubbing his upper lip. “But….be real, the mustache doesn’t give off molesty vibes, does it?”

“Nice,” Naomi chuckled, as she tried to sneakily put the blunt back before Sully put ass on it.

“Y’know, I don’t think the mustache is bad,” James said as he slung his axe over both of his shoulders, “But, you look weird as fuck without a beard, y’know?”

James chuckled.

“Me? Beard or no beard, I’m a pretty boy, hehehehe!” James laughed.

“Oh, lord,” Naomi said with a roll of her eyes.

“You two, put your Agents in here,” Autumn said as she threw the blanket over the stroller.

“Two seconds,” said Sully as he took a chug from the Chalice before casually tossing it into the stroller. He wasn’t going to get fleeced out of fifteen dollars at the festival for a badly poured Miller Lite. “Don’t let that baby out of your sight.”

Then James put his axe in the stroller and Autumn threw the cover right back over it. She still had her necklace around her neck.

“Yeah, Rubes is real scared that a gang war is gonna break out the one time the cops are gonna be crawling all over something that’s not a donut shop or a minority,” Jessica said, rolling her eyes and shaking her head… then she chuckled.

“Okay, so if we see a group of people finger snapping and dancing around with knives we beat feet,” said Sully with a laugh, doubting that there would actually be any conflict at the Halloween Festival. What kind of assholes would want to ruin something like that?

His phone chimed as he got a text message. Sully had felt so guilty about ignoring Auri regarding his well-being, especially after she’d dropped the bombshell on him about their dead friends (he’d remembered the phone call, but not the night), that he made sure to keep his phone charged and to check in with her every morning—even if it meant having to come up with excuses for missing the funerals rather than admitting that they just made him too uncomfortable. However, ever since that dream the damn thing had been getting blown up. This time it was just spam. He swiped it away as a lightbulb turned on in his head.

“You know, I got a way we don’t have to worry about the police if shit does pop off. If you roll with one of theirs the others will leave you alone,” said Sully, rubbing his chin. Cops were essentially like a gang in that way. “Drake, an old high school slash Sycamore buddy of mine is on the force—but he’s cool, really!” Sully waved his hands frantically as if trying to preemptively slap off the accusations of being a narc. Unaware of the events from last week, Sully added, “He’s not the punch-a-minority type at all!”

“But honestly, he’s been texting me and I get the vibe that he needs to be around people. He’s had a real rough go at it lately,” said Sully. “I’d feel like a real dick if I didn’t hang out with him tonight. Cool if I invite him?”

Jess put her hands behind her head as she looked at Sully and shrugged, “I mean, if he’s a friend of yours, he’s a friend of ours!”

“He gotta pass the vibecheck first!” James clapped his hands together, a devious grin’s on his face.

“Yeah, we gotta see if he’s chill like us!” Naomi said.

“I mean,” Autumn began. “If the others are okay with it, I am.”

“Heck yeah!” Sully pumped his fist. He decided it was best to keep to himself that he wanted to keep Drake in his sights to make sure he wasn’t going to do something reckless. He was ninety-five percent sure that text had just been a joke, but just in case he wanted Drake to be under his responsible adult supervision. “Yeah, we can totally jump him in. Hold on, lemme give him a call.”

Sully stepped a couple feet away from the group and called Drake, “Hey bay-bay. I’m about to head to the festival with some folks. You wanna just roll together instead of trying to find each other in the crowd, man?”

”We can, but I’m on the ferry right now with Victoria, Amanda, and Nikki!" Drake began, "Wait, what costume are you rolling in? We could have been matching!"

“Shit dude maybe it ain’t too late. I’m going as Sully,” said Sully, not realizing that the bit didn’t land without the visual and even then it was milquetoast at best. Hearing that Drake was with people took a little of the edge off. “What are you going as?” he asked, putting his hand over the receiver as he loudly whispered to the Greenwood Coven. “He’s in. We’re coordinating.”

Naomi raised a thumb as Drake answered with an obnoxious yell:

”I’m goin as ZOOOOOOOOOS!”

Sully ripped the phone away from his ear in pain, only putting it back as Drake stopped yelling. “Like caged elephants and lions and shit? That sounds complicated.”

”Naw, I just got this toga, these sandals, a fake beard and white hair, and I’m Gucci!” Drake answered.

“Oh right. I could make that work,” said Sully, looking around at nothing but trees and shrubs. “Anyway, being the Chosen One I no longer take public transportation. Exclusively teleportation from here on out. Y’all choose a meeting place and my crew will swing by. See you soon, bro.”

Sully hung up the phone and turned to the members of Greenwood, “Anybody got a white sheet?”

“What? You’re going as a Klan Me-” James said with a shit-eating grin, before he got jabbed by Naomi’s elbow.

“Cut it out,” Naomi said.

“Oh, is that a bad idea?” said Sully, sharing the shit-eating grin. “I figured since it’s on Cracker Island…”

The bushes rustled, and everyone’s eyes were brought there as they hoped it wasn’t an intruder. However, it was none other than Amelia Taylor Dallon, wearing blue jeans tucked into cowboy boots and a black long-sleeve button-up shirt…

… With cat ears on.

“Yooooooooooo!” James shouted, “Don’t tell me that’s your fucking costume?”

Amelia nodded, “Yes.”

“Putting cat ears over regular ass clothes is not a costume,”

“Yes it is.”

“I mean, technically, I’m not wearing a costume,” Kashmira added.

“It’s different, tho,” Jessica said.

“How so?” Kashmira said.

“Because there’s nothing wrong with not wearing a costume,” said Sully. “But calling just cat ears a costume just feels…I dunno, man. It feels like a copout. Some people here shaved their beard for this—like Jess. What’s the actual costume supposed to be? Person who forgot it was Halloween until ten minutes before they were supposed to go to the party?”

That’s what I’m saying!” Jess said as she reached down for her fake revolvers, “I’m the last cowboy in this town, ya’ll!”

“I’m a lil’ kitty!” Amelia said, not realizing the full implication of what she just fucking said, “I mean, you two are no event wearing costumes either!” Amelia shot back.

“Hold on; I expected ya’ll not to get it!” Naomi laughed, “But ever hear of Run-DMC?” Then she gestured downwards.

“No,” Amelia responded.

“Of course you wouldn’t!” Naomi said, “Ain’t your girlfriend dressing up as a Mo-”

“Oh, hold on, everyone!” James raised his hands to accentuate his point, “We are getting off track here. We’re supposed to be teleporting to the island since, APPARENTLY hopping on a ferry is too good for us.”

He let the words hang in the air as he looked around, with his hands up.

“... So, let’s fucking get to the island already and get lit!”

Everyone cheered… and without further ado, a wind was summoned that carried leaves and the Greenwood Coven were teleported to Cracker Island.


Nikki Watanabe, Amanda, & Victoria Blackmore
The Halloween Festival, Docks to Festival Market.


Drake scratched his “beard”.

As part of this costume that Victoria made for him he had a wig and a fake beard that had that weird plant-crown thing. Drake had a toga on; naturally, Victoria wanted it to cover his whole chest, but Drake ain’t going to the gym for nothing! He let the left side hang and revealed his fucking dinner plate pecs! His costume.

He was Zeus.

Drake went over to the edge of the ferry and hung his head off it, getting barraged by the winds as he got closer and closer to Cracker Island! A funny ass name if he said so himself. However, he looked back at his sisters (and cousin), and the rest of them were dressed up as other Greek Gods. Victoria dressed up as Athena, Amanda dressed up as Artemis, Nikki dressed up as Hestia… and the Blackmore Triplets dressed up as Cerebus, one big dog costume. It was pretty goofy, but this was the first time Drake had attended the Halloween Festival in years since that was for kids! The boat docked and the Blackmores got off the boat, with Victoria pushing the stroller with her triplets.

“So…” Amanda said as she skipped. “Where are your friends at?”

“Shit, I gotta call Sully,” Drake said.

“While I do want to have that talk…” Victoria trailed off, “I’m not going to have the triplets around while you all drink.”

“It’s cool…” Drake went through his contacts until he found Sully’s, and hit call…

…and a phone rang from behind Drake as Sully struck, wrapping his arms around Drake’s chest from behind and began lifting him in a bear hug.

