MaeB

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

_{__________
𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎
𝚂𝚘𝚒𝚛é𝚎
𝟼𝟿 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝
𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊, 𝚆𝙸
__________}

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔

Pearl could tell from the doorway that the boy was dead. Proper dead. Dead dead. No doubt about that. His eyes bulged blood-shot from their sunken sockets and his jaw hung slack like a garden swing. She thought to herself, as Dixie flapped incoherently in the hallway behind her, how even fully grown men looked infantile when stark-bollock naked. Somethin’ ‘bout that flaccid penis all shrivelled and limp from the cold. But instead of running free in the back yard as a young clothe-less whippersnapper, this naked body was contorted and entangled like dirty laundry, his final breath freeze-framed and tied in a knot.

Pearl moved into Dixie’s room, Roger stepping beside her. His expressionless stare had a hint of disapproval about it, piggy eyes looking down upon the deceased. Dixie had begun begging from the corridor, pointedly not re-entering the scene of the crime. Her incessant mews of mercy grated on Pearl’s waning patience, peeling away at her thin veil of composure like moulding wallpaper.

“That’s enough, Dixie.” Her tone was clipped and razor-sharp. It cut the tail end of the whore’s apology like a hot knife on butter.

Mouth opening and shutting like a guppy, her continual stream of excuses turned silent, as if Pearl had thumbed the mute button on a remote control. Pearl released the breath she’d been holding, sharply exhaling through flared nostrils. Her palms smoothed down the non-existent wrinkles in her dress as she paced the circumference of the death bed. The Madam’s inner cogs whirred with the formulation of a neanderthal plan, but a plan nonetheless, the sense of urgency bubbling in the pit of her stomach. This unravelling was one she wished to abort. So she compiled the next steps the only way she knew how…

𝚂𝚝𝚎𝚙 𝟷: 𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚘𝚍𝚢

𝚂𝚝𝚎𝚙 𝟸: 𝙲𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚛

𝚂𝚝𝚎𝚙 𝟹: 𝙶𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚡𝚒𝚎 𝚊 𝙻𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚢

It was a simple plan, in theory. The nuances of each step were where the complications resided. Roge would deal with the body, as he always did. It was best not to ask questions about that particular step of the plan. The less Pearl knew, the better. Step 2 was the one she begrudged the most. She loathed to call the Cleaner. This custodial artist was not the type who adorned a headscarf, a caddy of bleach and a feather duster. She was a professional whose expertise was in neutralising a scene just like this one. No one could clean the streets like Winnie. And boy, did she know it. Her price bordered on unaffordable. Her demeanour intolerable. But she worked fast and she worked thorough. Pearl would begrudgingly pay the price twice over for her silence as well as her skill. The Madam’s hand was hovered over the rotary telephone, the receiver asleep in its cradle, awaiting a rude awakening when Roger cleared his throat gruffly from the bedside.

“Madam P,” he was staring uninterrupted at the swollen eyeballs of Dixie’s unwilling victim, tone flat and blunt as a spoon. “This is the Genovese boy.”

The lungs of the room deflated. Oxygen was vacuumed from every inch. Pearl clenched so tight she may well have chewed through her molars, right down to the gum. A nerve ticked in her jaw. Something animalistic rumbled in her throat. She shook with the struggle of containing the wrath that filled her from head to stilettos. Dixie hadn’t just snuffed out a seedy John with a drip of a wife and runt children. That man wouldn’t be missed. Not by many, anyway. That man was a nobody who simply had a feel for fingers round his thick, unimportant neck. No, the stupid whore had asphyxiated Tony Genovese’s prodigal son. The apple of his goddamn eye. This was not a corpse weighted with bricks and easily launched into the river, sinking and forgotten. How long would it take for Tony to notice his precious boy was missing? And did Daddy know all about his love for lack of breath?… Either way, Pearl’s plan had already hit a blockade at Step 1. One hand still lingering over the receiver, the other gripping the dresser so tight the wood creaked like old bones, she struggled to get a lid on the vat of her radioactive rage.

