murdoc

Strings

-snip-

Strings

_{owo what's this?}

Shuffle your music player and post the first 10 songs

Chaparral - Healy
Get Visited (Savior of a Peculiar Nature) - The Buttress
Do It All The Time - I DONT KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME
Blastoffff - Joywave
Gamma Knife - King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard
Bloodsport - Raleigh Ritchie
Demons - Joji
Bored To Death - blink-182
Vide Noir - Lord Huron
Starboy - The Weeknd

The Return of Salem

+

_{Collab between @cerozer0 & @murdoc
Interacting with: Lyra Proctor @Aamaya}

---

“You could say that. I was working on a paper.” Sounding suitably exhausted, Julian reaches beneath the counter to retrieve his laptop. “Got, like, six hundred words done before passing out.”

When he opens the laptop, an unfinished essay appears onscreen, the very last line cutting off abruptly in the middle as if he’d fallen asleep at his desk. It was a half-truth; he had been working on a paper, just not last night, though he couldn’t exactly tell Cynthia what he was really up to, could he? Even if she wasn’t privy to the world of witches, warlocks, and all things magical, this secret of his was something he’d prefer to keep.

The bandage around his hand, however, remained an unfortunate side-effect of last night’s activities. Already, he feels a thick, liquid warmth beginning to seep through again, a bloom of crimson slowly spreading across the surface. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should never have let it get this bad. But now, all he can do is distract, and hope that the other wouldn’t think anything of it.

“Ugh, I need some coffee.” Julian groans, stretching like a cat, before seeming to remember something. “Oh, wait. My mom told me to give you this.”

Rummaging through his bag once again, he eventually extricates an oat-and-pecan granola bar wrapped in cling film, and hands it to Cynthia. “She says you don’t eat enough.”

“Oh, your mother worries too much about me.” Cynthia smiles pleasantly as she takes the granola bar and looks it over. Nuts, ech– also made by the woman who she has a sneaking suspicion is a devil-summoning witch. “Ah, crap. I should have told her I’m allergic to nuts.” She lies in a soft mumble, loud enough for Julian to hear before slipping the snack into her bag.

“In any case, I feel she should be worried a little more about you, hon.” Cynthia rounds the corner of the counter and begins adjusting some misplaced crystals and labels, keeping her eyes on him, “Falling asleep while writing isn’t good for your health. And– did you hurt your hand too?”

She taps the back of her hand, as if indicating he should look down, and then turns to continue some restocking she had left over from yesterday.

Julian is a good kid. He’s the right amount of stressed a little college boy should be, and he seems to like her. That does not bar him from suspicion, though, but asking overly personal questions would blow away the tame and friendly persona she has built up over the past few weeks working here.

Julian doesn’t miss the comment Cynthia makes regarding her allergy, though he sees no need to interject. Truth be told, he did think it was a little strange how he’d never actually seen Cynthia eat any of the food they gave her, but it seemed as if it wasn’t anything worth worrying about. Not quite yet, at least.

“Yeah, but it’s nothing. Just cut myself making dinner, s’all. Like a dumbass.” Julian just rolls his eyes and shrugs, like he’s tired of the other babying him all the time. But slowly, his lips begin to stretch into a wry, impish smirk, and he leans closer to Cynthia. “You know, you’re kind of starting to sound like my mom.”

“I’ve always sounded like a mother, doesn’t necessarily have to be your mom.” Cynthia chuckles as she pinches his nose and rounds an aisle, turning out any out of place labels. Her expression masks the worming disgust she feels in the pit of her stomach. Sounding like a witch? Really? She’d rather die than hear such a thing again truthfully.

But Julian can’t know that. Not if he is just like his mother.

She returns to his side, ruffling his hair in a friendly but non-invasive way. “It’s good to have a ton of moms, kid. I wish I did.” Turning up the sympathy dial a tad, Cynthia projects a look of forlorn acceptance and stares out the window. Somehow, it feels a little like relief, allowing a small truth to slip out into her web, but she doesn’t cling too hard to such a feeling. It would maim her later if she let it stick around.

