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#Post#: 654--------------------------------------------------
[From Tapestry] Throwing Knives (*closed*)
By: Chance Date: January 2, 2025, 10:41 am
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[float=right max=45%][img
width=300]
HTML https://anywhere.infinimata.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/trey001.jpg[/img][/float]
Trey Whitman
HTML https://anywhere.infinimata.com/ooc-info/staff/chance/trey-whitman-2/
The door was open and the wind appeared
The candles blew and then disappeared
The curtains flew and then he appeared
App 3 | Dex 5 [Swift] | Echoes [Cold Aura] | Ambidextrous
[hr]
The figure of Trey saunters through the now-closed banquet room
of Tapestry, the after-hours traffic made up of employees
packing up to go home and Mages and Sorcerers slipping away into
the chantry portion of the club. He's changed from his Goth
performing attire into his leather jacket, a simple pair of worn
jeans, and a black GOTH AS **** t-shirt. His feet are packed
into a pair of well-worn biker boots and he has a worn bandolier
of knives in one hand. His throwing knives, from the show.
One of the girls behind the bar has been trying to bed him for
months; he smiles halfway and walks on by. She's pretty enough,
but Trey is loath to get into a relationship with a normie. For
one, he doesn't age, so anything long term is probably off the
table, and for another, when you have part of a death god inside
you, it tends to bleed out in strange ways, like killing all the
plants in someone's apartment. His own place has some fake
plants in it -- he likes the look of a plant, but doesn't so
much like them when they're dead.
He goes to the empty bar and pours himself a vodka, double shot
neat, from a bottle in the freezer, then walks backstage to get
to the chantry proper.
Time to figure out the next step. He hasn't tried out their
shiny new portal to Anywhere yet, because 1) he's been working
and 2) he's still a little wary about killing any plants they
have in the place. His lips twist, and he sparks up a cigarette,
one bad habit he's not yet managed to break. He takes it over to
a window, though, and turns on the fan, because otherwise,
people **** and whine.
Let's take stock. Do I go across, or do I just stick here
tonight as usual? I could stand to eat something, and I really
don't want to just sit here and glower like Brandy claimed.
Glower. Hah. What the hell do I have to smile about? I can't
pass a Seeking to save my life, half my Avatar is somewhere in a
Fallen lab, and I'm stuck in an endless Winter of stasis. No
aging, no progression, just an endless weird loop of my life
over and over like Groundhog Day.
He takes another drag, then contemplates the portal on the other
side of the room. Oh, why the hell not? He grinds out his smoke,
drains his vodka, and then walks over to the portal.
If nothing else, it's a good meal and a change in scenery.
One step through, and he's confronted with cozy -- he'd wound up
on the café side of the place, and the smell of fresh-cooked
meals even at this hour makes his stomach rumble. A quick look
around shows him the coffee bar, the kitchen window, the
wall-shelves filled with books, and the comfortable tables.
Something in him sinks into a sense of welcome here, and he
heads for an empty table.
It's not long before a pretty dark-haired woman approaches.
"Hi," she says, putting a place setting and a glass of water
down for him. "I'm Monica, welcome to the Anywhere Café." A menu
is placed in front of him, and she adds, "If you want something
from the bar with your meal, just tell me, I'll see to it. Can I
start you with a drink?"
Tough call. He pauses, then nods. "Root beer?"
"Sure, do you have a preference for what kind? We have IBC and
Sprecher's in the bottle..."
"IBC. Please." He smiles at her despite himself, feeling his
mood already lightening a bit. As she heads off to get his
drink, Trey opens the menu. It has one side with the usual
offerings of burgers and sandwiches, soups and stews, and the
other side has a clipped-in copied daily menu that offers the
specials of the day, including...
"Vareniki," he says with a happy sound. Well, the menu says
pierogi, but it's the same thing to his mind. Cheese and onion
and potato and meat. Who can choose?
He orders a mixed platter of them, an uncharacteristic mellow
smile curving his lips. They almost certainly won't be as tasty
as Matushka's were, but there's always a chance that they can
give him some of the peace of youth in his Russian family. His
name has been changed several times since he was Misha Morozov,
first in the fifties when the whole family underwent the
transformation to the last name 'Morris' amidst the fiery
persecution of the McCarthy Era.
He's been a lot of people since then, including a Math teacher,
a cab driver, a salesman of many sorts, and even a mortician.
His Awakening happened when he was in his twenties, back in the
late sixties when 'alternate' religion and spirituality became
more of a 'thing' that people pursued. He had been courted by
the Euthanatos because of his ability as a Speaker to the Dead,
and since then, has remained with the Tradition as a facilitator
of dealings with Wraiths. Less about giving death, he mused,
ironically, and more about working with it.
Death has nipped his heels throughout his life. When his old
mentor turned on him and stole a part of his soul in the
seventies, he found himself feeling like half a man, cut off at
the center, torn from aspects of his own divinity...
And now is not the time to ponder such dark things, not when
there is delightful Vareniki to eat.