“Oh god, no, Pearly!” Dixie wailed in a shrilly nasal tone, skin turning off-white and tinged with green like grass stains. “I didn’t know Luca was - He’s a Genovese?! - He didn’t say he -“

Her broken protests of innocence hung in the air, unfinished and futile. Roger, having reluctantly identified the cadaver, made himself scarce in the name of preparation. He had arrangements to make, after all. Tools to gather. Reinforcements to conscript. He left the Madam and her babbling whore in the bedroom, alone with poor lifeless Luca. Pearl lifted a shaky hand, pinched the bridge of her nose, and squeezed her eyes shut so tight her vision bubbled with kaleidoscopic spots. Perhaps if she squeezed hard enough she’d awaken in her bed? The nightmare of a dead mob boss son just a sick subconscious trick. But the inconsolable sobs of her murderous babydoll prevented that wish from coming true, anchoring her in this morbid reality. Two candlesticks of snot dripped from Dixie’s nostrils and mascara ran like oil streaks down her cheeks. The Madam wrapped her fingers around an empty rocks glass, an innocent bystander on the dresser, and propelled it through the air aiming poorly for the wall behind Dixie’s head. She showered raindrops of splintered glass into the corridor, piglet squeals of protest squeezed from the babydolls throat.

“QUIET!” Pearly bellowed, banshee-like. Breathing ragged like a rabid street mutt, the Madam pointed a trembling finger and lowered her voice to a chilling almost-whisper. “Get in here. Now. Get your flat ass in here and strip. We’ll be burning that goddamn dress. And his clothes. Find them. Give them to the Cleaner when she gets here. And shut your noise, Dixie. I don’t wanna hear a peep outta you from here on out. Not a peep, ya hear? Your fuss is useless to me and I have a fucking phone call to make. Alright?”

Spittle bubbled in the corners of Pearl’s rosebud lips, eyes wild as wind and tone tight with the promise of threats just begging to be kept. Dixie obliged, wobbling an obedient entrance like a fresh, membrane-slicked foal. Her heels pricked the faded carpet, knees knobbling and rickety with fear. Turning her back, the phone receiver was cool against Pearl’s piping hot flesh. Her index finger was barely steady enough to dial in the Cleaner’s number, fingering the too-small holes and rotating the faceplate incorrectly twice before successfully inputting the right digits. The dialling tone rung out like a heart monitor, a metronome to Dixie’s striptease, Pearly’s heart fluttering like a caged bird in her chest as she waited. And waited. This. This was the life of a downtown Madam. It wasn’t just counting bills, taking a rake and managing the wayward girls. Though that was challenge enough. It was cleaning up messes, trading secrets under the counter, playing Johns and Pigs like poker and knowing when to delegate the damn job. The Cleaner picked up on the 4th ring.

“Winnie’s Wash. How can I help you?” the voice was groggy with sleep. Crackling like a vinyl from smoking 40 a day.

“Winifred. It’s Pearl.”

A long sigh whistled down the phone.

“Pleasure’s all mine, Winnie. Trust me. I ain’t pleased to be punching in your number, neither.”

Pearl heard the squeak of rusted bedsprings in the background as the Cleaner no doubt adjusted herself in bed.

“Call-out fee? At this hour? It ain’t gon’ be cheap, Pearl. Whadya need?”

Dixie stood in nothing but her high heels, cradling a bundle of clothes in her arms like a swaddled newborn, a mixture of her dress and the dead mob boss son’s suit. Goosebumps pricked her bare breasts, pebbled nipples wobbling with cold. Clueless. The girl had no idea the lengths Pearl would have to go to in order to make this thing go away.

“End of tenancy clean,” Pearl gritted out, head turning to face Luca spread-eagled atop the bed, then shooting a pointed look at the naked girl in the middle of the room.

“That urgent?”

“Urgent enough for me to be callin’ you, ain’t it? Tenant left in a hurry. Left their room in a right state. Somethin’ only you can deal with.”

A throaty chuckle, loosened with flattery.

“I’ll be 20 minutes. Invoice is gonna be made out for a couple stacks and a few C’s. Is the back door unlocked for me?”

“Always unlocked for you, Winifred” she purred.

Another sigh.

“Winifred ain’t even my guvvy, Pearl. Just Winnie will do fine.”

And the line was disconnected with a click.