“Ah, I think we have a regular coming.” Cynthia says, skipping back around the counter as the shadow of Lyra approaches the door.

“Alright, fine. You sound like a mom — hey!” Julian makes to swat away Cynthia’s hand, though not before she makes a quick retreat behind some shelves.

Despite himself, he feels his skin start to crawl, almost painfully. Julian never liked people touching him, even in the most innocuous of ways. It made him… uncomfortable, made him want to rip and tear and bite at whoever it was that touched him, but happy, normal, well-adjusted Julian couldn’t do that, could he? That Julian would simply laugh it off, maybe sulk a little if he was feeling kind of crabby, but none of that compared to what he really wanted to do.

So instead, he just takes a deep, steadying breath, and holds it until he feels the wrongness in his chest begin to die down. Cynthia would be back any second now; he couldn’t afford to let her see through his facade. By the time she returns, he’s tapping away at his laptop — the very image of a hard-working college student. But when Cynthia reaches over to ruffle his hair, Julian draws back in an involuntary flinch, like he’d been burnt. Thankfully, she appeared distracted by her own worries, and he just plays it off with an exasperated huff of laughter. “Stop, c’mon. I need to write this stupid paper.”

“Well, either way, we’re both glad you’re here.” Julian shoots Cynthia a shy, furtive glance, lips quirking into a smile, before returning his attention to the essay. But just as he’s about to type his first word, the bell above the front door jingles, and a familiar face steps inside. Lyra.

“I’ll help her.” Hopping off his chair, he walks around to where Lyra was. As usual, she had a whole laundry list of ingredients she wanted to purchase, some of which were terribly difficult to come by in this day and age, and would be hell to find in the backroom. Still, he just plasters a pleasant smile on his face, and accedes to her request. “Sure, let me look in the back. It’ll just take a minute.”

As he makes his way to the back of the store, Julian lets some of the tension drain out of his shoulders. It’s kind of a mystery how Lyra has managed to get this far without arousing suspicion. Perhaps no one believed she was a witch because she looked and behaved too much like one — that was one way to hide in plain sight, he supposed.

Cynthia’s back straightened when she catches sight of Lyra. Yes, yes— she’s seen this one around before. Her attire, her knowledge, even her way of speaking seemed to ooze sin. It was tantalizing, sitting in the same room as a woman just asking to be hanged from the rafters.

“Julian will be back soon, Lyra.” Cynthia smiles. She only knows her name from Miriam and Julian’s calling of her, but she has seen the woman come in once or twice in search of some sweet smelling herbs. “In the meantime, though– how have you been? We haven’t really gotten to know each other, hmm~?”

Shuffle your music player and post the first 10 songs

Lake Effect Kid - Fall Out Boy
Monkey Bee - Damon Albarn
still feel. - half•alive
New York City Cops - The Strokes
Villains of Circumstance - Queens of the Stone Age
Steady, As She Goes - The Raconteurs
Coin-Operated Boy - The Dresden Dolls
Little Dark Age - MGMT
One Bad Night - Hayley Kiyoko
Kansas - Gorillaz

Redwood Apartments [CLOSED]

Cecil

“ Bᴇ ᴄʟᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴀᴡᴀʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ sᴛᴀʀs ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴꜰɪɴɪᴛʏ ᴏɴ ʜɪɢʜ. Tʜᴇɴ ʟɪꜰᴇ sᴇᴇᴍs ᴀʟᴍᴏsᴛ ᴇɴᴄʜᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴀʟʟ. ”
― Vɪɴᴄᴇɴᴛ Vᴀɴ Gᴏɢʜ