#Post#: 670--------------------------------------------------
Re: [From Tapestry] Throwing Knives
By: thesadiecat Date: January 3, 2025, 5:51 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
[float=right max=45%][img
width=300]
HTML https://sharedalbums.b-cdn.net/b0934f00-8277-4ea2-8260-445b0a415eb4.jpg[/img][/float][center]Kaelin<br
/>Saint
Now winter has come and I stand in the snow
I don't feel the cold
And it's all that I will ever need to believe
One day I know we will meet again
In shade of a life to die for
[hr]
Persephone Incarnate[/center]
[hr]
She stares at me from the mirror. My face, my eyes, but, I know
it’s her. She’s judging us for another year trapped and
tethered. For another year put through the movements of
Mysteries with naught to show for it. Another year, lonely,
alone. I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I raise my
hand to place my palm against the mirror’s surface; my
reflection does not mimic the movement for a solid count of
thirty. But then Persephone relents, her palm comes to rest
opposite mine. The momentary schism between us fades, and my
sense of self realigns again. We are as solid as I.
I wanted to go into town today; I wanted to venture through the
farmer’s market once more, perhaps see if I could find any dried
herbs that might be able to ease my sleep. But just as my
attendants had gathered and we were all preparing to walk down
into Elefsina, Diogenes stopped us. The Hierophant had found
ill omens on the wind and refused to allow me to leave the
compound, once again.
The ill omens have taken the form of a brutal winter storm that
rages outside my room at this very moment. Rain lashes at the
panes, drumming a staccato rhythm that drives nails into my
heart with each burst. Our winters have been mild since you’ve
come to live with us. Diogenes’ voice drifts to me with the
howling wind. Bitterness stings my mouth as I remind myself
that I am doing nothing here. Nothing but wallowing and
waiting. And even in the spring and summer when I can tend the
gardens and fill my days with nature’s beauty, I am still
fundamentally doing nothing. Stagnant and sour, like an
algae-covered pond.
That’s it. That’s all I am: pond scum. I have to turn away
from the mirror with that thought, before I see the hatred and
self-pity writ all over both my face and hers. I need to
distract myself, to pull myself away from those intrusive
thoughts. It’s easier to ignore them when my spring and summer
are upon me, but now… when I should be Below, with him…
The winter solstice just passed, not but a week ago. It has
been two full years since I first stood beneath the stars and
called for him; a year since I crushed asphodel and mint in my
hands, and begged him to come bear me away from this place. And
yet, the earth is still silent. My hope is gone; the last
embers dwindled away to nothing.
This year, there was no punishment falling upon my shoulders,
because I did not sneak out into the gardens at night to call
for him. I did not even whisper his name. Aidoneus. I have
given up on him. Now I must figure out how to save myself from
this luxurious prison.
A light rap at the door precedes Marianna’s entrance into my
rooms. They call themselves my attendants, but I know the
truth. They are my minders, and my keepers. My every action is
reported back to the Hierophant for scrutiny and review. We are
their living goddess after all. Should anything ill befall me
their collective world would crumble. I am ashamed that it has
taken me so long to realize these truths, that I have been such
an obliging figurehead for so long.
“I brought you tea, my lady. Your own herbal mixture, in fact.”
Marianna is sweet. I want to trust her. I have always wanted
to trust her, but I cannot. I can trust none of them. I… I
don’t even trust the tea to not have some sort of sleeping weave
lain over it. “The nightstand,” I instruct her where to place
it softly.
Marianna is reluctant to leave. That just confirms my
suspicions; she was likely instructed to wait until I drank
some. “Is there anything else I can help with? Your hair,
perhaps?”
I touch my hair when she draws attention to it, realizing that
it is unbound, tumbling in midnight black waves down my back.
“It’s fine, Mari. I’m just tired.. I think it will be an early
night for me. You can go.”
The clear dismissal is what it takes for Marianna to leave,
closing the door behind her. I close my eyes and listen,
waiting to hear the soft click of the lock engaging. I have to
be quick for the Fates to be in my favor. I drag a fingernail
across my palm, culminating in a quick twist, like that of a key
turning in a lock. It’s not a dramatic effect, just a simple
one. The lock doesn’t quite engage correctly, the latch hitting
the striker just slightly wrong enough. I don’t want to be
locked in my rooms every night, even if I don’t tempt or ponder
escape.
I need to figure this out. I need to figure out how to figure
this out. But first, I hadn’t lied to Marianna. I am tired.
For someone who does nothing day in and day out, I am exhausted
to the bone. I am tempted for a moment to drink the tea
provided to me, but common sense wins out, and I simply curl up
in bed. I don’t sleep, but I listen to the storm rage for what
seems like forever.
I am just finally on the edge of sleep, when I hear it, just at
the edge of my senses: a deep thrumming, from far away.
Sitting up, I listen again, holding my breath so I don’t miss
it. It’s out of sync with my heartbeat, so it’s not the sound
of my own blood rushing in my head. It’s something else. When
my bare feet hit the floor, I feel it as well. Vibrations from
below.
The estate is a single story, built on the rocky cliffs
overlooking the bay. There is nothing below my feet except …
except the sea caves. Could a storm so strong cause this? My
instincts tell me no. There is a reason that I am awake now. A
reason that I can feel this, and can hear this. Throwing my
casement wide open, I let in the rain. The sting of it hits my
face as I lean out, listening for the crash of the waves. No.