Returning the mouthpiece to its cradle, Pearl took a moment to regain some sense of control. She felt clammy. Clumsy. Messily emotional. But the plan was back in motion. Winnie was on her way, Roger had returned with an extra pair of hands, Dixie was finally silent. Soon, this body would be buried along with the secret of his tragic circumstances. Once the technicalities were handled, and they would indeed be handled, Madam could resume business as usual. She just had to make sure Dixie’s lips were stitched shut. The ones in her face, anyway. The others had some debts to repay. Winnie’s Cleaning fee would be a good start. Pearl nodded her head in approval as the scene unfolded before her, the acidic adrenaline slowly dissipating with every second. She felt behind the wheel again, shifting down gears and pumping brakes. This was fine. Everything was fine. It would all be… Fine. As her heart rate slowed, she became abundantly aware of all the feeling she’d been doing. She craved the nothingness, the numbness, that only a bit of white or a drop of amber at the bottom of a glass could bring her. The Siren called from the basement, her lure hypnotic with its promise of sweet relief. Following her call, Pearl sashayed past Roger and Dixie’s shaking naked body, tiptoeing down the stairs with a satisfied smile on her face. Satisfied? Maybe. Deluded? Definitely.

Soirée, with its utopian anti-sanctuary, remained predictably unscathed from the chaos overhead. The bustling basement bar welcomed her home with a motherly embrace. Liquor-soaked carpets and intoxicating cigarette smoke filled Pearl’s nostrils and she gladly breathed it in, letting it loosen her rigid bones and cardboard posture. She glided across the bar, zigzagging through tables illuminated with conversation. Approaching the bartender with a commanding smirk, she signalled for a glass of bourbon with a dismissive flick of her wrist. The cracked leather seat atop the stool crisped beneath her weight, flaking like dandruff. And when the bourbon found its way into her grasp, she drained it like lovers reuniting. Eyelids fluttering shut with the sweet release, she barely savoured the moment before sliding the empty glass back to the bartender. She nodded. He nodded.

“That Joe McGabhann fella was here earlier, Madam P” the barkeep said, replenishing the lipstick-stained glass with unspoken obligation. “Says he was lookin’ for the McClusky brothers. Said to send his regards to ya.”

Pearl opened one eye, arching a brow. How dare he interrupt her meditation? The Blues guitarist on the Soirée stage plucked distorted, warbling notes. Heavy-handed drum beats reverberating the last of the adrenaline from Pearly’s bones. Her head lolled back, allowing the wail of the guitar to coat her skin.

“Phone his dodgy veterinary clinic and tell him to speak to Lola Rose,” she mumbled, both eyes closing tight shut again, an attempt to retreat into the bottom of the glass. “She used to see the skinny one. Tell him to swing by...” A sigh fluttered the strands of hair that fell in front of her face. “I’ll give the dog a bone. Long as he fetches me a lil’ treat. Tell him I like that morphine he keeps nice and chilled.”

She exhaled long and hard. Silence fell. With a curt nod of acknowledgment, she was administered another refill. Sipping on this one, Pearl waited for the Cleaner to arrive. Her eyes strayed to where Winnie would soon emerge from the back entrance. Then, the plan could resume. Until then, the Madam swilled the smokey bourbon around her teeth, swallowing it back with a satisfied gasp.

£ 𝕚𝕟𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖 £ - A Murder Mystery RP

@Xandrya

Hope it’s all going well & that you’re enjoying your new beginnings!

I did enjoy your post, it’s great to see some activity in this thread, so thank you ^^

I might jump in again as I can see Addy & Jimbo haven’t logged in for a while…

Then, we wait ;)

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

@JFK

Thanks for the shoutout, Mr P! Your post was an enjoyable read. A good amount of content to chew on!

If it’s alright with you, I’d like to add a segment to my next post featuring a phone call between Pearly and Joe? She’ll catch wind of where the brothers are and give him a tip-off… In exchange for a favour with no expiration date.

If you’re okay with that, I’d love to run through what that dialogue will look like in the PMs?

Could be a cool little addition to the subplot?