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔


|| 40 || Mᴜsɪᴄɪᴀɴ || Mᴀʟᴇ || Bɪsᴇxᴜᴀʟ || 2 ᴍᴏɴᴛʜs ||

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

Many think of Cecil as intimidating when they first meet him, and he certainly looks that way, just a bit over 6’0” and weighing in at around 180 pounds, give or take. He’s not athletic (damn these love handles!), per se, but he isn’t fat, either. Really, the best way to describe Cecil’s physical appearance would be the term ‘dad bod’, toeing the line between chubby and muscular. Most of the time, his expression is set in a pensive scowl, dark, soulful eyes narrowed in what seems like contempt, but once you strike up a conversation with him, you’ll find that he’s the type of person who smiles easily and sincerely. Never judge a book by its cover, and all that.

On the whole, Cecil can look a little… grungy. His dark hair is often carelessly mussed, and on occasions where looking presentable is a necessity, he just slicks it all back with a dollop of pomade. Furthermore, there always seems to be the beginnings of a beard forming on his lower face, blurring the angular lines of his features. You’ll almost never seen him clean-shaven, mostly because he thinks it’s too much of a hassle to do so everyday, but underneath that stubble, a sharp, well-defined jaw is hidden. Upon closer inspection, one will also find a light smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose and cheekbones.

Even now, he still dresses as he did in his youth. It’s mostly t-shirts, jeans, and sneakers, though he does have a nice suit jacket he busts out for special occasions. When it gets chilly, he resorts to heavy flannels and sweaters. While he isn’t one to accessorise, Cecil can often be seen wearing a knotted bracelet around his left wrist, made from intertwining strings in a rainbow of colors — a gift from his daughter.

ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

Cecil doesn’t ask for much in life — as long as he’s got his guitar, a cigarette, and his cat, Wolfgang, he’s satisfied. Truly, he’s the kind of guy who knows how to find joy in the smallest things. You see, he firmly believes that you only have one life, and you’ve got to live it, otherwise what’s the point? There’s no such thing as mistakes in his mind, only learning curves and stories you can one day share with your grandkids. Cecil often states that no one should take life too seriously because in the end, everyone ends up in the same place.

The first thing most people see when meeting him is his spirit. Cecil has always been an energetic one, full of life and personality, though he has mellowed out a little with age. As far as he's concerned, life's too short to sit around let shit just happen, it’s all about the now, and how you handle the people and things that surround you. If he likes something, chances are he’ll let you know it, and if he doesn’t, well, he’s never been shy about voicing his opinion in that matter as well. Try as he might, he’s never really had the best poker face in the world, and it tends to give him away more than not.

While he may not realise it himself, he has picked up quite a few traits from his mother, one of which is self-reliance. He’s very independent, and hates asking for help, even when he needs it. It must also be said that Cecil’s ego can sometimes get the better of him. He has no issues justifying his own reasons for saying or doing what he wants, but can be quick to dismiss others when they try and do the same. Some may find him rather exhausting to deal with in that regard, though it’s not something he’s consciously aware of. When faced with conflict, he often finds himself playing mediator to varying degrees of success, mostly because he can’t stand negativity.

ʜᴀʙɪᴛs
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

Cecil plays a lot of music. While he can’t exactly haul a grand piano up into Redwood, it’s almost as if he’s physically joined to his guitar. More often than not, you’ll find him fiddling with it, composing his own pieces. He’s very much influenced by jazz and classical guitarists, though he often incorporates folk elements into his work as well. Cecil’s music isn’t something he shares with everyone, but for those who show genuine interest, he’s more than happy to talk about it.

Cecil is a smoker, and has been for the past decade or so, though he’s not the type to start jonesing for a cigarette after a mere hour or two. What started as a way of dealing with the stresses of work has turned into more of a social habit, and hey, it’s a great conversation starter, too.

