HeirloomRoses

Ologies: A Study of Arcane Specialists {Paranormal Investigations and more}

Glory avoided looking too closely at Max, lest she suffer an undignified fit of the giggles. She glanced around the room and noticed Coal lurking in the corner, looking depressed and forlorn, but not the kind of depressed and forlorn which affects people who are actually depressed and forlorn; rather it was clearly the sort of unfortunate self-inflicted ennui common to overthinkers. She called to him over the hubbub of mission preparations taking place all around them.

"Mr. Coal. If you want snacks, you'll have to come along."

She turned then to Lenya, who she admire for her pragmatism. They were similar in that they treated magic as an occasionally necessary tool, acknowledging that there was nothing wrong with other, non-magical tools when appropriate, such as good coats. Or shovels. Magic was useful, but not mandatory, and overuse was unwise. If God meant us to move rocks with magic, He wouldn't have given us arms.

"Are we going on foot, or does somebody have a vehicle suitable for the weather? I don't think my old clunker would do so well on icy roads. She looks pretty, but she's not all that tough."

Waylon chose that moment to stick his wet nose in the palm of Lenya's glove, wagging his tail insistently. Clearly he had found a friend.

Ologies: A Study of Arcane Specialists {Paranormal Investigations and more}

Glory's first order of business was to suit up for the weather. In the second floor ladies' room, which had some very lovely lavender wallpaper that appeared to be quite old, she changed into a pair of black jeans, a white blouse, and a grey sweater. She tied up her mess of almost black hair and looped a scarf around her head. Conveniently, she also had a sweater for Waylon.

Her satchel was well-equipped for this sort of job. She had small cloth sachets of iron filings that, when rubbed between the palms of two freezing hands, generated enough warmth to revive numb fingers. These handy tools were given to her by a couple in Alaska, as payment for the rescue of their cabbages. She had an assortment of herbs which could be used in the event of frostbite, hypothermia, exhaustion, etc. as well as some snacks and a thermos for hot coffee. Her job, she knew, was to keep her teammates safe and keep a record of their discoveries. Essentially, she was the one who would make sure nobody died. She wasn't much of a fighter, especially considering her role in the group, but she did have a small, mercilessly sharp hunting knife which she stuck in her boot just in case.

She re-entered the conference room to find her teammates picking through the available selection of weapons and mystical tools, and raised a courteous hand to make a suggestion.

"Do we have any snow shovels?"

She reasoned that in this situation, at least for her team, snow shovels might be more useful in uncovering the mystery at hand than a cursed gauntlet or Cloak of Silence. But what did she know? It never snowed where she was from.

Ologies: A Study of Arcane Specialists {Paranormal Investigations and more}

Mithias' greetin and subsequent, rather poetic, description seemed to alleviate Glory's rational anxiety. She felt suspended, as if the objects of her worry had been temporarily removed and immobilized. The sensation was a peaceful one while she was caught in the middle of it, and then Mithias' attention shifted elsewhere and reality came back in a rather unpleasant rush. She felt less like an island in calm seas and more like an insect at the center of a spider's web. She scowled slightly, then reasoned to herself that he probably couldn't help it. Still, she would rather be anxious of her own will than calm of someone else's. Gathering herself again (it was going to be one of those days, wasn't it?) she turned to Drake, who had taken the seat to her left.

"I'm sorry," Glory said, "I think someone grabbed the last muffin. I'll have to bring something for you tomorrow. Anyway, don't worry about the.. soot. Mushroom season is coming up soon and I'm sure I'll come in at least once with mycilia in my hair."

She looked around curiously as people began filling in the spaces around the long polished conference table. They certainly were a diverse group, the most varied she had worked with thus far, though not the largest. She wondered what the meeting was about, what sort of case they would be devoting their myriad talents to. She was most interested in seeing firsthand how the strengths of each of her teammates came into play when there was work to do outside of the office's cozy brick walls.

She prepared a black pen and a few sheets of closely lined paper to take notes, heading the first page with the date. She took of her gloves to write, and laid them neatly aside.

She would remember to keep a close watch over Max, who she smiled at reassuringly now. He seemed harmless, but there was a certain timid power behind his eyes, even though his mind was a tangle of noise and worry that was almost palpable. She recognized the symbols and sygils he carried. She also recognized the Kabbalah as one of mankind's most dangerous texts, detailing the structure of the body of God, and the way that divinity emanates through the physical world, information some would argue human beings had no right to access. Mama had kept her copy of the book in a lock box. Max was nervous and friendly, but held in his head a vast library of knowledge which could dissect the world into small pieces to be examined like the various parts of a tropical orchid. She saw all of this in a handful of moments, and stored the information away in the meticulously organized archive of her memory.

Ologies: A Study of Arcane Specialists {Paranormal Investigations and more}

All I really want to say is that I'm already having a lot of fun and I am really excited to see where this goes. :3

Ologies: A Study of Arcane Specialists {Paranormal Investigations and more}

Glory forced herself to smile as she very gingerly accepted the vial of viscous green fluid. She reasoned that it was probably impolite to ask him what the concoction was made of. She would try to deconstruct it at home.

