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5 yrs ago
Current Plead the 5th.
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Bio

A humble cog in a very clever and beautiful watch, perhaps.

Most Recent Posts

Not quite sure what I wrote, but hopefully it's not awful:


Summary: A police woman, turned vampire, turned vampire mobster, turned independent contractor in desperate need of friends.
Go go flute solo.

Wrapping up my CS shortly.
My concept so far (based mostly on a vampire mafia):


TL;DR: Police Woman turned Vampire Mobster




As it's Friday though, not sure I'll get much done tonight (must dance, drink, and be merry).
What is a noir story without a troubled detective?

It's a bit conventional, but I'm feeling a recently embraced vampire.
Doc Wallace

@ElRey814



"Hey!" Sophia shouted, cursing loudly as she brought her horse into a cantor. With a loud shout, she pushed her legs against the powerful frame of her spotted horse, holding on for dear life as the Appaloosa horse exploded into a gallop. In the time since she headed out West she had learned to ride, she'd had not other choice, but if truth be told, she was much more comfortable riding in a wagon.

Her predecessor, Francois Dumont, and his untimely death in a tragic wagon accident some months before her arrival to Ulysses had convinced her to favor riding atop a saddle. The ornate and far more comfortable carriage that she had inherited with her funeral home remained safely secured in the small barn she rented. At least when she wasn't acting in her capacity as an undertaker, ferrying caskets in style to the graveyard.

The young necromancer coughed from the cloud of dust that Samuel had left in his wake, her eyes were full of water, and she could have sworn her teeth were rattling against her skull as the hooves of her horse thundered against the uneven dirt road, a most generous classification in her humble opinion, that lead to the Jefferson Farmstead.

"Foolish girl!" Balthazar shouted. "You are going to get us both killed!"

"Probably," Sophia shot back voicelessly, desperately holding onto the reins of her horse. She had gained on Samuel, and had she the inclination she might have almost been able to touch him. But he had cheated. He had started the race with an advantage, and she no longer held any hope of winning. Sophia smiled, it was a dishonest, and brilliant tactic all at once. She'd have to watch Samuel even closer in the future. He was smarter than he'd seemed.

Lost in trying to keep up with the Samuel and more importantly trying not to fall off her own horse, Sophia paid no attention to the distance they crossed nor the time that passed. Instead, in what felt like a series of increasingly tired breaths, she found herself approaching the Jefferson Farmstead a horse length or two behind Samuel.

Reigning in her horse, Sophia offered an exasperated exclamation in Samuel's direction, "Was it really necessary to ride so damn fast?"
I like dark streets, and most of my wardrobe is black.

Which is to say that, I need some more noir in my life.


Cold Hands



The Northlands
The Fortress-Monastery of Atan


Cold Hands sat with her back against the parapet of the great tower. Her eyes were closed, her thoughts were still, and her soul was alive. She did not feel the cold bite of the wind that swept over her. It was freezing she knew, but instead it felt like a warm, gentle caress, a welcoming reminder that she was home. She had left her companions, a party of roguish adventurers behind in the Jewel of the South. Cold Hands had felt a stirring, a desperate longing to return to the monastery, and she knew well-enough to listen to such guidance. After months on the road, the familiar snow-capped mountains were a welcome respite. At least for a moment...

"Cold Hands," Brother Elgot loudly ordered, stirring the young acolyte from her gentle thoughts. Hunched over the ancient spyglass affixed to the parapet, he was wrapped in several thick robes. His one good eye staring through the skillfully polished glass.

"Yes, Brother?"

"Are we awaiting any pilgrims?"

"Not to my knowledge, Brother."

"Well then...why is there a robed figure trudging up the mountain?"

"I don not know, Brother," Cold Hands replied, eying the Elgot with a single open eye.

"Of course. Those symbols, those gaudy colors. That misplaced sense of pride and disgusting arrogance. And that terrible choice in robes. It's the Grand Observatory of Ithell," the older monk hissed, slapping a gloved hand angrily against the stone.

Cold Hands forced herself to smile in response. Unlike a great many of her fellow acolytes, she did not bear any strong feelings towards the astronomers of the distant tower. There were many paths that led to enlightenment and Cold Hands had always been facilitated by the theories that the stargazers produced. She hoped to one day visit the Grand Observatory of Ithell. Within the great library of the observatory were a number of rare books that she wanted to read. Wonderful tomes of theological knowledge that she was unable to find within the walls of Atan.

Rising fluidly to her feet, Cold Hands bowed politely to the older monk. "Rest easy, Brother. I will go greet the traveler. They must be weary after such a long climb through the snow."

"No, Cold Hands, wait! Come back! Don't let them in—" Brother Elgot shouted.

Cold Hands pretended not to hear him over the rising howl of the wind. All visitors were welcome, all seekers were invited, and provided the price required for true knowledge was paid, Cold Hands saw no reason to deviate from respected tradition.
Sal the Conjurer


"Woah," Sal exclaimed as she stepped into the summoning room. The cigarette she held lazily in her lips tumbled downwards, scattering ash and dying embers on the floor. She heard Fei and then Ahuna speak, but she wasn't listening, not anymore, not really. The young wizard wasn't sure what the others saw, if they saw anything she was sure she didn't want to know. Sal saw patterns. Heavy, jarring, and terrible patterns that made her feel like a knife had just been driven through her skull. An algorithm of damnation that she could only partially comprehend. Not that she wanted to. Usually, evil was a nebulous term. A philosophical idea or a subjective belief more than a reality. But the magic the now dead witch had woven into the ether was wrong. It was broken magic. Forbidden magic. Magic tinged with the delicate touch of entities that had no business communicating with the residents of the material plane. It was madness. And Sal knew, with an alarming certainty it was evil.

"Fuck me," Sal muttered, fishing another cigarette out of her pocket. Leaning against a wall, Sal gazed with wide eyes past the walls of the small house. She wondered if it was too late too late to quit. She wasn't really the "save the world" type of girl. Not for what Bain and Hoyle were paying her, generous as it was. And not when it meant possibly encountering the sort of creatures that responded to summoning rituals that involved dead magicians.

Sal had just prepared the teleportation spell when her eyes darted over the symbol that was scorched into the wood. Sal's eyes widened, but she did not feel fear. Instead, she felt a sense of curiosity that worried her even more. The symbol was evil, very evil. And yet. It was a work of art. To pierce the veil so cleverly and skillfully, required real talent. And power, so much knowledge. Sal shuddered. She was in over hear head. She felt sick. She felt afraid.

Swearing quietly Sal pushed off against the wall. Breathing in a welcome cloud of smoke Sal's growing apprehension faded as Fei's words finally caught up to her.

"On it," Sal replied. She brought out a heavy piece of tracing paper neatly folded into a thick square and a small stub of a graphite pencil marked softly by her teeth. Stepping further into the room, she bent low and ran a finger over what remained of the summoning pentagram. Lines of scorched wood, probably tallow, the rendered fat had fueled arms of fire. She hoped it wasn't human. Placing the tracing paper against the symbol, Sal began to slowly and carefully began to copy what remained of the arcane symbol.

Laughing nervously, Sal spoke aloud to Fei and anyone else within earshot, "You know, it's rare to find rituals that require human sacrifice any more—" Sal stopped and pointed towards one of the symbols visible beneath the paper. "This is old, very old, and it's not human. Now, I know what you're thinking of course it's not human. But it's not that, that name was never meant for a human tongue or a human hand. No wizard or witch writes like that. You wouldn't. You shouldn't...You couldn't..."
I'll try to post a bit later today. :)

Delayed by sickness and work, but finally posted. :D
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