ʙᴀᴄᴋɢʀᴏᴜɴᴅ
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

If you were alive in the 70s, chances are you’d have heard of Analog. With the release of their hit single ‘Hot Heaven’, this five-piece band from the UK were suddenly found themselves catapulted into the stratosphere of worldwide fame, seemingly overnight. To say that they settled right into the hedonistic lifestyle of rock’n’roll stardom… well, that would be quite the understatement. Cecil was the result of a drunken liaison between Keith “Patch” Nichols, the lead guitarist of Analog, and Joanna, one of their countless, starry-eyed fans. Nine months after Analog’s sold-out show in Omaha, Cecil was finally brought into the world, beet-faced and bloody.

For much of his childhood, Cecil was raised by his grandparents. They were conservative, churchgoing folk, and disapproved of their daughter’s recklessness. Much like his father, Cecil was drawn to music, and showed a natural talent for it, at first plinking away at the piano with unusual finesse for a child his age, then picked up guitar a few years later. His mother was delighted by Cecil’s interest, and encouraged him to keep at it. His grandparents were less thrilled, clamping down on these tendencies as much as they could. Still, Cecil remained resolute, and soon, he even started playing some hymns for their local church.

Cecil’s first and only encounter with his father happened when he was eight years old. Up until then, everything he knew about the man had been what his mother told him. He often thought about what kind of person he was, and what he would say to him if they ever met. With Cecil in tow, Joanna drove five hours to where Analog would be performing later that night. The show was nothing like he’d ever seen — all the people, lights, and pyrotechnics, but what fascinated him the most was the man with the red guitar.

After the show, what went down backstage was something a lot less magical. A long shouting match ensued after Joanna demanded that Patch play his part as a father, or pay child support, at the very least. There was no question that Cecil was his son; their resemblance was unmistakable, but Patch refused to believe it. It was only after Cecil went off on a tirade in defense of his mother and threatened to kick him in the shins that Patch finally relented. Perhaps Patch sensed that things would soon get messy if he didn’t, or maybe his conscience got the better of him. Either way, that was that. Patch never wanted to be a father, never tried to involve himself in Cecil’s life, just did what he could to avoid a scandal.

From that day onwards, Cecil stopped thinking of his father as someone to be admired, to aspire to be. Everything went back to normal when they returned to Omaha, apart from the cheques they now received in the mail every month. Joanna soon got married to a lanky, bespectacled accountant by the name of Steve, and Cecil just sort of… did his own thing. The rest of his childhood and adolescence went by rather uneventfully. He’d always been a happy, well-adjusted kid who had no problem making friends, and his musical talent earned him quite the reputation among the school populace. He and his friends even started a band in their sophomore year.

Then, he graduated, went to college, got a 9-to-5 job, and did what everyone else his age was supposed to do. For years, fear of ending up like his father – the man who never spared him a second thought – dissuaded Cecil from chasing his dreams. He wanted to become a musician, to create art that would be remembered for decades, centuries to come. But with Cecil’s marriage to his high school sweetheart, and the birth of their daughter a year later, he was content to let his aspirations take the backseat, at least for the moment.

While the first few years were idyllic, it seemed their marriage was not built to last. Eventually, living with each other became more of a chore than a pleasure. Cecil hated his job, and often came home reeking of alcohol after a night out with his coworkers. His wife grew antsy, suspecting him of having an extramarital affair. Too many times, they would get into arguments that lasted late into the night, arguments that ended up waking their daughter. They tried to make things work, but marriage counselling didn’t help, and neither did talking things out. It all came to an unceremonious end when one night, his wife announced that she was leaving, and taking their daughter with her.

The divorce was finalized six months later. His wife was the one who got custody of their daughter, while Cecil was left with the scraps — visitation rights. The next couple of months resulted in something of a downward spiral for Cecil, but eventually, he realised that he needed to get it together. So, he quit his job, and with the money he’d saved up, moved to Silvervale, a quaint, little town just two hours away from where he lived. He’d heard of its reputation as a nesting ground for creative souls, and thought it would be a nice change of pace. Call it a midlife crisis, but his subsequent move into Redwood Apartments was the next natural step.