“ZOOOOOOOOOS MY BOY! HA HA!” yelled Sully, a pained grunt escaping from his mouth as he felt his muscles rebel against the deadlift. He spun Drake around and exchanged with him the classic handshake that gets pulled into a hug, the universal sign of true bros everywhere. “Goddamn Drake you committed to the costume. You’re sculpted out of solid fucking marble man!”

It was at that moment Sully noticed the rest of the Blackmores, including the children. He pulled at the color of his button up and grimaced, acting before he could get chastised, “Oh, sorry Vic. Good to see you and the kiddos.”

“Hold on, lemme introduce everybody. This is Drake, Amanda, Victoria, and Nikki. And this is,” Sully stumbled over his words as he turned as he realized introducing them all as Greenwood was a bad, stupid, dumb idea. He gestured broadly at whatever members of the Greenwood Coven had followed behind him, “Uhhhh, this is everybody!”

“... THE GANG!” Jessica shouted.

“I’m James,” He said with a shit-eating grin.

“Naomi,” She said as she hugged him.

“Pearl,”

“Autumn,”

“Kashmira Sarai!”

“I’m the rootinus tootinus Jessica Rosefey!” She hopped over and extended a hand to Drake. “It's great to meet ya’!”

Drake looked down at her hand, then grinned.

“... Colorful group of friends you got here, Sully,” Drake said as he shook her hand.

“We’re missing the “leader” of our friend group, Rubes,” Jess said.

“She probably forgot to come!” James shouted.

“She said she’ll be her-”

“...Are those cat ears?!” Drake shouted. “And are you two wearing fedoras!?”

“Run-DMC…” Naomi facepalmed, “Ever heard of ‘em?”

Sully had shifted over to Autumn and was quite obvious as attempted to quietly dig through her stroller, nearly cutting his hand on James’s axe. He shoved something under his jacket and rejoined Drake by his side, loudly whispering to his friend as he winked at Naomi, “They’re Aerosmith’s backup singers. Now we can wait for Ruby to join us if we want or leave her a trail of breadcrumbs if we don’t, but first we should be mature, fiscally responsible adults.”

Sully pulled his hand out of his jacket, revealing the Chalice of their dreams, and threw his other arm around Drake’s shoulder. “Let’s pregame! Just one drink, I swear.”



“TOGA! TOGA! TOGA!”

One drink had become many. Two clearly drunk men stumbled their way through crowds surrounding the vendors, unbothered by the continuing rain or how they had gotten separated from the rest of their group. Red wine splashed from Sully’s Chalice as he pumped it up and down in the air with their chanting. Drake was still dressed like Zeus but at some point Sully had traded out his pilot costume and ascended Mt. Olympus for a toga of his own, anointing himself as the avatar of Dionysus. However, this Dionysus had gotten his pilot’s license, because Sully still wore the cap. The two had the brilliant idea to turn the Halloween Festival into a toga party, partially inspired by everyone’s inability to lay off Amelia for not wearing an actual costume. They were now on an extremely important mission. Their goal? Secure more togas.

If there was anywhere to find an abundance of white sheets large enough to cover a body, it had to be on Cracker Island.

“TOGA! TOGA! TOGA!”

The parading Parthenon party proceeded to bless the various stalls with their presence, empowered by the hands and voices raised at them in prayer and most certainly not anger or annoyance. Blitzed and bumbling, the bros were blissfully unaware that they were about to cross their paths with a sister of Scylla and a worshiper of Artemis. Blending her way through the crowds and the stalls was a young woman in a black channeling the spirit of an executioner: hood up, face covered. She stalked, shifted, and shoved her way closer to her destination, her mind so focused on the onetrack ahead of her that everything around her darkened as she tunneled oneward. She was locked in; a storm cloud chasing a murder of crows.

“TOGA! TOGA! TO-GYAH!!”

Sully and Vashti collided together, their two very important missions pulled to a grinding halt by a chance and literal run-in outside of Auri’s shuttered stall that knocked both of them down. Vashti was the first up, back to her feet with a lightning fast kip-up, eyes wild, fingers tensed back and ready to strike down the sudden assailant. Sully was much slower, content to take the moment on his back as he caught his breath and stared in amazement at the Chalice he still held above him, shocked by how none of the wine had spilled, forgetting that Drake and him had already drank the last fill. Sully managed to sit himself up, hoping that he didn’t soil the back of his toga with any mud, and found the Unabomber burning a hole through his skull. He only recognized Vashti when she pulled her shawl down. From the rumors he’d heard, he would’ve preferred that it had been the Unabomber.

“Hey, bro,” said Vashti as she squatted down and got eye level. “You seen Lila?”

“Uh, hey, uh, no,” said Sully, noting her intenseness even through his own drunkenness. She looked like she was ready to rip his head off. In times like these, there was only one solution. A splash of blood red wine slopped over the rim of the Chalice as Sully’s hand shook. “Want a drink?”

A frenzied look crossed Vashti’s face as her lips cracked and peeled apart, tongue scraping against her teeth as it tasted the wet air, her hand slicing through the air with swiftness and precision. Sully closed his eyes tight, his breathing stilled and his knuckles white.

The world went dark.



The rain stopped.

The clouds dispersed.

The sun had set.

The stars aligned.

“Toga, toga, toga!”

A conga line had formed: Sully, Drake, and Vashti. The hoodie had been ditched for a fresh, crisp toga that revealed old scars, new bruises, and detailed tattoos on Vashti’s arms of sea monsters, storms, and witches burning at the stake. She took a swig of the Chalice, the warmth of the wine melting her ice cold blood, and passed it back up the line, taking the opportunity to “accidentally” press up against Drake. For now, what Lila had coming her way was nothing more than a thought struggling to swim in the cesspool of Vashti’s mind. Thirsty glances at Drake’s physique and the feel-good buzz of alcohol that counteracted whatever else had run its course in her system helped to hold down the thoughts of Lila’s doom until the bubbles stopped coming to the surface, free of the violent thoughts until they bloated and bobbed back up to the surface like they always did regardless of how many stones she put in their pockets or cement blocks she tied to their limbs.

Vashti smiled.

“Toga, toga, toga!”

In the blink of an eye, the conga line began to reek of marijuana as another guest added on, grabbing onto the back of Vashti’s shoulders was none other than Ruby White. Also drunk off her tits and high as a kite, she had a toga of her own on, but it was unknown if that was her costume or she saw the conga line and decided to change attire (though with Ruby it could be one or the other).

“Toga, toga, toga!”

It was all fun and games…

“... Vashti.”


… Until the party pooper came.

Emily G. Reed, in fresh dragon pajamas after getting literally shit on and bombed. She had her fists on her hip as the disappointment on her face could be sensed by a blind man!

“... Where the hell were you?” Emily asked, tilting her head. “Those sluts beat me up!”

Vashti broke free of the toga line.

“I said I’ll handle it, Emily. Look!” she jerked her head towards Drake. “I’m trying to get that slut over there to beat me up, too. You know what they say: when the goalie’s six feet under you’re basically guaranteed to score. So come on dude, don’t cockblock me okay, geez!”

Then Vashti grabbed Emily’s wrist and began pulling her to join the line as she shouted, “Sully!! TOGA!!!”

“Wha- no!” Emily shook her head, before she looked at Drake, baring teeth as she stomped on the ground. “... BLACKMORE!”

“... Drake,” he said, flipping his fake wig. “Drake Blackmore. You forget there are like five... No, like seven. Seven of us.”

“Your slutty frie-”

A shadow loomed over Emily as Sully tossed a balled-up blanket her way, and it hit her directly in the face - unfurling somewhat as it draped down both sides of her. She was awestruck as she took a moment to pull the cloth off her and hold it in both hands. As she looked up at Vashti,

“Okay, I got the fuckin’ dragon pajamas Miranda got me to wear, but there is no way I am…”

Emily sighed. Wearing this stupid toga over her dragon costume, making her look even stupider.

“... Toga, toga… toga…” Emily muttered while in the conga line, doing this idiotic dance.