No. That timing is wrong too. What is going on?
There are no lights on in the estate. No one is awake; it’s
that late. The casement is pulled closed; my wet hair
finger-combed back from my face. Grabbing a dressing gown, I
wrap it hastily around me, demurely covering the tank-top and
cotton shorts I typically wear to sleep. My manufactured luck
with the door continues to hold true; it pushes open easily,
releasing me unsupervised into the main halls. I hesitate,
looking both ways down the hallway. The way is clear, silent
except for the thundering rain and howling winds. Wrapping
myself in the robe, I ask the Fates to be kind for what I’m
about to do.
Padding quickly through the hallways, I only slow when passing
by the other occupied rooms. Diogenes’ room is dark, no light
under the door, giving me a boost of confidence to break into a
run just past it. In the garden, dormant in the depths of
winter, I pause long enough to dig out the hidden flashlight at
the bottom of my gardening shed. Stepping out from beneath the
awning, I’m at the mercy of the storm.
The feeling is stronger out here. Thrumming, drumming,
vibrating up through my bare feet. I’m more certain than before
that it’s coming from the caves below the estate. Caves only
accessible by clambering down the steep slope of the cliffside
path, after I escape from the garden. A prickly, thick hedge
masks the hole in the wall. In spring and summer the verdant
thick leaves would normally turn aside for me, but now, in my
winter, it is stubborn and angry for my trespassing. Fighting
my way through nets me small scratches along my hands and
forearms, a small price to pay to heed the basso call from
below.
I don’t get my hopes up. I can’t. I won’t. Luck and the Fates
need to be in my favor, because a fall down the cliffside would
surely kill me. Barefoot in the slick mud, rain pelting my face
and body, I cling to anything I can get my hands on, holding
myself fast to the wall, as far from the edge of the path as I
can get.
There’s no shelter from the storm at the bottom. The beach is
tossed, the ocean angry. Salt spray adds to the weight of water
soaking me to the bone. I should be cold. I have to hold my
hair out of my face with one hand, waving the flashlight around.
It’s weak beam is ineffectual against the storm, but, I’ve been
to these caves four times now. Escorted by the cult, once each
spring, once each fall, they symbolically and ritually receive
and give me to the World Below, even though I don’t venture from
within those walls. This is my first time here, alone.
The tide is right; the cave entrances are darker wounds against
the dark cliffs. I don’t know what I think I’m going to find.
I have never seen the fabled doors to Below here. I have never
seen anything extraordinary here. But… I have never been beyond
the first five feet of the mouth. With the beam of light
guiding me, I follow this feeling deeper. Far deeper than I
have ever been. Here, now, on level with the caves, it’s not a
thrumming now. It’s a song, someone humming? A music that we
feel more in our bones than with our ears. My ears. My bones.
My feelings. I have to pause to reassert myself.
In the momentary quiet, the crash of the ocean seems far away.
The storm, even farther. I sweep the light across the walls,
and stop. Breathless, suddenly. Because there, carved in the
face of the rock… is a door. It’s not shale, or limestone, but
seems to be granite? It’s strangely warm to the touch, as I run
my fingers around the seam of the jamb. There’s carvings…
Greek, a form ancient as my soul.
“Pay Hermes, and speak where your heart wishes to be.” I sound
the carvings out carefully, faltering over the name of my old
friend and confidant. It’s funny how badly I can miss someone I
have never truly met in this lifetime. Now.. to pay Hermes? I
have no palm, no crocus flower, not during this turn of the
year. I look to my arms, and scratch idly at the already
clotting abrasions from the hedge. Blood flows free as my nails
break the nascent scab. There’s hesitation as I stare at the
welling scarlet life.
They must have discovered me missing by now. I have taken
enough turns in the maze of tunnels that I cannot see the sun
rising, but I know it is. Marianna will be coming to fetch me
for breakfast soon, if she has not already. I imagine I can
hear them frantically searching the estate. This is the wrong
season for me to be impulsive. This door is what I have been
looking for: a way out; escape. Freedom. Hades will not come
to save me. I have to save myself.
I grab the warm, stone handle with bloody fingers. “If I have
ever needed your help, your guidance, Hermes, it is now. I have
no crocus, no palm to offer you; I have only my blood, my life.”
I pause, and close my eyes, calling on what few lessons I have
had, to slide my will into this ancient door. But the question
remains… where does my heart wish to be?
Rainwater drops from my hair silently to the cave floor as I
ponder this. I am abandoned. Alone. I cannot stay here, but I
have no idea where to go. But I can’t stay here…
“Anywhere… anywhere but here.”
The handle gives way, turning. The stone door opens slowly
inward, pulling me along with it. The flashlight falls from my
fingertips, clattering on the stone floor of the cave. For a
moment, my senses are consumed by darkness…..