Now, Cecil earns his keep doing what he loves, playing at local bars, clubs, and hopes that he’ll be able to make it big someday. Even if he doesn’t, well, at least can say he gave it that old college try, right?

ᴇxᴛʀᴀ
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

Has a twelve-year-old daughter named Ruby whom he visits on the weekends. She lives with her mother (and Cecil’s ex-wife), Sarah, in the next town over.

Redwood Apartments [CLOSED]

@rougeLily Didn't miss it, just passed out after I posted Cecil last night lmao. Gonna send the write-up to you after I wrap up some stuff!

Redwood Apartments [CLOSED]

@rougeLily Oof, he's finally done. BBCode stolen from @cerozer0 with their permission. Let me know if this is okay and I'll get on with the write-up when I'm less exhausted. :^)

Cecil

“ Bᴇ ᴄʟᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴀᴡᴀʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ sᴛᴀʀs ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴꜰɪɴɪᴛʏ ᴏɴ ʜɪɢʜ. Tʜᴇɴ ʟɪꜰᴇ sᴇᴇᴍs ᴀʟᴍᴏsᴛ ᴇɴᴄʜᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴀʟʟ. ”
― Vɪɴᴄᴇɴᴛ Vᴀɴ Gᴏɢʜ

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔


|| 40 || Mᴜsɪᴄɪᴀɴ || Mᴀʟᴇ || Bɪsᴇxᴜᴀʟ || 2 ᴍᴏɴᴛʜs ||

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

Many think of Cecil as intimidating when they first meet him, and he certainly looks that way, just a bit over 6’0” and weighing in at around 180 pounds, give or take. He’s not athletic (damn these love handles!), per se, but he isn’t fat, either. Really, the best way to describe Cecil’s physical appearance would be the term ‘dad bod’, toeing the line between chubby and muscular. Most of the time, his expression is set in a pensive scowl, dark, soulful eyes narrowed in what seems like contempt, but once you strike up a conversation with him, you’ll find that he’s the type of person who smiles easily and sincerely. Never judge a book by its cover, and all that.

On the whole, Cecil can look a little… grungy. His dark hair is often carelessly mussed, and on occasions where looking presentable is a necessity, he just slicks it all back with a dollop of pomade. Furthermore, there always seems to be the beginnings of a beard forming on his lower face, blurring the angular lines of his features. You’ll almost never seen him clean-shaven, mostly because he thinks it’s too much of a hassle to do so everyday, but underneath that stubble, a sharp, well-defined jaw is hidden. Upon closer inspection, one will also find a light smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose and cheekbones.

Even now, he still dresses as he did in his youth. It’s mostly t-shirts, jeans, and sneakers, though he does have a nice suit jacket he busts out for special occasions. When it gets chilly, he resorts to heavy flannels and sweaters. While he isn’t one to accessorise, Cecil can often be seen wearing a knotted bracelet around his left wrist, made from intertwining strings in a rainbow of colors — a gift from his daughter.

ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

Cecil doesn’t ask for much in life — as long as he’s got his guitar, a cigarette, and his cat, Wolfgang, he’s satisfied. Truly, he’s the kind of guy who knows how to find joy in the smallest things. You see, he firmly believes that you only have one life, and you’ve got to live it, otherwise what’s the point? There’s no such thing as mistakes in his mind, only learning curves and stories you can one day share with your grandkids. Cecil often states that no one should take life too seriously because in the end, everyone ends up in the same place.

The first thing most people see when meeting him is his spirit. Cecil has always been an energetic one, full of life and personality, though he has mellowed out a little with age. As far as he's concerned, life's too short to sit around let shit just happen, it’s all about the now, and how you handle the people and things that surround you. If he likes something, chances are he’ll let you know it, and if he doesn’t, well, he’s never been shy about voicing his opinion in that matter as well. Try as he might, he’s never really had the best poker face in the world, and it tends to give him away more than not.