“... Please kill me.”
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 → 3 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

Interactions: Anya @Fernstone & Jack @Blizz
Resort Bar. The Halloween Festival


Sloane edged forward as Anya was about to dish out her heart’s desires, her eyes darting to the waitstaff to throw a look that could read as annoyance their way instead of delivering the actual disappointed face to Anya. Although Sloane wasn’t actually disappointed: she was jealous. I’m quite happy being single and romance doesn’t appeal to me were the kind of things statements she wished she could deliver with such earnesty and sincerity as Anya did, but while Anya had told the truth for Sloane they would’ve been a lie. Perhaps she could say something like I’m certain I’ll end up alone and romance refuses to work with me with some kind of conviction given their basis in reality, but who would want to hear it?

A fourth drink magically appeared before her, or perhaps she had just looked the wrong way when the server dropped it off. Nevertheless, she had someone to whom she could whisper her secrets. She told her drink that she was jealous of Jack too. Leaving Shimmer wasn’t an option for her—she had locked herself inside of a gilded cage of her own design—but she imagined despite Jack’s insistence that there would be hundreds of handsome men just dying to go on not only a globetrotting but a dimension hopping adventure.

“It sounds like Jack doesn’t trust our taste in men, Anya,” said Sloane, with a hint of humor and a click of her tongue.

Then again maybe it was just a hint of a slur coming from a woman whose wildest nights typically consisted of a small glass of red wine and two and a half aspirin. She swirled her drink, the ice clinking against the sides of the glass. Why’d they have to make the cups so small? Not that she was close to finishing this one anyway. While the last glass had been way too easy, the task of finishing this one seemed daunting. She stuck to drinking it like one of those perpetual motion toy birds people would put on their desk to say that they weren’t just a loan officer but a fun loan officer, only her motion was reversed—picking up her glass, wetting her lips without hardly taking a sip, setting it down, and picking it back up again to repeat.

Anya had mentioned her parents. Bad parents were just another thing that the two women had bonded over. It was surprising that Anya had even brought them up. When it came to most people Sloane acted as if her parents were dead, often simply putting it as “they’re gone” and fixing anyone who pushed further with a stare so uncomfortable they had to fold on their line of questioning. However, with Anya and Jade she had shared everything: their crimes, their abandonment, their general awfulness. She glanced at Jack, curious to ask if he also resented his parents, but certain that she could guess the answer judging by how he’d spent the past decade outside of their world.

Plus, something else was weighing on her mind and for some three solid reasons (plus a few sips of the fourth) she found the heavily guarded gate and barbed wire fence that surrounded her personal thoughts suddenly manned only by a single sleeping guard with the door left ajar.

“I saw Drake,” she said cautiously. “On the ferry. That’s why I wanted to come here. I was worried that we’d run into one another and it’d be a thing. I know I shouldn’t have said what I said, but it doesn’t even come close to justifying what he did. And then he just went about his life, not once thinking to call or even text an apology, not even checking in to see if I was still alive. I don’t get it.“

Her right hand began to tremble. She placed her other hand over it and squeezed it to make it stop. Drake not apologizing for striking her wasn’t the only injustice that existed in the Coven. Britney was welcomed back with open arms while the splinter faction that her actions had created were kept out in the rain. Layla had been stripped of something that, as detestful as it was, could defend her while they were all being hunted, yet Luca was left to suffer with whatever he was dealing with—she didn’t know the full scope of the Rot, but she had seen the meds. Jinhai was a jar in a cabinet and his sister was still a bitch but a bitch with more love in her life than Sloane ever had and yet she was still an ice cold bitch. And, for some reason so stupid she couldn’t comprehend, as if he was only doing it just to do it, Jasper still hated her for some inconceivable reason.

“I don’t get it,” she repeated, the follow-up question only in her head: Am I that unlikable? It shouldn’t bother me.

But it does.

“Whatever!” Sloane found the will inside of her to finish her drink, practically slammed the table with her hands, and stood with only the slightest of stumbles. “Drake doesn’t deserve to occupy any of our thoughts just like these hoity-toity snobs here wouldn’t deserve either of you if you had been interested. Let’s go back to the festival and check out the stalls.”

Sloane looked at her watch and frowned, “I should probably check in on mine, actually…”
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 → 3 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

Interactions: Anya @Fernstone & Jack @Blizz
Resort Bar. The Halloween Festival


What most people would mistake for breathing and blinking was actually an absolute avalanche of expressions, the mix of horror and amusement dusting off the slopes of Sloane’s face and melting as they mixed within her second drink. It wasn’t as tough to get down as the first one, at least until Anya mentioned the fisting. Sloane made what could only ever be described as some kind of noise, one that would be impossible to replicate if she tried, and immediately clapped a gloved hand over her mouth. It was actually a strategic maneuver that perfectly coincided with the appropriate time to show shock, as she wasn’t covering a gasp but rather covering up the old fashioned that she had snorted out of her nose. She kept her hand over her mouth until she was sure there was no evidence on her upper lip and to give herself something to bite to keep herself from screaming as the inside of her nose burned from the whiskey.

Maybe it’d go away if she took another sip of her drink. (It didn’t, but perhaps a bigger sip?)

"I have a feeling he only pretends to be so disgustingly stupid, and I'm well-versed in the art of lying to someone's face," said Jack. "But, your sacrifice will not be forgotten."

Lying was a weird habit to brag about. She didn’t really see any value in it anyway—there was never any need to lie if things were done right, while lying to protect people from the truth was just delaying the pain until later. Sloane looked at Jack, trying to discern if the only person he was lying to about being a good liar was himself. It was difficult to get a read on him, but that could just be because his face was obscured by the robes of his costume. It was unfair, but a small part of her was happy because it meant there existed a reality where he hadn’t just lied to her. Dishonesty was disgusting, unlike this old fashioned. It was starting to taste quite good.

“Yes, if you ever need anything just name it, Anya. But I don’t know about your theory, Jack. Sometimes people are just that stupid,” said Sloane, glancing out to the sea and thinking about how she’d seen Drake earlier. She went ahead and took that bigger sip. She might have finally acquired the taste for alcohol, but it still wasn’t making her feel good. Just a little too warm for comfort, actually. She was actually grateful to see that a cooling rain had startedt.

"As far as 'dates' go, it was the worst I’ve ever been on. It reminded me of why I haven't been dating for the last few years," said Anya. Sloane turned her head, interest piqued—and also to try and flag down another server. ”I don’t think I’ll be going on another anytime soon”

“I don’t know, Anya. Trevor is obviously a creep but if that was the worst date you went on I don’t see why you should give up on finding someone,” said Sloane, trading her empty glass for a full one. “Seriously. I’ve been on worse dates than that one this year.”

Oh.
Fuck!

One gulp and Sloane finished half her drink and, yes, if anybody asked the glass was half-empty. The panic set in, although panic in this case looked like a woman in her late twenties daintily dabbing at her lips with a cocktail napkin. Her dating life was not a subject that was up for discussion. It was something to keep locked away in her vault, next to all of her artifacts and counterfeits that were missing and a copy of her seven-year-plan for the city that was now absolutely useless because she was going to have to leave town after tonight. She had to pivot now and she had to pivot hard. So much for doing anything for Anya, Sloane was about to offer her up as a sacrifice again.

“You know what I think, Jack? I think to thank Anya for her sacrifice we should take it upon ourselves to find her an actual date with an actual guy who is deserving of someone so brilliant and beautiful. Don’t you think so too, Jack?” said Sloane, blinking out an SOS that even if Jack failed to pick up Anya would surely notice, so she tried blocking Anya from her view by brushing away at a phantom thread of hair. At all cost, she was going to avoid eye contact with Anya. She began to crane her neck, looking around the bar for eligible bachelors. “Surely we can find you someone here.”

“What’s your type anyway? You never really talk about guys,” said Sloane, forgetting what she had just told herself as she took a sip of her old fashioned and made eye contact with Anya. She didn’t pull her mouth away from the drink until her teeth touched glass, “Um, you too Jack. I’m sure we can find someone for you here too. I'll just play matchmaker. And keep an eye out for a server, also…”

Or a gun she could shoot herself with.


Interactions: Don't worry, bro
Cracker Island. The Halloween Festival


Rip.

Tear.