And then there is warmth, and bright lights, and the enticing
scents of food and coffee and… bewildered, I look around… The
door is gone! I’m nigh in the middle of a cafe floor, tables
all around. And I am disheveled, storm-wrought, dripping water
and mud on the nice clean floor. And worse yet, everyone is
looking at me…
#Post#: 673--------------------------------------------------
Re: [From Tapestry] Throwing Knives
By: Chance Date: January 3, 2025, 8:07 pm
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[float=right max=45%][img
width=300]
HTML https://anywhere.infinimata.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/trey001.jpg[/img][/float]
Trey Whitman
HTML https://anywhere.infinimata.com/ooc-info/staff/chance/trey-whitman-2/
The door was open and the wind appeared
The candles blew and then disappeared
The curtains flew and then he appeared
App 3 | Dex 5 [Swift] | Echoes [Cold Aura] | Ambidextrous | Just
another psychopomp
[hr]
I've made short work of the Vareniki and am working on the last
of the second root beer. I didn't really want to drink right
now... I only wanted to soak in the welcoming warmth of this
place against my own eternal cold. The fireplace to one side
crackles; it's probably an illusion, but it's a very convincing
one, with both heat and flickering light making it very much
like the real thing.
Hell, maybe it is the real thing.
I wasn't expecting the door to fly open as if a gale pressed it
into service, and I wasn't expecting a storm to blow in behind a
woman soaked to the bone, her robe a second skin around her.
Lucien moves to shut the door with a wave of his hand, but I'm
quicker on my feet somehow, and make it to the side of the woman
currently sitting in a splatter of rain and mud on the polished,
waxed hardwood floor.
I call out to Monica, or whoever is listening, "Are there any
towels? She's soaked to the skin!" Then, I crouch down beside
her and slowly take off my jacket, my motions careful so as not
to be frightening or imposing. In my low voice, I say, "Here.
This will help keep you warmer." I can feel the cold coming off
her in waves, and it's so familiar that I can't help but feel a
kinship there despite having only a moment to consider her.
Lovely, yes, and shivering, and likely terrified judging from
the look on her face.
"This is a safe place," I tell her firmly. Lucien lets me speak
without interruption, and I don't know the owner well enough to
know why, but I suspect he has his reasons. "I'm Trey. Let's try
and get you over to the fire to warm up a little and maybe get
dry..."
Speaking of dry, Monica brings me two large white bath towels
and a warm, damp washcloth. Bless her, she's getting a nice tip.
I unfurl to a standing position, offering my empty hands to
Kaelin to help her to her own feet once I'm up. Then I take the
towels, and realize I have now offered this poor damp girl a lot
of options to work with, and she's probably just overwhelmed at
the whole mess.
My attempt at a smile turns a bit wry with that realization, but
it doesn't fade entirely.
#Post#: 674--------------------------------------------------
Re: [From Tapestry] Throwing Knives
By: thesadiecat Date: January 3, 2025, 9:27 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
[float=right max=45%][img
width=300]
HTML https://sharedalbums.b-cdn.net/b0934f00-8277-4ea2-8260-445b0a415eb4.jpg[/img][/float][center]Kaelin<br
/>Saint
Now winter has come and I stand in the snow
I don't feel the cold
And it's all that I will ever need to believe
One day I know we will meet again
In shade of a life to die for
[hr]
Persephone Incarnate[/center]
[hr]
The best thing for me to do is wilt. My legs turn to jelly,
causing me to just sit down where I had been standing wobbly a
few heartbeats before. The inundation of sensory input is
almost too much. My feeble attempts to hide behind either the
limp collar of the dressing gown, or the ragged mess of my hair
prove ineffectual. My cheeks are burning with embarrassment.
There’s voices. Someone calls out. I’m focusing on being
small, and insignificant. A single dormant bulb in a vast
garden. It’s not working. A shadow looms over me. I just want
to melt into the floor with the puddle of rainwater that’s
accumulating around me. The same voice that called out, speaks
again, softly, close by, and the heavy weight of a leather
jacket settles over my shoulders. His voice is so soothing…
almost familiar. I can’t figure out where I’ve heard it before;
if we’ve heard it before.
It takes me a moment when I finally raise my eyes to see his
face to realize that he’s speaking to me in English. For my
brain to switch gears to a language that I haven’t spoken, or
heard often in the last two years. Framed with ebony lashes,
the eyes that watch him in a mixture of confusion and wonder are
chips of ice, the pale blue of a midwinter’s sky.
I want to touch his face. The realization is stunning to me,
causing me to hunch my shoulders into his jacket and try to pull
it tighter around me, while simultaneously burying my face in
the collar. The jacket dwarfs me, but it smells so good. When
he tells me that I’m safe… I believe him. I owe my safety to
Hermes, the timely revelation of that door of his, and in no
small part the very Fates themselves.
He’s tall… when he stands up, he just keeps seeming to go up.
He was that shadow that loomed over me, wasn’t he? I hold his
jacket around me with one hand, and extend the other to take his
offered one. My hands have the softness of a pampered life; my
gardener's callouses fade during winter’s bleak times. The
first thing I notice is how cold his hand is. Maybe anyone else
would find him unseemingly cold, but the cold is a comfort in
this season. Winter’s chill doesn’t bite, if anything, it makes
me hold onto his hand tighter, for a measure of comfort and
familiarity comes with it.
I don’t let go once I’m on my feet. My legs still feel like
jelly, unsteady and uncertain. The cliffside path was always
frightening even under clear conditions. I used every iota of
my reserves tonight navigating it in the storm. I try to ignore
the curious eyes of others, as I look around for the fire he
mentioned. It feels a daunting distance away.