❃ ꯱ׁׅ֒℘ꫀׁׅܻᥣׁׅ֪ᥣׁׅ֪ϐׁׅ֒ᨵׁׅυׁׅꪀׁׅժׁׅ݊ ❃ ᴿᵘᵇʸ ˣ ᴹᵃʸᴮʳᵉᵉᶻᵉ

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⊱ 𝐍𝐲𝐨𝐭𝐚 “𝐍𝐨𝐫𝐚” 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 ⊰

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<sub>When a guard dog is alerted to an intruder, it will bark and snarl, heckles raised, ears flattened. Maw foaming, fangs exposed, a rumbling growl in its throat. Nora Gravesend, in this moment the protector of The Waxing Circles parameters, had the same proprietorial defence as a guard dog. But that fear, that urge to defend and protect, resided entirely behind the emotional veil she’d pulled over her face. She’d ironed clear any signs of visible alarm, her pupils the only diagnostic. Her Mother would’ve wanted her to flee, to raise the alarm. But some breed of stubborn determination rooted her bare feet to the ground, still crouched and braced for the intruders first move. Her Mothers nagging tone (always soft but undeniably nagging) rang out in her mind. Nora shook her head gently, to rid herself of the additional narrative she simply didn’t have space for. Already her brain was busy with an array of escape plans, attack plans, combat sequences, offensive magic… The shadows continued to coil and ripple at her command.

Then, she watched as the mysterious stranger summoned a shining golden apple. From thin air. A bolt of adrenaline shot down Nora’s spine. That was why her magic net had snagged on this stranger’s arrival! She was blessed by Magic’s hands. This was no ordinary philanthropist admiring the nighttime scenery. Her steed gladly chomped into the apparition, skin cracking, juicy flesh bubbling around the horses bridled muzzle. Nora noted the softness with which the intruder looked upon her horse. There was an easy gentleness in the way her hand petted the generous mane. Suddenly, the redheaded woman looked up, body still facing the palfrey. It was difficult to decipher their colour from the verge, but those eyes had a crystalline luminosity that pierced through the forest haze.

“Good evening, good witch,” she called out with a melodic lilt, accent difficult to place. “You can relax the shadows, we only mean to travel through, and quickly. No trouble from us… If that would be alright with you?”

Nora’s head cocked, fluffy brows arching in surprise, as if it had indeed been the horse that spoke. The Witch, moonlight dappling across her porcelain skin, didn’t immediately dispel the shadows.

“Good evening, Sorceress” she called, voice almost spitting out the word.

The title felt fat and blasphemous on her tongue. Her sibilance stained the air, only accentuating the hiss with which Nora spoke. That was a rivalry established in the womb. The classism between born and learned magic was age-old. It was bred into Witch genetics, a disdain that bordered on hatred. Nora couldn’t swallow back the venom that immediately catalysed in her throat, a sneer threatening to pluck at her upper lip. Sorceresses didn’t stray to Witchwoods; They had entire societies abundant they dwelled in. Exclusive and bourgeoisie. Nora’s humble form adorned in the simple linen dress and naked toes juxtaposed the Sorceresses’ lavish tailoring. Leather gloves, leather boots, golden thread hemmed daintily at the cuffs of a rich tunic. Her cheeks were full. Blushed with a healthy pink dusting. She looked… Almost regal. This only added to Nora’s confusion.

“Forgive me,” she drawled facetiously, eyes narrowed across the moonlit stream. “But I’ll keep the Shadows readied for now. We seldom see the likes of you round here. It would be unwise to lower my defences so quickly. At your command, no less? Not likely.”

Nora angled her hand, flashing a quick symbol that commanded the Shadows to delve deeper, to comb through this Sorceresses essence. They snaked across the dirt path obediently, caressing the edges of where the Sorceress stood. They didn’t touch her. They didn’t need to. Darkness knows darkness. Dark recognises dark. And if this Sorceress meant any harm, if she were something of a danger, the Shadows would be able to tell her. Yet as they trailed toward the intruder, they seemed to recoil at her presence as if hitting an invisible barrier. Once again, Nora’s brow furrowed with confusion. This was most unusual. She’d never come across this. Her Magic was potent and well-versed. The Shadows had an omnipotence that was powerful if wielded effectively. How had this Sorceress repelled such an energetic force? With seemingly no spell casting. No chant. No hand symbols. Nora huffed. She supposed that was a perk of being inherently magical. This Sorceress did not have to chant nor learn spells or incantations. She could simply summon an apple and shield herself from the Shadows.