Rip and tear, tear and rip. Freshly polished nails flashing, claws slashing, in and out, animal style. Real savage ultraviolence. Faster and faster and faster. Teeth gnashing, eyes bulging, chest heaving. Rip and tear, tear and rip. Hands wet, face splattered. Kill, kill, kill. Soaked insides spilled all over the ground as limbs flew. Heavy breathing, seeing red. Hands ripping at her throat, claws tearing at her chest. More, more, more. All of history’s violence before this was just preamble, laying down the groundwork of brick after bloodsoaked brick for this massacre right here, right now.

Absolute carnage.

Pure horror.

No calls would be made when the body was discovered, drenched and eviscerated. No tape would be put up around the area, no sheriff would be shaking their head and questioning what sick fuck would do something like this, no lookie-loos would be trying to sneak a peek of the scene to add a little excitement to their boring routine. No time of death would be called, no next of kin would be called, and no funeral would be held. Nothing would come of the pointless violence, except perhaps the mild frustration of a groundskeeper as they went about picking up the torn up bits of synthetic fiber and cheap polyester that made up the shredded remnants of a giant stuffed bear and a crocodile onesie.

An act of frustration?

Or a warm-up?

The top of a black hoodie poked out from around the scene of the crime’s corner, nearly impossible to see in the rain. The storm continued to expand over the festival, the light drizzle gaining a bit of umph and turning into a proper rain shower. The black hoodie joined the crowd that was still too determined to have a good evening to let a little rain ruin it, unaware that they had become camouflage and human shields. Families with young children, teenagers on first dates, and young adults desperately trying to hang on to that qualifier paid little attention to the black hoodie as they passed by, unaware that they had just brushed against death but were fortunate enough for today to not be their day. The black hoodie pulled back its sleeve, massaged its wrist, and flexed its fingers.

Five digits, five targets.

Which little piggy was first?

But first: buzz buzz, buzz buzz! A neon pink phone vibrated in its pocket, the catchy pop song used for the ringtone drowned out by the noise of the festivities.

“Yeah?” said Vashti, muffled by the shawl covering the lower half of her face. She pulled the Leviathan’s Veil away from her mouth. “Sorry, what? What? Fucking what? Who!?”

A pause.

“You mean Lila?”

Another pause.

“Mmm, this kinda sounds like a hate crime, bro. Huh? Oh, no, I’ll take care of it, obvi. Can’t let them make us look weak. Hm? What do you mean by who’s them? Them as in Sycamore them. What other them is there?” asked Vashti, her eyes widening in shock as she cackled wickedly. “Ohmigawd, dude! Dude, stop! You’re the worst! I’m hanging up. Don’t you ever call this number again!”

For now the little pigs were safe, there was a loose bird that needed caging. Vashti pulled the shawl back up over her nose, covering the cruel smile on her face. With the shawl over her face and the black hood over her head she looked like the kind of person who attended a peaceful protest because it gave them the opportunity to throw molotov cocktails and smash in windows. A Halloween costume that was in poor taste at best and an understatement of things to come at worst.

Not like she gave a shit.

Time. To. Hunt.
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 → 4 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

Interactions: Anya @Fernstone & Jack @Blizz
Resort Bar. The Halloween Festival


Sloane was ever thankful for Anya: there was no whinging over the change of plans and no unnecessary asking of what’s wrong, just a decisive agreement and a quick call to action. Sloane followed her and Jack to a shady spot and then, steeling herself for the nauseating jump, placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder. Rain began to fall on them as the silhouette of an international thief, a southern gothic swamp witch, and a shade huddled together behind a stall. There was a passing gaggle of teenage girls, one complaining loudly about the rain, and after they passed the area behind the stall was completely empty. The three popped into existence on the other side of the island, about a hundred feet away from the resort, with Sloane massaging her temple as the shadows unwrapped themselves from her.

The large resort was dark and closed for the season, the orange and red leaves of the large trees nearby making the entire tropical island aesthetic of the resort feel extremely out of place. The beach looked like a husk of itself. In the summer large umbrellas, beach chairs, and volleyball nets would line the shores, but they had all been stored away for the winter leaving it barren except for the volleyball net posts and a couple of lifeguard stands. The beautiful sandy shores of Cracker Island, as they were referred to in the brochure, had been washed away by the tide, returning the beach to its naturally rocky self until the owners called for sand to be shipped in again before it reopened in May. Its reopening always shocked Sloane, who assumed people would rather summer in the Caribbeans or the Mediterranean than in temperate, always cloudy St. Portwell, but every year it opened back up without fail.

The majority of the resort might’ve appeared dead, but the bar itself was still very much alive as the trio made their way up the drive. The resort’s bar was split between two parts with the circular bar itself being the center. One part was a large, roofed patio right along the beach that could be closed off from the elements if needed and where the majority of partygoers in and out of costume appeared to be gathered. The other half of the bar was inside the resort and hidden behind a series of thick, velvety curtains. Nobody but staff, dressed in typical serving attire except for the addition of a mardi gras mask, seemed to move into the curtained off section.

Sloane led Anya and Jack up to the check-in station outside of the bar, getting them in with no trouble. The gaudy halloween decorations that hung around the rest of the festival were replaced in favor for more tasteful autumnal decor, uncarved pumpkins and gourds displayed with elaborate arrangement of corn husks. Thick, artificial wax candles hung from the ceiling, giving the bar a warm glow as the gathering storm clouds blocked out what could’ve been a beautiful sunset. A four piece string band was playing quietly at one end of the bar, largely ignored, their music drowned out by conversations from the movers and shakers of St. Portwell. They got their drinks, Sloane sticking true to her word, and found a high-top table to crowd around that overlooked the dreary beach.

“Well we made it a week,” said Sloane. “Cheers to the PRA, I guess.”

She raised her glass in a half-hearted salut and then took a sip of her old fashioned. It was an excellent drink wasted on someone who did not particularly drink or enjoy the taste of alcohol, often stating how she failed to see how anybody could enjoy losing control of their faculties. However, tonight was Halloween, and for Halloween she was going as somebody who actually enjoyed letting their hair down. As Linqian had eloquently put it, ”Nobody needs your protection. Nobody's making you worry about the city when you could live a great fucking life, sad and alone.” It was funny to Sloane. As it turned out, in the life she currently chose to live she also often felt sad and alone, she just hadn’t realized that was what she had been feeling until Linqian said it. She took another sip and actually winced as the second taste was more difficult to stomach than the first.

“But whatever. I don’t want to talk about any of that stuff tonight. Tonight I want to just pretend like I am living a normal life where I can enjoy some drinks with a couple of friends and chat about nothing,” said Sloane. Even when she was around friends she felt sad and alone. She didn’t feel like anyone actually knew her, not even Anya. They just knew a handful of Sloane facts like the ones on cards they put up next to the display of zoo animals in cages: did you know that the average Sloane can drink up to three cups of tea a day, buys approximately eight books a month yet only actually reads about half, and is a Capricorn? She looked down at her drink, speared the cherry with a cocktail straw, and pulled it off the straw with her teeth. She felt her stomach knot.

“Um,” was about as far as she got for conversation starters. It was easier to talk to people when there was a goal, a solvable crisis that at the end of the conversation she could look and go: there, we did it. She kept thinking about Linqian, and how Linqian had family that she cared about, and how that family cared about Linqian, whereas Sloane had only abstracts: the people, the city, the right thing. None of those things, as Linqian had pointed out, needed her. Goddamnit, did she even ask to pay for Jinhai’s funeral because she wanted to or because she simply liked the idea of someone tangible relying on her?The former, remember, you don’t care what others think, right? She finished her drink and waved over a cocktail server, ordering another old fashioned.

“So," Sloane shifted her weight, looking tired. "What do you want to talk about?”
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 → 4 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

Interactions: Britney@Punished GN Layla@Estylwen Edict@AtomicEmperor & Linqian @Fernstone
Cracker Island. The Halloween Festival


“Some way to greet an old friend, Vashti.”

Vashti's neck snapped towards the buzzing. Her face was frozen in a horrific expression like the paintings of a paranoid schizophrenic done on acid: her bottom lip curled out and mouth still hung and twisted from her latest “c’mon”, her noses wrinkled and upturned, her eyes buggy and wide as she gave the littlest of the bees a bleary once over, all of which was trying to escape out from the gullet of a toothy crocodile. Her lips unfroze and mouthed “old friend” as if it was the most perplexing thing someone has ever said to her. A reel of old film spun through and played her fuzzy memory, footage of a familiar bee standing in the background like an extra, before the film caught flame and spun loose. Then her mind went oh, oh, oh oh oh as she realized the truth: this bee was obviously just a no good goddamn liar. They weren’t friends.