While he may not realise it himself, he has picked up quite a few traits from his mother, one of which is self-reliance. He’s very independent, and hates asking for help, even when he needs it. It must also be said that Cecil’s ego can sometimes get the better of him. He has no issues justifying his own reasons for saying or doing what he wants, but can be quick to dismiss others when they try and do the same. Some may find him rather exhausting to deal with in that regard, though it’s not something he’s consciously aware of. When faced with conflict, he often finds himself playing mediator to varying degrees of success, mostly because he can’t stand negativity.

ʜᴀʙɪᴛs
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

Cecil plays a lot of music. While he can’t exactly haul a grand piano up into Redwood, it’s almost as if he’s physically joined to his guitar. More often than not, you’ll find him fiddling with it, composing his own pieces. He’s very much influenced by jazz and classical guitarists, though he often incorporates folk elements into his work as well. Cecil’s music isn’t something he shares with everyone, but for those who show genuine interest, he’s more than happy to talk about it.

Cecil is a smoker, and has been for the past decade or so, though he’s not the type to start jonesing for a cigarette after a mere hour or two. What started as a way of dealing with the stresses of work has turned into more of a social habit, and hey, it’s a great conversation starter, too.

ʙᴀᴄᴋɢʀᴏᴜɴᴅ
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

If you were alive in the 70s, chances are you’d have heard of Analog. With the release of their hit single ‘Hot Heaven’, this five-piece band from the UK were suddenly found themselves catapulted into the stratosphere of worldwide fame, seemingly overnight. To say that they settled right into the hedonistic lifestyle of rock’n’roll stardom… well, that would be quite the understatement. Cecil was the result of a drunken liaison between Keith “Patch” Nichols, the lead guitarist of Analog, and Joanna, one of their countless, starry-eyed fans. Nine months after Analog’s sold-out show in Omaha, Cecil was finally brought into the world, beet-faced and bloody.

For much of his childhood, Cecil was raised by his grandparents. They were conservative, churchgoing folk, and disapproved of their daughter’s recklessness. Much like his father, Cecil was drawn to music, and showed a natural talent for it, at first plinking away at the piano with unusual finesse for a child his age, then picked up guitar a few years later. His mother was delighted by Cecil’s interest, and encouraged him to keep at it. His grandparents were less thrilled, clamping down on these tendencies as much as they could. Still, Cecil remained resolute, and soon, he even started playing some hymns for their local church.

Cecil’s first and only encounter with his father happened when he was eight years old. Up until then, everything he knew about the man had been what his mother told him. He often thought about what kind of person he was, and what he would say to him if they ever met. With Cecil in tow, Joanna drove five hours to where Analog would be performing later that night. The show was nothing like he’d ever seen — all the people, lights, and pyrotechnics, but what fascinated him the most was the man with the red guitar.

After the show, what went down backstage was something a lot less magical. A long shouting match ensued after Joanna demanded that Patch play his part as a father, or pay child support, at the very least. There was no question that Cecil was his son; their resemblance was unmistakable, but Patch refused to believe it. It was only after Cecil went off on a tirade in defense of his mother and threatened to kick him in the shins that Patch finally relented. Perhaps Patch sensed that things would soon get messy if he didn’t, or maybe his conscience got the better of him. Either way, that was that. Patch never wanted to be a father, never tried to involve himself in Cecil’s life, just did what he could to avoid a scandal.

From that day onwards, Cecil stopped thinking of his father as someone to be admired, to aspire to be. Everything went back to normal when they returned to Omaha, apart from the cheques they now received in the mail every month. Joanna soon got married to a lanky, bespectacled accountant by the name of Steve, and Cecil just sort of… did his own thing. The rest of his childhood and adolescence went by rather uneventfully. He’d always been a happy, well-adjusted kid who had no problem making friends, and his musical talent earned him quite the reputation among the school populace. He and his friends even started a band in their sophomore year.