“Where…. Where am I?” English feels weird on my tongue. It
sounds even weirder to my ears, causing my voice to trail off
into quiet at the end of the question. He told me his name
moments ago, but it doesn’t fit him. Not with the sadness in
that smile.
#Post#: 675--------------------------------------------------
Re: [From Tapestry] Throwing Knives
By: Chance Date: January 4, 2025, 8:19 am
---------------------------------------------------------
[float=right max=45%][img
width=300]
HTML https://anywhere.infinimata.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/01/trey019.jpg[/img][/float]
Trey Whitman
HTML https://anywhere.infinimata.com/ooc-info/staff/chance/trey-whitman-2/
The door was open and the wind appeared
The candles blew and then disappeared
The curtains flew and then he appeared
App 3 | Dex 5 [Swift] | Echoes [Cold Aura] | Ambidextrous
[hr]
I can sense her fear, her embarrassment... she likely wants
something other than a million eyes on her, and I can understand
that. She seems to settle into my jacket like it was a home for
her, and it makes me glad I made that choice.
Those eyes almost fix me to the spot; they are winter incarnate,
that blue of hoarfrost so pale as to almost be clear. My own are
darker, an amber whiskey at their lightest points, darkened with
veins of the deep brown-black of cold dead soil and rotted
leaves. My own gaze is filled with determination, curiosity...
and a touch of something hard to define. Hope, perhaps.
She sinks into the leather and I am... well, not lost. Something
akin to it. But what is happening within me leaves me shaken...
but still determined. I don't know what to call it. It stirs
parts of me that usually only respond to magic, these days. I
feel more inside Veles, or he inside me, in this moment. I
welcome it. It's been a long time since that was true.
She takes my hand; it's a soft hand, smaller in mine, and pale
as death, much like my own. I ease her to her feet, and keep my
eyes on her face rather than her drenched form. Ogling her seems
like it would be wholly wrong to me, somehow sacrilegious right
now.
Only now do I wonder how she wound up here, appearing in the
middle of the Anywhere Café, soaked to the skin and shivering. A
spell gone awry, perhaps?
[quote]Perception + Awareness vs 6
She's a Mage, right? Right? What the hell else would she be?
Roll: `[9, 7, 6, 3, 3, 1]` Result: `2 succ`[/quote]
So, yeah, a Mage, which is a good thing and a bad thing both.
I'll help her find her way to wherever she needs to be, I'm
sure, She's unsteady on her feet, so I offer her my arm to hold
as we walk. She's... a mystery, a secret to be kept, a wonder.
In my life, even as odd as it may be, things have grown
predictable... but not now. Maybe my decision to walk through
the portal made all the difference.
Maybe things are changing.
The fire is less daunting with support, I'm hoping. I aid her in
getting there; if it were a different age, I'd sweep her up and
carry her there, but... modern times, modern ways, I suppose.
There's something to be said for the past, part of me grumbles.
I pout down one of the towels in the chair nearest the fire so
she can wrap it around her for warmth, and then aid her in
getting seated, offering the other towel as a lapblanket.
I explain for her. "You're in a Mage hangout called the Anywhere
Café, in the Horizon. It's a Safe space. All within are
protected by pact and by the incredibly-powerful proprietors.
One is a fellow named Lucien who I think is a powerful Umbrood,
and the other is an Ecstatic named Ailey Huxley." I've taken the
seat beside her now, offering her the warm cloth to wipe her
face or whatever she wishes. She probably wants a shower and dry
clothes, but that will have to wait until we find out what she
chooses to do.
"I'm not an employee or anything. I'm Trey Whitman, a Euthanatos
of a very small faction that follows the Slavic ways. Rodnovery,
or Rus Paganism."
I'm not sure why I added the footnote, but Veles assures me that
it's important, so I do so.
Blin, ona milaya.
Da, ona.
#Post#: 676--------------------------------------------------
Re: [From Tapestry] Throwing Knives
By: thesadiecat Date: January 4, 2025, 5:46 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
[float=right max=45%][img
width=300]
HTML https://sharedalbums.b-cdn.net/b0934f00-8277-4ea2-8260-445b0a415eb4.jpg[/img][/float][center]Kaelin<br
/>Saint
Now winter has come and I stand in the snow
I don't feel the cold
And it's all that I will ever need to believe
One day I know we will meet again
In shade of a life to die for
[hr]
Persephone Incarnate[/center]
[hr]
The gesture of the offered arm is endearing, to both of us.
There’s a flitting memory of times long lost to the world, of
slipping my hand to the crook of Pater Dis’ arm, the first time
I toured my demense with him. Of course I take the offered
support, I am not so proud to admit that I am frail and tired.
I have nothing to be proud of. My feet are tender. I was
foolish to venture out barefoot. I was stupid to bring nothing
with me.
He is so kind to care for a complete stranger as he is. Even as
he measures his step to mine, and steadies me in the mere few
dozen steps to the fireplace, I steal glances up at him. His
eyes are soulful, reminding me of sun-kissed terraces and maple
resins. He places me momentarily near the fire, but only long
enough to prep the chair. Maybe it’s selfish of me to keep his
jacket wrapped around my shoulders, even as I’m further bundled
into soft terrycloth towels when I sit.