She was now standing between two vampires and... a man who had recently been on fire? A tendril of Drake's hair still appeared to be smoldering. She avoided making eye contact with him, but very carefully removed one glove, pinched out the smoking strand, and slipped the glove back on again. In the very short moment during which her hand was bare, it could be glimpsed that the heel of her hand was thickly calloused, her fingernails permanently darkened with soil. This was not the hand of a delicate woman. She concealed it, this rough and dirty hand, as quickly as she could, re-establishing her finely cultivated patina of southern finery.

"Thank you very much," she said to Atlas. "I appreciate this gift. I'm sure you worked very hard on it."

Ologies: A Study of Arcane Specialists {Paranormal Investigations and more}

Glory looked up as two more coworkers entered. She raised a white gloved hand in greeting, which immediately went slack and fell back to her side. Mithias. The other one. Or was he the first? She couldn't remember. It was always difficult to determine the age of vampires. She bowed her head briefly.

"Good morning," she said, her voice ever so slightly strained. She could practically hear Aunt Honey's voice whispering over the strange music of cicadas, telling her never to look a vampire in the eye, could feel her mother's large, dry hands pressing the crucifix into her waiting palm, teaching her to be steady. This was different. She knew that. But instinct and muscle memory were powerful things. The soft human part of her mind sensed predator and grew small and careful. She was now in the room with two of them. One she could handle, her small and careful human self insisted, but two?

She shook herself and drew up straight-backed and smiling. She would not entertain those thoughts. No, she would give them - both of them - the benefit of the doubt.

"I was just speaking to Atlas about something that might interest you, Mithias. I always bring breakfast for them as can eat, but I feel awful for not bringing something for them as can't, or would rather not in any case. I suggested flowers for your desks, something that smells nice. What do you think?"

The words came out in a rush. Until today, she had mostly worked alone in the archives, isolated from the others unless they ducked in briefly to search for something. Today was the first day she would be spending any extended time with the more imposing members of the company staff. She took a breath.

"Sorry. I'm a little frazzle today."

Ologies: A Study of Arcane Specialists {Paranormal Investigations and more}

Glory who usually kept up an unrelenting ladylike composure at work, faltered a bit when face to face with Atlas. Despite all the training Mama and Aunt Honey had put her through, teaching her to have an iron will against a vampire's supernatural "thrall," being close to the undead still sometimes made her stammer a little. Atlas was her coworker, and so she had resolved to give him the benefit of the doubt ad trust him not to hurt her.... for now. She wanted to be friends with these people. Travelling from city to city, never putting down roots, meant that she hadn't really gotten the opportunity to make connections until now. Unfortunately, she was working with a few people who frightened her a bit. Stammering aside, however, her nurturing instincts persisted even in regards to someone who didn't really have the physical ability to be nurtured. She would find a way to be neighborly to Atlas if it killed her.

She really hoped it wouldn't kill her.

"I er...I was thinking... since you don't.. I mean.." She cleared her throat and tried again. "I bring something in for breakfast every day, but I know you don't... have any use for that," she managed as politely as possible. "I was wondering if there was something else I could bring you in the mornings instead, so you don't feel left out. I've got a great big flower garden. I could bring you something sweet smelling for your desk, like some zinneas or poppies. I just feel bad that I never have anything to give you."

Ologies: A Study of Arcane Specialists {Paranormal Investigations and more}

Glory was still adjusting to the rapid-fire nature of social interactions in the office. At home, conversations happened slowly, shared across the teacup-and-junk-mail-scattered surface of someone's kitchen table. Here, quick reflexes were required to catch bits and pieces of talk as they flew through the air above her head. She clutched the handle of her basket of muffins, whose supply was quickly dwindling, much to her domestic pleasure. She had an irrepressible urge to feed people, and doing so brought her great satisfaction.

She observed Max's flight from the kitchen with pity, and held the basket aloft so he could reach a muffin without having to jostle past too many people. It amused her that Waylon seemed to have taken a liking to some of the people in the office already, Lenya being one of them. He was never skittish around her, whereas Jaklo seemed to make the mutt uneasy for some reason.

Baron's conduct was slowly becoming normal to Glory's everyday routine. His almost excessive familiarity was similar to the intimate friendliness of the French-Creole people she shared a swamp with growing up, who called her "Little Miss Doctor" and kissed her hands. There was something slyly flirtatious in his manner that she adamantly and primly pretended not to notice at all. She smiled at him and gave a brief curtsy, the flowers in the brim of her hat nodding their cheerful heads, and she certainly did not blush.

Setting down her now empty basket (When had that happened?), she considered the office's resident vampire out of the corner of her eye, who cut a rather imposing figure even when seated at his desk. He looked considerably uncomfortable, which made him less intimidating. "Atlas," she ventured, her tone soft and polite, "why are you... Oh! I'm so sorry." She unclasped the silver chain around her neck from which hung a very small, very simple cross, and dropped it into her satchel, which she left in the kitchen before approaching him.

"I wanted to ask you something," she said, "If you have a moment before the meeting."