Then, he graduated, went to college, got a 9-to-5 job, and did what everyone else his age was supposed to do. For years, fear of ending up like his father – the man who never spared him a second thought – dissuaded Cecil from chasing his dreams. He wanted to become a musician, to create art that would be remembered for decades, centuries to come. But with Cecil’s marriage to his high school sweetheart, and the birth of their daughter a year later, he was content to let his aspirations take the backseat, at least for the moment.

While the first few years were idyllic, it seemed their marriage was not built to last. Eventually, living with each other became more of a chore than a pleasure. Cecil hated his job, and often came home reeking of alcohol after a night out with his coworkers. His wife grew antsy, suspecting him of having an extramarital affair. Too many times, they would get into arguments that lasted late into the night, arguments that ended up waking their daughter. They tried to make things work, but marriage counselling didn’t help, and neither did talking things out. It all came to an unceremonious end when one night, his wife announced that she was leaving, and taking their daughter with her.

The divorce was finalized six months later. His wife was the one who got custody of their daughter, while Cecil was left with the scraps — visitation rights. The next couple of months resulted in something of a downward spiral for Cecil, but eventually, he realised that he needed to get it together. So, he quit his job, and with the money he’d saved up, moved to Silvervale, a quaint, little town just two hours away from where he lived. He’d heard of its reputation as a nesting ground for creative souls, and thought it would be a nice change of pace. Call it a midlife crisis, but his subsequent move into Redwood Apartments was the next natural step.

Now, Cecil earns his keep doing what he loves, playing at local bars, clubs, and hopes that he’ll be able to make it big someday. Even if he doesn’t, well, at least can say he gave it that old college try, right?

ᴇxᴛʀᴀ
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

Has a twelve-year-old daughter named Ruby whom he visits on the weekends. She lives with her mother (and Cecil’s ex-wife), Sarah, in the next town over.

Redwood Apartments [CLOSED]

Working on a character. ;D

The Return of Salem

_{ɪ'ᴠᴇ ɢᴏᴛ sᴏᴍᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ
ɪ'ᴍ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ᴇᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ
ɪ ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀsᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇ}

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For many, sleep is a welcome respite from life, from responsibilities, everything. They simply shut their eyes, then wake up the next morning, fully-rested and ready to face another day. Julian, however, often finds his dreams plagued by visions of men with heads of animals and voices like thunder. The air around him burns like hellfire, a dry, crackling heat that seeps right into his bones. These tall and terrible beings… their talons close around his neck, pressing deep enough through skin to draw blood. It hurts, and he wants to beg, cry, do anything at all, but there isn’t a breath he can spare when he feels his throat collapse and overflow with warm, viscous blood.

He finally wakes up tangled in bedsheets, skin clammy with sweat, and an ache in his jaw from a night of grinding teeth. Another day, another nightmare. Back when he was younger, Miriam would rush into his room when she heard him screaming; she’d stroke his hair, coo to him in a soft, comforting voice until he calmed down again. She stopped doing that after Julian gave her a nasty cut across the arm one night with the knife he kept under his pillow. And so, he avoids sleep as much as he can, filling his belly with straight black coffee to keep the sandman at bay. But for all his restraint, he’s not infallible, and he still has to sleep every now and then.

It’s easier, safer, he thinks, to fall asleep in school. All those people around him act as a shield of sorts. No one could attack him in broad daylight without drawing attention to themselves, and he wouldn’t be asleep long enough to dream. Propping himself up on his elbows, he looks over to the clock on the nightstand. 12:49 A.M. — the glowing LED states. Julian must’ve been truly exhausted to let himself sleep that long. It’s a little strange that Miriam didn’t come to wake him up, either. He reaches up to run a hand through his hair, but stops again, glancing at the bandages wrapped around his right palm. Part of it has grown dark with blood. Still fresh, from what he can tell. Frowning, he gives his hand an experimental flex. A lance of pain shoots through his arm as he does so, though he doesn’t react beyond a slight clenching of the jaw.