Did he say Anywhere Cafe? Anywhere? He settles in the chair
beside me, as he explains, and offers me a warm cloth. He’s
probably going to think I’m mad, because I’m just staring at
him, my jaw slightly slack, my brows drawn as I try to figure
out if he’s joking or not. It couldn’t have taken me literally,
that door in the caves… could it have? I wrap my hands with the
warm cloth, not out of need to warm my fingers, but the wringing
motion of someone who’s trying desperately to put the pieces
together.
I might have been about to laugh incredulously, but Trey Whitman
reveals that he’s a Euthanotoi. I am already pale, but at that
moment, there’s a further blanching, another level of whiteness
that I manage to achieve. Have I escaped from one captor to
another? Is he being so kind because he sees me for us? Those
at Elefsina did the same, lured me in with honeyed words and
kind gestures.
“Slavic?” I parrot the detail quietly, trying to untangle my
fingers from the cloth. I don’t know why I suddenly feel the
need to have my hands free; it’s not like I know enough of
anything to defend myself. “Not… not Greek? You’re…. you’re
not going to make me go back?” His jacket again becomes a
bastion of safety, as I hug my own shoulders to weather the
relief that floods through me.
He’s right to have seen fear in the way I carried myself. Fear
for what I’ve left behind, not what I’ve run into. A few
crystalline tears gather on my lashes, but remain unshed there,
as I look to the ceiling and blink rapidly to clear my eyes.
Goddesses are not supposed to cry, according to Diogenes. “I’m
sorry, I am so sorry, kyrios Whitman… I’m ruining your jacket…”
Of all the things that I could focus on. It’s a learned
deference that I’m offering, something that I have to remember
to do. Unless he stops me, I’m going to try to offer his jacket
back to him. “I’m Kaelin, also of the Euthanotoi.” It’s not a
lie to only highlight the strongest of leans during this time of
year right? Maybe he won’t see the goddess beneath my skin.
Maybe he’s being this kind because he is truly just this kind.
I want him to be truly just this kind.
#Post#: 678--------------------------------------------------
Re: [From Tapestry] Throwing Knives
By: Chance Date: January 6, 2025, 7:31 am
---------------------------------------------------------
[float=right max=45%][img
width=300]
HTML https://anywhere.infinimata.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/01/trey019.jpg[/img][/float]
Trey Whitman
HTML https://anywhere.infinimata.com/ooc-info/staff/chance/trey-whitman-2/
The door was open and the wind appeared
The candles blew and then disappeared
The curtains flew and then he appeared
App 3 | Dex 5 [Swift] | Echoes [Cold Aura] | Ambidextrous
[hr]
Her response to the name of the café almost makes me laugh, but
the sight of the bewilderment and disbelief that follows makes
me realize just what an emotional state must be roiling away
inside her, and I shake away the mirth. I don't want her to
think I'm laughing at her, after all.
I'm glad for that restraint on my own part when she goes pale at
my introduction. Most people think ill of the Euthanatoi at
first, mostly because they don't understand us, think that
because we are intricately and intimately tied to death, that we
mean death for them. Most times, we don't.
"Slavic," I say firmly. "Of the traditions of Kyevan Rus from
many centuries ago. And I don't know where you were, but if the
idea of being sent back gives you this much fear, there's no way
I'm going to do that." I pause, dropping my voice, and lean in
to ask a private, dark, horrible question.
"Were they... trafficking you? Or hurting you?" My question is
direct, but the tone is gentle. I don't want to scare her
further. She's terrified, and these other people somewhere in
Greece, possibly other Euthanatoi from her reaction, are the
reason, and I'd like nothing more than to start giving them the
Good Death so they can go around again and try to be better
people next time around.
She cries, then, worried for my jacket of all things. I take the
damp cloth and wipe her face gently, hesitantly at first. I
don't want to force myself on someone who may well be an assault
victim. "Sssh. Please don't worry about the jacket. It'll be
fine. It's a thing. Things don't matter much."
Her introduction... if she is one of us, she had one hell of a
bad Mentor to react this way. I want to bring up the Knights of
Radamanthys, our internal enforcement -- that should be a name
that's familiar to another Euthanatos. After the whole situation
with the House of Helekar, the tradition as a whole has been far
more vigilant about seeking out corruption amongst our number.
She does scent of jhor but not strongly enough to suggest that
they might have used her for an unwilling horse for a dead
rider.
Still, I am coldly angry underneath the concern. I have a
feeling my knives will need some sharpening tonight.
"Kaelin. You sound American," I say, looking at her
thoughtfully. "Do you have family in the US who will have missed
you? Because right now, the most important thing is to get you
warm and keep you safe if someone's going to be trying to retake
you as a captive. I assure you that nobody with those intentions
can find this place. It's in the Horizon. I suspect you only got
in by some whim of the gods, or Lucien's magic finding someone
in need."
She tries to remove the jacket and I shake my head. "Don't
worry. Stay warm. Please." It's just a jacket. after all. I have
others.