One would think that all the travel she had done over the past few years would diminish her warm bayou southern accent, but it seemed to have only gotten more pronounced the farther she traveled from the stilt houses and shrimp boats of home. She spoke slowly here, so her coworkers could understand her.

Ologies: A Study of Arcane Specialists {Paranormal Investigations and more}

Across town, in a grey row house flanked by white azaleas, there was a bedroom alarm clock that seemed to have shirked its morning duties. Glory Grey was lying in bed face down, the sun streaming in slats across her back, which was clad in a very soft but nearly threadbare flannel nightgown. The alarm was supposed to have gone off an hour ago, and here she was. The house was quiet. The old baseboard heating hummed faintly, sending tendrils of warmth across the weathered pine floorboards. Softly, a clicking sound came skittering down the un-carpeted hallway to the bedroom where Glory was sleeping. A sizable but not obtrusive weight introduced itself onto the quilted bed, the antique frame creaking, and something wet dragged up the side of Glory's face.

"Waylon," she groaned into the pillows, tugging on one of the dog's ears. "Do you have to pee or something?"

Quiet settled in the house again, aside from the excited snuffling of Waylon's damp black nose. For a moment, Glory remained in her prone position, nestled in layers of blankets.

"Oh, custard..." she muttered, then rolled over onto her back and swung herself forcibly upright, reaching for the alarm clock on her bedside table and holding it close to her face so that her sleep-blurry eyes could make out the numbers. "Damnation!" She threw back the quilt that covered her, leapt to the floor, and ran to the bathroom, Waylon hot on her heels, his brown ears flopping as he hopped along behind her. On a wooden shelf above the old claw-foot bathtub were bottles and vials with hand-printed labels on brown paper. She pulled one down and popped out the cork with her teeth. A dollop of pale cream poured out into the palm of her hand, smelling distinctly of figs, and she ran the substance through the wild bird's nest of dark brown hair on her head until it was tame enough to be woven into a braid. The rest of her morning routine was completed in haste. She threw on a knee-length black dress with tiny white flowers on the skirt, which had a line of pearl buttons up the back. Boots, white gloves, and a black felt hat completed the look, though the boots had seen better days.

In the kitchen on her way out, Glory stopped by the garden door, over which hung a heavy charm of sorts fashioned from a horseshoe, a cross, and some twine. The pane of glass in the kitchen door looked out onto a small but densely green back garden. Glory muttered a brief prayer under her breath and the metal bits of the charm seemed to crackle with electricity for an instant. She grabbed a covered basket from the counter and headed for the door. Out of the corner of her eye as she left, she spotted one of her hanging ivy plants in the small front foyer which was drooping and beginning to turn brown. She turned to glare at it.

"Stop that," she said firmly. Intimidated, the ivy flushed a healthy green again. Glory left the row house, Waylon the dog in tow, and climbed into her El Dorado, which would take her to her new job. She had only been there for a week, and already she was coming in late. She shook her head, gripping the wheel a little tighter in her demurely gloved hands. When she reached the weathered red-brick office building, she took the front steps two at a time. As she sped past them, the boxwood hedges on either side of the steps seemed to turn a little greener. In the lobby of W&R, she paused, caught her breath, and held the basket in her hand aloft.

"Sorry I'm late," she said to no specific person in particular, but more to the office as its own entity, "But I brought corn muffins for break- ... Oh, there are doughnuts."

Crestfallen, she lowered her basket of savory treats. Waylon sniffed at the basket curiously, decided it didn't contain anything of interest to his canine tastes, and wandered off.

Ologies: A Study of Arcane Specialists {Paranormal Investigations and more}

<Snipped quote by Polyphemus>

Whenever I walk down the hall leading to my apartment I get super freaked out and sprint the rest of the way. The hallway is super long btw.

@AdobeFlash

In our old house, we had a very large unfinished basement that leaked when it rained, and occasionally flooded. It was always very cold and damp and unpleasant down there. Everyone avoided the basement for the most part, because these qualities combined naturally made it a pretty creepy place to be, but every once in awhile someone would have to go down there to get something like a snow shovel or a can of paint, and it just couldn't be avoided. Whoever went into the basement had the same experience. They felt fine while they were down there, but as soon as their foot hit the bottom step to go back upstairs, they felt like something was chasing them, and they had to run all the way up and slam the door. This really started to become a problem after awhile, because we all became more and more reluctant to go down there for any reason, and several times, one of us fell and could have seriously hurt ourselves running up those stairs. We decided to do something about it. Being a house full of open-minded women, we decided to meet the creepy thing halfway, so to speak. We decided that since it didn't seem to ever want to actually hurt anyone, that it must feed on fear. We named it The Heeb (like getting the heebie jeebies) and went down into the basement and talked to it. We said, "Look, we get that you have to eat, and our fear is your food. But we have to get stuff done. So let's make a deal. When we're walking up the basement stairs, leave us alone until we get to the fifth step." Lo and behold, it worked. It wasn't perfect, but it greatly reduced the risk of someone having a serious tumble to the basement's concrete floor, and we sort of knew what to expect, which made it a little less scary. However, if we ignored The Heeb and neglected to talk to it for awhile, it would start pouncing at the bottom step again.