What kind of psychopath lied about being friends with someone?

“Oh my bad, bro, I didn’t recognize you. Now buzz, buzz, Layla, buzz, buzz. I gotta talk to my friend Britney,” said Vashti as she gave Layla a friendly flashing of fangs. Her smile stretched the limits of her mouth as she fantasized about finding a tall building or a cliff and testing the baby bee’s ability to fly after she tore off its wings.

"I'm not scared of you, either. In fact. I'll kill you here and now if that's what you want," said Britney.

“See?” Vashti gestured to the bees. “Toxic.”

"Woah! Woooooah, God Damn, I guess you really embraced life as Emily's pet lizard!? Vashti twisted her body so that she could see the approaching dead man without turning her back on Britney’s hive. “Clear the fuck off, Nashty Hoor, before someone calls animal control."

“Good one,” Vashti laughed fakely at Greyson’s joke and held her hands up as if she were under arrest. She took a small step back, but the storm continued to expand.
What, were they having a reunion here or something? Linqian was here too. Her laugh shifted and became a genuine cackle as she noted their costumes, “Bro, that’s an amazing costume! You look just like the guy who doesn’t get laid after his senior prom.”Vashti squinted and, hands still held in surrender, pinched her right thumb and forefinger together until they were just separated by a hair. She began speaking at the same time as Linqian, “Is that why you’re with little dick riding h—”

Linqian was coming in hot, yelling fuck this fuck that like some fucking ignorant bitch, or perhaps it was more accurate to say that she was coming in cold. Vashti found herself the centerpiece in a snowglobe for the Florida Gators. What the heck was even happening? All she had wanted was one simple private conversation and everybody was acting like she was an absolute sociopath for it. Meanwhile, they’re behaving monstrously like they were complete and total animals. She felt adrenaline surge through her system as her fight or flight system kicked in. A quick headcount, factor in the witnesses, multiple by how much Emily would yell at her, and divided by how many fucks Vashti gave at the moment. Sadly, she was becoming far too coherent for how she had intended to be this evening.

"—huh?"

So when Linqian misspoke and made it sound like Vashti was getting invited to an impromptu orgy she got fully distracted by the false promise, noting that the hottie versus nottie ratio was unusually favorable. In that moment of excitement, she didn't notice what Linqian was moving to do.

“WAH!!” screamed Vashti in surprise as Linqian grabbed her wrist. The immediate shock of the cold was replaced by the searing heat of pain as the left sleeve of her costume began to stiffen as Linqian’s grip threatened to inflict Vashti’s hand with frostbite. Rationally, in this moment a person would want to get away from their source of pain as quickly as possible. However, in this moment, as with most any other moment, rationality wasn’t really something in Vashti’s kit. Thunder rumbled as the rain picked up, the storm continuing to expand and begin to threaten to encroach on the rest of the festival area. No, she had little to no rationality, but what she did have was instinct.

”Fuck right off before I shove my knee up your fucking crocodile ass.”

And instinct told her that those words would be Linqian’s last.

Linqian was close enough to feel the shift in Vashti’s body as her muscles tightened like a coil, getting ready to strike. The murderous intent was clear in Vashti’s eyes. There was the presence of something else too as her pupils momentarily became elongated and narrow as her eyes shifted to a putrid yellow-green before returning back to their normal bloodshot brown. She grinned, more a baring of teeth really, her tongue licking her canines hungrily. Linqian would see that her magic was hurting Vashti; she would also see that the woman did not care. Vashti couldn’t be to blame for anything that happened next. Linqian had just put her hand in the mouth of a crocodile.

Britney’s words bounced off of Vashti’s ears—if Emily was getting her ass kicked, then that just meant she was weak and unworthy. This was so, so, so much more vital than anything else in the world. Her free hand shot back and twitched in anticipation, overwhelmed by the bountiful buffet of options: even frozen meat was still meat. Snapping in her knee would’ve been poetic, while slicing open her stomach until her blouse matched the red of her hood would be beautifully artistic. No, no, no, both were too intense too quickly. For hurting Vashti it was clear that Linqian wanted the long, personalized experience, but there simply wasn’t time! Like bobbing for apples she would have to be quick if she wanted the prize, and there were just so many other juicy McIntoshes around that she couldn’t savor a sour Granny Smith like Linqian.

A simple tracheotomy then. The snow danced around her nails as they flashed through the air towards Linqian’s throat. Just moments prior Sabrina had stepped forward, her last name leaving her mouth at the same time Vashti took her swing. The intensity faded from Vashti’s eyes as her trajectory slowed down and diverted. If Linqian had made the mistake of standing her ground instead of backing down the hit would connect. However, it was no longer a lethal, spine-severing slash, but a mere painless and playful pat-pat of the cheek followed by Vashti wrenching her wrist free of Linqian’s grip with ease. She backed away from Linqian, smiling, her hand rubbing her wrist and trying to warm it.

“No need, Ms. Vanburen, no need! We're just fooling around,” said Vashti, chipper as ever, to Sabrina. Then she turned to the remnants of Sycamore.

“But god, you all are so fucking lame now. Lighten up, lighten up. It’s Halloween! I was just joking around with you, Britney. It was a prank, bro, a prank,” said Vashti with a little witch cackle, backstepping, body still tensed and ready to strike if anybody tried anything. She grabbed the massive stuffed bear off of the ground, its fur heavy with snow and rain, and slung it over her shoulders as if she were carrying a wounded soldier. “I know when I’m not welcome. Which reminds me, if you see Sloane tell her to drop by the manor again tomorrow. Emily should finally be free.”

Vashti smiled at a private joke and took a few more steps back into the darkness of the bad weather.

“Love your costumes by the way. Very cool. Very, very recognizable. Real easy to spot even in this weather. Anyway, I hope you all have fun tonight. I know I will. Party like there’s no tomorrow, bros,” she said, her voice falling flat. She became little more than a crowd surfing stuffed bear as she slipped back into the safety of a group of festival goers. A voice rumbled from the crowd like distant thunder as the rain continued, showing no sign of giving up just yet. It said, ''Be seeing you. Be seeing you real soon.”
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 → 4 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

Interactions: Mentions Drake @Punished GN
Ferry. The Halloween Festival


Sloane became one with the crowd as she was herded onto the ferry, just a Carmen Sandiego caught in a sea of Barbies, pirates, and superheroes. Soon she had faded from sight, her eye-catching red hat countered by her short stature, before suddenly reappearing at the bow of the ferry as she stepped upon a ledge. Normally she found the sea calming. Being around boats reminded her of the handful of times her family had actually felt like one, and the open water served as the greatest barrier there was to separate someone from their stressors. However, sailing lost all of its charm and mystique when it was aboard what was essentially a public bus on floaties, the smell of the salt and the whisper of the wind replaced by the stench of body odor and the shouting of children. Sloane was like a princess who had been dumped out of her palanquin while taking a tour of the market to be amongst the common people—immediately full of regret. Next time she’d take the yacht or, better yet, take Jack up on his services, even if a step through the shadows left her feeling queasy.

Sloane leaned against the railing, impatience wearing upon her as the ferry chugged across the harbor towards Cracker Island. Jinhai and Linqian’s situation weighed heavily upon her mind. She would uphold her end of the deal. Jinhai would have a memorial service and a burial. Even if everybody else was as financially irresponsible as Linqian and unable to contribute or as unbelievably callous as Linqian (fuck off, give the woman a break)and refused to contribute it would happen. She would make it happen. Sloane wanted to be able to visit him, even if “him” was just a slab of carved marble where ashes had been scattered. She sighed. The people she cared about kept being taken from her and she felt as if she was powerless to stop it. Hell, she couldn’t even get Emily’s cronies to let her have a conversation with the leader of 8th Street.