Julian swings his legs over the side of the bed, and pads over to the ensuite bathroom, while unraveling the bloody gauze from his hand. The gauze is quickly discarded. Twisting the tap on, he holds his hand under the water, palm side up. At first, the water that swirls down the drain runs red, but eventually, it turns clear. It’s an easy enough matter for Julian to disinfect and dress the cut again; it’s almost become part of his daily routine, by now. Regardless, he was going to have to rest a bit, take it easy with the rituals, at least for the next week or so. Miriam would surely be upset if he died from something as mundane as a festering wound.

At the thought, Julian can’t help but chuckle. It would certainly make a statement if after all these years, that was how he died. The look of Miriam’s face when she realised that the apothecary was going to fall to ruins lest she found someone else to help her spin straw into gold… Julian could only imagine. Still, it would be nice if he was the one who came out victorious at the end of all this. Miriam never saw him as her child, only as the one who would save her from a disappointing life. Many times, he had thought about choking the life out of that woman, and taking a deep, satisfying breath afterward just to spite her.

Peeling off his sweat-damp clothes, he steps into the shower. As always, the water is frigid, just the way he likes it. Soon, the pounding in his head fades into a more manageable thrum, though there’s still a slight tremor in his hand that refuses to go away. God, he needed a smoke. Once he’s completely dried off, and his teeth brushed, Julian starts to pull on a fresh set of clothes. It’s very much along the lines of his usual fare – a faded green sweater, jeans, sneakers – nothing special.

As Julian sits back down on the bed, his phone begins to buzz, ‘MIRIAM’ flashing on the screen in bright white letters. For a moment, he contemplates answering, but in the end, he just lets the call ring out to voicemail. He wasn’t in the right headspace to deal with her right now.

“Hi, Jules. It’s me, Aunt Miriam. Forgot to let you know that I’ll be out of town until tomorrow morning, so I’m gonna need you to drop by the apothecary soon. That new girl is holding down the fort, but I want you to help me keep an eye on her, okay? Make sure there’s no funny business and all that. Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you!”

When the voicemail ends, Julian lets his eyes fall shut, and breathes in deeply. Leave it to Miriam to run off on such short notice. Sometimes, he had to wonder if the apothecary was that important to her at all. Of course, she left him no room to argue the matter either. Far from being a question, it was an order, one that would undoubtedly have consequences if he chose to ignore it.

Standing up once more, he starts to gather his things, depositing them into the canvas bag he always used. His grimoire, however, stays in its hiding spot in the dresser beneath his clothes. The recent upswing in magickal activity in town has left him a little on edge, as it did many others. Where there were witches, there were hunters, and much like sharks that have caught the scent of blood, they were nothing if not efficient.

With his bag slung over his shoulder, Julian makes to leave the house, though not before grabbing a granola bar from the fridge. Homemade, of course. Aunt Miriam loved baking. The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was decorated with kitschy touches — floral wallpaper, ceramic lamps shaped like animals, yard sale paintings, and so, so many doilies. Julian’s room, on the other hand, was curiously immaculate. The walls were painted beige, and unadorned apart from a painting Miriam had insisted on hanging over his bed. If nothing else, it served as a facade of normalcy. After all, no one who lived in such a quaint, lovely house could possibly be a witch or warlock, could they?

Hekate’s Crystals & Curios is only a ten-minute walk away from the Driscoll residence. Julian lights up a cigarette on the way there, and stomps the ashy remains into the curb when he reaches the apothecary. The bell above the door jingles as he steps inside, lips curling into a practiced smile when he spots a familiar face.

“Hey, Nyx. Sorry I’m late. Hope it hasn’t been too busy.” Shrugging, he circles around to where Cynthia was, and leaves his bag on a shelf under the counter. Julian even lets out a tiny huff of laughter as he does so, almost like he’s embarrassed. “I might’ve, uh, overslept a little.”