Monsters Can’t Be Roomates

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Fang
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Monsters Can’t Be Roomates

Post by Fang » Thu Nov 01, 2018 5:01 am

The night was deep and still, the city streets buzzing with the glow of street lamps and what few vestiges of human consciousness remained. The bells of an old church rang discordantly and in the graveyard something stirred. The ground shook and groaned, the headstones shaking in their seats as dust billowed upward from the sudden split that ran the length of the graveyard grounds. A deep, heavy growl filled the air and the smell of mildew and dust filled the city streets. Several thundering booms echoed through the town, footsteps from below that increased in volume until finally a pale white hand emerged from the rift.

Slowly a man pulled himself up, his movements slow and laboured as his echoing footsteps receded. His mouth has been sewn shut, his body frail and fragile l. Skin like paper tore against rough stone only to seal itself again as the corpse of a man shuffled through the remains of the graveyard.

Light

A rock underfoot sent the man sprawling, but still he moved forward, inching toward the nearest street lamp. As he drew closer the buzz grew higher in pitch, matching the intensifying light the bulb emitted. The man reached a withered hand toward the light, his eyes squinted against its luminance.

With a snap the bulb burst and glittering glass fell to the asphalt below. Shards of light, inexplicably still intact despite the destruction of their source, fell upon the labouring man and surrounded him, filling his pores, absorbing into him as he wearily stood. Muscle filled his frame, his spine straightened and his time-bleached hair regained a healthy luster. With his right hand he ripped the stitches from his mouth, blood splattering the ground in front of him before the skin and sinew reconnected and smoothed, erasing the damage. With a sight the man stretched, flexing his newly formed muscles appreciatively.