She couldn’t even let herself enjoy the Halloween Festival. Sloane shook her head. Emily, Jinhai, Father Wolf—none of those problems could be solved tonight. She’d have a drink or two, eat some funnel cake, critique the stands of the other vendors with Anya, and make Jack give her a lift home so she didn’t have to bother with public transportation ever again. The Halloween Festival was Sloane’s night and she was going to enjoy herself. Absolutely nobody would be able to ruin it.

A man’s voice cut through the murmur of the crowd and the second loop of the Monster Mash as he shouted, ”I’m goin as ZOOOOOOOOOS!”

Sloane immediately recognized the voice, the realization hitting her like a punch to the nose. Her eyes snapped in the direction of the shout as she pulled her hat down to cover her face and tucked her chin into her yellow scarf, becoming little more than a pair of dark eyes and a crooked, still healing nose. Drake was on the ferry with his sisters and his cousin, dressed in a toga, a white wig, and a fake beard. The blood hummed in her ears. He had an entire week to apologize, to come crawling back to her on his hands and knees, to beg for forgiveness and kiss the ring but instead there had been silence. No text, no call, no gifts or letters. She had assumed he had been rightfully hiding away in his room, staring at the wall, realizing how much he had screwed up. To see him out here having fun with his family was like an icicle to the heart. Jade was dead and he was prancing around half-naked dressed (and looking like) a Greek god.

Sloane hopped off of the ledge and disappeared back into the crowd, hopefully vanishing before Drake would notice her. She was ever so grateful for the common folk as her loyal, royal subjects used their bodies as barriers to protect their princess from the Blackmore barbarians.


Interactions: Britney@Punished GN & Layla @Estylwen
Cracker Island. The Halloween Festival


Hey, be cool okay?

Bright lights spun like a carnival wheel in kaleidoscope eyes. Arms swung and head bobbed to music nobody else heard. So many colors, some without names. Campfire smoke and wet leaves; the scent of the season. Everyone showing skin or in someone else’s. Bodies, pushing, being pushed, rushing to the next attraction. Cackling witches and booing spirits. Caramel apples and the elevated acceptance that the fun in fun-sized is being able to justify another candybar. Yet another justifiable excuse to paint a face like a cat. Smoke pouring from pumpkins that hid fog machines; smoke pouring from port-a-potties that hide giggling teens. Spaghetti for brains and peeled grapes for eyes, oh how spooky-ooky.

Don’t freak out dude.

Picture this: a crocodile cutting in a queue by pretending to know the ninja near the front. A crocodile getting scared by a bloody clown and grabbing the arm of a stranger. A crocodile chugging a bottle of water and tossing it on the ground: hydration was important, but fuck the world. A crocodile staring down at a row of festival games, paralyzed by the options. A crocodile sitting at a booth spraying a water gun, making the little horsey race faster,yah yah bitch yah yah. A crocodile hugging a massive bear, ignorant of the upset children and angry parents around it. A crocodile nodding its head up and down as it learned that calling six year old little bitches is frowned upon (even if they were little bitches), using its crocodile hands to make mister bear nod along in agreement. A crocodile and mister bear sharing a funnel cake on a bench, powder on mister bear’s snout.

See, the bear knows how to party.

So much more to do. So much more to do. What’s next? What’s next? Hay ride, corn maze, get a pumpkin beer in a glass boot? No, no, no. Gotta be something better, gotta be something bigger. Oh, welcome to the coven mister bear. Let’s find the rest of 8th street. No fuck them they’d just slow the night down. New friends? Find new friends. Anyone could be a new friend. Nah, friends suck. So what’s next? What’s next? What’s up? What’s going on? Oh right. Right, right, right. Gotta show mister bear the haunted house. “Haunted house, haunted hoooouse.” Okay mister bear maybe in a less annoying voice. Put a little bass in it. Haunted house, haunted house. Let’s, —go!”

A crocodile and a large, six-foot tall stuffed bear stopped in front of a beekeeper and two bees.

“Oh!” Vashti pointed at Britney and pushed up the snout on her crocodile onesie as if to confirm that she had the right person. Her heavily dilated eyes widened and shined like the high beams of an oncoming semi suddenly and swiftly rounding the bend on a winding mountain road moments before a wrecked car would be launched over the cliff. The darkening of the sky was no longer just courtesy of the murder of crows flying in front of the setting sun. A single raindrop splashed off the top of Britney’s costume as Vashti let go of the stuffed animal, the oversized bear slumping forward on its face. Vashti smiled a sharp little shark smile that only grew wider as she envisioned popping Britney’s eyeballs like grapes and squishing her brains in her hands like wet noodles.

“Hey bro! It’s been so long. Am I happy to see that you’re well!” shouted Vashti, her words coming out with a rapid fire ra-ta-ta-tat. Dark clouds gathered over a small portion of Cracker Island as a light localized drizzle began, a collective groan coming out of the mouths of nearby festival goers who had been lied to by the forecast. Vashti began to close the distance between herself and Britney, squashing down the head of the stuffed animal as she stepped on it. It was hard to see, but the rain parted around Vashti as she walked, with the only part of her costume getting wet being the crocodile tail that dragged behind her.

“So, so happy! So happy. Emily’s gonna be thrilled to hear that you’re here. Love the hazmat suit, super fucking fitting. Everything around you always turns toxic real fast. You know,” Vashti lowered her voice as she stared up at the much taller Britney, “I am really, really happy to see you, man. I—OY, WE’RE HAVING A FUCKING PRIVATE CONVERSATION HERE, BRO! SHIT!" Vashti swatted at the air between her and Layla, not even recognizing the former Coven member. “Give me some air, dude! Buzz off, bees! Buzz buzz!”

Vashti made shooing motion with her hands at Sabrina and Layla.

“God some fucking people, bro. Some fucking people. So rude,” said Vashti , lowering her voice but not slowing down her pace as she leaned back towards Britney. “I don’t even remember what I was saying so it’s probably not—oh yeah! I don’t have to tell Emily. You know how she tends to just make everything me, me, me. We should go before one of her little cronies sees ya. Get outta the rain. Catch up.” Vashti loudly popped her knuckles. “Talk. Come on."

"Come on, let's go."

"C’mon."

"C’mon."

"C’mon…”


Interactions: Anya @Fernstone & Jack @Blizz
Cracker Island, Outside Cracker Town, USA. The Halloween Festival


“Come on, let’s go,” said Sloane with an uncommon urgency in her voice as she slipped between Jack and Anya and readjusted her hat. Sloane had escaped from the ferry as quickly as she could without actually running, burying her face in her phone to appear busy and resist the urge to look over her shoulder at the Blackmores. It hadn’t been too difficult to spot Anya or Jack waiting for her at the entrance of one of the large, sprawling displays of merchant booths that someone on a committee somewhere had either cheekily or absentmindedly named Cracker Town.

“Shopping can wait. I need a drink,” said Sloane. “Not from one of the stalls. It’s all run-of-the-mill IPAs and cheap, unpalatable wine. You might as well be drinking spoiled grape juice. I can get us into the private party being held at the resort's bar across the island.”

It was a party hosted by the yacht club. She had gone a few years prior in hopes of doing some business and it had been an absolute nightmare. Nothing but stodgy codgers smoking cigars, drinking whiskey, and being too “friendly” with the waitstaff. Sloane couldn’t decide what had been worse about the experience: how she kept getting asked what her husband did, or the sudden spike in their interest when she mentioned she didn’t have one. Still, Jack's presence, or really the presence of any other man in general, was typically enough to keep them at bay. Anything was better than having to deal with Drake or, worse, being completely and utterly ignored by him.

“First round is on me.”
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 → 4 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Why is everyone fucking called Malik this is the third


The Fourth. Sully is actually short for Malik.
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 → 4 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
I keep opening up the Raven Jones hider and keep getting fucking jump scared.

There are no jump scares in these NPC sheets.


In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 → 4 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

Sloane's Apartment, the night before...