From behind us, the pretty waitress, Monica, clears her throat
and asks, gently, "Can I get you a warm drink, or some soup, or
something else? I'm also going to take a look in the back and
see if I can find some spare clothes in my locker that could
fit. I usually have yoga pants and things like that on hand in
case I do a double and wind up crashing here."
She pauses, and I smile at her. "Perhaps she could have use of a
room so she can clean up and dress and feel more comfortable?" I
turn back to Kaelin and ask, "If you wish it, of course. I can
stay outside your door and guard if you want. Or if you'd prefer
I'm close by, that's fine. But unless you're safe and
comfortable, I'm staying to offer my help."
Am I kind? I don't know. At times, the jhor can make me callous
to outsiders, and the cold vibe I give off probably doesn't help
make me seem more approachable. Killing someone's plants with my
presence is not a good thing for making them feel warm and
fuzzy.
Am I kind?
Death often is, often is not.
I don't know.
Once upon a time, I was also a trickster. I was the god of oxen
and meadows, of musicians and playful verse. There was much more
to me than Christendom ever saw.
Why do I feel like the same is true of this young woman, and why
am I so fascinated?
#Post#: 682--------------------------------------------------
Re: [From Tapestry] Throwing Knives
By: thesadiecat Date: January 6, 2025, 11:57 am
---------------------------------------------------------
[float=right max=45%][img
width=300]
HTML https://sharedalbums.b-cdn.net/b0934f00-8277-4ea2-8260-445b0a415eb4.jpg[/img][/float][center]Kaelin<br
/>Saint
Now winter has come and I stand in the snow
I don't feel the cold
And it's all that I will ever need to believe
One day I know we will meet again
In shade of a life to die for
[hr]
Persephone Incarnate[/center]
[hr]
I am blessed with his firm reiteration that he is not a scion
of the Grecian paths. I am thrilled by this, but somehow yet,
still disappointed. There is such a familiarity; I suppose I
had harbored some measure of hope in that familiarity. He
promises that he will not send me back, and despite myself,
despite my fears and worry, I trust him. My entire being tells
me that I can trust him. That his kindness comes from no place
of objectification or inclination to take advantage of my
situation.
Trey leans closer, and I find myself captivated by his gaze.
There is something there so weathered and burdened, that I just
want to comfort him. His question isn’t so much ignored, as it
is deflected for the moment, over concern for his jacket, lost
within my own emotional chaos. Because I don’t know how to
answer him. I don’t know how to describe the kind of
detrimental worship I faced.. was I trafficked, no… captured,
perhaps, while my sense of self was subsumed by memories older
than time. Was I hurt, that question is even harder to answer…
I calm quicker with his touch, the gentleness that he uses
wiping my face, the warmth of the cloth, the contrast of his
chilled hands. And being assured about the jacket, I choose to
resettle into it again, hugging it around me, in a poor
substitute for the curiosity of his touch. I want to answer, to
tell him about my mother, about the commune in the desert, but
the appearance of the waitress behind him stalls those answers
on my tongue. Instead, those pale, wintery eyes of mine finally
move away from Trey’s to blink at the pretty woman. “Do.. do
you have a cinnamon tea? Or peppermint? Thank you.” The sheer
hope in that question is vulnerable and small. I cannot express
my apprecation if she has spare clothes to offer, and the idea
that Trey puts forward of a room, and the opportunity to clean
up is met with a small happy sigh.
“I.. think I would feel safest if you stayed.” I admit, as the
pretty waitress heads back towards the counter. “You.. make me
feel safe. There is something so familiar about you.” The
thought is trailed off with a slight shake of my head. And
while we’re as alone as we can be… I’m finally able to offer
some kind of answers for him..
“A gilded cage is still a cage… no matter how pretty the
cushions, or how finely wrought the bars. I hoped they could
teach me, about my other half, when the Wheel turns Below. But…
I’m just a thing to follow their dance and look pretty..” I
shake my head again, failing to articulate, unable to explain.
“It’s… been so long my mother has probably buried her daughter.
Not that she’d even recognize me anymore.”
I look around the bar again, for a moment, considering the one
pointed out as Lucien. If he glances my way, I drop my gaze
quickly. But my eyes only fall to Trey’s strong hands. Those
are working hands, with nimble fingers. Gingerly, carefully, I
reach out, tracing my index finger down the line of one of his
fingers.
“Who are you, Trey Whitman?” The question is barely breathed
aloud.
#Post#: 684--------------------------------------------------
Re: [From Tapestry] Throwing Knives
By: Chance Date: January 6, 2025, 2:58 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
[float=right max=45%][img
width=300]
HTML https://anywhere.infinimata.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/01/trey019.jpg[/img][/float]
Trey Whitman
HTML https://anywhere.infinimata.com/ooc-info/staff/chance/trey-whitman-2/
The door was open and the wind appeared
The candles blew and then disappeared
The curtains flew and then he appeared
App 3 | Dex 5 [Swift] | Echoes [Cold Aura] | Ambidextrous
[hr]
The familiarity is not something she perceives alone; something
in her fits with my funereal nature, suits me all too well. I
promise her not to send her back, because whatever sent her out
into a storm in the dead of night to run from this place doesn't
augur well for what was happening there.