“Travelling through?” Nora echoed, her dark eyes scouring the Sorceress. “A Sorceress beyond the Walls of her kingdom? Slumming it with us in the Winnows?”

Her tone was clipped. Defensive. Despite this woman’s calm exterior, her power was undeniable. People lied. People deceived. Especially those from born magic. They were notoriously slippery. Nora kept her protective shield raised, taking a few more slow steps towards the Sorceress by padding along the verge.

“It is not for me to grant you permission to pass. The Earth decides who walks,” as Nora began to close the distance between them, she noticed that those radiant eyes were bright green. Like the moss atop the bark behind her. “However, I will tell you that you have crossed into Warded territory… But you knew that already. You would’ve sensed that when you passed over our threshold.”

A quick arch of her brow.

“Which, evidently, you ignored.”

The horse whinnied, tossing its mane, those heavily lashed hazel eyes watching the Witch approach. Hooves stamped nervously. Nora’s eyes softened as she eyed the steed.

“Be still,” she hushed, tone switching to something like honey and cotton as she implored the horse to relax. “I’m not going to hurt you, pretty one.”

A cool breeze rushed through the woodland branches, whipping Nora’s jet black locks across her shoulders. A strand remained across her face, so dark against the white paint that divided her angular features in half.

“The same can’t be said for you, Sorceress” Nora mused, eyes flicking across her form. “Be candid. Why do you wander here? Your people don’t travel. You certainly don’t travel through Witchwood. So why? Why is it that you venture so deep into the thicket?”</sub>

❃ ꯱ׁׅ֒℘ꫀׁׅܻᥣׁׅ֪ᥣׁׅ֪ϐׁׅ֒ᨵׁׅυׁׅꪀׁׅժׁׅ݊ ❃ ᴿᵘᵇʸ ˣ ᴹᵃʸᴮʳᵉᵉᶻᵉ

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⊱ 𝐍𝐲𝐨𝐭𝐚 “𝐍𝐨𝐫𝐚” 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 ⊰

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<sub>Crickets. Fireflies. Owls hoots ping-ponging from branch to branch. The brushed cymbals from the canopy of leaves overhead, giggling at the whisper of winds. It was a crisp evening. The kind where the air feels brittle as bone. Nothing disturbed the ominous peace of these forests at this hour. Not a thing feels out of place… Yet should someone, hypothetically, be wandering the depths of the Winnow Forests at this hour, they may stumble across a young woman in nothing but a simple linen dress, muddied and creased at the waist. Should that someone get close enough to sharpen the image, they’d see this sparsely dressed young woman sat cross-legged beneath a fir tree, fallen needles poking through the linen and pricking her pillowed thighs. Dull white chalked markings are etched over her skin; A single brush stroke tracing from her hairline to her pointed chin. The swatch of chalked paint stretches down the bridge of her button nose, over her lips until finally disappearing down her neck. Symbols in the same shade, with the same artisan brush strokes, are scattered across her bare forearms like tattoos. Thanks to the stark contrast against the markings, Nora’s eyes only glowed brighter, two embers in the dusk-riddled forest. Her hushed tone bleeds into the crackle of wind-buffeted leaves, the Witch utters a series of undecipherable chants. They are spoken with hardly a whisper, barely there, a secret exclusively shared with the bark and the dirt and the mud and the stream…

Her almost-translucent eyes are fluttering as an animal does when dreaming, the dark brown eyes hidden beneath, flicking rapidly from side to side. Nora points an index finger and begins tracing symbols midair, slow curvatures and quick flicks, like calligraphy. Here, alone in the forest, the Witch practices her most truest magic undisturbed and alone. There is no interruption from her fellow Sisters, no Coven commitments, no intrusive background noise. It is just her, commanding the night, a thread of Magic pinpricked through her heart and pierced through the moon that shone unashamedly above her. That thread hums with relief as the Witch continues her spell, the chants increasing in volume gradually as she builds layer upon layer. Casting like this, truly connected, is a feeling most adjacent to lucid dreaming. There is a detachment from the physical planes, fractured from flesh and muscular tissue, yet a Witch will seldom experience such unadulterated connection as when she is in this state.