Time passed, uncaring. The hours and days mixed and swirled together, blending and blurring like when faces and bodies suddenly lose definition and simply become a crowd. Sloane’s face took the center of the frame, the bandages over her nose and the continuity error of the sudden appearance and disappearance of a black hat lined with a veil the only thing changing as time lapsed while she blankly stared ahead like a mannequin. Only a slow zoom on her unflinching pupils reflected the changing scenery around her: a cramped dining room full of old crying women surrounding a table overloaded with untouched food. A wall of stiff shoulders standing at the ready as a flag was draped over a casket. A crew of baggage handlers testing the limits of the phrase “handle with care” as they unknowingly or unsympathetically chucked refrigerated crate holding remains into a cargo plane. A blazing furnace lighting up a dark, nearly empty room as a box is unceremoniously pushed into a fire, cutting to ashes being placed in an urn for nobody.

Sloane blinked as the elevator dinged, bringing her back to the here and now. The second it took between the elevator reaching the top of her apartment building and the doors opening dragged on for an eternity. She caught her reflection in the polished metal, the slight warping of the image making her appear as melted and exhausted as she felt. One farce and four funerals later, only the brief respite of stopping in at a Halloween popup had energized Sloane to make it through the rest of her day. She glanced down at her shopping bag, a hint of red fabric poking through the protective tissue paper, and breathed deeply. Attending the Halloween Festival at a time like this felt mad, yet the normalcy it brought about to her otherwise “unconventional” week was actually quite therapeutic. The elevator dinged again, the door opened, Sloane stepped through the threshold, and the doors slid shut behind her.

Sloane didn’t immediately feel unsafe as she approached the door to her penthouse. It took a moment for the unease to set in, like when accidental eye contact was made with a man across the bar and the sense of accomplishment she felt at managing to not awkwardly glance away suddenly shifted to a swell of anxiety as they took it as an invitation to approach. Her hand hesitated on the handle of her front door as she heard a faintly reminiscent jazz number playing on the other side of the door. She didn’t leave the stereo on when she left, and even if she did it certainly would’ve been tuned to something more melancholic and somber. She slipped a hand into her pocket and held on to her Channeler as she cautiously opened the door and crept down the hall as softly as her heels would let her. She wasn’t concerned that she didn’t know who was intruding in her home. She was concerned that she knew exactly who was here.

Her fears were realized as she turned the corner.

Sitting in her armchair, drinking her brandy, and listening to her stereo was an older man well into his sixties dressed in a casual suit, his slicked back hair doing little to cover the bald spot on his head. His eyes were closed behind the thick frames of his glasses and it was difficult to tell if he was bobbing his head along to the rhythm of the music poorly or if he was constantly catching himself from nodding off. Thumbing through her bookshelf was a woman in black that in the dim lamplight might as well have been Sloane’s doppelganger. Her brow furrowed in disapproval at the book she was reading, a look that matched the one of disgust on Sloane’s face as she saw her mother and father. The faint light of Lux flowing through her Channeler glowed from her pocket as the stereo clicked off and Sloane stepped further into the room, making her presence known.

“Sloaney, sweetie. You’re home,” said her father, getting up from his seat with a smile. The genuine warmth and happiness in his voice made Sloane freeze. The last time Sloane had seen Malik Faris he’d gunned down their butler Warren without an ounce of hesitation or regret, the same way a person would absentmindedly smash a mosquito. That had been over a decade ago.

“We’re going to miss our reservations,” said her mother, thumbing through the pages of a book. Yasmin Faris didn’t even look up to acknowledge Sloane. Unlike her father, Sloane had seen her mother within the last year. Unintentionally for both parties. It had not gone cordially.

“We’ll be fine,” said Malik as he took a few steps towards Sloane. He let out an easy laugh as he reached out to her. In the past ten years he had found some way to reconstruct the tips of his fingers. “Wow, look at you. Figured you would’ve outgrown the goth look by now.”

Quietly, almost inaudibly, the words muttered out, “...at a funeral…”

Sloane found herself knocked back into the mind of a seventeen-year-old girl whose father kept making “joking” comments about her appearance and broke eye contact with the man. On the rare occasions friends crossed paths with her father they always talked about how funny he was, seemingly uncaring that his punchlines only ever punched down on his daughter. She had grown since then. She snatched back the confidence he’d knocked away and wrapped it back around her like body armor. She didn’t care what this man or anyone thought about her (and for real this time, not like when she was a hormonal teenager screaming the same sentiment as she stomped out of a room, desperate for anybody’s approval).

“What happened to your face?” he asked with a look of concern that almost appeared genuine.

“I was at a funeral for a friend,” said Sloane more assertively, ignoring the question. She found some pleasure in the way her father recoiled uncomfortably. A glow of Lux again and the TV was on and muted, turned to the news, as the overhead lights fired up and a glass of brandy poured itself for Sloane as she walked by her father and grabbed the tumbler. “Why are you here?”

“Why does an old man need a reason to see his little girl? I just missed you, Sloaney. ” asked Malik, gesturing widely.

“Great. You saw me. Only took you ten years. See you in another decade,” she said.

Yasmin huffed sharply, “I told you this was a waste of time.”

“Hey, c’mon, you said you’d give her a chance,” said Malik.

“That was before she so rudely made us wait.”

“Stop talking like I’m not in the room,” said Sloane, turning to her mother who refused to look her way and instead found interest in a different book on the shelf. “What part of I was at a funeral didn’t you understand?”

“Right, no, we got it. Sorry for your loss, kiddo. Were you close with the departed?” asked Malik.

“No,” said Sloane

“Oh, one of those gotta make appearances or your social standings will go down kind of funerals, huh? Man I hate those. The dead won’t know if you show or not, so why does everyone else gotta be such a prick about it, yeah?”

“It wasn’t that either, said Sloane again. Finn’s funeral had been as barebones as it got. There were more staff on hand than visitors. “Nobody would’ve cared if I hadn't shown.”

“Hah. Then why go?”

Sloane didn’t know. It felt like the thing to do. She hoped when she went someone else would feel the similar obligation to show up and acknowledge that her life had some kind of impact. She took a sip of her brandy and left space in the conversation for silence to fill the room, interrupted only by the occasional shifting of paper on paper as her mother casually thumbed through a book. Her father shifted uncomfortably, opening his mouth to speak and immediately getting cut off by Sloane. “Why are you actually here?”

“Like I said, I wanted to see you,” said Malik.

“No, why are you actually here?”

“Um, well, again, to see my daug—”

“Cut the bullshit,” said Sloane firmly.

“She shouldn’t speak to you that way,” said Yasmin out of the side of her mouth. Sloane glanced at her mother. Talks of theft, blackmail, torture, and murder hardly made her mom blink, but colorful words always threatened to ruin the botox or make her eye do that twitching thing. Sloane couldn’t tell for certain, but for a moment she’d almost seen an eyebrow move. “We didn’t raise her to use such language.”

“You didn’t even raise me, Yasmin!” said Sloane, a rare hint of heat bubbling up in her voice. “I was raised by a Nicaraguan maid that you poisoned and an English butler that he shot right in front of me.”

“Sweetie, Warren and Maria—” Malik started.

“Her fucking name was Marta,” said Sloane, her voice raised but still controlled.

“Language!” hissed her mother, snapping the book shut.

“Right, right, sorry Sloaney. Memory’s the first thing to go, you know?” Malik chuckled, the laugh falling flat as his daughter’s expression did not lighten. “Look, Marta and Warren's deaths were a, well, a mercy killing. The city was doomed. Even if they had survived the attack from the Stygian Snake, which they wouldn’t, their families had all been wiped out during its assault. No parent wants to witness the loss of their child. I’m sorry you had to witness what happened to Warren, but it was the right thing to do sweetheart. It eased his suffering. I’m not happy we had to do it, but it was something that had to be done.”

“A mercy killing…”

“That’s right.”

Sloane sighed deeply as she sat forward, hair falling in her face as the dark reality of what her father had said set in as she stared into her drink. He truly believed he had done something noble and just by executing their staff instead of allowing them to witness atrocities and more suffering. A shadow was cast across her vintage rug as her mother moved to the other bookshelf, oozing and pooling across the carpet like the blood that had seeped out from Warren in the grand hall of her childhood home. She had seen countless deaths since then, but the first one would forever be burned in her mind. A seventy year old man, bald and liver spotted with a mustache like a walrus, white shirt soaked wine red, blood gargling out of his mouth as his lungs filled with blood from where her father had failed to hit his heart when he’d shot Warren in the chest.

