Status

Recent Statuses

6 mos ago
Current Why can't I write?!
2 likes
11 mos ago
They say it's about the journey, not the destination. This is true of many things. Pizza delivery is not one of them.
4 likes
1 yr ago
TFW you know what you want to happen but the words aren't cooperating. Why is plot suddenly so much harder to write?
8 likes
2 yrs ago
You can't fix a blank page ~ Neil Gaiman
3 likes
2 yrs ago
Neil Gaiman on Friday. Neil Gaiman on Friday. NeilGaimanonFriday NEilGaimanonFridaYNEILGAIMANONFRIDAY NEILGAIMANAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH
2 likes

Bio

I am an adult, though I don't usually act like it. I'm a voracious reader, and not overly picky about books. I am artistic in a variety of areas, including music, drawing, writing, and sculpting. I have a minor obsession with dragons, and love the color violet. Fantasy is my preferred genre, be it past, future, urban...as long as it has a fantasy flavor to it. I also like scifi, mystery, and some horror. I am crazy, and I like tormenting my characters. But I don't bite...much. ^.~


Color Sergeant in Bot Killer Squad

Most Recent Posts

Have a free bump. I wish I had internet more often than one night a week or I'd totally jump on this. <3
It felt like there were reporters everywhere. Ziotea and Rodion had ditched the ballroom as soon as they could get away with doing so, and still the press hounded them. They were mostly focused on Rodion, asking where Madrys was, what he was working on now, and a hundred other questions. At first the young man tried to answer them, but there were so many. His tone never changed, but his chest grew tight. He didn't want to be talking. Couldn't they just leave him alone?

At his side Ziotea glowered at the various people that intruded on their personal space, like scavengers crowding around a fresh corpse. The way they acted was similar, like they all wanted a piece of Rodion for themselves. She tried to ignore it -- this was T'sarae, after all. Rodion was a genius engineer; it made sense that they'd want to know more about him. Her dislike of the press had no bearing if he wanted to talk to them, and for a time it seemed like he didn't mind. So Ziotea kept her breathing steady, her grip on her spear merely firm instead of tight, and tried to think of other things. She watched Rodion, saw the slow creep of tension into his stance, heard the stress that edged his voice. Should she step in?

She had just decided that enough was enough when Rodion felt for her free hand and tugged gently at her index finger. The old signal meant that they should get out of there, that it wasn't safe. Ziotea couldn't have agreed more. She stepped in front of her companion, gently pushing him behind her. She wasn't so gentle with the reporter that tried to shove forward after Rodion, pulling her hand free and planting it on his chest. It took no effort at all to knock the man off-balance. The questions turned to focus on her, but she barely heard them. Instead of addressing any of them individually, she released a gentle burst of force, enough to stagger all the reporters back.

"Enough!" she snapped, eyes flashing. Silence fell in their part of the garden, and Ziotea felt the uncertainty of those she faced. The fear. Even here they'd heard some of the stories, it seemed. Whatever. She'd use what she had. "Get the hell out of our faces before I make you."

The reporters scattered like blown papers, even the boldest deciding they'd rather be elsewhere when Ziotea fixed them with a cold glare. Once they'd gone, she breathed a sigh of relief, and turned to Rodion. He was smiling down at her, blue eyes warm, and a little thrill ran through her. "There. That's taken care of." She returned his smile, taking his hand again and squeezing it. I am here. They stayed like that for a long moment before Ziotea felt her cheeks growing warm and sought something to say. "Would you like to dance, Rodion?" she asked. He nodded, and she set her spear aside, then stepped close. They didn't do anything fancy, just a simple sidestep back and forth, but it was still wonderful.
@Mae So shiny
@Malice I'm trying to write a reply, but the words just aren't coming. I've got a tiny paragraph so far. -.-
@Mae Worth the wait~ *wiggles happily*
@Malice So you're aware, I'm still dealing with severe depression and I'm barely writing at all, but I'd be glad to try to keep going. ^.^
Alyssana accepted Finnegan's extended hand and let him kiss it. She didn't have the heart to deny him that, not after earlier. "You didn't scare me, Finny," she told him. "I was concerned at your condition, and angry about some of the things you said, but hardly frightened." She paused, looking up at him. "For what it's worth, you are also owed an apology for my role in that disaster. I am sorry for the trouble I caused you." Knowing he was likely to just brush her words off, Alyssana then disengaged, glancing after the younger men instead. Upon seeing them deep in conversation, she returned her attention to Finnegan.

"So. Walter mentioned some sort of mystery. A murder, yes? Why don't you tell me what you know."
Initially Alyssana wasn't sure she wished to join the Oaks for dinner, whether Finnegan was himself again or not. There was something in the younger man's voice, however, that made her think perhaps he would be glad of additional company. "I'll drag Chris away from his work and bring him with me, Walter. If that's alright with you, of course." Walter approved, and it was perhaps forty-five minutes later when the pair alighted from a carriage in front of the Oaks' residence, Christopher hurrying up the path with Alyssana pausing to pay the driver and proceeding at a calmer pace.

Chris had no sooner removed his coat and handed it over to a servant than he made a beeline for Walter, chattering excitedly about his latest experiment in technical terminology. His language was nearly always precise, though he didn't mind the interjection of questions, and was in fact quite used to it. That left Alyssana to regard Finnegan warily.

Although she'd tried to put the entire afternoon behind her, seeing Finny was a reminder of what she'd done -- but she couldn't be the first to bring it up, not after that mess. She had to be sure for herself that Finnegan was back to normal. "Good evening, Finnegan." Though her tone was coolly polite, it hid an edge of concern. She was done being angry, at least.
Lee accepted the hand up, though she took a moment to steady herself before letting go. The one with her said she was fine, and so she believed it. It didn't occur to her how odd it was, that they should be sure -- nor how strange that she would trust someone so entirely when they'd only just met. "I should thank you," she said. "For a moment there I was sure--" Lee stopped, not willing to voice just how sure she'd been that she was in serious trouble. Her fingers found one of the rips in her coat and picked at it fitfully. "Anyhow. Thank you."

It wasn't until she was home, dinner cooking and feline fed, that Lee realized she'd never gotten the person's name. Or maybe she had, but it was during the period of time that she couldn't quite pin down. Things didn't quite add up but there was something about it that made her not want to put all the pieces together -- like a frightening secret that she was frankly much happier not knowing.

---

Lee had a nightmare that night, something she only half remembered. In the morning, with the sunlight warm through the window and Freddie a fuzzy lump at her feet, it was easy to put aside, along with her bad experience the night before. The rest was banished by a morning visit to her grandmother, who was delighted to see her as always. The sheer normality of it turned the memories into something harmless, and by the time she arrived at the dance studio Lee had nearly convinced herself that the previous night had been part of that same dream. There was only the matter of her wrecked coat to indicate otherwise.
>banging on a window
Lee can't see through windows! Not really. *giggles*

Which only makes this even more amusing tbh
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