Nora’s nightly rituals ranged from strengthening the Waxing Circle’s protective Wards to blessings for the Sisterhood. Each night she challenged herself to focus more than the night before, feel the thread more viscerally and more purely, growing the Magic that inhabited every fibre of her. Submitting to her energetic self, that non-physical energy, Nora departed from the shell that sat cross-legged in the wet leaves. As she detached from herself, she felt the Earth around her breathe a sigh of relief. Forefinger and thumb pinching the magical thread, she too released a breath she hadn’t realised had been trapped within her. The air rippled around her, as if a stone had been dropped in a stream. Yet as that Magic pulsed outward from her core, spreading out into her forest entourage, Nora sensed a chink in the armour. She breathed again, exhaling, her breath and her power radiating outward in another ripple of energy. There it was again. An uneven heartbeat. A blank space in the sheet music. Something off-beat. The Forest was not the same tonight… And despite spending her evening reinforcing the Wards, something or someone had penetrated them.

Snapping back into her body, Nora reeled from her sudden return. She wiggled her fingers, arched her back, cracked her neck. Her bones tingled with the sudden resurgence of physical form. It felt like a rebirth every time. She doubted she’d ever get used to that feeling. Through her eyes, blinking away the fogged edges of her vision, the Forest seemed undisturbed at its surface. But Nora’s magic had told her otherwise. So she rose, slowly and shakily, to her feet. Bare soles crunching against the leaves beneath them, the daughter of Luna Gravesend - Mother of The Waxing Circle, crouched alert as a hunted fawn. Her widened eyes, pupils dilated like ink in water, scoured the tree-lines. Scanning the shadows, Nora postured her right hand to reconnect with her inner thread. Flashing a few consecutive symbols in an array of poses, fingers flicking through the night air, the Witch drew upon those shadows and commanded them to reveal its secrets. At first? The darkness resisted. Nora struggled to maintain her grip, the shadows slipping through her grasp like sand, thread thinning as her eyes narrowed in concentration. Then, she found it. Bending the Forest’s vision to her will, the Witch asked and the darkness answered. The Shadows showed her a figure in the distance, a few minutes out from where she stood frozen, travelling on horseback. The image swam through her mind, watery and faded, but clear enough to know the stranger in the woods was no Sister.

Nora cut the thread. Her hands dropped to her sides. For a moment there was nothing but the chirps of crickets and the Witches’ short breaths. Her chest beneath the wafered linen rose and fell in quick succession, heart knocking at the doors of her ribcage. Icy air hissed through her teeth. Skin frosting with fear. An intruder. How long had it been since someone had breezed through the Wards? Too long. Who rode through the Forests this deep at this hour? Someone tracking the Coven? Someone scoping out the efficiency of the Wards? Her mind was a busy highway, clogged with thoughts bumper to bumper, none of them sticking long enough to become wholly coherent. She tried and failed to quieten her mind. There was no volume dial. No off switch.

Then came the sound of hooves, wet and dull against the muddied path. From her vantage point on the mossy verge, Nora spotted the saddled figure. Auburn hair folded into a braid, spine straightened, hips rolling in sync with the horses steps. She could run. Flee. Naked soles could thunder across the Forest floor and Nora could return to the Coven. She could raise the alarm. Inform her Sisters. Shake her Mother awake from her slumber. Or? She could wait. Watch. As a precaution, the Witch summoned the shadows once more. This time, she drew them across the moonlit grasslands, weaving them toward her ready to weaponise them against the intruder. The shadows curled and intertwined, coiling and creeping at her command. These shadows could rise up. They could wrap themselves like chains around the neck of this rider. They could pierce skin. But for now they remained poised, flat against the Forest floor. Nora edged forward. From the path, the figure on horseback would certainly spot her. The Witch remained crouched and readied, eyes locked on to the moving target. One hastened move and she’d release the darkness. Until then? She waited.</sub>

〖 𝚁 𝙾 𝙶 𝚄 𝙴 𝚁 𝙾 𝚆 〗⌠ The Fall from Disgrace ⌡⌠ British Espionage / Crime RP⌡

@Byte@PatientBean

Alrighty then! On that note, it’s time to say goodnight to this story.