“Time to feed,” the pale man said, testing his voice. The ground rumbled in response to his words, and with a whisper of cloth he disappeared into the shadows.



~~~~~~~

Three hours later the city square was flush with activity. Police cars blocked the incoming traffic as firemen and spare officers shuffled pedestrians away from the area. Along the barricades the police had set news crews filmed the action in the center, a standoff between an extremely pale man and several officers.

“Reports are coming in that this show of police force is in response to one man who, strangely, claims that the park and its surrounding area belongs to his family.”

The pale man stood in the center of the kerfuffle and looked to his new and unfamiliar world with disdain. Demon carriages with no horses to drive them, illusions on every corner, bits of metal, glass and some strange material the man could not identify in every hand of the people who had passed him by. Worst of all... Worst of all his castle was gone, the land around it clear of the rolling hills and fields of sunflowers he had so carefully nurtured.

“What hell have I woke to?” the man said in a deep voice touched by an exotic accent too faint to identify.

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Annasiel
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Re: Monsters Can’t Be Roomates

Post by Annasiel » Wed Nov 07, 2018 8:33 am

Aisling had a nose for drama.

Well, that was a bit of an overstatement. Drama, unfortunately, was not among her litany of senses far superior than the silly little mortals', nor was it among the spectrum of supernatural bullshittery she could intuit. Auras, certainly. Magic? Most definitely. But drama, drama took far more than passive sensation to trace in the noise of life. Aisling's nose for drama was a matter of one part instinct, and two parts experience-sharpened skill.

"Hey, you alright?"

The fae's electric green eyes turned quickly to the boy beside her, sharp enough a glare to make him flinch. His name was... Simon? No, Drew. Drew was right. Simon had been her conquest a month prior, and had managed to last an impressive three weeks before he finally began to fall apart. In that stretch of time, he'd churned out enough poems to fill five anthologies, all of which sat on neat little stacks in her closet with all the other pointless tokens of affection. It wasn't the gift that counted, but the thought. Literally the thought.

Human creativity was delicious.

"Yeah, I'm alright," Aisling replied. The boy was an aspiring sculptor. Interesting, but... gah, the commotion going on a few streets over gnawed at her like a hoard of hungry mice. Drew was only interesting. The pressing drama was tantalizing. The fae frowned, booping the boy on the nose. He looked surprised, but consented.

"You wait right here, honeybuns," she told him. Again, surprise, but a nod of assent. He wasn't quite eating out of her hand, yet, but she'd fix that eventually. "I'll be back in a jiffy. Need to go check on something, 'kay?"

He frowned.

"I can come with you, if you l-" the boy began, but she pressed her finger to his lips.

"Hush, sweetpie. I'll come back. I promise." With a wink, Aisling slipped off the boy's arm and vanished. A hop and a skip later, and she was pushing her way to the front of the crowd. A few young boys and girls even stepped aside for her, bless their souls, no doubt enraptured by her unparalleled grace and beauty. She did that, sometimes. Poor kids, soon to be heartbroken by a woman they didn't even know the name of. Coldly, she ignored a few stammered greetings and outstretched hands, instead trying to find a break in the people to see what was causing the commotion. Police! A good few of them too, standing around a strange, pale man who shone with a much brighter light than the blue-clad mortals.

Finding out how this unfolds, or going back to a night of awkward virgin sex with Mister Clayhands?

Mister Clayhands could wait. This demanded her complete curiosity.
Alone she drifts from ancient mists
Nary a candle, nary a wish
But in the wont of wandering paths
Through wooded knolls, and windworn crags
She seeks a face she thought as friend
But now -- she thinks as judgement's end

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Monsters Can’t Be Roomates

Post by Fang » Fri Nov 09, 2018 8:04 am

A wave of nausea poured over the once-corpse as he looked at the humans around him, particularly at the dozens of stiff, half frozen bodies that lines the park behind him. The pavement was lined with frost, trees losing their leaves rapidly and the grass dead and broken with ice upon their edges.

“I should never have been wakened.” The man’s eyes were filled with sadness, and though he was incapable of shedding tears he felt as if they were pouring from his eyes. “I am Finian Dubhain,” he called out, stepping toward the police officers with his hands held out in a placating gesture. His clothes were rags, miracle bits of ancient cloth that had somehow survived his long slumber to cover the most important parts with some modesty. Where he stepped the grass died, and behind him his trail became clear, each step, each place he lingered.

“I am a descendent if those who once walked these lands. I wish to parley with your Magistrate and explain this situation fully.” His golden eyes seemed to flare with inner light, and a few of the police officers began to lower their weapons, but as they took a step toward him Finian lowered his gaze and clenched his fists “YOU MUST NOT COME NEAR ME!” He yelled violently, the grass around him freezing solid. “Just, arrange this parlay and have a bird sent to me,” he said more gently.

The humans hated him, and with every right to. He had hoped to wake in a world that had forgotten about him. He had arranged to be far away from human population, to avoid this happening, to avoid reminding them. Why was he awake now?

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Re: Monsters Can’t Be Roomates

Post by Annasiel » Fri Nov 09, 2018 6:54 pm

The fae girl laughed, loud enough to be heard over the commotion. Nearby bystanders glanced her way, confusion and concern obvious on their faces, but she paid them no mind. They didn't matter. All that mattered was the funny pale man with the icy touch, speaking in ways that dated him almost as harsh as his dress. Well, what was left of his dress, anyway.

"Hello! Bird here, I'm the bird!" Aisling called out, pushing past the gathered to join the empty circle of contention. A couple of the cops raised their guns her way, then hesitated. She smiled and waved. The guns didn't lower.

"You need to get back, miss," one of the blue boys warned. His eyes shifted to the nearby crowd. "You all need to get back. This is serious."

Hard luck trying to convince them of that. Mortals tended to throw logic out the window at the first sign of magic, either chalking it up to their own mental shortcomings, or to some elaborate art demonstration. Aisling suspected the latter, in this case. People didn't just make ice! There had to be clever contraptions, practical effects, perfectly rigged and timed to give other urban flash mobs a run for their money. It would have been hilarious if it didn't make escaping with her new quandary all the more difficult.

Oh, who was she kidding. It was still hilarious.

"Are you sure it's serious?" She replied with a wink, taking a step towards the officer who'd spoken. His eyes snapped back to her in an instant, and his arms twitched, finger momentarily sliding to the trigger. She took another step forward.

"I said get back," he warned, but made no motion to move.

"I think everybody needs to take a deep breath and relax," Aisling said, voice barely above a whisper. The gun lowered. "Fighting won't get us anywhere, right? We're all stressed, all scared, and fights'll just make that worse. Much better to take a nap."

There was a clatter as one of the other cops dropped her gun, arms sagging to either side. The others didn't even seem to notice. Officers and civilians alike were watching her, intent, eyes drooping lower with every soft-spoken word. Nodding, hands spread out placidly, Aisling began to slowly back up towards the pale man until she was close enough for her voice to carry.

"It's not gonna last long. Time to run."
Alone she drifts from ancient mists
Nary a candle, nary a wish
But in the wont of wandering paths
Through wooded knolls, and windworn crags
She seeks a face she thought as friend
But now -- she thinks as judgement's end

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