[center][url=http://fontmeme.com/calligraphy-fonts/][img]http://fontmeme.com/embed.php?text=The%20Morr%EDgan&name=Feathergraphy2.ttf&size=70&style_color=C7C7C7[/img][/url] 
[img]https://31.media.tumblr.com/1e71796231537f69a36c4b897462c78b/tumblr_n9lbbzjKrY1s8198mo4_500.gif[/img]
[b][u]Location:[/u][/b] Regan Macguire’s Apartment; Aurora, Colorado
[b][u]Interactions:[/u][/b] Booze and mention of Aphrodite[/center]

[color=gray]A single, diamond bead trickles down the side of the squat bottle, slipping onto the expensive white nightstand. The single drop calls her name, echoing inside her hammer-struck brow as she ripples beneath silver cotton sheets, her crystalline eyes remaining hidden from the world. Ivory flesh peeks from beneath the silver swaddle, weaving itself with the fabric as a low murmur reverberates in the apartment swathed in white. Her hand, blind and giddy, sweeps across the nightstand until a thin finger brushes against the damp glass and then the whole appendage strangles the neck of the bottle, dragging it to greedy lips. The sweet burning of alcohol slithers down her throat, numbing the constriction in her heart.

Regan pushes herself up with lightly toned muscles, her blonde mess of curls rubbing against the headboard of her California King. The bottle shakes in her sleepy hands before it’s relinquished to the mercy of the floor, shattering into black, dry pieces. Absent-mindedly, Regan runs her hand over the Egyptian cotton next to her, smoothing over the rumpled sheets and flat bed. Drunkenly, she smiles.

[color=indianred]“He’s gone.”[/color] She smirks, a queer quirk of her twisted lips, her mind feeling pleasantly hazy when she attempts to think of her bedmate last night. Almost immediately, her grin is replaced with a frown, slender lines creasing her forehead in worry. [color=indianred]“He didn’t steal from me, did’e?”[/color]

Regan hums, slipping off the bed, careful to step over the glass mess she has created, and wanders into the kitchen. A large white shirt billows over her form, though it doesn’t cover the black exposed underwear gracing Regan’s hips. Stumbling, Regan trips to the fridge and opens it to stare into the depths of the empty beast, groaning in despair when nothing edible is found. Sighing in disappointment, Regan crosses the room, ruffling around the sheets until a slim but expansive smartphone falls from the folds, flopping onto the timber floors. Nearly falling over herself, Regan slaps her hand across the new age technology and steals it from the floor.

[color=indianred]“Pizza…Chinese…[i]Mmm[/i], Taco Bell sounds amazing.”[/color] Regan closes her eyes in thought, leaning against her bed until a startling realization hits her, [color=indianred]“But they don’t deliver. Damnit.”[/color]

Knowing that her chosen food was not at hand, and driving was out of the question at the moment (not that she cared about human well-being, she just didn’t want to get arrested), Regan began to shuffle through her Candy Cabinet(TM).  Whiskey bottles clanked together along with the few rare beers and a large wine in the small mini-fridge, hidden discreetly in her kitchen (under the sink cabinet). Her phone was still clutched in her hand, smooth and warm from the bed sheets. Regan pauses in her search, not able to find her favorite, and glances at her phone in the hopes that a solution to her hungry, thirsty problem will appear. Perhaps the gods (ha) heard her plea, for in that instant, her cell began to ring – since when was her ringtone Justin Bieber’s “Baby” – and a familiar name flashed across the screen. Regan clicked the answer button and held the phone to her ear, thoughts of bribing her sort-of-friend for Taco Bell.

[color=indianred]“Howdy, partner?”[/color] The blonde beams into the phone.

[color=white]“Macguire.”[/color] The other voice came out more somber and serious and Regan immediately winced in annoyance. [color=white]“You missed you’re appointment today.”[/color]

Her peach digit traced a magnet on her fridge, pushing around the large Texas magnet. Blue eyes stared at it, turning it around in circles and ramming it against Florida. Jenkins’ irritated tone caused Regan to smirk rather than smile. [color=indianred]“You’re gonna have to be more specific, Jenkins, I have [i]lots[/i] of appointments nowadays. Refrain from prostitution jokes, please.”[/color]

Despite her playfulness, Jenkins, Regan’s coworker, refused to relent. [color=white]“This is serious, Regan – the General’s not happy with you.”[/color]

Regan frowned, wrinkling her nose, [color=indianred]“He’ll get over it.”[/color]

[color=white]“I know that Afghan is hard, Regan, but you have to go if you want to get better.”[/color]

[color=indianred]“I don’t need a shrink, Johnny.”[/color]

[color=white]“This behavior is inappropriate. You could get kicked out of the military – ”[/color]

[color=indianred]“So what – ”[/color]

[color=white]“Who’ll pay for you – ”[/color]

[color=indianred]“I don’t want to talk about it – ”[/color]

[color=white]“You hit someone –”[/color]

[color=indianred]“Stop.”[/color]

[color=white]“What if you kill someone next time –”[/color]

[i]Sausage-like thumbs pressed into brown orbs, pressing and pressing, until streams of thick coppery blood spilled from the caved frontal skull, staining his dirt-covered wrists.[/i]

[color=indianred]“Jesus Christ, John!”[/color] Regan slammed her forehead against the wall, ignoring the immediate pain that throbbed. She slammed her head once more against it, bidding the thoughts to leave her mind – disturbing thoughts that she had tried to get rid of for years, centuries. Only one thing did the trick. Regan blindly moved until she felt the tell-tale Candy Cabinet(TM) knob with a collection of cork stoppers hanging from it on several strings. Finally opening her eyes, she picked the biggest bottle she could find and pried it open with her teeth, the bottle jerking and wine sloshing from the top slightly. 

[color=white]“Macguire, stop –”[/color] Regan pressed the red button on the screen, throwing the phone somewhere in the distance and slapped the bottle into her mouth, chugging the wine.

She didn’t stop until she felt an overwhelming buzzing taking over her mind, numbing her ears and mouth and tongue and eyes and heart and gut. Then she threw the bottle in the sink, tripping her way to the bathroom in order to get in the shower and sober herself up so she could get drunk once more. 

Her hand sloppily fondled the door knob, trying to turn it but unable to focus as much to do so. Finally, the door pried open after her drunken machinations, and she stumbled inwards, her eyes closing when blinding whiteness penetrated her eyes. Blinking several times, Regan managed to open her eyes wide enough to the disgusting splendor of Asgard. Frowning in delayed confusion, the Morrígan staggered down the hall and into the congregation of [s]assholes[/s] deities. She squinted, her mind still not able to keep up, but smiled to pretend that she understood anyways, and she crumbled into a seat – next to Aphrodite, maybe (her sight has been compromised by the booze). The Morrígan didn’t understand a lot of what was going on, but the sight of Odin managed to hint at a lurking danger that sent chills down the drunken war goddess’s back.[/color]