“It took minutes for Warren to die. You could’ve shot him again,” said Sloane, watching the brandy swirl in her glass, disgusted that she even had it in herself to discuss the optimal method to perform a mercy killing, let alone to even pretend that it was anything other than just a murder.

“Jesus, kiddo. Wetwork was always more of your mother’s thing. I realized in that second that I was no killer. I freaked out. The reason I took so long to return was because I was having a panic attack in the next room. Honest. I’m not a bad guy, just a bad shot,” said Malik.

“You could’ve warned them. You could’ve sent them away with their families. Somewhere safe, ” said Sloane. Malik shook his head. Of course at the time her parents thought the world was ending. Almost everybody did. The Coven had proved them wrong. “You could’ve stayed. We stopped the Stygian Snake. You just abandoned me.”

“Hah!” Yasmin laughed so sharply that it caused Sloane to jump.

“Honey, please,” said Malik, waving his hand to silence his wife. “Sloaney, you got everything wrong. We tried to save you. You abandoned us.”

Silence fell over the room again as Sloane struggled to even comprehend the absurdity of the statement. What they had tried to do was abduct her, but even if in their misguided brains they somehow thought they were doing the right thing then why did they never bother trying to do it again? It wasn’t like her parents had waited until the final moment and left when the ship snapped in two and sunk into the Atlantic. They had spotted the iceberg well before it even struck and had quietly evacuated without informing any of the passengers, launched all of the lifeboats for the hell of it, and then boarded and cruised away on their own luxury yacht that they had trailing behind the ship the whole time. Sloane sharply inhaled a breath, ready to unleash a torrent of harsh words that had been bottled up inside of her for a decade, when her father hit first and knocked the hot wind out of her.

“You abandoned us and it was the right thing to do. It was the right thing to do sweetie. Oh god,” said Malik as his voice cracked. A visible look of panic crossed Sloane’s face as her father’s shoulders began to heave as he started to loudly weep. “At first I was just angry, and then I was embarrassed. So scared to admit that I’d been wrong. So scared that you’d just hate me.”

At least that was what Sloane thought he said. She looked to her mother for confirmation. Yasmin’s eyes were downcast, the closest she’d ever come to showing genuine regret. She looked back at her father although it was difficult to do so. He looked smaller here than he did in her memories. Discomfort crept over her as he continued to sniffle and blubber like a child, thick tears running down the trenches in his wrinkled face and mixing with the snot clingy to the gray hairs of his beard. He was still saying words, but they were near nonsensical phrases punctuated by the snicker-snack of sobs.

Sloane realized too late that he was moving in to embrace her, falling upon her like a zombie minus the merciful act of ripping out her jugular with his teeth to end her suffering. She wanted to push him off but felt the strength evaporate from her arms like it would in a dream, leaving her weakly holding a frail, sobbing old man. She could feel the chilling presence of her mother loom closer like a sentinel, not close enough to touch yet still close enough to drain away Sloane’s heat. In the past week she she had been betrayed and assaulted by a close friend resulting in an emotional and public breakdown, tear gassed and arrested by a government agency, buried a handful of friends, was being hunted by a serial killer, and worst of all had been made aware of the existence of a person like Trevor. Yet somehow, this experience was more terrifying and awful than any of those.

Yet again, time passed indeterminably before Sloane was able to react. It might’ve only been seconds, but it felt like eons. Dinosaurs evolved into birds faster than Sloane was able to push her father away. There was a gentleness to it that was somehow still devoid of kindness, the type of precautionary touch she’d give to an antique whose fragility was still yet unknown. Sloane stared at her crying father in his eyes and saw her reflection in their brackish waters, mistaking the cold figure in them for her mother. She folded her arms tightly across her chest to provide a barricade for any further attempts at a hug. Her dad wiped his face and gave an embarrassed smile.

“I’m sorry, honey,” said Malik. “I was wrong back then. I don’t want your forgiveness because I don’t deserve it. I just want to be a better father.”

“You want to—” the words broke in Sloane’s throat as her face twisted and contorted into a look of anger, her eye twitching like her mother’s would. She quickly recovered and shrouded the vitriol, twitching aside. “I need you to leave.”

The uncomfortable silence returned again and pressed the entire room beneath its boot as it choked the atmosphere. Slowly, dejectedly, her father nodded as her mother ushered him to a closed door where she pulled out a small object, tapped it against the frame, and guided her husband through a portal. Her mother moved to follow then hesitated, turning to fix Sloane with a stare, her eyes lingering on her daughter’s broken nose. Yasmin’s lips parted into a thin, cruel smile.

“Thank whoever did that for me. Your nose was always unflattering,” said Yasmin, stepping into the portal. “About time it gets fixed.”


Interactions: Schrodinger's Linqian @FernStone
Harbor, the Halloween Festival


That night Sloane had a nightmare. Of course she did. Dreams were just an extension of reality, and her life had always been so dreadful. It had only become more so as she heaped on more responsibilities of things that she had no real control over, instead becoming just another thing to worry about and distract her focus. She had put her businesses on the backburner—work seemed unimportant when Father Wolf was on the prowl. The morning and afternoon of the Halloween Festival had been a blur of phone calls as she shuttled to and fro between Cracker Island and her oddity shop to ensure that the Curious Curio stall would be properly supplied with “paranormal” rubbish and the prize pool amongst the various games stalls would be stockpiled with creepy dolls branded with her store. Even if she was to be stabbed violently to death in the street that evening, she still owed it to her employees to make sure that her business flourished.

She still managed to find enough time to get herself ready for the festival. Typically Sloane didn’t give a hoot about festivities, but Halloween was different. She loved Halloween. It was the one time of the year where she had not only the opportunity but the social obligation to put on a mask and be someone different. For a few hours she was allowed to not have to worry about the world and if it was still turning, as if her removal from existence would somehow bring about a global crisis instead of being like removing a single drop of water from an endless ocean. Although the vivid nightmare and Father Wolf still weighed heavily on her mind, Sloane was still going to attempt to enjoy the Halloween Festival—or rather, thought Sloane as she adjusted her wide-brim red hat and tucked a yellow scarf into a red trench coat, Carmen Sandiego.

“Carmen” made her way to the harbor in time to hear the ferry blow its horn as it signaled its departure. While her alter ego could’ve easily stolen a boat, and Sloane already owned one, she made the assumption that making port at Cracker Island would be a nightmare and decided to simply wait as if she were one of the common people. By habit she looked at her wrist to check the time, her watch safely sitting in the drawer of her nightstand at home as it didn’t go with her costume, and instead slightly frowned as she saw the burn scar she’d gotten nearly ten years ago. It had faded overtime, but she was convinced it would never go away. She pulled out her phone to check the time instead and noticed that she had missed a call from an employee. So much for hanging up her responsibilities. She called them immediately.

“It’s Sloane. Hold on, it’s too loud here,” she said as she wandered away from the dock to find somewhere quieter. “Okay, what is the problem…”

Minutes later Sloane returned to the dock the way she had left it. She turned a corner as she pulled out her phone to reply to a text message from Anya: Here. Are you on your way? Sloane hammered out a generic, boring, and factual response saying how she was awaiting the ferry, deleting the message as she absentmindedly passed by a lady in red in favor of texting something more clever. Sloane decided to take a selfie instead and write something cheeky like how she had gotten distracted by stealing the lighthouse.

It was only through the screen of her phone that Sloane finally registered the woman she had walked by, the cheap cigarette and curly hair that spilled out of a red hood immediately making Sloane feel her stomach sink. She lowered her phone. The last time she’d dealt with Linqian the woman had almost assaulted her, and if not for Lynn being an absolute bitch Sloane doubted she would’ve been spared the bible beating after the cuffs had come off. A cold wind cut through her jacket, impossible to tell if it was the ocean breeze or Linqian’s presence. The best thing to do would be to just leave. Sloane took a few steps following that very intention, the heels of her boots thunking heavily on the wooden boardwalk before coming to a sudden stop. Was pushing off the inevitable really the right thing to do? The large red hat turned ever so slightly so that Linqian was but a fuzzy blob in Sloane’s periphery.

She remained there in that middle state for a moment, too afraid to directly make her presence known and too scared to abandon the only opportunity they might ever have to honestly speak with one another without there being an audience carrying cans of gasoline and matchsticks.
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