There's a million answers in her eyes, eternal and icy, but none
that I can read just yet. She doesn't flinch like someone who'd
been used that way, but not all victims react the same.
Something I learned over years of speaking with the dead, and
making more of their number. She's about to speak, and there's a
moment's interruption, a well-intentioned one.
Kaelin's request is taken with a smile, and Monica looks to me.
"Same here, please." We can be all calm and civilized and
pretend that there's no tempest driving me toward the mystery of
this young woman who just fell into my path in the most literal
sense.
Her admission that I make her feel safe leads me to relax a
little. If nothing else, I've made no wrong moves, done nothing
to make matters worse, so that's a comfort. She answers, at
length, and I frown, brows drawing down at the
answer-that-really-isn't. I need more context, but what she
gives me is enough to tell me that she's better off away from
these people who kept her.
My hands are cold but strong; her touch makes me blink, looking
up to her gaze once more and offering a rueful expression. Where
do I even start?
"These days," I begin lightly, "I'm a performer. I throw very
sharp knives at very pretty, scantily-clad people at a very
interesting dinner-theatre." The over-emphasis is meant to be
amusing; I'm hoping it comes off that way.
"I've been other things. Mortician. Math teacher. Murderer."
Those words, too, spin blithely off my tongue and offer her
truth.
"What would you know? My life has been filled with work and the
friendship of other mages, in the most recent few years. Little
else. I came here tonight for the first time just... seeking
some variety. Congratulations." I grin at her with that.
I'm hoping the gallows humor appeals.
#Post#: 687--------------------------------------------------
Re: [From Tapestry] Throwing Knives
By: thesadiecat Date: January 7, 2025, 11:34 am
---------------------------------------------------------
[float=right max=45%][img
width=300]
HTML https://sharedalbums.b-cdn.net/b0934f00-8277-4ea2-8260-445b0a415eb4.jpg[/img][/float][center]Kaelin<br
/>Saint
Now winter has come and I stand in the snow
I don't feel the cold
And it's all that I will ever need to believe
One day I know we will meet again
In shade of a life to die for
[hr]
Persephone Incarnate[/center]
[hr]
He doesn’t pressure for more answers, and I’m grateful for that.
The idea of looking back on these last two years of life is a
frightening one. How many things will I see perfectly clear in
hindsight that had appeared so kind and true-intentioned in the
moment? I’m away from there. I don’t want to go back. He…
He’s already promised to not send me back there. Maybe I should
be suspicious; after so many others have broken that trust. But
all I can do is trust my instincts…
I think I surprised him with the contact. When our eyes meet
again, I forget to withdraw my hand, leaving that spare contact,
just the tip of one finger lingering against his hand. The
ancient depths once again leave me transfixed, amazed that he
actually exists, wishing I could ease the melancholic pain I see
there.
Wait… could.. is he.. might he be… That fragile flame of hope
barely takes shape before I know it has to be false. He can’t
be. So similar, but not. I’m not given the whole story, but
instead, a glimpse. A performer? That’s no profession Aidoneus
would take up. The light air that he gives the description
leaves me wondering where the deeper truth of it lies. But his
desired effect is achieved… the corners of my mouth curve into a
shy smile, amused by the idea.
That amusement becomes a greater mirth. “Math teacher?” It’s so
close to a laugh, a rare and precious sound in the depths of my
winter. This feeling… this lightness… is so foreign. A freedom
that I haven’t felt in years. “If my math teachers in school
had been half as handsome, I may have retained some of it.” As
soon as the statement is out of my mouth, my cheeks suffuse with
pink and I fold in on myself. The connection of that spare
touch is broken, and I fold my hands back into the confines of
his jacket.
The embarrassment has me shuttering up again. The hallmarks of
someone that’s been punished for speaking her mind, or speaking
out of turn. I don’t expect a rebuke, not from him, but I am
shocked by my own boldness. Even despite that, when I am
congratulated for being his variety I cannot help but smile
secretly to myself, peering out from the slowly drying ropes of
midnight hair that try to shroud my face.
Blessedly, my embarrassment is saved by the pretty waitress
returning. She brings a tray bearing the teas as requested, but
also sugar, honey and cream. I’m grateful and delighted by the
tea, a warming cinnamon from the scent of it, that I fail to
notice anything else on the tray: like the key to the room that
was mentioned earlier. She lets us know that she found spare
clothes and they are waiting for me there. I’m able to look up
from my tea then, lashes shining once more.
“I don’t know how I will ever be able to repay you for your
kindness… either of you.” We have always believed in the
fundamental goodness of people; it’s a soothing balm to know
that they still exist in this world. When Monica does leave us
again, I wriggle my toes and rub my feet slightly together. The
fire is working; the mud drying and cracking; feeling returning
in my limbs. I think my dressing gown has even stopped dripping
finally. The tea will be the other half of the restorative. I
sip it carefully, sighing in bliss as I phrase and rephrase my
answer to Trey.
“There’s something about you that is so familiar, but I cannot
put my finger on it. Like… like… I should know you. But I
don’t. Were you ever near Cottonwood, Arizona? or know a
Verbena coven near there?” I’m still struggling to place him.
Though Persephone thinks I maybe trying a life too soon..
*****************************************************
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