Thanks for the fun, albeit short, ride you two!

May your other RPs be fruitful.

๑ ❝ 𝕮 𝔥 𝔞 𝔯 𝔪 𝔢 𝔡 , 𝕴‘𝔪 𝖘𝔲𝔯𝔢 ❞ ๑ { A Witch’s Tale - RP }

@TokyoPewPew



You bring tears to my eyes, TPP

〖 𝚁 𝙾 𝙶 𝚄 𝙴 𝚁 𝙾 𝚆 〗⌠ The Fall from Disgrace ⌡⌠ British Espionage / Crime RP⌡

@PatientBean



I’m afraid we might be losing him…

Austin Is Dead

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♡ 𝓢𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓮𝓻 𝓕𝓸𝓻𝓭
𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓔𝔁-𝓖𝓲𝓻𝓵𝓯𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓭 ♡

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@h8k8m8

Summer’s knees nagged at her as she stood, shoulders hunched against the wind, braids flicking in the breeze all serpentine-like. If anyone noticed, it would be the cool air that she blamed for watery eyes. If anyone noticed, she’d shoot them an easy smile and force a laugh that would seldom convince them. If anyone noticed…

"Good... to see you again.”

Jaxon noticed. He was stood awkwardly as if he wasn’t sure how to hold himself, those soft eyes seemed to focus on the mundane details around them, anything but meeting her sullen gaze. Jaxon waved at her as if it were his first time trying, a meagre lift of his hand, a slight incline of the wrist. Summer’s face felt stiff and she had to consciously force her lips into an upturned attempt at a smile. Her eyes meandered over him as he settled in next to her. The smudges of grease had disappeared from his angular features and the overalls had been swapped out for a fairly fitted suit.

"It's a good turnout. It's, uh, nice to see that Austin has impacted so many people," the words sounded far away. Distant. Hearing his name spoken by the tongue of another was like a bucket of cold water upturned atop her head. Summer deepened the forced smile and nodded in agreement.

She sighed, glancing round at the crowd that had begun to form, a sea of dark attire and polite conversation. Umbrellas gripped in shaky fists, prepared for the emptying of those heavy grey clouds overhead. Slow nods of morbid agreement. Canned laughter erupting from pockets of people who must’ve known Austin, once upon a time. Jaxon was right. There were indeed many faces that littered the Cemetery in Austin’s name. Some recognisable, if altered by time. Others unknown to her. She noticed Cass Warden, as shrewd as ever, chatting to Chris Miller. They lacked the roundness of youth in their faces. They looked different outside of the school corridors. Summer shifted her weight from foot to foot, theatrically shivering as another breeze kicked up.

”I wonder how many of these people are powered,”Summer said absently, combing her eyes over the mourners. ”I wonder if they’re as shocked as I am that someone like Austin just… Isn’t here anymore.”

A pair of girls Summer recognises from the school halls breezed by, their gaze averting from the ex-girlfriend of the deceased. Summer offered them a sympathetic smile, nodding in polite greeting. They returned the favour but didn’t stop. She watched their backs as they walked away, tacking on to another group ahead. Turning back to Jaxon, Summer fixed her wayward braids, pulling them into one large twist and resting them like a scarf over her shoulder.

”Thanks again for the tire change, by the way” she said, her tone light and melodic, disguising her inner discomfort. ”Mini runs like a dream now, thanks to you. Though I must admit, I nearly lost my cool when I heard the pop. Nothing like a flat to really epitomise your state of mind, right? If that ain’t a metaphor for all this, I don’t know what is…”

Trailing off, a soft laugh huffed from her lips. She glanced at Jaxon briefly before turning her attention back to the crowd.

”I really didn’t expect to be stood here”, her voice was quieter now. ”A part of me is expecting Austin to pop out from behind a tree or something, killin’ himself laughing, pointing at us all and mocking us for believing he’s gone…” She chuckled, shaking her head. ”If he weren’t dead already, I’d kill him for that.”

£ 𝕚𝕟𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖 £ - A Murder Mystery RP

@XandryaHappy Birthday! Hope your day was full of joy <3